by Клео Коул
Frantically, I began shaking the girl. “Wake up! Wake up!”
Jim appeared at my side, pulled me away and bent over her, resting his ear on her chest. “She’s breathing—barely. We’ve got to get her outside.”
Jim hauled her off the sofa, cradled her in a fireman’s carry. It took only a moment for him to cross the dining room and exit the restaurant. He laid Colleen across the hood of my Honda, which was getting more action than a hospital gurney.
“You know her?”
“Yes! She works for David.”
“Think she was trying to kill herself?”
I blinked. “No…. I don’t know…”
I remembered how distressed she’d been the night Treat had been shot, and I realized it was possible.
Jim checked her mouth and throat for foreign objects. Then he began administering CPR. He was at it less than a minute when Colleen’s eyes opened. As she started sitting up, she began to heave.
Jim glanced at me. “She’ll be okay, once she empties her stomach.”
I held Colleen’s hair while she threw up all over my car—cosmic justice, after what had happened to the back seat of Breanne’s Mercedes. But I didn’t care. I was so relieved that she was alive.
“Jim, why did you ask me if it was a suicide attempt?” I whispered.
“Someone cut those hoses to the stove, Clare. It was either suicide or vandalism.”
Colleen held her head. “What happened?”
“There was a gas leak,” I lied. “Why were you in the restaurant?”
“Well, the truth is…I’ve been sleeping there for days,” Colleen said, “but don’t tell anyone.”
Jim snorted. “I think that ship’s already sailed.”
I silenced him with a jab of my elbow. “Colleen, why would you do that?”
She tried to stand up. I put a firm hand on her shoulder. “Stay still,” I commanded, wondering where the hell the fire department was. I still couldn’t hear any sirens. “Tell me why you stayed at the restaurant, Colleen.”
“The jerks running my share house raised the rates midsummer without warning,” she confessed. “I got angry. I didn’t want to give up every dime I made to those people, and I didn’t want to lose my job here, so I decided to sleep the rest of the season on the break room couch.”
I stared at her blankly. “How did you pull it off?”
“Oh, that was easy. I’d hide in the restroom until Jacques or the designated closer locked up every night, then I’d hide again in the morning when the chef arrived so no one would see me. And there were a few times Jacques had me close up—like the other night when he went to Bom Felloes’s party. Nights like that, I had the run of the place.”
On the highway, I heard the single blast of a horn. Scarlet lights flashed in the trees. The fire department was on the way, sans sirens. I realized only then that they ran silently so as not to disturb the wealthy residents of this exclusive community. Jim faced the road, slipping back into his shirt as he waited for the authorities to arrive.
“Colleen, listen to me,” I said. “This is important. Who closed up tonight?”
“It was Jacques. I thought he would never leave. He stayed in his office very late. But then I heard him lock up. I saw him from the break room window, driving away about two-thirty. I went right to sleep after that.”
The village fire truck rolled into the parking lot, lights flashing. A police car and an ambulance pulled in behind it. The doors opened and two paramedics leaped out and ran to us.
The fire chief and several firemen with oxygen secured the area and entered the restaurant. As Colleen was helped into the ambulance, I approached the police sergeant and introduced myself.
“This was no accident,” I said. “The gas lines appear to have been deliberately sliced, and the last person to have access to them—according to this young woman right here—was the manager of the restaurant, Jacques Papas. I believe he was trying to sabotage this place to cover up the fact that he’s been embezzling from the owner, David Mintzer, and some of the vendors.”
The officer shifted uneasily. “That’s a heavy charge, ma’am.”
“I know,” I replied. “But Colleen here was sleeping inside the restaurant. She can testify that Jacques was the last one to leave. And I came by tonight to take a look at the contents of his accounting book. I believe the deals he made with vendors were never approved by the owner and the result of those deals would have been the extortion of money by Papas.”
“We’ll need a statement,” the sergeant said.
“I’m happy to provide one,” I said, then I dropped the bomb. “I also believe Jacques Papas has been trying to kill David. I think Papas may have had something to do with the murder at David’s house on July Fourth.”
The sergeant swallowed hard. Clearing the crimes I’d just outlined was probably above his pay grade.
“Wait here, Ms. Cosi,” the sergeant said. “I’m going to put in a call to the Suffolk County police. Detective Roy O’Rourke is handling that case.”
Jim appeared at my shoulder.
“Think you solved your mystery?” he asked.
“I hope so.”
“You believe Jacques tried to burn down the place to hide his crime?”
I nodded. “Think it through. At the end of the summer, a bunch of vendors are going to be expecting the rest of their bills to be paid along with the ten percent Jacques had promised them. Blowing the place up would have created enough chaos to let him get away clean, jump a plane back to Europe—with the other half of those vendor payments. He was probably betting on David throwing in the towel and declaring bankruptcy.”
Jim rubbed his jaw, considering my words. “So why blow the place now? He could have continued running the scam through the rest of July and August.”
“I think that’s partly my fault.”
“How do you figure?”
