Killer Getaway (5 page)

“How's Barclay planning to hide out in Magnolia Beach?” Joe asked. “It's not that big a town.”

“We mostly stay home. Me, I'm not supposed to be here at the tennis match,” Gerda admitted. “I told Barclay I take taxi to the Delray farmers' market. He has business meeting at the house, so he said it was okay, but he told me to keep low profile.”

“Don't worry about it,” Holly told her. “We'll tell Sophie that she can't let her ex know that
she
knows he's here. Just don't mention to Barclay that you saw
us
.”

“Not on your life,” Gerda agreed.

Holly gazed thoughtfully at Gerda. “I wonder why Barclay came to Magnolia Beach, though, if he didn't want to run into Sophie. There are a million other towns in Florida.”

Gerda perked up a little. “I have information about that. He has business down here, he's working on some kind of secret deal. Plus, he gets a lot of calls from that chef.”

“Chef Gianni?” Joe asked.

“Yeah, that one,” Gerda confirmed.

“Gerda, this is huge, because we think Gianni might have tried to run me over with a Chevy the other night, plus kill the manager of a restaurant that Sophie and I have personally sunk a fortune in,” Holly told her. “And the fact that Barclay's down here
too
seems like too much of a coincidence.”

“Yeah,” Gerda said. “When did you almost get nailed?”

“Tuesday night, around ten,” Holly told her.

“I hate to tell you this, but Barclay got a rented Chevy at the house!” Gerda informed us. “I don't think he drive much, though. He has Town Cars with tinted windows pick him up so he can go around and not be seen.” She paused to think for a second. “But it could have been Barclay who run you down,” Gerda said grimly. “We got to rented house in afternoon on Tuesday, and I went to bed at nine and had to take sleeping pill because I hear a lot of weird cricket noises. We don't have this in Austria.”

“I guess Barclay
could
be trying to get back at Sophie by killing Jessica, which would definitely put Vicino out of business,” mused Bootsie. “Although wouldn't it make more sense if he just hired a hit man to run over
Sophie
? Doesn't Barclay farm out this kind of hit-­and-­run work?

“Wait a minute,” she added. “Gerda, aren't you some kind of computer genius? Can't you read all Barclay's e-­mail, and then give us the four-­one-­one on what he's up to?”

This was true: In addition to her fitness acumen, Gerda dabbles in forensic computer snooping and is quite good at hacking into online bank accounts and personal e-­mails. It isn't that Gerda steals from ­people; she just enjoys gathering potentially embarrassing information.

“Yeah, I'm pretty awesome at computer hacking,” Gerda said, a note of pride in her voice. “I gave up snooping as New Year's resolution, but since Sophie needs help, I do it for her.

“Plus, I can tell Mr. Shields up to something—­he gets a special smile. He looks super happy this week, so I know he's about to screw somebody over.”

We gave our cell phone numbers to Gerda, who said she would hit the farmers' market for some kohlrabi, then head home to start reading Barclay's e-­mail. She promised to call us within the hour, after printing out whatever seemed suspicious.

“Tell you the truth, I miss Sophie,” Gerda told us, surprising me with this admission of a human emotion. “She always sneak the bad food and champagne when I tell her not to. But Sophie is nice person. Barclay, he is asshole.”

“So true. Well, I've got to make a quick stop on the way home,” Holly breezily told us. “Bye, Gerda. Good to see you,” she added, turning on the heel of her pricey sandal and heading for the stadium exit.

“I leave, too,” said Gerda, heading off in the direction of another egress from the stadium, which led toward Delray's town square, where the aforementioned farmers' market was in full swing.

“What's that all about?” Joe asked suspiciously, staring at Holly's trim and perfect form disappearing out of the arched entrance. “Where do you think she's going?”

I had a pretty good idea Holly was off to make some lucky salesperson's monthly quota, probably back up in Magnolia Beach at Saks. I'd noticed Holly's fingers twisting and twitching like crazy all through the tennis match. She literally gets itchy fingers when she's in manic shopping mode. Also, when she pulled out her iPhone at one point, I noticed a suspiciously fat envelope from Wells Fargo Bank tucked inside her small Celine tote. I was pretty sure Holly had taken out a bunch of cash and was headed to distribute said cash at the shoe salon of Saks.

