Killer WASPs (14 page)

Euphoric at the prospect of getting out of here before Gerda returned, I quickly finished
the unpacking while Bootsie sent some text messages to her coworkers at the paper
describing Sophie’s purple house, and snapped a few pics of the bar and its neon Bud
Light signs to share on every social media site she could think of.

“I’m heading up to check out the kitchen,” Bootsie said.

“Don’t touch anything!” I told her, knowing full well she’d likely post photos of
the contents of Sophie’s refrigerator and cabinets on Twitter.

Five minutes later, I brought the empty boxes out to the U-­Haul, then went back in
the house to grab Bootsie and say good-­bye to Joe. I was surprised to see Gerda in
the front hallway, since I figured she’d be forcing Sophie to labor through at least
an hour of Pilates. She gave me a wary glare as she bounded athletically toward the
basement stairs.

Uh-­oh, I thought, petrified that Gerda would be able to tell that Bootsie had infiltrated
her cave.

Bootsie had chattily shared with me—­while I’d finished unpacking and she texted her
friends at the newspaper—­that her parents had never once guessed that she and her
brothers had consistently raided the locked liquor cabinet. This wasn’t a reassuring
piece of information, because I’ve known Bootsie’s parents my whole life, and while
they’re very nice ­people, I’d bet that Gerda could outsmart them when it came to
security any day of the week. The Delaneys, Bootsie’s mom and dad, are great for knowing
things like when sales are coming up at L.L. Bean, or the right amount of Tabasco
to perk up a Bloody Mary, but they aren’t ­people that, say, the CIA would hire.

Apparently, Sophie was done early today with her Pilates because she and Joe were
now embroiled in a decorating discussion, and it wasn’t going well. They were in Sophie’s
mauve dining room. Sophie was pouting, while Joe was perspiring under his crisp white
shirt.

“I think a more neutral color palette will lend some, uh, gravitas to the house,”
Joe was explaining in strained but patient tones. He rummaged in his briefcase for
some fabric swatches and opened the paint fan deck to the beige paint chips.

“What do you mean
neutral
?” Sophie was asking. She looked a little winded from the Pilates, but still perky.
She bounced up and down energetically on the balls of her feet. “Make sure it isn’t
green. Especially army green. Not that I don’t support the army, I do. Those ­people
are heroes. I love soldiers. And they’re usually hot young guys, let’s be honest!
But I don’t want to feel like I’m
in
the army.”

“I was thinking of more of an oyster color,” explained Joe in the tone you use with
a two-­year-­old who’s is about to have a candy-­aisle meltdown, flipping to the pale
beige section of his paint chips. Bootsie appeared next to Joe, and showed no sign
of leaving him and Sophie to hash out their paint differences.

“No way!” shrieked Sophie. “I hate oysters! They’re disgusting, and slimy. Barclay
likes oysters, he said they make him horny, which—­believe you me—­is not a good memory
for me. One time we were in Miami, and he ordered oysters at the Fontainebleau, we
had all these huge platters of them sent up to our suite, and then he wanted me to
tie him to this chair on the balcony and—­”

“Okay, forget oyster!” interjected Joe. “Let’s go with this color, a beautiful beige.
And for your bedroom, a cool ice blue.” He hastily shoved some paint samples toward
her.

“Isn’t beige kinda boring?” whined Sophie.

“Can we get back to what happened when you tied Barclay up?” Bootsie asked.

“Beige is restful,” said Joe, looking at me desperately for backup.

“Definitely,” I agreed quickly. “A lot of ­people in Bryn Mawr love that shade of
beige, and I know Eula Morris would really like it. You could probably host a dinner
here in the fall for the symphony once you’ve redecorated.”

“Really?” squeaked Sophie, interested. “You’re saying beige is big around here?”

“Beige is huge,” nodded Bootsie, who’d moved on from the Fontainebleau-­bondage scenario.
“Eula loves beige.”

Just then the doorbell rang, and the front door swung open. The Colketts were on the
stoop, and smiled in their charming manner to everyone.

“Choosing new paint?” said Tim Colkett cheerfully.

