Killer Punch (8 page)

 

Chapter 13

“
D
OES ANY
ONE ELSE
think Lilly Merriwether might have stolen Honey's painting?” asked Holly. It was eight-­forty-­five the next morning, and the scent of roses lingered above Holly's outdoor living room, mingling with the fragrance of coffee and freshly mown grass.

“Other than her mom being a homicidal maniac, and the fact that she was married to your boyfriend, I've always liked Lilly.” Bootsie shrugged. She'd just arrived and was heading toward a breakfast buffet that Holly's housekeeper had thoughtfully assembled.

“I think Lilly being an unlikely art thief makes perfect sense,” Holly continued, ignoring Bootsie. “Plus Lilly getting arrested would be even better than if Gianni or Eula took
Heifer in Tomato Patch
. Not that I'd mind seeing either of them end up in a minimum-­security upstate, but it would be even better if Lilly stole it.”

I looked up from my plate of Martha's fluffy scrambled eggs, fork frozen in mid-­air as joy surged through me. Admiration for Holly filled my core as I looked at her seemingly serene blue eyes and perfect cheekbones.

Now, this was a loyal friend—­one who imagined the worst of your boyfriend's ex!

I gave Bootsie a significant glance indicating my approval of what Holly had just outlined, but Bootsie was busy piling a bagel with a mountain of smoked salmon, eggs, and sliced onions, and missed my daggerlike glare.

“Who knows the exact day when Lilly slunk back into town,” Holly added. “She
could
have been back on Thursday, snuck into the club, and taken the painting out that back door by the locker rooms.”

“Maybe Lilly grabbed one of the club polo shirts and stabbed Gianni, too,” Joe theorized. “Hey—­her mom shot him in the leg last year on this very patio. She could have convinced Lilly to try to finish the job.”

We all tried to picture the elegant Lilly in an ugly green polo shirt—­and failed. Lilly is basically Maria Sharapova, so it's impossible that she'd wear boxy regulation clothes. Ralph Lauren tennis dress, yes; unflattering garments, no.

“I'm pretty sure Lilly's just in town for the annual doubles tournament,” Bootsie told us, biting into her bagel sandwich.

“Of course, she's going to have an excuse for coming back—­the tennis thing's probably bullshit!” said Joe. “Lilly and Eula could be in it together! Since Lilly's too gorgeous to sneak into the club without anyone noticing, maybe she, like, backed up her car to a side entrance Thursday, and Eula inserted said artwork into her trunk!”

I put my plate of half-­eaten eggs onto a cute pouf upholstered in chic pink Moroccan fabric, from which Waffles quickly hoovered the rest of my breakfast.

I had only met Lilly a few times over the years, but had seen her around town fairly often before she'd moved to Greenwich, and there was nothing about her that whispered
burglar
. She was more the type who'd return lost wallets and shovel her elderly neighbors' walkways when it snowed. (Well, probably she'd hire someone else to shovel their walkways, but you get the picture.) I'd even noticed her buying the town firemen a round of beers last night. I sighed.

“As much as I'd like to think of Lilly as potential art smuggler, I don't think she did it.” I sighed, dispirited. “For one thing, Lilly's super wealthy, plus her new boyfriend owns a bank or something. And I'm pretty sure she's, well, kind and generous.”

“Not if she's friends with Eula!” screamed Joe. He wore a crazed, deer-­in-­the-­headlights expression, perhaps because Sophie was surrounded by a pile of wedding magazines, and was paging through
Town & Country
and turning down corners on all the pages featuring diamonds, which was almost all of them.

“This would be good, Honey Bunny!” she said to Joe, running over to his lounge chair and pointing to a ring the size of a jumbo cocktail olive. “Or this one, which is close to the Liz Taylor diamond from that guy she married twice!”

“Sophie, Joe's a decorator, not Prince Harry,” Holly intervened. “Plus he's very understated,” she added tactfully, “and he'd pick something more appropriate. You're only four-­eleven.”

“Liz Taylor was tiny, and she wore huge rocks!” Sophie told her. “It doesn't have to be tasteful. I don't want tasteful.”