“She's definitely going shopping,” said Bootsie, who'd doubtless noticed the wad of dough herself. “Let's watch the rest of this match, and then you two head back to Magnolia Beach and do a spend-­ervention. I've got a ­couple more matches to watch here, and then I want to hit The Singing Frog.”

“Let me guess, that's a bar where your parents got liquored up before they conceived Chip,” Joe offered.

“Absolutely not! The Frog is Mummy's favorite boutique in Delray. They get Lilly Pulitzer exclusives. I'm thinking of going Adelia's route, and trying on a ­couple of Lilly caftans.”

“Much as I hate to miss seeing you drown yourself in a flowered caftan, that sounds like a decent plan,” Joe agreed. Personally, I loved Adelian's caftans, and thought it might be a good look on Bootsie. I mean, who doesn't love a caftan? They're so '60s-­cool. While we watched the tennis match, I pondered whether I could afford to splurge on one myself, and fifteen minutes later, after the hot Chinese tennis player defeated the cute Australian guy, we waved good-­bye to Bootsie, who headed south in her preppy sandals at a brisk clip down Atlantic Avenue, while we climbed into the convertible.

Starting up the car, Joe handed me his phone. “See where Holly's phone is pinging on the map?” he said grimly.

I peered in the bright sunlight at the tiny screen. “It looks like she's at the corner of Palm Avenue and Hibiscus Lane,” I told him, worry surging through me. I searched for a positive spin to Holly's whereabouts. “Maybe she's returning something she bought last week?” I suggested.

Joe merely raised a contemptuous eyebrow and steered west toward the on-­ramp to I-­95.

“Do you think she's at Saks? Or maybe Neiman's?” I asked, slumping dejectedly in my seat, hoping I had on enough sunscreen.

“Worse,” Joe told me grimly, merging past some 18-­wheelers into the northbound lane of the highway. “I know where she is. But I can't even bring myself to say the name of the store. It starts with an H and has handbags named for movie stars and royalty.”

 

Chapter 7

“H
OLLY'S MID-­MELTDOWN,”
J
OE
told me as he roared up the entrance ramp to I-­95 and headed back toward Magnolia Beach. “She's having a Howard episode.”

I could see true concern in Joe's expression. It's true that Holly is much happier and more stable since she married Howard Jones a few years ago. She doesn't enjoy being alone, and she honestly gets a little manic when Howard isn't around. She seemed to always feel safe and secure with Howard when they first got together. But on and off for the past year, Holly thought he was going to cheat, and when she got the idea in her mind, she couldn't be convinced otherwise. I was positive, however, that Howard wasn't having any flings. He really loved her. And they'd been reunited and doing great since last spring—­or so I thought.

“Is it a bartender?” Last year, Holly was convinced that Howard had embarked on a lusty affair with a bartender at the Porterhouse, his favorite Philly steak house. The girl in question was extremely well endowed, and Howard did go to the Porterhouse a lot, but he finally convinced Holly that he only went there for the steak.

“This is worse,” Joe told me grimly, Ray-­Ban aviators firmly in place, wind whipping back his longish brown hair. “I'll show you on my phone as soon we get to another red light.”

We passed through most of town, until we reached a traffic jam as we approached the corner where Vicino and the incipient Gianni Mare stood across from each other.

We both forgot about Holly's marriage woes for a moment, because there was a major scene happening outside Gianni's new place.

The action at the new restaurant resembled the amount of rushing around, chaos, and frenzied construction normally associated with the Super Bowl halftime show. Large white tents had been erected around both the front and side entrance of the restaurant formerly known as The Peacock, blocking the view of the insta-­renovations going on within.

As we parked the Caddy, two workers carried out The Peacock's ornately painted sign through the tent flaps and unceremoniously flung it into a huge Dumpster parked on the corner. So much for a piece of Magnolia Beach history, I thought, wondering if I could have e-­Bayed the sign to some nostalgic WASP who'd been a devotee of The Peacock's famous crab soufflé, which, Adelia had told us, had once been the town's signature dish.

