Killer Getaway (13 page)

What was Mike doing in Magnolia Beach?

S
HOCK, SURPRISE, AND
a pleasant tingly feeling shot down my spine, but since Bootsie was already behind the wheel of her Range Rover, I told Mike we had a quick errand to run, and that I'd be right back.

But Scooter didn't take the right turn that would lead back to his and Bingo's houses. Rather, he turned left and headed over the bridge toward the West Palm Beach business district. Three minutes later, he took the exit ramp for the airport. Bootsie, who Scooter didn't seem to have noticed on his tail, steered her car a dozen spaces away from him under the well-­lit outdoor long-­term parking and turned off her lights. It was 8:30 p.m., and Bingo was walking better now but still looked groggy. Scooter grabbed his briefcase out of his backseat, and he and Bingo took off for the airport entrance.

“I'll be right back!” Bootsie said. “You three stay here.”

Five minutes later, Bootsie returned, looking dejected. “Scooter went to the American counter and bought two tickets, but I couldn't hear where he was heading,” she reported. “Then they went down to security, and that was it. They're gone.”

“Did Scooter just kidnap Bingo?” I wondered.

“Bingo went willingly enough,” Bootsie said. “He seemed a little out of it, but he wasn't putting up a struggle.”

“If we were back in Jersey, I'd say Scooter slipped him a mickey,” Sophie said, assessing the situation. “Coupla Klonopins is what Barclay used to use.”

We nodded, because Sophie honestly knows more about this kind of thing than Joe, Bootsie, and I do. In this case, given that Bingo wasn't drunk and hadn't seemed high when he'd arrived at Gianni Mare, she was probably right. Scooter could have drugged his brother and was currently getting him out of the way—­hopefully not permanently.

We exchanged worried glances. “Er—­should we call the police?” Joe asked.

“I'll call Zack Safina!” Sophie chirped. “He gave me his number today.”

“Wonderful,” said Joe.

“I need to go back to Gianni's,” I told them.

“I saw that guy Mike Woodford there!” Sophie told me while dialing. “You two going to get some lovin' tonight? You got that whole guesthouse just sitting there with a king-­size bed.”

“No!” I told her, and launched into a speech about being one hundred percent committed to John Hall, when Sophie waved me into silence and started to talk into her phone to Zack Safina about Bingo and Scooter.

“Nothing Zack can do unless someone reports Bingo missing,” Sophie told us when she ended the call. “We'll have to wait it out a little.”

A
S
I
CLIMBED
out of Bootsie's backseat when we got back to Gianni's, I noticed two texts had come into my phone.

John Hall was checking in to say hi, while Holly said she was going to Tiki Joe's with J. D. Alvarez. While I frowned at this news, a third text arrived: Mike Woodford messaged me that he was at the bar at Vicino.

As I walked to Vicino, across the street from the din and clamor at Gianni's opening, I noticed what an absolutely beautiful night it was. A little breeze ruffled the bougainvillea that climbed on Vicino's exterior walls, and tree frogs chirped from a park just down the street. The hubbub from Gianni gave the whole street a festive vibe, as did the Latin music the band was gamely pumping out.

Truth be told, this was a pretty romantic place to be, especially in mid-­January.

But Vicino was a dismal sight with only two tables occupied. One banquette held a group of older ladies in sneakers who I guessed were out-­of-­towners sent to Vicino by a hotel concierge—­this I knew because in four days, I hadn't seen a single resident of Magnolia Beach in sneakers, and when I'd put on running shoes to walk Waffles, Holly had been upset and ordered me to immediately remove them. The other table was occupied by a pair of teenagers on a date, who were drinking Sprite and sharing a wood-­fired pizza.

This was not a money making night. To make matters worse, the windows were open, thanks to the broken air conditioner, allowing music and a happy,
Dolce Vita
-­style buzz from across the street to waft in. Vicino's skeleton crew of staff—­due to the lack of customers, Channing had sent home most of the waiters and cooks—­looked depressed. I couldn't believe this was the same spot where, barely twenty-­four hours ago, ­couples had been clustered near the bar, waiting for tables. Thanks to Slavica's anti-­Vicino campaign, Magnolia Beach insiders were done with Vicino.

I gave Mike a quick update on how great Vicino had been doing—­until last night—­before Channing emerged from the kitchen and greeted Mike warmly with a back-­slapping man-­hug. They'd worked together a few years back at Sanderson, the farm and estate owned by Mike's aunt Honey.

It was a little warm inside, given the broken air-­conditioning, but not terrible. But the vibe was still unnervingly grim. I caught a glimpse of Jessica sitting on a stool in the kitchen, looking inconsolable and scrolling through something on an iPad—­hopefully Yelp had taken down the Slavica posts.