“You know, there's a Mega Wine Mart up near the L.L. Bean Outlet in Maine,” said Bootsie, thankfully changing the subject. “And it's awesome. ­People come from for Brie and Beaujolais Night, which is, like, every week. A ­couple times a month, they have French winemakers on-­site, and then they pour the
really
good stuff.”

“I think that's how Mega Wine Mart is going to get Bryn Mawr Town Council to go along with their store,” Joe said. “They laid it out in that fine print in that press release Eula didn't read. Basically, they get us all hooked on the free wine and cheese every Thursday and Saturday at the Maison de Booze in the old garden store. Then, once they put up the megastore, they're going to keep Maison de Booze as a super-­pricey wine boutique in a fancy back room of the superstore.”

“That's a huge trend right now in retail,” Sophie piped up. “The store-­within-­a-­store concept. Like when Lilly P. did their collection for Target. Gerda and I went to the Target over by the mall at 5 a.m. the day it went on sale, but it was all gone in six minutes!”

“Wait a minute—­you think ­people will vote yes to tearing down old Mrs. Bingham's adorable garden store, and uprooting, like, five thousand oak trees and wild rosebushes in the woods there, and, you know, forcing squirrels to flee the forest when they put up some huge concrete warehouse . . . just because they're going to get free Havarti?” Holly asked.

“Of
course
­people are gonna go for the free cheese,” Joe said, staring at Holly, dumbfounded that she would even consider the alternative.

“I would,” I admitted. Honestly, wine and cheese are pricey, and the Mega Wine Mart sounded like it would be serving wines I could never afford.

If I hung out long enough and chugged down my fair share of the gratis Kendall-­Jackson, my Progresso soup dinners would seem a lot better, too. “I'd do almost anything for free wine and cheese,” I added truthfully.

“Me too,” said Bootsie. “Please—­the entire town will be there. If they have, say, crackers and salami along with the cheese, and maybe throw in some veggies and dip on the side, that's dinner. And you
know
everyone's going to go for that.”

“I love free stuff!” agreed Sophie. “I'll go!”

“You're the only person in the whole tri-­state region who won't be there,” Joe informed Holly. “But that doesn't mean that Mega Wine Mart should be allowed to, you know, desecrate the forest. In theory, I'm against it.”

“Don't listen to Holly! She doesn't even eat cheese,” Bootsie argued, then thought for a moment. “I guess I'm against the superstore, but I'd love to have that Maison de Booze.”

“I think there's a way we can get the free wine and cheese, and keep the trees and squirrels,” Joe said.

“I'm scared of squirrels!” Sophie announced.

“I think I see where you're going with this,” Bootsie said to Joe. “Derail the megastore, but convince the owners that we need the Maison de Booze.”

“Exactly,” he agreed. “Since Mega Wine Marts are independently owned franchises, we need to figure out who's opening this store. Weirdly, though, there's nothing coming up on the Internet about who's behind the Bryn Mawr location.

“I called the Binghams at 8:30 a.m., since obviously they'll know who bought his mom's old shop, but they didn't answer at their house, and ­people like that never have cell phones. And it's Sunday, so the town supervisor's office is closed.”

“Leave that to me,” said Bootsie. “I'll find the Binghams at the club today.”

“I'll ask Gerda to get on her computer, too!” Sophie added.

At the mention of Gerda, Joe got up and started stuffing his keys, phone, and sunglasses into his pockets.

“I hope Eula wins the lottery and goes on a 'round the world cruise!” said Holly, sitting up and looking uncharacteristically agitated. “One of those cruises that takes, like, two years. Then I wouldn't have to see her in her beige low-­heeled pumps anymore! And by the way, just saying the words ‘low-­heeled pumps' have given me a migraine.”

“You know what, there's a Powerball this week,” said Joe. “Let's go to the luncheonette and get some tickets and drop them at Eula's house. This could totally get rid of her.”

“What if she wins?” Bootsie said. “She might use the money to get more beige outfits. You might end up seeing more of Eula, not less.”

“No way,” said Holly positively. “Eula was drunk at the club a few months ago, and I overheard her telling the Binghams that her dream is to get on one of those megaboats and see, like, Borneo. “

“Well, I'll throw in five dollars for the Powerball tickets.” Bootsie shrugged. “I used to be okay with Eula, but I don't want her stealing all the good stories at the
Gazette
.”