In front of the Dumpster, a vehicle that resembled a rock band's tour bus and was stamped with an HGTV logo idled noisily. From it emerged cameramen, clipboard-­wielding assistants, and finally a beautiful woman in super-­tight jeans, stiletto heels, and a low-­cut white blouse. Clearly the star of the show, the girl also wore a tool belt and was carrying a fan deck of paint colors.

“Sienna Blunt!” Joe said angrily. “I can't believe Gianni convinced her to do his forty-­eight-­hour makeover. Plus, it's a travesty that she even has her own show!”

“Maybe it's because she looks great in the tool belt,” I suggested. Honestly, the dangling wrenches somehow oozed sex.

“Any girl looks good in a tool belt,” said Joe angrily. “That's
Maxim
magazine's go-­to look.”

“For a pop-­up restaurant, this looks pretty elaborate, doesn't it?” I said to Joe, trying to end the Sienna rant. The same workmen who'd dumped the Peacock's venerable placard into the trash emerged from a paneled truck with a replacement sign made of carefully aged French zinc. Hand-­hammered into the zinc were elegant block letters reading “Gianni Mare,” and a charming, antique-­style spotlight was mounted above the large sign. “That sign must have taken weeks to make.”

“Chef Gianni isn't the type to pop up,” Joe said. “He's more of a plotter and schemer, especially when it comes to taking down Channing and Jessica. Plus, this is a major installation. Pop-­ups are supposed to be done quick and on the cheap.”

“Would HGTV pay for all of this?” I asked as we watched workmen emerge from the ramp of a truck carrying an enormous, pricey-­looking, twelve-­arm silver chandelier. They took it in through the tent flaps, followed by additional guys toting matching silver sconces.

“Absolutely not! I priced that chandelier recently for Sophie's house, and it was sixteen thousand dollars. That's close to the whole budget for a TV show makeover,” Joe said, looking annoyed. “I mean, even Sophie didn't want to spend that on a light fixture.”

“This place is looking very 1997,” he added dismissively, as Sienna Blunt directed a group of landscapers carrying lush jasmine bushes in zinc planters inside the white tented entrance. “Brasserie decor is all wrong for Florida.”

Personally, I loved the zinc sign, and the planters looked beautiful, but then again, Joe has a habit of dissing any design job he hasn't overseen. He spends most of his weekends, in fact, visiting shops, bistros, showrooms, and hotels around Philly just so he can weigh in on his competitors. A designer show house can enrage him for weeks.

“Let's blow this clusterfuck,” he added grumpily as he headed back to the car, stepping aside to make way for a girl carrying a rack of wineglasses.

As I was trying to imagine how hot the beige leather seats that had been baking in subtropical sun would feel through my Gap sundress (twenty-­two dollars, end-­of-­season sale), I heard a familiar friendly voice hailing me from across Ocean Boulevard.

“Doll! Is that you? What are you doing down here?”

T
WO BEAUTIFULLY DRESSED
men crossed the street. Each wore a crisp white shirt and had a golden tan that spoke of afternoons on the tennis court and lunches by a shimmering pool. They toted neat leather bags from which poked iPad minis. On their leather bags and iPad cases, “Colkett” was stamped in distinctive, tasteful script.

“Kristin Clark and Joe Delafield! We couldn't be happier to see you!” Tim Colkett said, looking genuinely surprised and pleased. The Colketts were Bryn Mawr's preeminent landscape and floral designers, who were known for creating spectacular yards and party settings. They are exceptionally good at what they do, and the two are also extremely nice guys. Holly counts them as good friends.

“Don't you love this town? So overpriced!” added his colleague, Tom Colkett.

“Is Holly here?” asked Tim hopefully. The Colketts had designed many an overpriced party for Holly.

“She sure is,” I told him. “I'm staying with her, as a matter of fact. She's over at The Breakers at a workout class right now.”

