by Клео Коул
The foyer sat directly under the castle’s only tower. The area had a vaulted ceiling with graceful, carved stone arches that met at its center. The room was illuminated with tall iron braziers (actually gaslights behind glass, no open flames). Coats of armor hung on the bare stone walls.
A wide curving staircase descended from a second floor mezzanine constructed of carved oak, black with age. On the opposite side of the entranceway the huge front door was guarded by a mob of valets.
The door itself looked like something out of Ivanhoe, and I thought to myself that all this place needed was a portcullis, one of those iron gates that drops down from the ceiling. That, and a few actual knights with broadswords, of course.
Matteo approached a valet and handed the young man a parking chit. As we waited for Breanne’s car to be brought around, I heard a commotion from the mezzanine. Then a pleasant voice cried out.
“Don’t go, the party is just getting started!”
A handsome man hurried down the stairs. I recognized him immediately. Two women in maid’s uniforms followed right behind. One clutched a fluffy royal-blue robe, the other a pair of matching slippers. The man practically shoved Matteo aside to reach me, something he could easily do because he was as tall as Matteo, with shoulders looking as broad as Mike Quinn’s in his fine, buff-linen suit.
No older than thirty, olive complexioned, with a square jaw, a close shave, and neatly combed ebony hair, the host of the party regarded me through eyes of black onyx. For a long moment, he simply stared at me with an intensity that almost embarrassed me.
I self-consciously pulled Matt’s jacket closer around me, worried, not for the first time, how much was revealed by my damp clothes.
“Please,” he finally said. “You’re soaking wet, allow me…”
He took the floor-length robe from the maid and held it open.
“We really should go,” muttered Matt.
I slipped Matt’s jacket off my shoulders and handed it back to him. Then I stepped into the soft, warm folds of the thick, Egyptian cotton robe.
“That’s better, isn’t it? And now the slippers.” The man actually got down on one knee and placed the slippers on my bare feet.
“Th-thank you,” I stammered, flabbergasted. The last time anyone knelt down to put a pair of shoes on me I’d been around ten years old, getting fitted for First Communion patent leather.
“My name is Bom Felloes,” he said with his familiar British accent and a warm, open smile. “Welcome to my home.”
His name was no surprise, of course. I’d already recognized the man from his Gourmet Channel show, Elegant Dining. A very charismatic mix of British and Portuguese ancestry, Felloes obviously had become quite wealthy from his show, the chain of restaurants bearing his name, and whatever else he did on the side.
“My name is Clare. Clare Cosi,” I said.
“Yes, I know, my head of security told me. I do apologize for his manhandling you in any way. You’re not hurt are you, love?”
I suppressed a laugh. Now I knew why Bom was being so solicitous. He was probably terrified I was going to sue the pants off him! Not that Bom with his pants off would be an unattractive sight, I realized. Seeing the man up close and personal gave me a whole new perspective on his villainy.
Could anyone this charming really be a contract killer?
“Yes, I witnessed it. Your head of security was pretty rough with her—” Matt began to gruffly respond.
But I quickly interrupted him. “No worries, Mr. Felloes. I’m the one who’s sorry for crashing your party, and in such a state.”
“Why you look perfectly charming, even sopping wet!” he declared. “A waif from the sea. An adorable little Venus.”
“Yes, well…” I stumbled, embarrassed. “I did see your ice sculpture on the way in. I think she had a few less shreds of clothing on than me.”
Bom laughed, his dark, intense eyes sparkling. “So you’re my neighbor?”
“Yes, I’m staying with David. Something, uh…came up and I crossed the beach to find him. It was dark, you know? And I, uh…I was stupid…I walked too close to the water. A high wave caught me by surprise.”
Bom frowned. “Well, it’s a shame you missed David. He left a little while ago. His restaurant manager, Jacques Papas, arrived late, but he agreed to cut short his fun and drive David home. Alas, David claimed he wasn’t feeling well.”
Bom paused and then chuckled. “I hope it wasn’t the company.”
