“You mean we still won’t know who wants David dead?”
“Exactly. And until we do, I’m sure David’s in as much danger as ever.”
“Oh, yes, I see. So you do still need our information, don’t you?”
“Information?”
“Yes, Edward and I were very busy today, collecting information about your Mr. Felloes. And while we were doing that, we happened upon a very enlightening discovery about Marjorie Bright.”
According to Madame, Edward was a member of the exclusive East End Country Club, which is where they’d gone to ask around about Bom Felloes. “And while we were asking about Bom, we saw Marjorie Bright. She was skeet shooting, Clare.”
“Marjorie Bright? Skeet shooting? Are you sure?”
“Positive. She was blasting clay pigeons, one after the other. I tell you those little platters were bursting in the air like David’s Fourth of July fireworks.”
A thought occurred to me. As Madame continued to talk, I picked up Rand’s photos on the coffee table and began to look through them again. But this time I was looking for something very specific. I found several wide shots of the whole party that included the mansion’s side grounds. The photos had been taken well before sunset, and there was enough light to make out the identity of the woman smoking among the large, old trees.
“Marjorie Bright,” I whispered.
“Yes!” said Madame. “She’s a crack shot, Clare. Edward and I decided to take a look in the club’s trophy case. That laundry detergent heiress has won the club’s annual skeet shooting tournament for the last three out of five years.”
“Madame, listen. I’m looking at photographic evidence right now of Marjorie loitering on David’s property. This evidence shows that she wasn’t just ‘passing through’ after the party, the way O’Rourke and David had assumed. She was not using David’s property to get to the beach. She was hanging around out of sight of the partygoers on the back deck. But why? For what?”
“The chance to shoot David!” Madame blurted out. “In the photo, do you see a weapon in her hand?”
“No,” I said, “but she could have buried the rifle in the sand dune long before she needed it…if she was the shooter herself, that is.”
“Well, you know one thing now, she would not have needed to hire Mr. Rand,” said Madame. “And why would Mr. Rand have handed you those photos if they could be used against the woman who’d hired him?”
“Unless he was trying to double-cross her now. Or Jim Rand is what he says he is—which means there’s another shooter…”
“But if Marjorie hired another person to do the shooting, why would she risk loitering on David’s property? It only calls attention to herself.”
“Unless…” I said, “like any demanding, wealthy customer, Marjorie Bright was simply anxious to see if what she purchased lived up to her expectations.”
Madame and I paused at that notion. It did sound like the woman’s personality type.
“There’s only one problem,” I said. “How would she have known about David’s allergy?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sure that David was poisoned at Bom Felloes’s party last night.”
“Poisoned! My god, Clare, is he all right?”
“He’s fine, he’s fine. Matt and I drove him to the hospital and he’s still recovering. Matt called me with an update an hour ago. If the doctor releases him today, he’ll probably be driving David back to East Hampton this evening.”
“Thank goodness!”
“But here’s the thing. Marjorie was at the same party as David last night. I remember her chain smoking, talking with some other guests.”
“So you think, since Treat caught the bullet meant for David, she might have tried to poison David the next night?”
“Yes. It’s possible.” I flopped back on the couch. “But she couldn’t have.”
“She couldn’t have? Why not?”
“David was poisoned with a super-high concentration of MSG. But how would she have known about David’s allergy to it? I didn’t even know about it.”
“Just a minute, dear,” said Madame. Her voice became muffled and she called, “Edward, bring that magazine over…” I heard some paper rustling then Madame was back on the line.
“Clare, I’m sure Marjorie Bright knew about David’s allergy. So did Bom Felloes.”
“But how—”
“Edward and I were reading through his back issues of East End magazine, and—”
“He keeps back issues? How many?”
“Oh, well over ten years’ worth. He writes for them—reviews on Hamptons’ gallery shows, articles on the art world, you know. Now listen, Clare, this article we found is quite interesting. Edward remembered it because it carried a big splashy photo of David, Bom, and Marjorie Bright posing by the ocean. Here’s the caption: ‘Good Neighbors! David Mintzer and Bom Felloes pose together on the Bright land they recently purchased. Marjorie Bright, one of Elmer Bright’s heirs, poses with her new neighbors.’”
“So Marjorie Bright sold them the land?” I assumed.
“No,” said Madame. “According to Edward, it was her older brother, Gilbert Bright, who made the sale. She was supposedly furious about it, but there was nothing she could do since 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.”