“That's where we're staying,” Tom told us. “What a hotel! And I'm guessing you're down here with Sophie,” he added to Joe. “She's adorable. We can't wait to get back up north to work on her new house with you.”

“Yeah, that'll be great,” said Joe, who was clearly as puzzled as I was to see the Colketts. “Are you guys here on a, uh, vacation?” asked Joe.

“I'd call it more of a working trip,” Tom told him. “We're helping Gianni with the renovation. Although, since we're staying at The Breakers and not paying a dime, and we'll be starring on the show about this makeover, it's not exactly hardship labor!”

“You made up with Gianni?” I asked, shocked.

The previous spring, during a testy dispute over a bill at Gianni's Bryn Mawr restaurant, the Colketts had been verbally excoriated by Gianni, who'd gone so far as to lob a rock-­hard piece of preserved fruit at Tim Colkett. It had taken the unlucky florist weeks to regain his full hearing. The Colketts had been understandably terrified of Gianni and had only agreed to work with him again if they could deal with Jessica, who'd still been the chef's girlfriend at the time.

“We had to make up with Gianni when he offered us this job,” Tom said, looking somewhat embarrassed. “I mean, our business in Bryn Mawr is dead in January. No one's even ordering flowers.”

“You know our policy,” Tim reminded me. “We love any customer, as long as they're rich. And Gianni is currently spending like, well, your friend Holly. He hasn't disputed a single bill. And trust me, finding full-­size jacaranda trees for this place hasn't been exactly cheap!”

“I understand,” I nodded. “It's hard to pass up work in Florida when there's nothing going on at home.”
How is Gianni affording all this?
I wondered as a truck pulled up and the drivers unlocked the rear door, then began trundling out kitchen equipment. “Do you know who his investors are?” I asked the Colketts.

“Er, not really,” said Tim. “I mean, we hear rumors, but who really knows!”

“I've gotten some design work down here myself,” Joe said, faux modestly. “With the tobacco heiress Adelia Earle. It'll probably end up in
Elle Decor
, which of course isn't as mainstream as HGTV.”

“Gianni Mare's theme is one hundred percent blue and white!” explained Tim. “Our concept. That Sienna didn't have a single idea. So we brought in some Chinese export porcelain and helped her match paint colors and come up with a theme for the banquettes and the window treatments. The banquettes are a superb cerulean color piped with bright white and then the curtains are the reverse! All the plates and barware are blue and white, and the ceiling is being hand painted as a trompe l'oeil. The floor, of course, is a blue and white chevron. They're priming the walls as we speak.”

“It's gorgeous,” nodded Tom. “It's like you've died and woken up in an antique urn. Well, actually I guess you
could
die and end up in an urn, but you know what I mean.”

Joe looked devastated. I knew he would immediately shit-­can his blue-­and-­white concept for Adelia Earle's pavilion. He'd never want to do the same theme that the Colketts and Sienna Blunt had dreamed up for Gianni Mare.

“So, will you two be at the opening?” Tim asked me. “I'd invite you myself, but I can't risk being on the wrong end of one of Gianni's moods,” he added apologetically. “You know how he gets, and I know you guys are friends with Channing and Jessica.”

“We might be there,” I told them. “Gianni's always liked Holly. He told her she's definitely invited tomorrow.”

“As a matter of fact, we'd better get inside!” Tom said, nudging his colleague urgently. “Because Gianni just pulled up. See ya!”

“P
INK,” SAID
J
OE MISERABLY
. “I'm going to have to go with pink at Adelia's house. She has way too much green already, and yellow just isn't going to work.” He let out a huge sigh.

“I'll call Mrs. Earle right now. She's probably had at least two margaritas since we left. She might not even remember the blue-­and-­white idea.”

“I'm really sorry,” I told him. “But pink sounds amazing. Who doesn't love pink! Your pavilion will be a million times cooler than Gianni's place,” I added.

“His space sounds like a migraine waiting to happen!” agreed Joe as he dialed Adelia. He perked up. “Pink will be the new color of the season, mark my words. I'm thinking hand painted pink butterflies glazed onto the walls and a trellis-­patterned floor. This is going to be way better than that stupid blue theme!”