“Sorry about the air-­conditioning,” Channing said, flashing perfect white teeth in a brief version of his usual buoyant smile. “We're hoping to get someone out to fix it first thing tomorrow.”

“Don't worry, man,” Mike said to Channing, pulling out a ­couple of stools so we could sit at the bar. “It's a beautiful night. Perfect temperature. And my aunt Honey's cottage, where I'm staying, doesn't even have air-­conditioning. We just open all the windows and let in the breeze.

“Hey, can we order a ­couple of pizzas and a bottle of Chianti?” Mike added. “And the rigatoni with sausage and fennel, plus the bucatini with cherry tomatoes? And, uh”—­ he consulted the menu—­“the whole sea bass?”

Mike was over-­ordering to try to make up for the empty tables, which cheered me up a little. He was one of those independent guys who I couldn't quite picture, say, filing a joint tax return with a girl, but he did care about his friends.

“Honey's place is a cottage by the Sandbar Club, on the north end of the island. A little run-­down, but a cool old house,” Mike told me, adding that the house had its own grove of grapefruits and was a quick walk to the beach.

I gazed into Mike's dreamy brown eyes, not listening to a word he said. I couldn't help noticing that Mike still had his tan from last summer—­I guess all that time outside with the cows, even in the winter, meant he'd never lost it. As usual, a dark scruff gave him a slightly dangerous air. That is, if a guy in Gucci loafers can be considered dangerous. Since Mike had on jeans, I guess the navy blazer and his loafers counterbalanced things and made his outfit party-­appropriate.

I forced myself to focus on the seven months that John Hall had been an incredible, loyal, and great boyfriend. I mean, John was the kind of guy who'd help you paint your kitchen and take your dog out for a late-­night bathroom break in a sleet storm. John was also really handsome with his own brand of preppy, wholesome sexiness. What was wrong with me, anyway?

“I figured I'd get out of the cold and hang out with Channing and Jessica a little, check out their new place,” Mike continued. “Then earlier today, I stopped at The Breakers for lunch and bumped into Chef Gianni, who invited me tonight.”

The bartender poured the Chianti and appeared minutes later with the thin-­crust fresh-­mozzarella-­and-­basil pizzas, while Channing—­who, unfortunately, had time on his hands, since both tables appeared to be winding up dinner—­chatted with us.

“How was the drive down with Bootsie?” Mike asked, forking into a cannoli.

“Long. And horrible,” I admitted. “It got worse when Waffles howled for all of South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida.”

“You brought your dog—­to Magnolia Beach?” Mike asked, surprised.

“Definitely. He's in the guesthouse right now, and he's having what Martha's calling a spa weekend. She made him poached chicken and vegetables for dinner, and he's sleeping on six-­hundred-­thread-­count sheets.”

“This I need to see,” said Mike, throwing some money down on the bar. “Let's go.”

 

Chapter 13

I
'D PLANNED TO
invite Mike inside to see Waffles, but when he pulled up his rented Toyota at Holly's, a black Mercedes was idling in the driveway.

On Holly's front porch steps, J. D. Alvarez was standing next to Holly as she unlocked the door. I watched as J. D. leaned over and gave Holly a kiss on each cheek. And he lingered way longer than was necessary.

This wasn't okay at all. I mean, there wasn't necessarily anything romantic about a double-­cheek kiss—­but then again, when you looked like J. D. and Holly, and when one Howard Jones, husband of the kiss-­ee, was in Indianapolis and wasn't able to defend himself against allegations of cheating with one Dawnelle Stewart—­that was a setup for way more than a friendly good-­bye.

I realized I was in no position to feel superior, since I was about to invite Mike inside and potentially cheat on my significant other, too.

“You should go,” I told Mike. “You can see Waffles another time. Thanks for the drinks!”

A
S
J
.
D
. WHOOSHED
away in the Mercedes, and Mike in the Toyota, I started to tell Holly she should stay away from J. D., but her phone rang: Gerda.

“I called you like six times, Holly!” Gerda complained as Holly put her on speakerphone.

“Sorry, Gerda, I couldn't hear anything at that party,” Holly told her.

“What I wanted to tell you is I eavesdropped on Barclay tonight,” Gerda said over speakerphone. “He's been drinking since he got back from Miami, and he's pretty loud when he's had a few.”

“So what did he say?” asked Holly.

“He spoke to Scooter Simmons on phone around six p.m., and he told him to move up the plan,” Gerda told us. “Barclay told Scooter to get his brother out of town tonight, and then get the hell back here tomorrow, before condo plan gets totally ruined.”

