Murder Most Frothy cm-4

by Клео Коул

  “Okay?” I pressed.

  “Okay, Clare. You win. Okay.”

  Seventeen

  S. Barnes lived on Gate Street, a tiny lane in the hamlet of Bridgehampton—population approximately fourteen hundred.

  Back in its heyday, most of Bridgehampton’s founding families were connected to the whaling industry. But today it’s known for its stately traditional homes located on an elevated acre of the town’s highly desirable Bridge Hill Lane area.

  It was also known for its picturesque Main Street business district, but on the July Fourth weekend, traffic on that route was sure to be a horrorshow. So I did my best to avoid it, taking side roads through neighborhoods dominated by brick doll houses with modest yards.

  Gate Street was located on the un-chic side of the highway, a secluded little lane lined with topiaries and post fences. A bubbling creek meandered out of a kettle hole and along the road until it vanished in a thick tangle of century-old trees, their roots partially exposed.

  The address Matt gave me belonged to a small ranch, a typical 1960s tract house (what canny realtors were lately referring to as “mid-century dwellings”). Surrounded by trees, it sat on a nice stretch of yard that sloped gently down to the edge of that pretty little bubbling creek.

  I passed the house once, then circled the block for a second look. Lucky thing, too, because I came back in time to see the front door open and a man step outside. Before he noticed me, I swung into a parking spot between two SUVs, cut my Honda’s engine and slid across the front seat to watch him.

  He locked the front door, then checked the mailbox, running his fingers through a shaggy mane of copper hair. Tall, with long legs encased in scuffed denims, he had a rugged build with broad shoulders evident under an electric-blue diver’s shirt. I spied a smudge of color on his muscled forearm—a tattoo? From this distance I could only guess.

  The man crossed the lawn and little bridge over the creek, and mounted a motorcycle parked at the curb. A moment later, he sped off. I watched him head toward Main Street. Just around the corner I’d seen a newsstand, a bakery, and a diner. Was he going for a quick newspaper? A fast pastry? Or a long breakfast?

  I waited ten minutes, until I was sure he wasn’t coming back right away. Then I climbed out of my car, walked across the street and little bridge, and approached the house. The front door was locked, of course, but the man had left a large bay window open, its lacy curtains billowing in the ocean-tinged breeze. I scanned the neighborhood, saw absolutely no one on the street or lurking on a porch or yard, so I walked over to the window and peeked inside.

  I couldn’t see much because the interior of the house was dark. I strained my ears, but heard no sounds—no radio, no television, no footsteps or voices. All I heard were the bees humming around the pink and red rose bushes in the yard. I was fairly certain the man had left the house completely empty.

  Cautiously, I followed a concrete path to the rear of the dwelling, past a coiled garden hose and a brick barbecue pit. There was no porch, only two concrete steps that led up to the back door. The screen door was closed, the wooden door wide open. I knocked, not quite sure what I would say if someone actually answered. Fortunately no one did, so I tested the screen door. It was unlocked, and I entered.

  I knew I was taking a big risk. Huge. This wasn’t a rental boat in an open marina, this was a private home. And the muscular man who’d left it didn’t strike me as a softee who’d fall for a pathetic story about Cristal champagne and true love. If I were caught, the guy could have me arrested for breaking and entering—if he didn’t decide to break my head first. Nevertheless, with the windows open, I reasoned I could hear the sound of the motorcycle engine approaching and slip away before I was discovered.

  The back door led to a tidy little kitchen with French Provincial-style cherrywood cabinets, spotless white walls, stove, and refrigerator. My eyes were drawn to the familiar silver and octagonal shape of a stovetop espresso pot on the back burner.

  “Okay,” I reassured myself. “He makes his own espresso. He can’t be all bad.”

  The sun streamed through a large window above the sink. A healthy spider plant hung above it. In a dish rack, three glasses and two dishes were lined up to dry. The only sign of disorder in this room was the overflowing trashcan. I noticed it was filled with fast food containers, crinkled up Dorito bags, and Twinkie wrappers. Lined up next to it were empty Sam Adams beer bottles, no doubt waiting to be recycled.

