Killer Getaway (11 page)

I've seen Joe at work many times, and he's not afraid to get his hands dirty. Well, he's a little afraid. But I've seen him grab a paintbrush many times, and even adjust things like the temperature on hot water heaters and finish up the wiring in flat-­screen TVs.

So while Joe's accumulated some contracting skills over the years, prying up floorboards and rotten wainscoting didn't seem to be one of them. Frank had a technique that involved using a crowbar as a lever that seemed quite effective on the molding, while Joe was working on some flimsy wainscoting along the little structure's interior walls with little success.

“You need to get the chisel underneath the wainscoting more securely,” Bootsie told Joe. Bootsie's actually pretty handy, thanks to growing up with two brothers, plus she's just interested in that kind of thing.

“Put some muscle into it, Honey Bunny!” Sophie said encouragingly.

“Fuck off, sweetie!” Joe told Sophie.

Holly rolled her eyes and walked back toward the house, eyes glued to her phone, while Sophie muttered things like “Yeesh,” and “Ya don't have to get that mad,” and followed Holly.

Bootsie watched Joe for a full minute, then rolled up her Lilly Pulitzer pants and elbowed Joe out of the way while grabbing his tools. “Let me do this,” she told him. “Go work on the fabrics. Please, I can't bear to watch.”

“Great!” said Joe, looking relieved and jumping up.

“Nice,” said Frank, giving Bootsie an admiring glance as a section of wainscoting peeled away as easily as wrapping paper from a gift on Christmas morning. I was honestly kind of impressed myself.

Joe headed for a green-­umbrella-­covered table and pulled some paint chips out of his tote bag, clearly thrilled to be done with manual labor. “Do you think Decorator's White will work for the interior and the window seats? Glossy or matte?” he asked me. “And should we try to get Ozzy to make us some lunch?”

 

Chapter 11

“W
E DON'T HAVE
time for lunch,” said Bootsie, who'd finished her wainscoting task in about three seconds. “I'm feeling my inner detective kicking in, big-­time.”

“Ya know, it could be that Barclay hired somebody to drive that killer Chevy and screw up the air-­conditioning at the restaurant,” Sophie said, plunking herself down next to Joe.

“But I don't know—­messing up the A.C., running ­people over in an alley—­it kinda seems like stuff Gianni would do, don't ya think?” Sophie added. “It's all focused on Vicino. Barclay usually thinks bigger than that when he's trying to ruin someone's life.”

“You're right,” said Bootsie, a light coming on in her eyes—­which concerned me, since this gleam often signifies a risky plan being hatched. “Gianni likes to do small-­scale mean stuff. Not that running someone over is small scale, but you know what I mean. Sophie, I think you're onto something with this Gianni idea.” She drummed her fingers on the table, then jumped up and, to my dismay, seized hold of my shoulder with a tennis-­honed iron grip.

“We'll call Holly and head to The Breakers. I have a plan! Gianni's overly confident,” Bootsie said, her face taking on the faraway, slightly insane focused look she gets when she's about to go Full Snoop. “Which is a good thing. He'll make a mistake soon.” She dialed Holly. “You're at The Breakers? And you said you're best friends with the concierge there, right? Perfect!”

Dread rose within me as Bootsie two-­wheeled out of Seagrape Lane and headed for the luxury hotel. It was only 12:45 on this gorgeous, sunny day, but I felt like I'd been awake for about three hundred hours. I sighed, thinking I'd give anything to join Waffles at the guesthouse, where Martha had texted me he was peacefully napping, and to jump in that fabulous pool. However, I had to concede that in a weird way, Bootsie turning the focus to Gianni made some sense. He had the biggest motive against Vicino, whether or not he was getting a piece of the condo deal Barclay and Scooter were working on.

“Are you going to follow Gianni today?” I asked her. “He's probably over at his restaurant, not at The Breakers. Maybe we should head over to Gianni Mare instead.”

“My plan is way better than following him!” Bootsie told me as we barreled down an absolutely beautiful lengthy drive flanked by ornate plantings and tall palms toward the massive 1920s structure, the ocean glistening behind the hotel.

“S
TEFAN,
I
HAVE
a tiny favor to ask you,” Holly said to the concierge at The Breakers seven minutes later. We'd dropped Bootsie's keys with a parking attendant, and I followed her into a massive and gorgeous lobby with a triple-­height ceiling, columns, tall French windows, and oversize chandeliers, where Holly was waiting for us.

“Have you met Stefan?” Holly asked us. “He's the single best connected person in all of Palm Beach. Stefan basically
is
Palm Beach.”