 

Chapter 14

I
WOKE AT
eight the next morning to find Bootsie staring down at me in the guesthouse bedroom, which completely creeped me out.

“Don't stare at me when I'm sleeping!” I told her, having flashbacks to high school sleepovers when I'd been awakened by her in this same staring technique. Waffles, who'd been snoring at the foot of the bed, woke up and gave a startled little bark.

“I already went to Maine Coastal Catch in West Palm Beach,” she told me, opening the curtains as I blinked in the bright sunlight. “They open at six a.m. The manager said he personally dropped off the shipment at Gianni's on Saturday because he wanted to see what all the fuss was about, and he saw Gianni's staff put it all into their walk-­in fridge. So I don't see how we can link that receipt to what happened to Slavica.”

I sat up, threw off the crisp white sheets and duvet, and blinked as Bootsie opened the white linen curtains and sunlight flooded into the room. Bootsie had on the most un-­Bootsie-­like outfit I'd ever seen her in, consisting of a crisp navy sheath dress—­J. Crew, if I wasn't mistaken—­with a gorgeous silk Hermès scarf expertly knotted at her neck, and glossy black patent leather pumps. She'd borrowed one of Holly's Hermès handbags and, most surprisingly, had on full makeup, including a very polished coral lipstick. Her blond bob was perfectly blown dry and sprayed into submission.

“What are you wearing?” I asked her blearily. “Isn't that a little dressy for a tennis tournament?”

“I'm taking the day off from the tournament,” Bootsie told me, while I got up, let Waffles outside to conduct his morning affairs, and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. “I'm now one hundred percent focused on finding out who tried to run down Holly and Jessica. Which I'm positive is somehow tied to Scooter and Barclay.”

“Oh, really?” I said as I brushed, thinking,
This isn't good news.
Bootsie gone for most of each day watching tennis in Delray would have been a break. Bootsie's like the human equivalent of Stoli—­fun to do as a shot sometimes, but it's usually better when diluted, and not on a daily basis. “Er—­won't you miss the top players if you miss the last few days of the tournament?” I added lamely.

“I already talked to my editor this morning,” Bootsie yelled from the kitchen area, ignoring my tennis query, “and we're going to do a three-­part series on my trip down here. It's called ‘Drama in Paradise' and starts with Gianni's opening and the healthy competition between his place and Vicino.”

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” I asked, grabbing a sundress from the closet and hoping Bootsie would give me three minutes alone to take a shower.

“Well, I'm not a hundred percent sure that ‘Drama in Paradise' is actually going to work for the
Gazette,
” Bootsie admitted, surprising me. “It's more in the reporting stage right now, and if I can nail down enough facts, and if we can get Vicino back on track and actually prove that Gianni and Barclay are committing some actual crimes, then it's a go.”

“Okay,” I said doubtfully. Maybe along the way, she'd uncover a way to help Channing and Jessica, as well as assist Adelia's wish to save the schoolhouse. Plus, there was no way I could stop Bootsie, so I might as well get on board.

“We leave in fifteen minutes,” Bootsie told me. “First stop is Scooter's house, next stop the town zoning office.”

S
COOTER'S HOUSEKEEPER ANSWERED
the door and informed Bootsie that no, Scooter wasn't home, and no, she didn't know where his brother Bingo was. After a somewhat heated exchange (the housekeeper wasn't the friendliest lady, and Bootsie wasn't the most tactful as she continued to grill her), she finally informed us that Scooter had gone away for the night but had told her he was due back in town later this morning and would go right to his office. Then she slammed the door in our faces.

Next, Bootsie parked in front of Magnolia Beach's Mediterranean-­style Town Hall and started gathering up her handbag and a clipboard on which she'd placed some important-­looking documents. I took a closer look and saw that she'd grabbed the multi-­page lease Holly and Howard had signed for the Bahama Lane rental.

I wondered briefly if she'd asked Holly if she could borrow the documents, or if she'd simply rifled through Holly's belongings and pilfered them. The latter, probably.

“I
'M
B
ARBIE
M
C
E
LVOY,
and how are
you
this gorgeous day, Brian?” Bootsie asked a weary-­looking guy behind the counter in the zoning office of Town Hall. He sat behind a name plate that read, “Brian Connelly, Zoning Assistant
.
” “We've talked on the phone a bunch of times, and you're even handsomer in person than I could have imagined!”

I stifled a giggle at the bizarrely perky persona Bootsie had adopted in the forty seconds between the car and the administrative building. She wore a huge, friendly smile and had taken on what I think was a Bostonian accent, as if possessed by the spirit of one of the Kennedy clan.

