Colleen screamed.
By this time, I’d already guessed who it was by a process of elimination. When I saw the features of the young man, my fears were confirmed. The corpse on the floor was Treat Mazzelli.
By now, I also knew why I had made the mistake of misidentifying the body. Both David and Treat had short, black hair, stood under five seven, and were wearing short-sleeved shirts. Sure, David’s Ralph Lauren linen number was 300 dollars more than the “Cuppa J” Polo that Treat was wearing, but the pinkish/salmon colors were nearly identical and so were their khaki slacks. Because the shirts were worn loose and untucked, it wasn’t immediately apparent that Treat’s form was that of a muscle-bound weightlifter in his twenties and David’s that of a middle-aged foodie. From a distance, both men appeared to have the same hairy arms and stocky builds.
As the crowd at the door reacted with distressed exclamations, my mind began to race. Awhile back, I’d solved the murder of a Blend employee—a case on which a certain tall, attractively rumpled NYPD detective had been assigned. After that, Mike Quinn had become a regular Blend customer. As I routinely foamed up his grande lattes, he’d share details about his homicide cases (not to mention his rocky marriage, which was still bordering on divorce).
I was far from a pro at detective work, and I’d made plenty of mistakes in my subsequent attempts. But there were a few things I’d learned from listening to Michael Ryan Francis Quinn. In fact, I could almost hear his advice now—
Think objectively, Clare, not emotionally. Start by simply looking around. What do you see?
I glanced around the bathroom floor, near Treat’s blue-gray hands and saw no gun. Then I took a closer look at his skull. There were no sooty smudges or burns around the wound. No gunpowder particles were visible. That meant Treat hadn’t been shot at close range. And, of course, he hadn’t shot himself.
I turned and scanned the large bathroom window.
“There it is,” I whispered.
At about the height of Treat’s head in a standing position was a single bullet hole in the glass. I knew next to nothing about ballistics, but it seemed obvious the glass would have slowed the velocity of the bullet. I looked for an exit wound in his skull, but saw none, and I knew the medical examiner would have to retrieve the bullet from inside his brain during the autopsy.
I gently lifted one of Treat’s arms. It wasn’t stiff, but I wasn’t surprised. I had seen Treat alive less than two hours before and it took longer for rigor mortis to set in. The skin still felt warm. The parts closest to the floor appeared purplish, but when I touched the purple areas, they blanched.
“Clare, what are you doing?” asked David. He was about to step inside.
“No, don’t!” I warned. “Don’t come in. This is a crime scene.”
I rose and carefully left the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
Treat had been a considerate young man, personable, with a buoyant sense of humor. He’d been a good worker, always on time, amazingly even tempered, even in the hot house of Cuppa J’s East Hampton kitchen. In fact, he was one of the few people who could make Victor Vogel, the relentlessly intense chef, laugh. For that we were all grateful.
So who the hell would want to shoot a good-natured young man like Treat in the head? I asked myself.
Nobody, I silently answered.
The shooter must have made the same error I had, mistaking Treat for David.
Standing around me now in the hallway were the members of Cuppa J’s wait staff. They had been working closely with Treat for more than six weeks, and I noticed their reactions.
Colleen O’Brien was sobbing uncontrollably.
Joy, teary-eyed, was trying to comfort her.
Graydon Faas looked totally stricken as he stared at the corpse, slack-jawed and dumbfounded.
Only Suzi Tuttle looked unaffected. She simply stood there with arms folded, a look of ennui on her attractive features.
I made a note of Suzi’s reaction (or lack thereof ) before I pushed through the group and walked into David’s bedroom. The large space was pitch dark, but there was enough light from the hallway for me to make my way around his divan and over to his king-size bed.
“Clare, where are you going?” asked David. He followed me into his bedroom while the others waited in the hall.
“I’m going to call 911.”
As I removed the wireless receiver from its base on the carved mahogany