“Hiya, guys. Come on in,” said Sophie, beckoning the Colketts inside, her small face
scrunched into a frown of concentration. “Well, I guess this color’s okay, because
I really like that symphony crowd. And Eula, she knows a lot of ­people. But I’m not
sure I want to get rid of
all
the color,” she said, turning back to Joe. “What about keeping my bedroom pink?”

“That’s not going to work,” said Joe firmly. He seemed a lot more confident now that
he had the specter of Eula Morris as his ally.

“Definitely, darling, you don’t want pink,” echoed a Colkett. “Only peonies should
be pink.”

I gazed at the Colketts, who were taking in the situation, amused. They couldn’t have
been the ones who’d pushed Gianni down the stairs last night, I was positive. Or almost
positive. Even though they had reason to hate the chef, and had been uncomfortably
close to him at the very moment he’d taken his tumble, the Colketts just didn’t seem
to have a mean bone anywhere inside their well-­dressed bodies.

“There’s also my bathroom, or wait, even better, my closet!” Sophie cried. “My closet
could be pink!”

“The closet will be in a color related to the blue of your bedroom,” said Joe, “but
we could go with a slightly deeper blue, or maybe wallpaper it in a Chinese floral
pattern. I’ll think it over.”

“What about something brighter for just one part of the shoe room?” Sophie asked hopefully.
“We could do the Gucci section in a separate color—­like maybe gold?”

“No gold,” Joe informed her.

Sophie sulked for a moment, but appeared to be digesting Joe’s insistent stance against
bright colors. Then she looked at me and piped up, “Hey Kristin, who was that tall
guy you were talking to at the party last night? The one you introduced me to, the
guy named John? Did he ask ya out or anything?”

Bootsie’s nose twitched at this question, and Joe looked up from his briefcase with
interest. Just then, though, I heard a loud stomping noise coming up the basement
stairs.
Gerda.

I grabbed Bootsie’s hand and yanked her toward the front door.

“Thank you, Sophie!” I called over my shoulder, and ran. Thankfully the Colketts hadn’t
blocked in the U-­Haul with their truck, and for once, Bootsie didn’t dawdle.

“W
HO’S
J
OHN?” ASK
ED
Bootsie as I sped toward my house.

“He’s a guy I met over by the shrimp last night at Sophie’s,” I told her. “John Hall.
He’s a veterinarian.”

“And?” Bootsie prompted.

“And, nothing. He didn’t ask me out, if that’s what you want to know,” I told her.

“Was he cute?”

“Yup, he was cute,” I confirmed. “If you like tall, handsome men, he was cute.” Bootsie
rolled her eyes at me.

“Married?”

“He didn’t seem married, but I’m not sure,” I told her. Actually . . .
was
he married? That hadn’t occurred to me. He’d been alone at the party and had projected
a distinctly single vibe, but then again, married guys have been known to do that.
Maybe his wife had been over at the cheese and fruit table.

Luckily, we were pulling into my driveway, so this conversation’s sell-­by date was
coming fast. I’d pick up Waffles and then drop Bootsie at her office, which was less
than a five-­minute drive away, then go to the store and get on with my life.

“You’ve got to work on finding out more about the men you meet,” Bootsie lectured
me as I parked. “You see a tall, good-­looking guy, you need to find out everything
about him immediately. Where he lives, if he plays tennis, where he went to college,
how he likes his steak cooked, and
definitely
whether or not he’s married. Or if you can’t do it yourself, you can wave me over,
and I’ll do it for you.”

“Kristin?” I heard an old and wavering voice emanating from the holly bushes next
door. “Excuse me, dear, do you have a moment?” Hugh Best popped into view, a vision
of skinny legs and rumpled gray hair framing a concerned expression. “My brother stormed
out this morning over a small tiff we had, and he still isn’t back. And, well, I’m
getting a bit worried.”

I glanced at my watch—­eleven-­thirty in the morning.
Hardly cause for alarm
, I thought.

“Well, Jimmy’s only been gone a ­couple of hours,” I said, trying to sound reassuring.
“He’s probably just out doing some errands, or, um, hitting some golf balls with a
friend? I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

“But he never shops. And he doesn’t have any friends! Jimmy sometimes goes to the
liquor store and the cigar store, but that’s it. He refuses to even go to the Buy-­Right
and do the food shopping, which is a good thing, because if it was up to him we’d
be eating nothing but ham loaf and Fritos!” Hugh’s anger at his brother seemed intact,
even if he was worried that Jimmy was missing.

