In any event, Matt recently accused me of having a Nancy Drew compulsion. He claimed it was a wish fulfillment impulse carried over from all the mystery novels I’d read in my formative years. He asserted this was my own personal version of an adrenaline rush.
Maybe Matt was right. Maybe he wasn’t. One thing I knew, however, coming out here to have a look around was my choice, whether smart or stupid. That’s why I kept my destination from David, Madame, Joy, and the rest of the crew. At this point in my life, I was through letting other people’s doubts, fears, and worries make my choices for me. And, anyway, there was a very logical reason why I was out here—
Because the police weren’t.
Thunder rumbled again and I felt moisture suffuse the air. The scent of sea salt was strong now as I moved along. My ultimate destination was the back of the mansion, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to sweep the grounds as I went.
I wasn’t sure what I was trying to spot in my Maglite beam—pretty much anything suspicious before the rain or wind had a chance to drench it or blow it away. Maybe something out of place…like a piece of clothing or a dropped personal item. (A stray hunting rifle was probably too much to ask.)
As I came to the end of the mansion’s front facade and started moving around the corner of the south wing, I found myself observing how much work had gone into the stunning grounds, from the fully-grown topiaries and blazing blossoms to the gigantic shade trees. According to David, none of it had been here a few short years ago, just scrub grass, weeds, and rocks.
This acreage had originally been part of a larger estate. When the owner died, the estate was broken in two. David bought the land with one goal in mind: to make his brand new Otium cum Dignitate look like something Stanford White might have left to a great-grandson.
Apparently, this was one of the latest Hamptons trends: using a variety of tricks to make a brand new mansion look like a weathered heirloom that you’d just inherited. David settled on the Shingle Style, which was a popular Hamptons design in recent years precisely because it was all the rage in late-nineteenth-century New England.
Frankly, after my own modest study of historical styles, from Beaux Arts to Bauhaus, it was hard to believe that today’s structural designers weren’t banging their heads against the wall in frustration. Instead of giving them the chance to create something wholly new, the Hamptons’ new money was forcing them to recast the all-over-shingle idea for the third time in three centuries, and in supremely larger versions—sort of like architectural deja vu supersized.
David’s approach was extreme but not atypical. Once he’d bought the property, a pneumatically inflated dome had been set up so that his construction crew could work through the winter months. The vast bi-level sundeck alone had cost a half-million because the architectural firm had hired a restoration contractor to scour the country for cedar planks that had been uniformly weathered like those of an “old money” beach house.
To encourage the growth of moss, mixtures of yogurt and buttermilk had been smeared onto the gray fieldstone foundation. Super-fine mud, dredged from a Maryland bay, had been rubbed onto the shingles to give them a worn look. And in the spring, fully-grown plants had been imported to establish grounds that looked as if they’d been thriving for decades. Deep green topiaries, blue hydrangeas, and beds of burnt-orange and crimson tulips had been planted around the building.
Using a super-speedy type of horticulture called “ivy implantation,” the gardener had even affixed thick coats of English ivy up the mansion’s sides, giving it a decades-old look before the front tire of David’s Jag even touched the driveway.
David’s absolute pride and joy, however, were his trees—hundred-year-old oaks and sycamores from upstate and weeping willows from south Jersey. These beauties had been pulled from their original roots and shipped on huge flatbeds (root balls wrapped for replanting) so instant shade would be available at the front and sides of his house.
According to David, two of the largest trees, which I was now moving toward, had root balls so large a toll booth had to be temporarily removed on the George Washington Bridge in order for the flatbed trucks carrying them to pass. In the end, this was just one more contributor to the multi-million dollar price tag on David’s estate.
The excess was truly hard to fathom for someone like me, who’d been financially struggling for years to raise a daughter and now put her through school. On the other hand, I knew David was simply being canny. In his neck of the business world, you weren’t keeping up with the Joneses, you were keeping up with the Hiltons, Trumps, and Bloombergs. David wanted an impressive presence here to continue the kind of networking with CEOs, celebrities, and media types that kept his projects and product lines thriving.
As I moved along the south wing’s side, the wind quickly intensified, whipping my chestnut ponytail loose. I put the flashlight between my knees and retied my tangling hair. As I was finishing, however, the Maglite slipped and fell. The beam arced wildly and I heard the sound of twigs snapping a few yards away.
I immediately bent down, grabbed the flashlight, and frantically shined it in the direction of the noise. The sallow beam illuminated rubber-soled boat shoes and a pair of black Capri pants.
“Party over?”
The words spiked angrily through the darkness. I swept the beam higher to shed light on a woman about my age in an exquisite black camisole and black cashmere half-sweater. She had straight blond hair, parted down the middle, and cut into fashionable layers. The woman was smoking a cigarette and sneering at me like a female wasp looking for a place to sink her stinger.
“W-who are you?” My nerves were momentarily rattled, and I failed to control the waver in my voice. “What are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same question.”
For at least thirty seconds, Wasp Woman and I faced off in silence. Finally, I caved.
“I’m a guest of David’s. My name is Clare Cosi.”
“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” she said, although her tone said she was not. “I’m David’s neighbor.”
In terms of an ID, that statement actually didn’t help much. East Hampton residents valued their privacy more than anything. They kept to themselves, and since I’d arrived here six weeks ago, no “neighbor” had ever before walked down David’s driveway. Still, the woman did look familiar, and, for David’s sake, I didn’t want to unnecessarily offend an acquaintance.
“Sorry, uh…which neighbor?” I meekly asked.
“Across the lane,” she said with a you’re-so-tiresome sigh.
That’s when I realized. This woman was Marjorie Bright, the granddaughter of Elmer Bright, founder of Bright Laundry Detergent. The heiress had been in Cuppa J a few times as a customer. David had pointed her out to me. He’d also told me he was surprised to see her in his restaurant because they weren’t exactly “on good terms.”
At the time, I’d asked David what he’d meant by that.
“Well,” he’d answered, “I’d say we haven’t yet reached the level of Hitler and Churchill. I’d put us more in the realm of Reagan and Gorbechev.”
According to David, Marjorie had always enjoyed an unobstructed view of the ocean from her large, old estate. For almost two decades, her entire decor and entertainment plans had been built around the spectacular vista from her second floor. She’d even had a custom-made loggia constructed for this purpose. But David Mintzer had utterly ruined her view when he’d brought in his giant, hundred-year-old oaks and weeping willows.