Murder Most Frothy

by Cleo Coyle

  “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 night 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?”

  Jim wanted to say no, I could tell. But I also knew we’d made a connection. It seemed like he was beginning to trust me. Was he? Or was he just playing me?

  “You’re sure you’re not a private investigator?” he asked skeptically. “You’re too cute to be a shamus, but you never know.”

  I reaffirmed my prior claim and he rose, went back into the bedroom, and returned with the photos—more than in the original stack I’d found. I began going through them, not sure what I was looking for. More evidence maybe.

  Halfway through the pile, Rand reached across the table, touched my arm. “Okay,” he said. “I answered your questions. Now why are you here, Clare? Really.”

  I finally told him about Treat Mazzelli’s murder, watched his face, his eyes as I gave him the highlights. The news still hadn’t made the papers, though every Bonacker probably already knew the details. I told him about how I suspected David was the target, and how I was investigating the shooting.

  Jim Rand didn’t give much of a reaction to my tale. His sober face remained impassive. He simply listened and stared. “Wait,” he said when I’d finally finished. “So you’re claiming you’re not a professional investigator, right?”

  “Right.”

  “And you’re not a cop?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then why are you involving yourself?”

  “Treat worked for me. I was his manager. And David is my boss and my friend. I’m worried about his safety. I feel obligated to get involved.”

  Jim snorted again and shook his head. “You sound as gung-ho as my drill instructor. Or, as one of my former commanders used to say, ‘you have an overwrought sense of justice.’ Frankly, I find that…” He looked up just then, met my eyes, “…irresistible. You’re not married are you?”

  I looked away, then down at the photos and changed the subject, willing away a rather annoying primal reaction to the man’s advances. He was ruggedly attractive, obviously intelligent, and my close proximity to his palpable maleness in this cozy little house was straining my nerves. But, given my discoveries in his bathroom, I had my doubts about Jim Rand. Major ones. My primary suspicion being the possibility of a hunting rifle stashed somewhere on these premises.

  “You really didn’t know about the murder on David’s estate?” I asked, looking up again to gauge any sense of subterfuge, guilt, or nervous tension.

  “God, no,” Jim replied, apparently at ease. “Honestly, if I had known about the shooting,
I would have stuck around to take photos of the police removing the body. I’m sorry about that kid. Nothing personal. But it would have been a helluva photo to sell, and the scoop with it. Unfortunately, I was gone long before the fireworks even started.”

  “Can I take these?” I asked.

  Jim hesitated. “Are you really a barista?”

  “Manager, yes. Are you really a scuba-diving paparazzi?”

  Jim regarded me again with those intense brown eyes. “Why don’t you come out with me tonight and see for yourself.”

  “Out? Where?”

  “On the job. On the water. I miss having a partner out there. Kenny’s been a real prick this season anyway, bitching night and day. It’ll be fun, you and me. I’ll show you what I do. After you see with your own eyes that I’m telling you the truth, you can cross me off your suspect list, and I’ll give you any photo you like.”

  “Or you’ll push me overboard,” I countered.

  “Guess it’s the chance you’ll have to take. But, you know, Clare, the edge is an exhilarating place to be.” He smiled, his eyes bright. “And I think you know that or you wouldn’t have risked coming in here.”

  I shoved the pictures across the table, stood up. “You’re just like my ex-husband. And I’m late for work.”

  Jim scooped up the photos and followed me to the front door.

  “Monroe’s Marina in Hampton Bays. Midnight tonight,” he pressed. “Come out with me.”

  “I have to work,” I insisted. “Good-bye, Mr. Rand.”

  I walked briskly across the street to my Honda and slid behind the wheel. When I looked up from starting the engine, he was leaning on my car roof with one arm. My heart almost stopped, seeing him suddenly there. He’d followed me without casting a noticeable shadow. He’d stalked me without making a sound.

  “Keep the hard copies, Clare,” he said, passing the photos through the open car window. “I have the digital files.”

  I didn’t thank him. I didn’t say another word. I took the photos and pulled away without a backward glance. But half a block away, I couldn’t resist a quick peek in my rearview mirror.

  He stood in the middle of the road, legs braced, muscular arms folded, watching me go. Seeing him like that, I couldn’t help comparing him to another man who’d watched me drive away less than twenty-four hours before—Bom Felloes.

  Despite his polish, his fortune, and his absolute gentlemanly behavior, Bom had left me cold. Consequently, it had been easy to keep him on my suspect list. But Mr. Rand, however, was another matter entirely.

  Regardless of my determination to remain aloof, I couldn’t deny, at least to myself, that Jim Rand, with his scruffy masculinity and wry sense of humor, was most definitely my type. And that’s why he was terribly dangerous for me to be around.

  Rand was the most likely killer I’d come across yet, and I had an obligation to inform Detective O’Rourke about what I’d found. Which is why, with a final, regretful glance in my car’s mirror, I once again cursed my inability to reengineer my taste in men.

  EIGHTEEN

  “WE’LL question him, Ms. Cosi. Thank you for the heads up.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The phone call with Detective O’Rourke had gone well, now that it had finally taken place. I had left a message for him well before our lunch shift. We were about to prepare for dinner and he’d just gotten around to calling me back.

  During the call, O’Rourke had been vague and distant. But he’d also seemed genuinely intrigued to hear that I’d “accidentally” come across that diver who happened to admit being in the vicinity of David Mintzer’s mansion the night of Treat’s shooting.