“Does he have a cell phone?” I asked, feeling fairly certain I knew the answer already.

“Heavens, no,” said Hugh, horrified.

“Er, well, maybe you could call the liquor store and see if he’s been there?” I suggested.
Bootsie had cranked down her window and was listening with mild curiosity. This wasn’t
gossip at the level she really appreciates, but if Jimmy Best was doing something
dangerous or had gone off on a Scotch bender at the Bryn Mawr Pub, she’d at least
need to know about it.

“Maybe he’s in that back room at the cigar store,” Bootsie suggested to Hugh. “The
room with the leather couches and ESPN on around the clock. My dad goes there a lot.
You could give them a ring.”

“That’s a good idea,” said Hugh, brightening.

“By the way, Hugh, where were you and Jimmy last Thursday when Barclay was getting
whacked in the head?” Bootsie asked bluntly.

Hugh looked startled. “Thursday?” He thought for a minute. “We went to Prime Rib Night
at the club,” he said. “Were there all night, from six on, actually, since Jimmy got
snockered and wouldn’t leave till after eleven.” He looked worried. “You can ask Ronnie
the bartender, or anyone at the club. We weren’t anywhere near Sanderson!”

“Great!” I said, relieved. I’d hate to think of the Bests spending the rest of their
days in prison, which had to be worse than the conditions in their moldering old house.
“Well, I’ll see you later, and I’m sure I’ll see Jimmy too, back home safe and sound.”
Bootsie and I waved good-­bye as Hugh headed back inside. I retrieved Waffles, and
the three of us peeled off toward town.

“Looks like you’ve got a new best friend next door,” observed Bootsie as we drove
back to her office. “Well, anyway, I’ll confirm the Bests’ alibis for Thursday during
the time Barclay was attacked, but I believe Hugh. And I’ll look into that vet. I
know I’ve heard of him,” she said slowly, taking on the faraway look she gets when
her mind is whirring with her built-­in database of names and faces.

“By the way, Bootsie,” I said, “you know that the Colketts popped out on the landing
right after the chef was pushed—­or fell—­last night, don’t you?”

“I didn’t know that,” she said, coming back briefly from her internal Google search.
“Did you see them?”

“Yup.” I nodded, feeling guilty about tattling on the Colketts, but not wanting to
rule them out if they were cold-­hearted killers just because they were charming.
It was bothering me that the Colketts, who obviously hated Gianni, had gone inside
Sophie’s house moments before the chef’s tumble, and that they’d been so close to
him when he fell. “But that doesn’t mean they pushed him,” I added hopefully. I’d
much rather Gerda turn out to be the guilty party, given her critical temperament
and lack of personal skills.

“Hmm,” said Bootsie, unbuckling her seat belt determinedly as we pulled up at the
newspaper’s yellow door. “And I was so sure it was Gerda. But I’ll keep the Colketts
on my mental back burner. Plus Channing coming back to Sophie’s this morning is interesting,”
she noted. “Returning to the scene of the crime. Just like the Colketts!”

“Well, Channing had to come back to Sophie’s to pick up Gianni’s equipment, and the
Colketts are still working on Sophie’s yard, but maybe they were also able to hide
evidence or something,” I said doubtfully, adding, “Thanks for the help this morning.
I really appreciate it.” Actually, Bootsie hadn’t been all that much help, but at
least she’d done some of the heavy lifting at the store.

“I’ll be in touch!” Bootsie promised. “I’m getting on my computer right now. As soon
as find out all about that vet you met, I’ll see what I can dig up on Channing and
the Colketts. And we’ll have to find a way back into Sophie’s house. I haven’t given
up on snooping through Gerda’s desk!”

Chapter 13

I
T WAS JUS
T
before noon when Waffles and I got to the store. We’d returned the rented truck and
picked up our car, and I felt optimistic as I unlocked the door. I was looking forward
to getting the store organized, and, truthfully, to being free of Bootsie’s company
for the rest of the day.

