David gestured. Behind him, Alberta Gurt had set up the large table with a pot of Summer Porch, mugs, and a basket of warm croissants next to a replenished bowl of strawberries. Madame hovered nearby. I could see her peeking around the corner, pretending not to eavesdrop.
Without preamble, Sergeant O’Rourke bluntly declared, “Mr. Mintzer, Ms. Cosi tells us that you were the real target of last night’s killer. She believes Mr. Mazzelli’s murder was a case of mistaken identity.” O’Rourke shifted his pale gray eyes in my direction. “Would you care to elaborate, Ma’am?”
“It makes perfect sense,” I began, covering the exact same ground I had done with Madame an hour earlier. “David left the party before the fireworks display and went to his bedroom with a migraine. Anyone would have expected him to be using his own bathroom—not Treat. Both men are about the same height. Both men have short black hair, and both were wearing the same khaki pants and short-sleeved, untucked shirts of nearly the same pinkish color.”
“So are you accusing someone who attended the party? Or perhaps one of Mr. Mintzer’s business associates?” Detective Melchior prompted.
“Oh my god,” David said on an outraged exhale.
“Hold off, Mr. Mintzer,” said O’Rourke. “We want to hear everything Ms. Cosi has to say.”
“Thank you,” I said, relieved the initial flippancy I’d experienced over the flippers had changed into serious consideration. “Remember the tracks I found among the dunes?”
O’Rourke’s brow wrinkled unhappily. “The webbed feet, from the ‘Creature’?”
“Oh my god,” David said again.
“From a swimmer wearing fins,” I quickly corrected. “I believe those tracks were made by the shooter.”
Melchior scratched his chin. “Wait a second, Ms. Cosi. We thought you knew something specific. A threat perhaps?”
“Well…I did encounter Marjorie Bright on the property after the party was over. She threatened David.”
“Threatened him how?” Melchior asked. “What were her exact words?”
“She said, ‘Just tell David I’m not through suing him.’”
David snorted.
O’Rourke turned to him. “You don’t consider that out of the ordinary, Mr. Mintzer?”
“A lawsuit? In this town? Puh-leeeze. If there’s a Hamptons pastime more common than suing your neighbor, I don’t know what it is. People file in civil court as often as they file onto tennis courts. Look, Ms. Bright’s already taken local action against me once over my trees being too tall, and I’ve already assumed her lawyers and mine will be playing footsie for some time before our issues are resolved.”
“But, David, what was she doing on your property?” I demanded. “Don’t you find that suspicious?”
“She has no direct access to the beach now that I’ve built on this land,” David replied with a shrug. “Maybe she simply took a walk along the beach and was returning through my property when you caught her. No big deal.”
“If she was on the beach last night, we should interview her,” said O’Rourke, glancing at his partner.
Melchior nodded. “I’ll make a note.”
But that wasn’t enough to satisfy me. Marjorie Bright had been loitering on David’s property, smoking, and stewing, not just passing through. I was sure something was up with her, something bad—and although I couldn’t very well testify to seeing her there for any length of time, I felt in my gut that she meant harm to David.
“What about the diver’s fins,” I argued. “How can you explain their appearance just twenty yards away from the bullet casings on the same night as the shooting?”
“Ma’am, this is a resort area,” said O’Rourke. “Diver’s flippers in the sand aren’t exactly bloody fingerprints on a rifle stock.”
“But I swim or walk every day on that beach. I’ve never seen tracks like that before.”
O’Rourke folded his arms. “And what’s your explanation?”
“It’s possible Marjorie, or another enemy of David’s, paid for someone to do the shooting. The shooter had an employer.”
“So we’re looking for two killers now,” said O’Rourke. “A trigger man and the person who paid for it?” He faced David. “What do you think of Ms. Cosi’s theory, Mr. Mintzer?”
David shifted his surprised gaze from me to the Sergeant. “Why, I think it’s absurd. Ridiculous,” he replied.
It was my turn to be shocked. “David! I—”
“No, Clare,” he interrupted, directing his words to me. “I’m sorry but I have to say this now, because I don’t want any misunderstandings.”
He paused. When he spoke again his tone was measured, his words carefully chosen. “No one is trying to kill me. I completely dismiss the notion that I am a target. No one has threatened me, I have no mortal enemies, nor am I involved