  Well, now I’ve got a clue what this guy lives on.

  I also knew this was the right address.

  Still…something didn’t add up. The scruffy rogue on the motorcycle who left Twinkie wrappers, Dorito bags, and beer bottles in his wake didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who kept an immaculate kitchen and made his own espresso.

  “Hello?” I called, still wary of being discovered. My voice sounded hollow in the empty house so I quickly moved to the next room.

  If the kitchen seemed like it belonged to another tenant, the living room seemed to belong in another house. The space was adorable and very feminine, with shades of pink the dominant color scheme and ruffled everything. The chair, the sofa, the flowery wall paper, the wall-to-wall carpeting, the tablecloths and curtains, were all cast in tastefully combined hues of rose, salmon, pink carnation, and subtle reds. Scattered about the too adorable room were scented candles, sachets, colorful quilts, and empty vases ready to be filled with fresh cut flowers.

  Now I started to wonder if I should introduce Motorcycle Man to my head barista, Tucker Burton. Either the guy was bucking for a spot on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, or he was married to Homemaker Barbie.

  I found the bedroom next, its door ajar. Once again, things didn’t compute. The tidy order of the rest of the house was no longer evident. Was it possible, I wondered, for a hurricane to blow through just one room?

  The queen-size bed was rumpled and unmade, clothing hung from chairs, and two posts of the four-poster bed frame. Two pairs of socks and sneakers were scattered on the floor, along with a pair of dirty boat shoes and another enigma. Magazines were stacked high against the wall with dumbbells as paper weights: Teen People, Celebrity, Diva, Star Watch, Guns and Ammo, and Soldier of Fortune. What kind of a person would subscribe to that schizo mix?

  In the corner, I saw folding chairs and a card table had been set up. On the table were several digital cameras, a laptop computer, and a photo printer. Next to the printer I found two neat stacks of photographs. I picked up the first stack, which consisted entirely of shots taken at David Mintzer’s Fourth of July party—celebrity photos mostly, though there were several pictures of David himself. The second stack were photos taken at Bom Felloes bash the next day, including several shots of Keith Judd. I put the photos down and continued looking around the room.

  A second bedroom door led to a bathroom with a large glass-enclosed shower stall. Inside the stall I saw a tangle of rubber hoses, three large air tanks, two pairs of swim fins, and several pairs of underwater goggles. They’d been carefully cleaned. Sea salt and seaweed still encrusted the shower’s drain.

  For the second time in as many hours I thought—Gotcha.

  I couldn’t help feeling the rush. I smiled as I backed out of the bathroom, deciding I’d found the lair of the Creature from the Black Lagoon. For now, I’d seen enough. Unfortunately, I was about to see more than I’d bargained for.

  At the distinct click-clock of a weapon cocking, I spun and found myself facing the business end of a very large handgun. Motorcycle Man had leveled it directly at my heart.

  “Now ordinarily, finding a tight little package in my bedroom is not something a man like me would object to.” His voice was low, even, and unexpectedly casual. “But since you’re here without an invitation, you can understand why I’m a little bit peeved.”

  I didn’t know how it happened. I’d never heard the rumble of his motorcycle engine. I’d never heard him opening the front door. Yet here the man stood with the drop
on me that I’d been sure he’d never get.

  “Please put the gun down. I’m unarmed.”

  He studied me, his brown eyes weren’t so much angry as curious. His fortyish face was weathered, his jawline strong but brushed with stubble, the day’s growth of beard a shade darker than his shaggy copper hair. I noticed a small earring in his left ear, a dagger with a jewel in the hilt.

  “Breaking and entering is a crime, you know?”

  “You’ve got the gun.” I spoke as calmly as I could, given the circumstances. I was plenty scared, but I knew if I wanted control of this situation, I’d have to start by controlling my own emotions. “You can just call the police. And they can cuff me and haul me off to jail. Or you can put that weapon away and we can talk like civilized people.”

  He didn’t put the weapon away, or even lower it. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the bed behind me.