Waffles took up residence on his dog bed, while I went in the back room to see what
would be suitable for restocking the sales floor. A ­couple of hours later, I was
feeling pretty optimistic. Somehow, what I’d managed to squirrel away in storage actually
filled up the shop nicely. There was a small writing desk, some curvy Louis XV–style
chairs (“in the style of,” in antiques parlance, which meant that they were twentieth-­century
versions, not really antiques, but still attractive vintage pieces), and Limoges plates
that I arranged on shelves in the front room. With the addition of some botanical
prints I’d been saving and now hung in symmetrical rows over the writing desk, things
quickly looked a lot better. The bench and other pieces I’d bought out at the flea
markets over the weekend filled out the retail area. The Striped Awning was a functioning
shop again.

The storefront space isn’t very big, so I basically always put all the things I like
on one side of the store—­funky old Venetian mirrors, 1930s vanities, oversize crystal
chandeliers are on the right side. The things that most of my customers like, which
are needlepoint pillows, anything Queen Anne or Chippendale, and old silver tea sets,
I usually arrange on the left. One wall is painted pale pink, the other silver, and
somehow everything ends up working together. Finally, I hung a Swedish-­style wooden
chandelier in the center of the store, where I had the ceiling rigged for the constantly
changing light fixtures that came in, were sold, and were replaced.

I was polishing up the silver acorn bookends I’d gotten from Annie and Jenny, the
hippie antiques dealers at Stoltzfus’s, when the phone rang.

“I’m not sure I can do this job at Sophie’s,” said Joe, a note of hysteria rising
in his voice. “She’s refused to give up the cherub table in the hall, and she’s digging
in on the pool statues, too. I’m out of Xanax, and I’ve actually thought about killing
myself today. Twice.”

“Sophie needs you!” I told him. “She’ll come around on the cherubs.”

“Yeah, that’s what I keep telling myself,” he said, sounding depressed. “I’ve never
quit a job before, and I’m not sure I can afford to fire Sophie as my client. The
Colketts have been here for hours, arguing with her about the Aphrodites and Dianas.
They’re in worse shape than I am. One of them is sitting behind their truck crying.”

“Sophie seems like the kind of person who could be easily influenced by celebrities,”
I suggested. “Why don’t you bring over a book on Hollywood homes and tell her that,
um, Eva Longoria doesn’t have any glitter tables?”

“Okay,” sighed Joe. “That might work.”

I was still having nagging thoughts about the Colketts. It seemed impossible to think
of the good-­natured florists as cold-­blooded murderers, until I remembered the humiliation
they’d suffered when the chef attacked them. Everyone has their limits, and maybe
they’d been pushed to the edge.

“Joe, do you think the Colketts could have shoved the chef off the balcony last night?”
I asked. “Gianni really embarrassed them at his restaurant opening, and they could
have easily pushed him. They were there at Sophie’s all day yesterday, getting her
yard ready for the party, so they know the house and could have been lurking in a
closet or something.”

“I guess it’s possible,” said Joe doubtfully. “But I doubt it. I don’t think they’d
take a grudge that far. Besides, Tim Colkett got his hearing back and the swelling
went down, so there’s no permanent damage. Anyway, I gotta get back to Sophie, but
Holly and I will be at the club at five. She’s bringing me some spare anxiety meds.”
I promised to meet them later, and as soon as I hung up, the phone jingled again.

“Hugh Best calling,” said my neighbor. “Still no sign of my brother.”

“Did you try the cigar store?”

“Yup, and Jimmy was there early this morning,” said Hugh. “Right after he left home,
he went and bought three boxes of cigars. He sat and smoked one in the back room with
the ESPN and the leather couches, then took off. But that was hours ago!”

“Three boxes? That sounds like a lot,” I said. Maybe Jimmy really was setting out
on a road trip.

“I know! He’s probably driving to Atlantic City right now to gamble all our money
away!”

“Is he a gambler?” I asked, surprised. Jimmy struck me as the type who might wager
a dollar on a golf putt or a Scrabble match, but that’s about it.

“Well, no, but I know he likes the cocktail waitresses there,” said Hugh miserably.

“Why don’t you call the casinos? See if he’s registered as a hotel guest,” I suggested.
“I’ll check in with you in a ­couple of hours to see how things are going.”