“After Prin found out about his crooked deal, Papas was able to fire her without David getting wise. But then I got suspicious. Papas knew I was under contract, so he couldn’t fire me as easily as Prin. And he knew I was aggressively snooping around his office the other day…and just this evening, he stumbled upon me making a private call while looking over your photos from David’s party. I had to admit I was conducting an investigation. The man looked positively green when I told him. And speaking of green…I’m suddenly not feeling too steady…”
The world began to look a little fuzzy and I wobbled in place.
“Whoa, steady, Clare.” Jim put his hands on my shoulders. “Sit down.”
I sank onto my car’s front bumper, put a hand to my forehead. “I guess Jacques panicked. I made him worried and frightened that he was going to be found out. And because of that an innocent young woman almost died.”
“Come here.” Jim pulled me up against him, and I held on, my head alongside his chest, my hands gripping the corded muscles of his arms.
“I feel sick,” I muttered. “The gas—”
“It’s not the gas, Clare,” Jim said. “It’s the adrenaline seeping away, making you feel unsteady, disoriented. My old team leader back in the SEALs had a saying. It was true in combat, and I guess it’s true in life too.”
“What’s that?” I asked weakly.
Jim shrugged. “After the thrill, comes the crash.”
Twenty-One
I literally crawled out of bed the next morning, a hint of gas still tainting my palate. I threw a robe over my pajamas and shuffled downstairs to the kitchen. On the way I passed David in the great room of Otium cum Dignitate, also wrapped in a robe. He was so intent on his telephone conversation he hardly noticed my passing.
Like me, David had been up most of the night. He’d been called to the restaurant to secure his property after the gas leak, and the fire department declared the premises off limits until the utility company could make repairs. I assumed David was on the phone doing just that.
Our collective lack of sleep called for desperate me
asures, I decided, and I reached for the canister holding the caffeine-loaded Breakfast Blend.
As the nutty, earthy aroma began filling the sunlit kitchen, David entered and slumped down into a chair at the big table with a long, dramatic sigh. “It’s going to be hell finding a new manager in the middle of the season.”
“Better no manager than someone like Jacques Papas,” I replied.
David shook his head. “And he came so highly recommended.”
“I can see why. He was efficient, demanding, and punctual. He was a good manager…except for the embezzlement thing. Why do you think he did it?”
David sighed. “I turned him down. I shouldn’t have, I guess. He wanted to go back to Greece and open his own place. He wanted me to put up the money for him at the end of the summer. But I wasn’t interested in backing a restaurant overseas.”
“So he decided if he couldn’t get the money from you one way, he’d get it another?”
“I suppose so. Oh, Clare, I hate to put you out, especially after all you’ve done for me, but until I do get a new manager, I’m afraid I’m going to need your help.”
I nodded. “You know you can count on me.”
“I’d like you to take over, manage Cuppa J full time for the next two weeks—perhaps longer if my search doesn’t go well. That means long hours, and it means renegotiating the lousy deals with the vendors Papas made in my name. But I’ll pay you well, Clare. You can count on that.”
“I’m happy to do it, David. I’m sure I can ask Matt to postpone his next trip and take over managing the Village Blend for that long. But what about Chef Vogel? Wouldn’t you want to consider asking him to take over the management duties before me?”
David sighed. “Chef Vogel enjoys creating menus. He does so admirably. What he does not enjoy, however, and he’s made it abundantly clear, is payroll, employee schedules, personnel problems, and customer service. He’d be a lousy manager and he’d hate it, as well.”
“All right then, I guess I accept.”
David put his hands together in silent applause. “Thank goodness. Now let’s have some of that delightful brew!”
I poured, and we sat together at the table, enjoying the warmth and much needed caffeine.
“My god, I can’t stop thinking about that poor girl,” said David, shaking his head. “Colleen almost died in my restaurant. I just…I just can’t thank you enough for saving her life. And for saving the restaurant, of course. But, really, if that poor girl had died I never would have forgiven myself!”
“What about Treat?” I said evenly. “He’s dead too.”
“Yes,” said Madame, strolling in. “Mr. Mazzelli was somebody’s son, you know.”
David nodded. “Yes, he was, somebody’s drug informant son.”
Nothing like dropping a bomb in the breakfast room. “What?” I said. “What do you know?”
“I just got off the phone with Detective O’Rourke,” David said. “He tells me the police have found the murder weapon.”
I felt my guts twisting. “Where?”
“In the trunk of a car belonging to a young man from Manhattan. He was arrested for drug dealing in the wee hours of July sixth. The authorities ran ballistics tests and checked Treat’s background. When Detective O’Rourke was sure, he called me.”
“Sure of what?” I asked.
“O’Rourke discovered that Treat was a former cocaine dealer—arrested and charged, but never convicted. He was cooperating with the D.E.A, acting as an informant in exchange for immunity.”
The news to me was stunning. It certainly didn’t fit with any of my own theories.
“Officer O’Rourke says forensics can now tie the bullet casings from the beach, as well as the bullet recovered from Treat’s head, to the rifle. And since the weapon was found in a known drug dealer’s car, O’Rourke concluded that Treat was the sole target of the hit man.”
“Because Treat was informing on drug dealers for the D.E.A?”
