Killer Punch (11 page)

 

Chapter 17

“
C
OME HERE, YOU
sexy girl!” Gianni told Holly when we got to his restaurant. The chef hopped over on his crutches to nail Holly with a double cheek kiss, then aimed for her lips, which she neatly averted with a merry little laugh and hair toss.

“I got the vodka ready for you!” Gianni told Holly. “Or champagne. Whatever you want!” Just then, he noticed the rest of us trooping in behind her.

“And for your friends, too, I guess,” he said, looking none too happy about it as he poured us all drinks from the festive pitcher of cocktails he'd stirred up. The restaurant's tables were empty of diners, and a lone busboy was draping them with crisp white linens for the next day.

The kitchen was gleaming, but no cooks remained, and it looked like the dishwashers were about to leave for the night, which wasn't surprising given that it was a Monday.

“I don't drink alcohol,” Gerda informed him. “Although I just been to Atlantic City, and I tempted. For now, I take sparkling water, no ice.”

As Gianni grumpily soda-­gunned a seltzer, I thought to myself that Holly must have ordered some really great clothes over the past few months, because the dress she wore was absolutely gorgeous.

It was an indigo strapless number with built-­in corseting and a subtle slit in the knee-­length skirt. Like me, Holly doesn't have cleavage, but the structure of this amazing dress gave her something close to it.

“That's the Jason Wunumber I saw at the mall!” whispered Sophie, nodding to the amazing dress. “And Holly busted out the Sergio Rossi cage sandals, too. No man can resist those!”

“Holly, this great timing, I was gonna call you tonight and invite you to a special top-­secret party tomorrow night,” Gianni went on. “Gianni about to get even more rich and famous with a new business venture!”

“Are ya opening another restaurant, Chef?” asked Sophie, after succumbing to the same smooch-­filled greeting as Holly.

“Even better!” he told her. “What I gonna announce tomorrow will be trendsetter! You all invited,” he told us. “Be here at restaurant at 6 p.m.

“Hey, Sophie, why don't I sit between you and Holly here at the bar? I could be, like, a Gianni sandwich between you two gorgeous blondes!”

Gerda cracked her knuckles at this statement, while Holly gave an eye roll, but managed to keep smiling in Gianni's direction.

“I don't want to mess up my new jumpsuit,” Gerda told Gianni, “but you being real inappropriate, and I can punch you in face if I need to.”

“I need pasta,” Bootsie announced to Gianni, plopping herself down next to Holly, as Gerda loomed ominously behind her. “I'm super hungry. Can you whip up that wild mushroom and prosciutto dish you do with the agnolotti?”

“Kitchen is closed. But I can call Nonna Claudia down,” Gianni offered. “She could do you a pasta.”

“You know what, Gianni,” Holly told him, “I've been thinking of eating carbs again—­at least on holidays and alternate weekends.”

She jumped up and out of reach of the chef's roving hands. “Let's go make pasta together, and who knows, maybe next summer, I'll throw a dinner party on the holistic meditation terrace the Colketts are going to design for me,” she added.

With this, Holly indicated the restaurant's open kitchen, which was gleaming with its stainless steel just past the bar. “You can give me a quick cooking lesson!” she added.

“This could be pretty sexy,” Gianni agreed, jumping up as fast as his crutches would let him. “You ever see that movie
Ghost
when the ­couple making some kind of pottery thing together? This pasta gonna be like that for us!”

“Absolutely,” agreed Holly serenely, then turned to give Gerda desperate raised eyebrows and hand signals indicating that she needed her to burst into the kitchen sometime within the next seven minutes.

“Gianni needs the music!” shouted the chef, ripping off his white chef's jacket to showcase his tattoos in a white T-­shirt. “We gonna blast Pitbull!” Catchy Latin pop was soon blasting into the bar and kitchen.

“By the way, Gerda,” Bootsie said, sipping her drink, “are you good at tennis?”

“I'm excellent at all sports,” Gerda informed her.

“Great, because Mummy has a sore ankle, and I need a new doubles partner tomorrow. You free at two?”