“I’m sure he had a fine time,” I politely replied.
“And I’m sure you know…we’ve had our business rivalries in the past. But I invited David here to bury the hatchet, as you Americans say. So tell me, how do you know David? Are you two…”
He let the words trail off in implication. “We’re just friends,” I replied, quickly straightening out any misconceptions. “I’m his barista manager for the summer at Cuppa J. I’m overseeing the coffee service, managing the beans, putting together the dessert pairings, that sort of thing.”
Bom’s face lit up with boyish excitement. “So you are the ‘coffee steward’ everyone’s talking about! Such a delight to meet you. Why the Hamptons are simply abuzz about Cuppa J this season. I confess that one of the reasons I invited David here tonight was to wheedle an invitation to sample his dessert parings for myself.”
“Please do…I’d love to know what you think of what we’re doing.”
Matteo cleared his throat. “The car is here.”
“Oh, no!” Bom exclaimed. He closed the distance between us, took my hand, folded it into his. “Please stay. I’m simply captivated by your charm and obvious experience, all wrapped in such a delightful little package.”
Matteo was practically rolling his eyes. I ignored him.
“I’m sorry, but I really have to go. Matt’s giving me a ride,” I told Bom. “But you’re very kind.”
“On the contrary, I’m very selfish.” He glanced at Matteo. “But I understand if you must leave.”
“We must,” said Matt, grabbing my elbow again and steering me toward the door. I felt like yanking it free but didn’t want to cause a scene.
“Oh,” I cried, stopping short. “Your robe and slippers.”
“Keep them,” Bom said with a wave of his hand. “Or better yet, return them later…when we can both chat—” he shot a pointed glance at Matt, “—privately.”
I nodded. “Goodnight, Mr. Felloes—”
“Bom, Clare. Please call me Bom.”
“Goodnight then…Bom.”
I barely had the words out before Matt was hustling me through the mansion’s huge front doors. I softly sighed as we stepped outside. Bom Felloes was successful, handsome, very wealthy, and apparently interested in me. I was crazy for keeping him on my suspect list. But I fully intended to.
Although I was flattered by his flirtation, I knew he still had a motive for hurting David. And, in the end, I knew wealthy, overly polished, perfect men ten years younger than me had never been my type anyway. (Honestly.) The rumpled, earthy, ironic toughs of the world were more my speed, men who’d been knocked around by life, who were somewhat rough around the edges. Mike Quinn and his crow’s feet came to mind. Even Matt—before Breanne had gotten hold of him.
Outside the night had cooled even more. Landscape lighting had turned the mansion’s castle-esque exterior and flowering grounds around it into a glowing wonderland.
Matt opened the door to Breanne’s sleek silver Mercedes convertible now waiting at the bottom of the steps. I climbed in, sank into the fawn-colored custom leather, and faced The Sandcastle again.
Bom Felloes was standing there. He noticed my glance, smiled, and waved, looking as dashing and polished as a British lord.
I offered a tiny wave in return, not sure what I should be cursing more—his continued presence on my suspect list or my complete inability to reengineer my taste in men.
Fourteen
Without a backward glance in Bom Felloes’s direction,
Matt climbed behind the wheel.
“Buckle up,” he barked.
I barely got the strap over my shoulder when the engine under the silver Mercedes’ hood sprang to life, a high performance purr. The radio came on with the engine. The “Music of Love,” a sentimental ballad poured from the speakers. I actually liked the song, but Matt snapped it off with a sharp turn of his wrist, then shifted into first gear and stepped on the gas so hard the tires spun against the driveway’s paving stones.
The Mercedes lurched forward, slamming me back into my seat. Matt steered the car around the horse circle too fast. It fishtailed for a second, and I thought we were going to end up in a flowerbed.
“You weren’t very polite back there,” I pointed out.
Matt shook his head as we left the front gate and turned onto the road. “Guys like that…they’re a dime a dozen, Clare. I’ve met them all over the world. Wannabe aristocracy. You can’t trust him.”
