by Cleo Coyle
Suddenly the door on the bedroom side opened, and I prepared an apology to David for invading his privacy without knocking. But it wasn’t David. Pale blue eyes stared at me. Alberta Gurt’s alarmed gaze. She held an armful of dirty laundry.
“Oh!” we both cried. Then we nervously laughed.
“Couldn’t resist taking a look at the marble, eh?” Alberta said, dumping David’s clothes into a wicker hamper. The woman wore her maid’s uniform and her brown, gray flecked hair was pinned up. There was no sign of the makeup and jewelry she displayed last night when I’d questioned her.
“Oh…yes,” I stammered. “The marble is spotless.”
“The stonemason did a fine job of restoring the finish,” Alberta said, regarding the work. “David had a car service drive the craftsman here from Hoboken. The fellow was working in here for hours. Now it’s as good as new.”
Wish I could say the same for Treat.
“I thought maybe you were David,” Alberta said with a sigh. “He’s had a stressful two days, what with the Fourth of July party and all that’s happened afterwards. Arranging for security, getting the stonemason and the lamp installed…”
“I saw.”
Alberta shook her head. “Now he’s off gallivanting again. He needs his rest, that boy. He’s already had one migraine this week. If he’s not careful, he’ll be courting another.”
“Where did he go, by the way?” I asked. “His car’s still parked outside.”
“He’s gone to another party, just down the beach. He walked there around sunset.”
“Walked? Alone?”
Alberta nodded.
Now I was really annoyed with David. The lack of proper security lighting was bad enough. I’d told him about the flipper footprints in the sand! Didn’t he realize what an easy target he was making himself?!
“When did the security people arrive?” I asked.
“Soon after the detectives left. David arranged everything with a few phone calls.”
Alberta carried the wicker hamper out the bathroom’s hallway door. I followed her downstairs, to the laundry room, where she methodically separated the clothes by color.
“You’ve known David a long time,” I said.
“Too long, according to David. He tells me I treat him more like a son than a boss. It’s true I guess. When you see someone every day for fifteen years, it’s like they’re family.”
I tried to imagine what David Mintzer was like fifteen years ago. He would have been around thirty, I knew, but I couldn’t form a picture in my mind of him looking any way but how he looked today.
“I can’t complain,” Alberta continued. “David’s treated me like family, too.”
“Really?” I fished, thinking of his abrupt firing of Prin. “He can be a pretty demanding boss. Doesn’t like to be questioned.”
Alberta gave me a funny look. “Well, to me, he’s been good. He put me in his will so if something ever happened to him I’d be taken care of. He even included my nephew, too. How many people would do that for an employee?”
This was the first time I’d heard Alberta mention any other member of her family. “Your nephew?” I asked.
Alberta nodded. “My sister’s boy. Thomas got into some gang trouble in Buffalo a decade ago, when he was still a juvenile. After the justice system was done with him, Thomas came here to live with me, to get away from that environment. David helped Tommy get his G.E.D. After that, the boy enlisted in the Army.”
“He’s still a soldier?”
“Not anymore. He finished his enlistment last year, got an honorable discharge and landed a nice security job over in Hampton Bays. That might not have happened without David’s help.”
Of course I wondered if that security job involved carrying a gun. Certainly, the army would have given the guy training in target shooting. I also wondered if he knew that David had included him in his will—and if the amount of his inheritance was worth killing for. The hairs on the back of my neck began to prickle.
I was glad Alberta Gurt was feeling talkative. Perhaps it was the isolation that came with working on a property like this one. Although a whirl of social activity suffused the Hamptons, folks like Alberta weren’t part of that lifestyle. For them the Hamptons was a very different place.
“David seems like a very complicated man,” I said after a pause. “Over the years, you’ve watched him rise to the top of his game. It must have been an interesting sight.”
Alberta nodded. “I remember when David sold his fashion line to the Unity department store chain, and the first time he was on Oprah, too. I was sitting in the audience that day. He introduced me to Ms. Winfrey herself after the taping.”
“That must have been exciting.”
“David knows all sorts of people. He’s made so many friends over the years.”
“I suspect he’s made a few enemies, too?”
“That’s the funny thing about David. Even his business rivals come around. David finds a way to make things work out for the best, especially when he turns on that charm of his.”
I thought about his firing Prin and instructing Jacques to lie about it to the Cuppa J staff. Then there was that neighbor of his across the lane, the heiress in black, smoking among the trees.
“His charm certainly hasn’t worked on Marjorie Bright,” I pointed out to Alberta. “She told me she’s suing David.”
Alberta frowned and shook her head. “That woman is a piece of bad road, I can tell you. All her threats and raging over a few silly trees that only partially block her view from one window. But then people get riled up easily out here. Egos and money make for a bad mix.”
Alberta didn’t talk much more after that, just checked her watch and said she had to finish up her work for the night. I followed her down to the first floor, then bid her goodnight as I stepped into the kitchen to pick up my handbag. That’s when I heard my cell phone chiming.
“Hello, Clare. You needed to speak to me?” The voice was female, familiar, and blunt as a kitchen mallet.
Prin Lopez was returning my call.