“Absolutely,” said Gerda, cracking her knuckles. “Tennis very big in Austria.”

All we could see past the bar were Gianni's limbs, which were moving like arms on a slot machine—­up, down and all around Holly's slender waist and shoulders. How the man could simultaneously toss dough, sauté wild mushrooms, and grope was quite a feat, especially since he was down to one leg.

“I go into kitchen to supervise,” said Gerda finally. “This guy creeping me out.”

“How's that pasta coming?” asked Bootsie, shouting across the bar and over a catchy Pitbull tune.

“I was just asking the chef what kind of art he likes,” Holly told us through the open kitchen window, “and whether he's buying any paintings for his new place in Beverly Hills, but he told me he doesn't care about stuff like that and leaves it to the Colketts.”

“Are ya sure, Chef?” Sophie said. “What about, like, paintings with cows in them? Cows are real relaxing to look at.”

“Animals not for Gianni's walls,” Gianni told her. “They for the plate, after they're cured, grilled or roasted. Anyway, I don't care about art. Gianni focus on the food.”

He expertly sliced at a whopping piece of pork, producing slices so thin you could see through them, and fired up olive oil, shallots, and herbs in a pan—­which smelled incredible.

“So you haven't been, um, acquiring any fabulous paintings at all and shipping them out to your new place?” confirmed Holly.

“I got more important stuff than that to do!” Gianni said, downing his drink and the olives floating in it.

“Now we gonna add the prosciutto to the sauté pan, and the ripe little tomatoes—­reminds me of your skinny but sexy self!” he told Holly. His hand moved toward Holly's tomatoes, and he went in for the grab.

“I take care of this,” said Gerda. She jumped from her bar stool in a dead run, briefly pausing to flip open the hinged door that led to the back area of the bar and the kitchen, but her spiky size 9 heel got caught in the perforated nonslip floor mats. Blond braids flying, Gerda was aloft for a few hair-­raising seconds, then crashed onto Gianni, who'd been staring openmouthed as she sailed toward him.

“
Verdammt!
” she screamed. “These shoes gonna kill me!”

“
Merda!
” erupted the chef, who was facedown on the kitchen tiles, Gerda on top of him. Luckily for Gerda, the chef had cushioned her impact. Unfortunately, though, Gianni himself had been in a compromising position at the moment he landed.

“You make me land on prosciutto knife!” he screamed at the Pilates pro. “I got razor-­sharp blade stuck in my thigh! Gianni in agony-­-­again!”

“Sorry.” Gerda shrugged. “Anyway, what we're trying to find out is, did you steal Honey Potts's painting and mail it to yourself at California restaurant?”

“No, you
putana
broad!” he told her, still facedown. “I don't steal nothing. Gianni need medical attention and maybe gonna sue you!”

“Your floor mats are unsafe,” said Gerda blithely. “Maybe I sue
you
.”

“I'll just call nine-­one-­one,” announced Holly. “Oooh, it looks like it's the same leg as the injury from Thursday. Poor you.”

“Anyway, the pasta looks like it's ready,” observed Bootsie, who took over kitchen duties, draining the agnolotti and adding the pillowy pasta to the delicious sauce. She gave it all a toss, and grabbed some take-­out containers from a nearby shelf. “We can take this to go.”

A
FTER THE
EMT
S
came, I went home and jumped into bed with the five dogs. Unfortunately, since I smelled like prosciutto and the dogs spent from midnight till 2 a.m. sniffing my hair and licking my wrists, it wasn't a restful night.

And just because John had only texted me twice during the time he'd been away didn't mean that our relationship was off track—­did it? And the fact that I'd thought about Mike Woodford seven times in the past two days didn't mean anything—­probably. At least John was due back tomorrow from his vet clinic, I thought happily as I dropped off to sleep at 2 a.m.

 

Chapter 18

M
Y MOOD SOARED
when I opened my eyes at seven on Tuesday morning, even though my bedroom was still full of dogs. Bootsie had promised to be guest counselor at her sons' day camp, which would keep her busy for the morning.

