the land was left to him. She posed for the photo because East End asked her to, and that magazine is read by everyone in East Hampton, Clare. Everyone.”
“It also sounds like David and Bom were pretty thick back then,” I noted, “like they’d coordinated the land purchase together.”
“This article may have been the beginning of the end of their friendship. Just listen to this section: ‘Both men claimed separately to this reporter that they always dreamed of living in East Hampton and opening a restaurant here. But apparently not together…’”
“Go on.”
“They quote David as saying, ‘I could never dine in Bom’s eateries. The MSG flows like water and I’m severely allergic. It’s a shame really. In my opinion, no self-respecting restauranteur would allow MSG to be placed anywhere near his cuisine…’”
“Ouch,” I said. “I know David can be catty. But that’s a terrible swipe to take in print. Maybe he was running off at the mouth with the reporter. Do you think he realized he would be quoted?”
“Yes, dear, I do. I think he was lobbying even then to win the restaurant war that ensued. And Bom was no better. Here’s what he told the reporter: ‘David’s very successful, it’s true. But what else can you expect from a twenty-four/seven self-promoter? Is he more style than substance? Some do call him the Prince of Hype, and if the shoe fits…’”
“Ugly stuff,” I murmured. “For ‘good neighbors.’”
“I’m sure both Bom and Marjorie would have read this article since they’re in it. So both would have known about David’s MSG allergy.”
“But neither were at David’s July Fourth party,” I pointed out. “Marjorie was loitering outside it. And Bom wasn’t invited.”
“Your point?”
“David had complained of a migraine at his own party, remember? That’s the reason he went up to his bedroom before the fireworks started.”
“That’s right,” said Madame. “And he was perplexed by it. He said he was certain that he hadn’t ingested any of the foods that give him that reaction.”
“But someone could have slipped MSG in his food or drink then, too. The plan could have been to get him to move away from the party, to go up to his bedroom so the shooter could target him there.”
“But who would have done that?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s all so elaborate, Clare. Why would this person have created such a production? I hate to say it, but there are probably much easier ways to kill David Mintzer.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of…”
“Clare! Clare Cosi!” Jacques Papas’s perpetually irritated voice called outside the closed break room door. “Where is that woman?”
The lilting Irish voice of Colleen O’Brien answered. “I think she’s in the break room, Mr. Papas. Joy said she’s making a private call.”
Before I could even rise from the couch, the door flew open with such force it banged against the back wall. “Why is this door closed?!”
I calmly regarded the swarthy manager. “I’m making a phone call, Jacques.”
“To whom?” He barreled into the room, his fleshy face reddening.
“It’s private.”
He spied the photos on the coffee table. “And what is all this?”
“I’ll have to call you back,” I told Madame.
“One more thing, Clare. I’ve been asking around about Graydon Faas, just as you requested, and you really shouldn’t worry. The Faas family out here co-owns Taber-Faas pharmaceuticals. They’re multimillionaires, dear.”
“Okay, gotta go,” I said and closed the phone.
Frankly, I didn’t care if the Faases were multibillionaires. The fact that Graydon’s family was rich told me nothing about the character of the boy himself, nor did it explain why he was working in the lowly job of waiter for the summer in an East Hampton eatery. But I didn’t have time to discuss all that with Madame. Not with Cuppa J’s crazy manager breathing down my neck.
By now, Papas was pawing through Jim Rand’s photos. I calmly got to my feet. “Jacques, what I’m doing is none of your business.”
He didn’t seem to care. He continued rudely looking through the pictures. “These photos…they’re from David’s party.”
“They’re my business,” I said, finally grabbing them back.
Jacques’s beady black eyes narrowed on me. “What sort of business?”
“If you must know, I’m conducting a little, uh…investigation.”
“An investigation!” Papas cried. He appeared appalled at first and then upset. “An investigation into…into what exactly? What do you mean?”
“I’m looking into some suspicious things that are happening around David, that’s what I mean. I’m his friend and I don’t intend to see anyone injure him.”
“I don’t understand you,” Papas sputtered. “You’re just a glorified barista. Who do you think you are?”
“Dial