ELEVEN
“PRIN,” I said, sitting down at the large table, “thank you for calling back.” On the other end of the phone, I could hear clattering sounds, the familiar noises of plates rattling in a busy restaurant kitchen. “I found out what happened to you, just today,” I told her. “Jacques informed me. I’m so sorry”
There was a pause, followed by a cutting laugh. “Does that bastard want me to come back? Too late, I got my old job again, and with a raise, too. Tell that pompous pig I’m staying in the city.”
Okay, I thought, so there’s no love lost between Prin and David. Or was she referring to Jacques?
“Prin, I’m sorry to be nosy but…why were you let go?” I asked carefully. “Jacques either didn’t know or didn’t want to tell me.”
“Screw his so-called propriety. What do I care? I’ll tell you why I was fired. I ‘imposed’ on one of David’s precious guests.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ve been trying to make it as a singer for a couple of years now. I even recorded a demo, but I haven’t gotten much traction with it. Then, last week, Big D came into Cuppa J.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know who that is.”
Prin sighed. “Big D? Devon Conroy? Among other things, he’s the host and producer of American Star—”
“Oh, right, right. Like that Star Search show from the eighties with Ed McMahon.”
“Ed McWho?” I could practically hear Prin rolling her eyes.
“Forget it,” I said, feeling my age (and for a moment there, I actually felt good that I didn’t have to go all the way back to Ed Sullivan for an example!) “Go on.”
“Well, Big D was having lunch with some television people. I saw him sit down at one of Graydon Faas’s tables. So I pulled Graydon aside, begged him to switch with me, give me the chance to wait on them. You know that prick Faas actually made me pay him a Benjamin to trade tab
les?”
I was sorry to hear that bit of the story. Obviously, Graydon wouldn’t be the first young man interested in making a buck (or a hundred) where he could. But it didn’t speak very highly of his character to charge a fellow worker for a favor.
“So you waited on Big D’s table?” I prompted.
“Yeah, I did. And along with the check, I slipped Devon my demo CD.”
“Ohhh…” I groaned, finally understanding why David had fired Prin. She’d broken his first commandment of working at Cuppa J.
“Remember that celebrities are here on vacation,” David had lectured the staff at the beginning of the season. “My guests do not want to be harassed, photographed, or hounded. And while they’re under my roof they won’t be. No one is ever to do anything but wait on them. No fraternizing, asking questions, requesting autographs, ever. On grounds of immediate termination.”
“Fine, so I knew it was against the rules,” Prin went on. “But it’s not like rules can’t be bent a little. And Big D was totally down with it. He didn’t complain. David wasn’t even there to see me do it.”
“You mean someone ratted you out?”
“Nobody had to. Jacques caught me in the act and fired me on the spot.”
“What? It was Jacques who fired you?”
“Yeah. Who do you think fired me?”
“Jacques told me it was David.”
Prin laughed. “Mintzer was nowhere in sight. I pissed Jacques off so he got rid of me. And let me tell you, he was looking for a way to get rid of me, so he did.”
I wasn’t so sure Prin was telling the truth. “But David hired you,” I argued. “And he owns the restaurant…”
“I’m sure Jacques got David to see things his way. Based on what I actually did, it wouldn’t have been too hard. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m glad to be back in Manhattan. Madre Dios, I thought people on the Upper West Side had attitude, but they’ve got nada on the ‘I’m all that’ divas out there.”
“Prin, back up. You said Jacques was looking for a reason to fire you.” One particular reason suddenly came to mind. “Did it have something to do with the suppliers?”
Prin laughed again, sharp and cynical. “You’re talking about Jacques’s ten percent deal, aren’t you? I found out about it, and I figured he was up to something shady. I never said a word, but he knew that I knew, which is really why that bastard wanted me out. I don’t know what’s going on, but you better watch your back, Clare.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean Papas is a prick. But I always liked you. You know, before you got ahold of me, I thought a can opener was the standard tool for coffee prep! Anyway, Clare…guess I’m trying to say thanks for everything you taught me and always being so patient and sweet, you know?”
“Oh, Prin, you’re welcome—”
I was about to ask Prin about her relationship with Treat Mazzelli, but I never got the chance. Someone on her end called her name, and Prin told me she had to get back to work. I wished her luck and said goodbye.
I stood in David’s kitchen a moment, gazing at the glowing display panel on my cell phone and thought about the one person I could talk to right now, the one man who would understand my dilemma—and not just because it was his job. Without hesitation, I toggled to the fourth number on my speed-dial list and pressed.
On good days, I liked to think Detective Mike Quinn’s attraction to me was genuine and based as much on my ability to listen as my big green eyes and sense of humor (and take it from me, a weary, grim-faced New York cop is one tough comedic audience). On bad days, however, I chalked up his regular appearances at the Blend as a simple case of his addiction to my barista skills. Upon meeting the man, I’d single-handedly converted him from a drinker of stale, convenience-store swill to an aficionado of rich, nutty, freshly pulled Arabicas. And, for sure, once you’re hooked on that perfect cup, going without can make you homicidal (well, figuratively anyway).