Hugh agreed and hung up, and I greeted a few post-­luncheon customers, including a
young ­couple getting married later in the month who bought some pillows and promised
to think about coming back for the small bench.

Despite the foot traffic, I was unable to squelch thoughts of Mike Woodford from suddenly
popping into my mind. Did he actually enjoy putting on a blue blazer and escorting
Honey Potts to parties? Did he like the symphony? Maybe he could actually tell Beethoven
from, say, Wagner.

Then I had a vision of John the cute vet holding his plate of crab claws, looking
tan and wholesome. As I placed the polished acorn bookends I’d gotten at the flea
market on a shelf, I realized it had been nice to engage in conversation with someone
who emanated steadiness and normalcy, and who didn’t seem likely to become a resident
of Phuket anytime soon.

“I wish I could have seen the vet’s arms,” I said to Waffles, “because he had really
tan wrists and hands. He probably has great forearms, too.” Although, if he was married,
his forearms were null and void. I don’t look at married guys’ arms—­ever—­unless
they’re the arms of movie stars along the lines of Daniel Craig, which doesn’t count.

I may have bad taste in men, but it’s not bad enough to include dating married guys.
I’d choose a single man who was a flight risk to Thailand any day over a man who’d
vowed to love and honor another woman. And I’d probably never see John the vet again.
How likely was it that I’d go to a symphony party again anytime soon?

Then again, maybe he
was
single.

I looked at Waffles, who was gently snoring, and thought:
Bingo!
John was a vet, wasn’t he? Waffles could use a checkup. There was nothing wrong with
him, but it couldn’t hurt to take the dog in . . . and see the vet. Plus I could double-­check
for a wedding ring.

I opened my laptop and looked up the number of John Hall, DVM, and found out he was
part of a veterinary group called All Creatures Great and Small, in Haverford, two
miles down the road. A chipper-­sounding assistant answered my call, and I asked for
an appointment with Dr. Hall. “It’s for a basset hound,” I told her. “Just a routine
checkup.”

“Dr. Hall has an equine/bovine practice—­he treats horses and cows,” she sang in an
infuriatingly cheerful way. “And he’s not in the office much. It’s hard to bring a
cow into the office, so he goes to them!”

“I see,” I said, stymied. “Um, does he work in the office at all?”

“He does usually spend Thursday afternoons catching up on paperwork,” she said, sounding
a little less cheerful. “May I ask why?”

“I’ve heard he’s a great vet!” I told her, then asked for an appointment with one
of the vets who treated dogs. “I can only come in on a Thursday, though,” I told her
regretfully. “In the afternoon.”

“What’s wrong with your dog?” she asked.

“He eats everything,” I told her.

“All dogs eat everything,” she told me.

“This is beyond normal,” I assured her. “I’m pretty sure he has a tapeworm.” She grouchily
ordered me to bring a stool sample. “With pleasure!” I said, and hung up.

This was a fantastic plan!

“Waffles, you’re a good boy!” I told him. I’d reward him with a late lunch of chicken
salad, I decided, and before that, we’d go for a quick walk to enjoy the gorgeous
sunny day. The front door was open, a light breeze lilting in through the screen door
and the windows. There were a few ladies still winding up lunches at the café, moms
taking their kids for ice cream down at the little shop by the post office, and a
festive, early-­summer feeling that school would be out soon.

As I grabbed my keys to lock up, there was a sound you don’t often hear in the center
of Bryn Mawr these days: the clomping of horseshoes on cement.

I opened the screen door to peer down the street, and spied Mariellen Merriwether
atop her prize horse, Norman, at the end of the block, Norman’s well-­groomed black
tail swishing proudly as he walked along. He really was a beautiful animal: glossy,
clear-­eyed, and magnificent. His Ritz-­Carlton lifestyle had clearly paid off.

His owner, of course, sat in perfect equestrienne posture, and wore impeccable beige
riding pants, polished boots, a crisp white shirt, and a black riding hat. Naturally,
she had on her pearls, too. I noticed she had a CVS bag poking out of the pocket of
her jodhpurs. So the rumors were true: When Mariellen needed to pick up a prescription
or some calcium supplements, Norman was her mode of transport!