Stefan appeared pleased at Holly's assessment, and lived up to his reputation as concierge par excellence. While listening attentively to Holly, he simultaneously gave a significant glance to a bellboy who wasn't running out quickly enough to help a flustered-­looking family with three toddlers bring in their bags and strollers. At the same time, Stefan merely looked at a tiny bit of paper that had somehow fallen onto the lobby floor near the check-­in desk, and two maintenance workers dashed over to remove the offending scrap. Then a man dressed in chef's garb appeared with an invoice, which Stefan initialed while genially shaking hands with an older ­couple who'd just valeted their car and were heading poolside for a late lunch.

I was impressed. Stefan's navy blazer and striped tie were absolutely flawless. It seemed destined that Stefan would end up running this hotel, and doubtless owning a piece of it, too. The guy had success written all over him. However, he probably hadn't been bargaining for dealing with someone like Bootsie when he'd woken up on this breezy, flawless Florida day.

“Anything,” Stefan told her, smiling down at Holly, who'd led the four of us over to a table in the elegant Tapestry Bar just off the lobby.

“We need a maid's uniform, size six, and a key to Chef Gianni Brunello's suite,” Holly told him.

Stefan didn't look happy to hear this request. “Anything but that,” he said.

Bootsie and Holly had sketched out a two-­pronged plan in a quick, whispered conversation in the lobby. While the scheme was fluid and not all that coherent, the gist seemed to be that Bootsie would break into Gianni's suite disguised as a housekeeper and ransack it.

“I'll be in and out in five minutes,” Bootsie informed Stefan as she downed a quick Bloody Mary. “I'm an investigative reporter—­I'm really quick, and I never get caught.”

I knew this last to be untrue, but I kept silent. Bootsie does get caught snooping fairly often.

“Come on, Stefan,” said Holly with the full force of her almond-­shaped blue eyes and dazzling white smile. I also noticed her discreetly handing him a nice stack of bills under the table. “Just one little key card. You know you hate Gianni and Olivia.”

Stefan's face betrayed that this was in fact true. He was wavering.

“You told me yourself they aren't nice to the staff here,” Holly reminded him. “And they barely tip. We're doing you a favor! Gianni might have tried to kill me, and you don't want guests like that lurking around your hotel.”

Stefan caved, but he looked really nervous. “Please, I need this to be very quick,” he told Bootsie as Holly discreetly handed him another bill. “And what if Gianni comes back from the restaurant and finds you in his suite? He knows you from Pennsylvania, right?”

“He won't notice it's me,” Bootsie said confidently. “Gianni isn't the type of guy to focus on a maid. I'll be like wallpaper.”

I wasn't so sure. I mean, Gianni's been in Bootsie's company quite a few times, both at home and down here in Florida, so there was every chance he might recognize her. I didn't voice this, of course, since Stefan was already heading toward the employees' area deep in the recesses of the hotel to procure the maid outfit.

On the plus side, I thought, Bootsie's very attractive, but her preppy, sporty brand of cuteness isn't Gianni's type, and he never really pays attention to Bootsie (or me). He tends to date skinny actress types in seven-­hundred-­and-­fifty-­dollar strappy sandals, like Jessica and Olivia, and drool over girls like Holly, who pay him to throw elaborate parties.

“Don't Olivia and Gianni share the suite?” I asked Holly, thinking that I'd probably rather Bootsie face down Gianni than have Olivia discover us mid-­ransack. Olivia seemed fairly miserable, and I pegged her as a girl whose temper might be a little scary.

“Stefan said Olivia has her own room,” Holly said. “Gianni stays up really late and watches TV all night, so Olivia came down the first night to the front desk and made a big scene about needing the adjoining room next to Gianni's suite. Plus, she said she needs the closet space.”

Stefan returned and reluctantly handed Bootsie a bag marked “The Boutique at The Breakers.” “Everything you need is here,” he said. His cool, calm mien had morphed into the look of a man who knows he's taken the wrong track but realizes the train's already left the station.

“Please return the uniform and key ASAP,” he whispered.

“Oh, of course!” Bootsie said airily to his departing blue-­blazered back. “Within minutes! Now, Kristin, you come with me to the suite.”

“Bye,” said Holly, gathering up her phone and sunglasses and hopping down from her bar stool.

“What!” I said desperately. “How did I get involved in this? And you're not coming with us?” I aimed this last at Holly, who'd picked up her bag and was heading out of the bar.

“I've got to get my hair blown out for tonight. Plus, Gianni knows me!” Holly said. “If you two get caught, he probably won't know who you are. He only pays attention to really rich ­people or, well, girls who don't go around in Old Navy!”

F
OUR MINUTES LATER,
after Bootsie discreetly knocked on the door to Gianni's suite and received no answer, she inserted the key, and the door clicked open. Against every instinct, I went inside with her. Bootsie was in full maid regalia, while I was in a seventeen-­dollar tank dress. Bootsie had told me that if we got caught, she'd say she was training me and I hadn't been issued a uniform yet.