“Who do you mean?”
“You know who I mean. Who does he think he is with that ‘let me put your slippers on’ act, Cinderella Man?”
“Wasn’t Cinderella Man that World Heavyweight Champion boxer? The one they made a movie about?”
“I meant Prince Charming, okay! But let me tell you, the charm turns into a pumpkin at midnight. And that British accent’s about as real as the potted plants in a used car salesman’s showroom. And what kind of name is that, anyway? Bomb? How can you trust a man named after a weapon of mass destruction!”
“It’s Bom, Matt. B-O-M, the Portuguese word for good, and I know you know that. That’s why his restaurants are called Good Felloes. And I know you know that too. You’re just being difficult. And please slow down!”
Matt frowned, sighed, then slumped a bit in his seat as if giving up. His foot finally eased on the gas pedal, and it occurred to me he was now feeling the way I had when I first ran into him and Breanne at the party—jealousy, then confusion and embarrassment about feeling that way when you weren’t supposed to anymore. Did all divorced couples feel that way? Possessive about a spouse they’d long since given up?
“So what were you doing at the party?” Matt asked, his voice calmer now, more reasonable.
“I told you. I was—”
“Looking for David, I heard what you said to Mr. Good bar. I just don’t buy it. In fact, what I really think is that you were looking for Mr. Right.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re a smart woman, Clare. Too smart. I think you cooked the whole wet tee-shirt arrival up to make an impression on the celebrity chef. Well, I guess you got what you wanted. The act worked. He’s interested.”
In a word, I was furious. “I was looking for David. Something came up. I had to find him. Do you really think I risked pneumonia just to meet that man?” I lightly shook my still-wet hair to make my point.
“Careful,” Matt irritably cautioned. “These leather seats were custom made for Bree.”
“Oh, were they?” I narrowed my eyes, then shook my wet head again, this time with the vigor of a just-washed poodle. Water droplets sprayed the interior of Breanne’s Mercedes. More than a few landed on Matteo’s Helmut Lang suit jacket.
Matt smirked. “How immature.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
Luckily, the trip to David’s estate was too short for the two of us to continue our sorry little war.
“Turn here,” I said, pointing.
As we swung into the driveway, the uniformed guard, who I’d met earlier, blocked our path.
“Who’s this?” Matt asked.
“David has added some security,” I said.
Matteo’s eyebrow lifted with curiosity, but he didn’t ask why.
I waved a greeting to the guard. “It’s only me,” I said as the young man approached, his flashlight moving from Matt’s face to mine.
“I didn’t know you left the grounds, Ms. Cosi.”
“I went for a walk…and, uh, got a little wet.”
The guard stared at Matt.
“This is Matteo Allegro,” I quickly explained. “He’s an associate of David’s. He’d like to pop in and say hello, update David on some business they have together. David has come home, right?”
The guard nodded. “Mr. Papas brought him back about an hour ago, ma’am. Dropped Mr. Mintzer off and drove away.”
“Good,” I replied, relieved I did not have to deal with David’s condescending and possibly dishonest restaurant manager. “We’ll just pop up to the house. Mr. Allegro won’t be long.”
The guard paused, clearly wondering whether he should allow the Mercedes entry. “Come on,” I coaxed. “I’ll vouch for Matt.”
Finally the man stepped aside and waved us forward.
Matt drove up and parked behind my Honda, which I’d left behind David’s little sports car. The guard followed us up to the house and let us in with a passkey. Inside the lights were dim, the foyer deserted. No one was in the living room, either.
“Maybe David already went to bed,” said Matt.
A moment later we found Alberta Gurt in the kitchen—in fact, we must have really startled her by entering because she dropped a crystal tumbler. An hour ago Alberta was fine; now she seemed agitated.
“Oh, my goodness! You gave me a scare!” she cried, grabbing a tea towel. She bent down to pick up the broken glass. “You really shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!”