  I sat on the edge of it.

  “Good. Follow my instructions and we’ll get along just fine. Now you talk. And I’ll listen. Got it?”

  I nodded.

  “Who are you?”

  I saw no point in lying. “Clare Cosi. Who are you?”

  His gaze went cold. “How quickly we forget. This is how it works, Clare. You talk, I listen. Remember? Now who do you work for?”

  “I’m a barista manager and, technically speaking, also a coffee steward, at Cuppa J…that’s a restaurant…in East Hampton.”

  He blinked. Obviously that was not the answer he expected to hear. “Wait a minute. That’s Mintzer’s new place, right? The one that’s getting all the write-ups this season?”

  I nodded, he frowned. “So you work for David Mintzer?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Listen sweetheart, take my advice, when a guy’s got a gun on you, answer his questions.”

  I folded my arms, trying my damnedest to mask my fears with bravado. “When a guy’s got a gun on me who hasn’t shot me yet, I don’t think he’s going to.”

  Almost imperceptibly, the man’s dark eyes widened. “You’re willing to take a chance like that?”

  “Mr. Barnes,” I continued reasonably, “I’m trusting my own judgment. If you were going to shoot me, you would have done it already.”

  “Mr. Barnes, huh?” He smirked. “How the hell did you track me down?”

  “I saw you on the beach last night, outside The Sandcastle. I couldn’t see the name of your boat from the shore, so I took a little late night swim.”

  “You swam out to my boat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Last night?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Barnes.”

  “Christ, I must have been sixty or seventy yards offshore. I’m surprised you didn’t get hypothermia.”

  “I didn’t say it was easy. Or smart for that matter. But I got the name of the yacht you rented. I found your marina, and bribed a couple of very sweet Bonackers.”

  “Where the hell do you get your nerve, Clare Cosi?”

  “Eight to ten cups of coffee a day. At least.”

  The man actually laughed. Then, to my great relief, he lowered his weapon, put on the safety, and tucked it behind him, presumably into a holster fastened to his belt at the base of his spine—the same place my ex-husband carried when he went coffee hunting in Africa.

  “That’s better,” I said, rising from the bed. “Guns make me nervous…especially when they’re pointed in my general direction.”

  The man folded his muscled arms and regarded me, about a foot below him. “If I were you, Clare, I wouldn’t let my guard down in a situation like this one.” His dark eyebrow arched. “What makes you think I won’t beat the truth out of you?”

  “Oh, puh-leeze!” I threw up my hands. “This is the Hamptons. What are you going to do? Flog me with a Louis Vuitton briefcase? Anyway, Mr. Barnes, my partner knows where I am and if anything should happen to me—”

  “Spare me. You don’t have a partner. That gambit is so tired, I doubt even you would buy it. Besides which, I saw you watching me from your Honda across the street. You were alone.”

  “You saw me?”

  “And if we’re going to talk like ‘civilized people,’ you can stop calling me Mr. Barnes because there is no Mr. Barnes—”

  “What?”

  “Sally Barnes is the woman who owns this place. She rents it out every summer…and for too damn much money if you ask me.”

  “Well, that explains it,” I muttered.

  “Explains what?”

  “The Barbie-pink living room and rogue-male bedroom. The beer bottles and Twinkie wrappers and the neat kitchen and espresso pot. I take it you don’t make your own?”

  “Make my own what?”

  “Espresso,” I said. “Do you want a cup? I could really use one. Unless you really do know how to make your own, then by all means you can play host.”

  “Clare, I’m trying to follow you. But you’re tempting me to go nuclear again—”

  “Look, let me make you some coffee, okay? Then we actually can talk like civilized people.” Before he could object, I pushed past him. He followed me out to the kitchen. I searched the cabinets and found a small vacuum-sealed bag of beans from a local gourmet store.

  “Good. They’re Arabica. Can’t abide robusta. Arabica’s the way to go—high grown, high quality.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Just talking out loud. It’s a nervous habit.”

  I rummaged around some more, found a small grinder, burred the beans finely, then filled the bottom half of the pot with water, tamped the ground coffee tightly into the filter, and dropped the filter into place.