Whatever the reason for Mike’s friendliness toward me, however, I was glad to hear him answer my call on the first ring.
“Clare? Are you back in the city?”
Mike’s voice was as difficult to read as his features. By now, however, I had trained my ear to detect his subtlest change in tone—not unlike picking up the faintest traces of exotic fruit in a hard-to-cultivate coffee. In this case, the almost inaudible rise in Mike’s deadpan pitch told me the NYPD detective was, in fact, delighted to hear from me.
“No, Mike, I’m not back yet,” I replied. “I’m sorry to tell you I’m still stuck on the balmy beaches of the Hamptons.”
“Poor kid.”
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
He snorted. (I always could make him laugh.) “I’m on duty,” he informed me.
“So what are you doing? Right now.”
“Why? This isn’t one of your phone sex calls is it?”
A male voice in the background laughed.
“I’m serious, Mike. Tell me.”
“I’m sitting in an unmarked car parked on Houston Street, waiting for someone to rob the decoy cop using the ATM machine across the street.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Hardly. Three robberies in two weeks at this same machine, one ended in a stabbing. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Why do you think something’s wrong?”
“Because I haven’t heard from you in two weeks, it’s after midnight, and that creepy ex-husband of yours has crept back into town.”
“Mike, how the hell do you know all that? Are you spying on me?”
“Relax, it’s a coincidence, that’s all. I stopped by the Blend for a double tall latte and spotted Allegro getting out of a cab.”
“I hope you got your coffee.”
“I did. Tucker makes a nice latte.” There was a semi-long pause. “You make them better.”
The pitch went slightly lower just then. The pleasure pitch. The pitch that made me conjure images of the lanky cop drinking his double latte in my bed.
I cleared my throat. “Thanks.”
“Anytime. So what’s the trouble, Clare?”
I spilled, telling him about the shooting. I described the murder scene, how I’d found Treat shot, then the shells on the beach. He asked me to describe the bullet casings and I did. I even mentioned the tracks in the sand, the flipper fins, and told Mike the name of the investigating officer.
“I never met this O’Rourke but I’ll ask around.”
“Thanks, Mike.”
“Listen, Clare. I see two scenarios here. One is that the murderer is an amateur, not a true professional—”
“Because I found the shells the shooter left behind?”
“Because you found three shells. Did you see any other bullet holes? In the window, the walls?”
“No, nothing, but I’ll try to find out if the police found anything.”
“If there are no shots close to the window, then for a pro the shooter was a lousy marksman, which brings me to my second scenario.”
“Which is?”
“The shooting was an accident.”
“What! That’s crazy.”
“Think about it, Clare. It’s the Fourth of July. Fireworks are going off all over the place. Some kid, maybe a teenager or even an idiotic adult with too much money and not enough sense starts shooting off a rifle for the hell of it. Most of the shots go wild, but one hits the mark and someone dies. It’s happened before.”
I remained unconvinced and told Mike so.
“Okay,” he said. “There’s a third possible scenario. That the shells were left behind on purpose. If that’s the case, look for the gun to show up in a place where the cops can easily find it.”
“Because the shooter is trying to frame someone else?”
“Exactly,” said Mike.
“I’ve already considered that possibility. But all these theories don’t answer my central question—who was really the intended victim? I’m convinced it’s David, but he swears he
has no enemies. He’s convinced it really was Treat.”
“If you want to eliminate this Mazzelli kid as the true victim, then you need to know more about him,” said Mike. “What types of things was he doing off the job, who were his known associates. Who did he hang with, in other words. That said, if I had to make the call based on what you’ve already told me, I’d say your friend David is in danger.”
“Why?”
“It’s simple. Rich men tend to make more enemies than waiters.”
TWELVE
Mike Quinn’s words stayed with me as I closed my cell phone. I’d say your friend David is in danger. I peered through the kitchen window at the shadowy lawn, the white dunes, and the ebony expanse of ocean beyond. Anyone could be lurking out on that shoreline, I realized, lying in wait for David if he were to return home along the beach. Once again he would be an easy target.
I opened the back door and stepped outside. The outer reaches of Long Island were always cooler than Manhattan. Tonight it was almost chilly for a night in early July—temperatures in the middle-seventies, with high humidity, a wet wind off the ocean. Cool and refreshing after long, sweaty hours in the crowded restaurant.
Listening to the dull continuous roar of the incoming surf, I strode across the cedar deck, scanning the grounds for any sign of the guard who’d startled me earlier. The young man must be up front, I concluded, because there was no sign of anyone in the back of the mansion. I followed the stone path down to the shore and crossed the beach. My sneakers were filling with sand, so I kicked them off and hung them over my shoulder by the laces.
Moving along the shoreline, I noticed bright lights farther down the beach. Square paper lanterns the color of fresh blood had been strung along a huge stone patio. They trailed all the way down to the water, lending the pale white sand a reddish hue. In the scarlet glow, I saw knots of people in relaxed poses. The smell of mesquite charcoal drifted toward me on the summer breeze, only to be scattered by a strong cold gust from the ocean. I walked closer and began to hear whiffs of laughter on the air, a tinkling piano.