  Unfortunately, O’Rourke wouldn’t reveal much about the progress of his investigation. He’d implied that because I wasn’t a member of Treat’s immediate family, he wasn’t obligated to tell me anything. I countered with the reminder that I had found the body and was a key witness to some basic events including the recovery of the bullet casings.

  The Suffolk County detective wasn’t too happy to be pressured, but he did politely invite me to call back again—“anytime.” I intended to do just that, especially to find out where their questioning of Jim Rand would lead them.

  “Hi, Mom…Mom? You okay?”

  I’d been sitting on the couch in Cuppa J’s empty break room, staring off into space after my call to O’Rourke. On the coffee table in front of me were the photos Jim Rand had given me, the photos he’d taken the night of Treat’s murder. When I realized Joy was standing there, I checked my watch. She’d arrived thirty minutes early for her dinner shift.

  “Hi, honey,” I murmured. “You’re early.”

  “I wanted to make up for coming late yesterday.” She shuffled her feet, crossed and uncrossed her arms. “Look, I’m sorry about fighting with you, okay? I don’t want to argue anymore.”

  “Oh, honey…I’m sorry, too.” I opened my arms. She sat down beside me on the couch and we hugged.

  “I want you to understand how I feel…I really like Graydon,” she said quietly. “And I really like it out here. It’s so beautiful. I hate what happened to Treat, but it was my idea to come out here in the first place. Don’t ask me to go back to the city before the summer ends.”

  I brushed my daughter’s lengthening brown bangs away from her green eyes. “I’m just worried about you.”

  “Mom, you want to see my driver’s license? I’m over eighteen. If I want to spend the night with Graydon or Keith Judd or any other guy, I will. I only didn’t last night because I didn’t feel right about it. I didn’t want to do it to spite you. When I sleep with a guy, it’s going to be because I want to, not because I’m trying to prove something.”

  I smiled. “When you sleep with a guy, I hope it’s because you love him. But if you don’t, Joy, remember what I always tell you: when you make your choices, you have to live with the consequences.”

  “I know, I know. Just like you did, right?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know the other night, the night Treat was killed…Grandmother finally told me why you and daddy got married.”

  I frowned. “She shouldn’t have.”

  “Well, I was angry at you when you ripped up Keith Judd’s number in front of everybody. Really angry…but she talked to me…she told me about your getting pregnant accidentally, said that’s why you’re being the way you’re being. Because of what happened to you around my age—actually, you were younger, weren’t you?”

  “She shouldn’t have told you what I did or didn’t do at your age.”

  “Why not? Are you sorry you had me?”

  “No, Joy. You’re the best thing that ever happened in my life.”

  “So your ‘mistake’ wasn’t so bad, really?”

  “My mistake was marrying your father, but at the time, I never could have seen it that way. This isn’t about me anyway. That’s ancient history, which is why I never told you. I don’t want you to take what I did as a license to do anything yourself. I don’t want you to have to make the hard choices I did, to end up in a bad marriage or even a bad relationship. I don’t want to see you hurt, Joy.”

  “But you will, Mom. Everybody gets hurt.”

  “There’s hurt and then there’s hurt.”

  Joy shook her head. “Come on, Mom, lighten up. You are just soooo uptight. Haven’t you ever heard of a summer fling? Even Grandma is having one!”

  “Don’t remind me. Unlike you, your grandmother never came in last night.”

  “What?!” Joy cried in outrage, jumping to her feet. “Where was she? Who was she with? Was it that geezer who was all over her last night in the dining room, the one with the ponytail and beret?”

  “Come on, Joy, lighten up,” I said, unable to suppress the smile. “You’re just soooo uptight.”

  “Oh, stop it,” snapped Joy, putting her hands on her hips. “Look, I’m going to start restocking. You should give Grandma a call.” Then she wheeled and marched out of
the break room like a little determined general.

  My god, I thought, watching her go, when did my daughter become such a bossy, intrusive, know-it-all?

  Just then, my cell phone went off in my hand. I checked the incoming number on the digital screen before answering. “You must be psychic,” I told Madame. “I was about to ring you.”

  “Hello, dear. How was your day?”

  I sighed. “It’s not over yet. Ask me then. How was your night?”

  “Divine!”

  “And are you still with the divine Mr. Wilson?”

  There was a long pause. Madame’s voice went low. “How did you know I spent the night with Edward?”

  “You’re kidding right?”

  “Well, I’m trying to be discreet.”

  “I should think so,” I said. “What would Dr. MacTavish say?”

  “My dear, the good doctor and I are not engaged. And the last time I checked my driver’s license, I was over eighteen. Haven’t you ever heard of a summer fling?”

  “You have way too much in common with your granddaughter.”

  Laughter was the response to that. “Open your eyes, Clare. Joy is bossy, whip smart, and loves to meddle. She’s a carbon copy of you. So what’s the news on the case?”

  I was still alone in Cuppa J’s break room. Lunch service was over and the dinner shift wouldn’t be arriving for another twenty minutes, so I rose and shut the door for privacy. Then I updated Madame about meeting Rand.

  “I just spoke with O’Rourke,” I quietly explained. “The Suffolk County police are going to question Rand.”

  “Oh, my. And you think this Rand person is the killer?”

  “Rand had no motive that I can see. But he is a mercenary where shooting pictures are concerned. And I’m betting he switched his camera for a rifle. The important question for David’s safety is who provided the payoff for Rand to make the switch? Hopefully the detectives will break Rand and he’ll admit who hired him. But if he doesn’t crack, we’re back to square one.”

  “You mean we still won’t know who wants David dead?”