Once again, I'd been left holding the bag as Bootsie's unwilling accomplice. I could have bolted from The Breakers and walked home, but I was honestly scared to leave Bootsie to her own devices. This felt like one of the dumber things I've done at Bootsie's insistence, and there have been quite a few already in the two decades since we met as seventh-­graders. I sighed, then got distracted by the view once inside the suite.

“This suite is pretty awesome!” I said, forgetting to whisper. There was a huge living room with an overstuffed sofa and cushy armchairs in soothing shades that evoked the hues of sand and ocean. The walls were papered in a pretty trellis pattern, and the entire front wall of the suite opened via sliding doors onto a wide terrace with captivating ocean views. At left, the bedroom was anchored by a king-­size bed with a stylish British Colonial headboard and the crispest of linens, and it had another huge balcony. There was a massive marble bathroom, roomy closets, and even an extra powder room in the living area.

I felt an irrational spark of jealousy about this fancy suite. I had my own guesthouse, so I wasn't sure why I felt envy at Gianni's cushy setup. Holly's Bahama Lane place was fantastic, obviously, and Martha was giving Waffles one of the best weeks of his doggie life.

If I was completely honest, the main attraction of the fancy suite, in addition to the fab bedding and ocean views, was that I wouldn't have Bootsie and Sophie barging in a ­couple of times a day.

“The maids haven't been in to clean yet!” Bootsie said triumphantly. She grabbed a small, half-­filled plastic trash bag out of Gianni's bathroom and stuffed it into her L.L.Bean tote, then began rooting around on the little desk in the living room, loudly inventorying its contents.

“Matches, Tic Tacs, the card from a tattoo parlor in Miami, Italian candy”—­here, she popped a few candies into her mouth—­“this is all useless.”

She opened the desk drawer and grabbed a handful of loose papers and receipts. “Jackpot!” she said, and stuffed them into her apron pocket. I felt really uncomfortable now, but there was no way to slow Bootsie down. She made a quick run to the bedroom closet, where she told me she'd never seen so many pairs of Crocs, and did Gianni really need three leather jackets in this heat?

I opened the front door of the suite and peeked out into the hallway—­empty. Still, what if Gianni came back to take a nap or change clothes before his dinner ser­vice started?

“Let's go!” I hissed over my shoulder to Bootsie. “You've stolen the trash and receipts, so we're good now.”

“I need to take a quick peek around Olivia's room,” Bootsie said, popping up next to me, carrying her tote. She'd also pilfered the box of Italian candy and the Tic Tacs, I noticed. She hung a left and opened the connecting door into Olivia's quarters without even knocking to see if Gianni's girlfriend was home.

Defeated, I closed the door into the hallway and followed her, hanging back and whispering things like “Hurry!” and “Gianni will have us arrested!” while Bootsie flung open the doors to Olivia's hotel-­room closet. I also noticed that Olivia's room, while certainly beautiful and roomy, was about a third the size of Gianni's own roomy digs.

“This is almost in the Holly category of closet awesomeness!” Bootsie said with some admiration.

From my scared perch by the connecting door, I couldn't see the closet, so I ran over for a quick peek. It was a pretty fantastic closet: It was full, but not overly crowded, and organized by color. It also had a serious shoe rack that Olivia must have brought with her. Or maybe The Breakers supplied things like shoe racks.

“Okay, I'm ready,” said Bootsie, who was rooting through Olivia's makeup stash in the bathroom. “I don't think Olivia's got anything relevant in here—­I mean, Gianni treats her like dirt and has her running errands all the time. If he's messing with Vicino, Olivia probably doesn't even know about it.”

Relief flooded me as we closed the door behind us and began a quick trot down the long corridor toward the elevator. Halfway there, a door opened and a guy in a bathrobe poked his head out.

“Miss?” he said.

Bootsie completely ignored him. “Um, you from Housekeeping there?” he said more loudly.

“Yeah?” Bootsie said over her shoulder in a rude and very un-­Breakers-­staff-­like way.

“Could I please get more towels? And a bucket of ice and some fresh water glasses?” he asked politely, rustling around in the pocket of his robe to pull out some cash.

“Sure!” Bootsie said. “I'll take care of that right away.” She pocketed the ten bucks he handed over. Pretty generous, I thought.

“Thanks!” said the guy, going back into his room and shutting the door.

At the elevator, the down button pinged softly, and we got into the empty car.

“Let me guess—­you're not going to get him the towels and the ice,” I said to Bootsie.

I was actually beyond embarrassed at this point. I also would have given anything to be home in Bryn Mawr. Any place on earth that Bootsie wasn't would be okay, come to think of it.

“Absolutely not,” she said. “This money's going to buy us two cappuccinos to take back to Holly's. Then we can go through Gianni's trash and receipts.”

B
OOTSIE DE-­UNIFORMED IN
the ladies' room off the lobby. When she reemerged, I noticed she had neatly folded the uniform and put it in her giant tote.