“I'm out of here,” Joe said. “I'm cleaning out my storage units today, and the cell ser­vice is terrible there, so don't try to call me,” he said, avoiding Sophie's sad puppy eyes—­and her stack of bridal reading material.

A
S
I
LEFT
Holly's house, I tried to get excited about my new gig at the Pack-­N-­Ship. At least it was a break from painting, and it would be quiet at the shipping store. It was Sunday, after all, and the front counter was closed for business.

Also, I'd played with all five dogs in the backyard after I fed them breakfast, and vacuumed up a mountain of dog hair from my sofa. I'd take Waffles with me to the Pack-­N-­Ship, and let John's mixed-­breed pack take a group afternoon nap. These dogs were adorable, but I'd started counting down the days till they left.

As Waffles and I drove into town, we passed Le Spa, where Sophie was visible through the front windows, seated in a pedicure chair, reading magazines, with Holly in the next chair. I honked and waved, and Sophie looked up, waving and beckoning me inside.

“Hi, everyone,” I said. “And, um, hey Gerda!” I added to her sidekick, who was perched on a nearby stool and didn't look all that happy about being stuck at a beauty parlor.

“Kristin, look who's in this issue of
Food & Wine
!” Sophie handed over the magazine. It was open to a glossy six-­page story about the upcoming Fall Restaurant Weekend in Las Vegas, which would feature tons of high-­end restaurants and close to twenty thousand guests at the MGM Grand.

“Vegas Restaurant Weekend is sponsored by the Philip LaMonte Restaurant Group, owner of The Lobster Shack, the DooWop Lounge, and seven other Vegas hotspots,” she read, pointing to the bottom of the page. “That's Lobster Phil's restaurant empire!”

“Very nice!” I told her. At least Sophie wasn't talking about her Joe problems. “Well, I better head out,” I said, feeling a bit sorry for myself. Holly and Sophie both looked totally relaxed with their perfect feet propped up on hot river rocks.

“You know what, for a beauty establishment, which I usually don't like because of frou-­frou decor, this is pretty nice place,” Gerda said approvingly, looking around Le Spa's Spartan white expanse.

I guess all the white marble and stark walls, plus the blond wood floors, met with her strict Austrian standards for a facility devoted to self-­improvement—­even if Gerda's more into tight glutes than glowing skin and glossy hair. Not pausing to ask permission, Gerda opened a few random doors, and disappeared for a few minutes into an adjacent room from the spa lounge.

“Miss, there is empty room here to the right,” Gerda said, returning to the main room, where Le Spa's owner, Ursula, was massaging Sophie's toes. Gerda gestured to a door she'd opened to a large, square space with a front window and lacquered wood floors. “I see opportunity here.”

“We were gonna do waxing in there,” said Ursula, who wore her usual sour expression, which was understandable. It can't be easy taking care of Sophie's nail requests, because Sophie gets special manicures tailored to every holiday. “We never got around to it, though.”

“I have idea,” Gerda said. “I got about twelve hours free every day, even when my boss Barclay, her ex”—­here, she pointed at Sophie—­“is up for working out. I could do some Pilates classes in there, split profit fifty-­fifty with you.”

“Huh,” said Ursula, looking somewhat askance at the prospect of partnering up with Gerda, but also interested by the mention of profit. “How much do you think you can make?”

“I got a business proposal mostly done, I been looking for the right space to open my own gym,” announced Gerda. “Pretty sure with one room and ten clients at forty bucks a pop twice a day, I gonna earn eight hundred bucks every twenty-­four hours. So you can get four hundred dollars a day from me.” Immodestly, she added, “I'm pretty awesome at what I do, so I'm gonna have clients out the wazoo.”

“I'll come, at least a few times a week,” promised Holly.

“So you're saying that you can set up this room to bring in, like, two grand a week?” said Ursula, with the biggest smile I'd ever seen on her normally crabby face. “Even if you just do the classes on weekdays?”

“Yup,” said Gerda, also wearing one of her infrequent smiles, which, like harvest moons, come around about once a year. “This is gonna be a moneymaker.”

“I'm happy for you, Gerda. You deserve your own success,” Sophie told her sadly. “I'll come to your classes, if I'm not too brokenhearted by Joe not wanting to marry me.”