“Yes. Now that O’Rourke has the murder weapon, the case is closed. That piece of evidence is incontrovertible.”
“It’s also circumstantial.”
David blinked. “I don’t see how.”
“For starters, why target Treat in the middle of a party and use a hidden sniper? Wouldn’t it have been easier to wait for Treat to leave the mansion, gun him down on the road, in front of his house—anywhere but in the middle of one of the biggest social gatherings of the season?”
“A moot point, Clare,” said David.
I shook my head. “Don’t you see that the murder weapon could have been planted? That maybe that’s why the casings were so casually left behind on the beach. No professional hit man would have made such a mistake—”
“No one said the arrestee was a professional hit man,” David argued. “He was probably just a punk.”
“And I’ll bet there are no fingerprints on that gun, either,” I shot back. “I’ll bet the killer wanted that weapon to be found by the police—he probably even tipped them—so that someone else would be charged with the crime.”
“Give it up, Clare,” David warned in an irritated voice. “O’Rourke says it’s over. So it’s over.”
“One more question, then I’ll let it rest.”
He sighed. “Ask.”
“Where did they find the gun and pick this perp up?”
“The wrong side of the highway,” David replied. “Somewhere in Hampton Bays, I think. Anyway, I’m simply relieved to hear that Treat’s killer has been caught.
I can pay off the security firm and be free of people in uniform staking out my house at all hours.”
I was alarmed. “Why drop the security?”
“It’s no longer necessary.”
“Please. There’s been a murder in this mansion. Your restaurant manager just tried to blow up your business. Can’t you keep the security in place for a few more weeks? For my sake?”
Madame raised an eyebrow. “You know, David, Clare’s right. Given what just happened with your misjudgment of Jacques Papas, don’t you think you should listen to my daughter-in-law?”
Ex-daughter-in-law, I thought. And considering Matteo’s relationship with Breanne Summour, things are getting exier every day.
David’s gaze moved from me to Madame and back again. Finally he threw up his hands. “I know when I’m outnumbered!” He set the empty cup on the table and rose.
“Now I have to dress,” he announced. “I’ve got a round of social calls to make, and I have to convince the gas and the glass company to send people immediately to repair the restaurant, or Cuppa J doesn’t open tonight.”
Fortunately for all concerned Cuppa J did open on Sunday, though not in time for its famous brunch. By four o’clock, however, on that sunny afternoon, the glass company had come and gone, the utility company had affected repairs, and the village fire marshal had declared the premises safe.
While Chef Vogel handled preparations in the kitchen and Suzi Tuttle set up the dining room for the evening rush, I was on the break room’s couch going over the vendor list, wondering which of the restaurant’s clients I would have to charm on Monday in order to get our supplies delivered without the added ten percent markup negotiated by Jacques Papas, who was now cooling his heels in the Suffolk County jail awaiting a bond hearing.
I was making little progress when Suzi interrupted me with another crisis. “I think the espresso machine is broken.”
I followed Suzi to the coffee bar and quickly discerned the problem. Though the machine was plugged in, the electric outlet it was plugged into had shorted out. Running a high-voltage extension cord along the wall from the kitchen to the coffee bar temporarily solved the problem until an electrician could check out the socket in the morning. Crisis resolved, I returned to retrieve my notes in the break room.
I paused just outside the door when I heard the voice of Graydon Faas. He was alone, talking to someone on his cell phone.
Now, as a rule, I don’t eavesdrop on
private conversations (unless, of course, I’m investigating a crime). But Graydon Faas was dating my daughter, which I felt gave me certain latitude as a parent. Also, Madame’s revelation that Graydon was the member of a family with a pharmaceutical fortune had piqued my curiosity. Here was a young man who was worth—quite literally—millions of dollars, yet who was waiting tables at a Hamptons restaurant rather than summering in luxury with every other member of his smart set.
I guess it’s ironic that, after all my concern over David Mintzer’s safety and well being, it was concern over my daughter that prompted me to listen to the one-sided conversation.
“I kept up my part of the deal, Bom.” I heard him say.
Bom? As in Bom Felloes? I crept a little closer to the door, careful to stay out of sight.
“Sure I could use some more,” said Graydon. “You know it, dude. But I don’t know…the last time what happened afterwards really freaked me out.”
A glass crashed to the floor in the dining room, startling me. Graydon ignored the sound, kept right on going with his conversation.
“Okay, if you say so. What time?…Okay, dude, eleven-thirty it is. You’re the bomb, Bom. See you later.”
I whirled and literally ran to the other end of the kitchen. Graydon emerged from the break room a moment later and went to help Suzi Tuttle lay out the silverware.
I didn’t know what business Graydon Faas had with Bom Felloes, but I suspected it was something shady. Even worse, I suspected it had something to do with the failed attempts on David Mintzer’s life.
When everyone else was busy, I cornered Chef Vogel in the kitchen. “I need to leave early tonight, okay? Can you cover?”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, I owe you. Just don’t mention the fact that I’m leaving early to anyone else, okay?”
The chef offered me a conspiratorial wink. “Have a blast,” he whispered. “After all the hard work you’ve put in this summer, you deserve a little fun.”