  Motorcycle Man watched it all with intense fascination, arms folded, one lean hip resting against the counter. “It looks like you’re making a bomb.”

  “Close enough. It’s an Italian blast.”

  “Are you finishing anytime soon?”

  “Just have to screw the two parts together.” I did, sealing the pot’s top to its bottom. I felt his eyes on me again and looked up.

  He was smirking. “You screw very nicely, Clare.”

  I narrowed my gaze. “We’re striving for civilized. Remember?”

  The man snorted. He pushed his lean hips off the counter and took a seat at the kitchen table. His gaze stayed on me as I scrounged up two demitasses and a bowl of sugar.

  The room filled with the heavenly aroma of the earthy, nutty beans, and I filled the cups with the hot, fresh espresso. I handed him one. He didn’t ask for cream or milk, didn’t touch the sugar.

  “It’s good,” he said after a sip and then another. “Very good.”

  I gestured to an empty Twinkie wrapper. “Too bad I don’t have time to make you my chocolate-walnut-espresso brownies. They pair much better with what your drinking now than your usual dessert, Mr.—”

  He sighed as if surrendering. “It’s Rand. Jim Rand.” He reached his open hand across the table. “Nice to meet you, Clare.”

  I hesitated, but finally put my hand in his. We shook. The feel of his palm was rough. I began to pull away but he held on. His grip was powerful.

  “What are you doing in my house?”

  I swallowed, realizing how tiny my hand looked in his. “You said it wasn’t your house.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I was snooping. You saw that.”

  “Why? Who are you really working for?”

  “I told you. David Mintzer.” I tugged my hand—hard. He let go.

  “Clare, what you’re telling me is nothing. Nothing that makes sense anyway. What were you looking for?”

  I sat back, gulped some caffeine for courage. “I have some questions for you too, Mr. Rand. You’re a professional photographer, right?” I said. “Or should I say paparazzi?”

  “No comment.”

  “I’d also guess from your tattoo that you were in the Navy.”

  He glanced at the design on his arm, an eagle clutching a fouled anchor. “I was a SEAL, sweetheart, special operations. The nigh
t before I was mustered out, my SEAL team took me on a bender that started in San Diego and ended up in Tijuana, where I got this tattoo. I vaguely recall the event.”

  “I see.”

  “And I take it that you’re a coffee-making private detective? Working for David Mintzer.” He sat back in his chair, cup in hand, waiting for my reply.

  “Now why do you think I’m a detective?”

  “Because my partner in this business, Kenny Darnell, warned me that we’d occasionally get pictures that the rich and famous would not want to be made public.”

  “So private detectives bother you regularly, do they?”

  Rand shrugged. “Not yet, but this is only my second summer doing this.”

  “Really?”

  “In the Navy my specialty was reconnaissance photography. Now I’m pretty much making a year’s salary in a few months, snapping exclusive photos of celebrities on or near private beaches and seaside homes for the tabloids, for newspapers, and gossip magazines. The rest of the year I spend in the Caribbean, diving, surfing, and generally having a life.”

  “And this is your retirement scheme?”

  “Not mine,” Jim replied. “My partner, Kenny Darnell, came up with the scheme. We were in the Navy together.”

  “He’s a SEAL, too?”

  Rand shook his shaggy head. “Kenny washed out during training, retired from the Navy soon after that. He’s a great paparazzi, though. Started selling to the tabloids as soon as he got out of the service. But he wanted to expand, and to do that Kenny needed a partner to help with the capital, the equipment, the boat and house rentals. In case you haven’t noticed, this part of Long Island is a tad expensive.

  “I noticed. Where is your partner now?”

  “Kenny went back to Queens. His mother’s just had an operation, so he’s taking two weeks off to help her out around the house.”

  We finished our espressos while Jim Rand told me more about his business.

  “I’d like to see some samples of your work,” I said.

  “Like what?” he asked suspiciously.

  “How about all the photos you took at David Mintzer’s house on the Fourth of July?”