Waffles took one look at Norman, and kind of lost it. I’m pretty sure he thought Norman
was a very large dog. And since Waffles is incredibly friendly, every time sees another
dog he has a dog-­gasm. He started whining, woofing, and jumping excitedly.

This didn’t go over too well with Norman. The horse reared, whinnied in terror, and
took off down Lancaster Avenue with Mariellen, ever the excellent horsewoman, hanging
on to the reins, still in her perfect posture, trying to calm him. She shot me and
Waffles a look of icy hatred as they zoomed by the store, heading in the direction
of the post office as cars halted to let them by. Despite the balmy day, I felt my
entire body go cold.

“No!” I said desperately to Waffles, who was looking longingly at Norman’s disappearing
hooves and whining.

To deal with my embarrassment at Waffles’s outburst, I worked feverishly for the rest
of the day. By 4:30 p.m., there was nothing left to polish or straighten. I decided
to leave Waffles at the store while I met Joe and Holly. He was peacefully racked
out on his dog bed after his eventful afternoon, and there was a small chance that
if I tiptoed out the back door, he might never notice I was gone.

I couldn’t stay annoyed with Waffles for long. I took a look at his sleeping, portly,
brown-­and-­white form and goofy ears as I headed out, love welling up inside me.
Norman the horse had nothing on Waffles.

“I
S
K
LONOPIN SUPPOSED
to make you hungry?” asked Joe. “Is it like pot?” He sucked down half a margarita
in a loud slurp through a straw.

Joe already looked bombed when I arrived, and he’d only been at the club for fifteen
minutes. His hair was messy, and his polo shirt was wrinkled. He’d popped one (or
maybe more) of Holly’s pills, and his eyes bore the glazed look of the celebrities
whose mug shots are featured on TMZ. He clutched a salt-­rimmed glass with a trembling
hand while Holly administered sympathetic pats on his arm.

“Sophie’s like a garden gnome, the one in that commercial that keeps popping up wherever
you go. Isn’t there a horror movie about a garden gnome?” he said in a hoarse whisper.
“And there’s Gerda, too. Always Gerda.”

“You’ll be finished there in a ­couple of months!” said Holly encouragingly. “And
you have my house to work on, too, which of course will be amazing.”

“I need a cheeseburger,” moaned Joe. “I’m really hungry.”

“He’s not driving, right?” I whispered to Holly, who jingled her car keys reassuringly,
and made a no-­way gesture toward Joe.

We flagged down the waitress, which wasn’t difficult because she was already staring
at us. Not only was Joe semi-­slumped over his margarita, Holly was wearing a yellow
strapless maxi dress, with her hair in a bouffant in the manner of Julie Christie
circa 1973.

She also looked a little tired and stressed. Sometime in the next few days, I was
determined to have that one-­on-­one about her impulsive decision to split from Howard.

I’ve known Holly since grade school, so her bravado doesn’t fool me; she seemed miserable.
I thought if I could talk to her alone, away from the chaos that seemed to follow
us lately, I could convince her to give Howard another chance.

Back in February, when Bootsie had heard that Holly was getting divorced, it all sounded
like a big misunderstanding. Bootsie’s info was based on idle gossip at the club:
Bootsie had been sitting in the bar waiting for Will, and was eavesdropping on some
tipsy members, the Binghams.

The Binghams are always blitzed on white zinfandel, even when they play racquetball.
Honestly, you can’t listen to the Binghams, because they always get things wrong,
due to the fact that they drink about five bottles of wine a day. Anyway, the Binghams
had witnessed a big fight that day between Holly and Howard about the length of Holly’s
tennis skirt—­ironically the very thing that had lured Howard to Holly in the first
place—­and assumed their marriage was on the rocks. They shared their observations
with Bootsie, which Bootsie took to the next level: a Definite Divorce.

I thought Bootsie had to be wrong when she’d called me the next morning, but then
later in the day Holly had phoned me, enraged about a supposed affair Howard was engaged
in with that busty bartender at the Porterhouse. At least Holly
thought
he was having an affair with this Boobs Girl, because the steakhouse’s number had
come up a ­couple of times that week on Howard’s caller ID.