“I’m sorry,” I said, although we really hadn’t been sneaking and she should have heard our approach. I could only assume she’d been terribly distracted. But I didn’t want to argue and make things worse. “Alberta, this is Matt Allegro, one of David’s business associates. He’s here to say hello. Has David retired?”
“He’s in bed, and in no condition to talk,” the woman said, dumping both the glass and the tea towel into the garbage. “Too many martinis, I thought. So I whipped him up one of my Fizzy Friendlies—”
“One of your what?” I asked.
“It’s an anti-hangover drink David asks me to prepare for him when he’s partied too hearty, as he calls it. Usually the Friendly eases David’s nausea and gets rid of his headache, and he goes right to sleep. But tonight it didn’t help at all. He’s moaning, in pain—David said he thinks he was poisoned—”
“Poisoned!” I cried.
“He’s very sick,” Alberta continued. “I don’t know what to do. David’s in a very bad mood. He says he wants to be left alone. I wanted to call Dr. Ramah, his physician, but—”
“Wait. I know Dr. Ramah. Isn’t he in Manhattan?” I’d met the good doctor at a charity event connected to St. Vincent’s Hospital in the Village. It was Madame’s friend Dr. MacTavish who’d introduced us.
Alberta shrugged. “I didn’t know who else to call. I don’t know any doctors out here in the Hamptons.”
“I’m going to look in on David right now.” I headed out of the kitchen, Matt on my heels.
Alberta hurried to catch up. “He’s in a very bad mood,” she warned, her voice strained.
I kept walking. “You said that already, Alberta. But don’t worry. I don’t care if he fires me in a fit of pique. I already have another job.”
When I reached the bedroom door, I could hear David moaning on the other side. I gently tapped on the wood, then opened the door a crack. Super air-conditioned air rolled over me.
“Why is it so cold in here?” I asked alarmed.
Alberta said she’d pumped up the temperature herself because David had always claimed that lying in a cold, dark room alleviated his migraine symptoms in the past. Still soaked under the robe, I shivered.
“David,” I called, barely above a whisper. “It’s me. Clare.”
“Go away,” David replied in a quivery voice. “I’m sick.”
With the limited light streaming through the partially open door, I could see David lying under a tangle of blankets. He lay on his side, his back facing me, pillow over his head.
“I know you’re sick, Da
vid…Alberta told us.”
“Us?”
“Matteo is here too. He came to say hello. But if you’re sick—”
David moaned. “God, Clare, I’m not up to socializing. I’m dying here…I think I’ve been poisoned.”
“Poisoned! By whom?”
He moaned again. “That bastard Felloes. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten anything at his party.”
“You think Bom Felloes tried to poison you?” Ohmygod, ohmygod, I thought. I was right. Felloes had the motive and the opportunity. He must have hired the contract killer that mistakenly shot Treat. “We have to call the police. O’Rourke needs to hear that your neighbor is the one trying to kill you—”
“Kill me! God, no. No, no, no! Please, Clare, don’t go off the deep end again! I’m not saying he poisoned me literally—or even intentionally. The man uses what I call ‘poison’ at that slop house he calls a gourmet restaurant, but I never would have believed Felloes had the nerve to feed his guests that vile stuff.”
“Stuff? What stuff?” I demanded.
“MSG. Monosodium glutamate…I think I must have CSR—”
“CSR? My god, what’s that?” Matteo asked. “It sounds lethal.”
“It’s Chinese restaurant syndrome,” David informed him, moaning again.
“Are you kidding?” asked Matt, shooting me a skeptical look. “That can’t be a real syndrome—”
“I assure you that’s the shorthand term doctors use, even though they acknowledge you can get it at any restaurant that uses the food additive, and in a lot of processed food, too. Cramps, headache—”
David gagged, flopped on the bed like a fish out of water. He settled in a moment, let out a painful sigh. “Just go away,” he wailed.
I pulled Matt and Alberta back into the hallway and closed the door. “Where’s the nearest hospital? I think David needs medical care.”
“The only emergency room I know of out here is Southampton Hospital, and that’s fifteen miles away,” said Alberta.