Brian was about fifty-­five and had a sweet but harried face, as if his daily dose of getting hammered with documents detailing mixed-­use permits, non-­conforming zones, and allowable routes of ingress and egress had left him with permanent acid reflux and the realization that whatever he did, someone was going to be mad at him. I hoped his job paid well. The guy had a jumbo bottle of Pepcid next to his phone, which was currently ringing. A jumbo 7-­Eleven cup of black coffee (which couldn't be good for his reflux) and a donut sat next to his computer, which was insistently pinging with incoming e-­mails.

“Hi, Barbie,” Brian said politely. “Um, right, you've called before, sure. And that was about . . .” He trailed off, looking at a stack of manila folders next to him, as if one of them might tell him what Bootsie was after.

“I'm Scooter Simmons's new executive assistant!” Bootsie told him. “I'm sure he told you about me. I'm new to Palm Beach County, and let me tell you, I LOVE it here. Brian, we are living the dream, are you with me?!”

Brian gulped some coffee and mustered a smile. “Yeah, you're right, you can't beat the weather here,” he said pleasantly. He seemed a truly patient man.

“What do you say next week I take you for mojitos at The Breakers after work one night,” Bootsie told him, giggling vivaciously and giving him a little wink. “On Scooter's tab!”

“Okay,” said Brian, looking a little less downcast. “Sure. I love mojitos. But, uh, I'm married.”

“Me, too!” Bootsie said, seating herself onto the clerk's counter suggestively. “But that doesn't mean we can't have a little fun! Now, why I'm here. Scooter sent me over to pick up copies of the Seabreeze Lane file. He needs a copy of what you guys have here.”

I realized that this was going to be as bad—­or worse—­than Bootsie's lying spree at The Breakers yesterday.

“But Scooter filed the proposal, and it hasn't gone under review yet,” Brian said, puzzled. “Doesn't he have the original?”

“He did,” Bootsie said, “but Scooter's cleaning girl here”—­she indicated me with a dismissive wave of her muscular arm—­“knocked over a whole bottle of Glenlivet on Scooter's desk last night, and it was like a tidal wave sloshing over every single file he had up there. And he was, if you'll excuse the expression, freakin' furious!”

Brian was nodding sympathetically. “I've been on the wrong end of Scooter once or twice myself,” he told us, giving me a pitying look. “He does kinda lose it sometimes. But I'll have to have written permission from him to let you make a copy.” Brian lowered his voice to a whisper. “Scooter has a special arrangement with the zoning chairperson, who's one of his cousins. We're supposed to call Scooter directly if anyone asks for his files, and then say we don't have them if we can't reach Mr. Simmons. Even though, well, technically they're public record.”

Brian looked embarrassed at being complicit in this obviously unethical file-­hiding fiasco. “I guess he probably told you about all that, though.”

“Oh, he did,” Bootsie lied. “But he said in this case to just tell you it's okay to hand me the file.”

“Er—­maybe I should call him real quick,” Brian said, wavering.

“He'll fire her if you bring it up again!” Bootsie told him, her Kennedy accent slipping a little as she pointed at me. “I mean, look at her—­she's not the sharpest tool in the shed. And she's supporting a bunch of elderly relatives up in Okeechobee!”

While annoyed that Bootsie had cast me as a brainless goof, I nonetheless assumed the posture of a hopeless klutz—­which wasn't hard for me to conjure up, since I'm not all that coordinated. I decided to mingle my slumped shoulders with the sorrowful expression of a girl who'd recently been excoriated by her rich, angry boss. I thought about adding a sob but decided that might be too much.

Brian caved. He slid his desk chair back to the filing cabinets and withdrew a folder. “Just don't let word get out that I let you do this.”

“Not a peep!” said Bootsie, making the zip-­your-­lips-­and-­throw-­away-­the-­key gesture with her right hand while she grabbed the manila file with her left.

“I'll just make a quick copy, and we'll be out of your hair,” Bootsie said, which wasn't the greatest choice of words, given the fact that Brian didn't have all that much on top of his head.

“Okay, and don't forget those mojitos next week!” Brian said hopefully. He popped another Pepcid and finally returned to his dinging e-­mails.

I
SPENT THE
afternoon with Joe at a designer furniture marketplace in Miami, while Bootsie decided she'd go through her purloined zoning papers . . . after a quick trip to watch just one tennis match in Delray. At 2:00 p.m., outside the Donghia fabric showroom, where Joe was debating a pink chintz, I got a text from Mike Woodford, which I ignored.

At 5:00 p.m., Joe and I arrived at Holly's.

“Okay, so it's you, me, Scooter, and J. D. Alvarez for dinner tonight,” Holly told me, as Joe and I stared at her. Even Martha stuck her head out of the kitchen to listen in with an alarmed expression.