Even more exciting, I'd soon be down to one dog again. John's mutts could vacate my place today and return to his rented condo, relieving me from daily vacuuming and being trampled every time I opened the door.

And The Striped Awning was ready for its big reveal!

Joe's one-­day makeover promised to be amazing, at least according to Joe. I'd finally turned off my phone at 2 a.m., since texts had been arriving every fifteen minutes informing me with his usual lack of modesty that with a single can of dark brown paint, some '70s-­modern light fixtures, and a vintage 1920s dining room set, he'd taken The Striped Awning from blah to awe.

“And I do
not
want to see Eula's tomato artwork anywhere in that store,” he'd told me in his final message of the night. He'd stashed the canvases behind the mop and vacuum cleaner in my back room, and recommended that I tip the town trash guys ten bucks to dispose of them on Monday.

I figured I'd hang them in the shop as soon as Joe went back to Florida next week. The truth is that most of my customers would love Eula's botanical artwork, while only Holly and the Colketts would appreciate his supercool Halston–meets–Hollywood Hills makeover of the shop, even though I couldn't wait to get over there and see it for myself.

I unscrambled myself from my duvet, jumped over several dogs, turned off my ancient window unit air conditioner, and threw open the windows as I fired up the coffee machine. I unleashed the pack into the backyard, jumped in the shower, put my hair in a ponytail, and threw on a black Gap sundress. Given the fact that I'd spent most of the past week on the highways of South Jersey, the yard wasn't looking great, so I headed out front to water the ancient rosebushes and spritz the old flowerpots I'd painted black and filled with pink geraniums.

Across the street at Sanderson, cows wandered around in the sunshine, tails swishing, which brought Mike Woodford to mind—­a vision I quickly shut down.

As I aimed a hose toward the roses, I noticed movement just behind the gorgeous hydrangeas in full bloom that lined the front of the estate, including the one beneath which I'd discovered the unconscious form of Barclay Shields the previous spring.

Just beyond the fence was a short girl in a beige outfit, and she was pushing a small but fully loaded wheelbarrow, its contents hidden by a tarp.

Eula.

What was she schlepping across the grounds of Sanderson at seven-­forty-­five in the morning? Her Miata was parked on Camellia Lane bordering the estate, and I watched her look around furtively, then open the trunk of her Miata, dump whatever was in the wheelbarrow inside, and shove the small single-­wheeled cart inside a thick hedge of holly bushes. With that, she roared away in her snazzy little car.

I waited five minutes, then went across the street, nervously parting the hollies to inspect said wheelbarrow. I'd imagined all kinds of horrible possibilities, but the wheelbarrow was empty. I sniffed. It smelled a little funky, but Sanderson itself has a pleasantly farm-­y scent that wafts around its hundreds of acres and mingles with the roses and lilies.

There was some old dirt in the wheelbarrow, but nothing along the lines of remains of a human sacrifice.

Was Eula stealing something else from Honey Potts—­maybe another family heirloom, something heavy enough that she needed a wheelbarrow? Had she taken Honey's painting, and was now back for the silver candelabra or a marble bust of an ancient Potts patriarch?

I was too scared of Mrs. Potts to ask her if she'd noticed a short girl in beige robbing her house that morning, so I knocked on a different door at Sanderson.

“
M
IKE, DID YOU
just see Eula Morris pushing a wheelbarrow across the cow pasture?” I said, as he greeted me on the front porch of his cute stone cottage near the cow barns. I then grabbed a column to steady myself. Mike was in jeans . . . and nothing else.

I'd never seen him sans shirt before, and between the tan, the pecs, and the smell of Irish Spring soap, it was a lot to take in.

“Come on in,” he said. “Hey, Waffles!” The dog ran inside ecstatically, which annoyed me. He absolutely loves Mike, which I feel is misplaced, since Mike isn't boyfriend material.

As I followed Mike into his kitchen, where he thankfully put on a T-­shirt, I had a sudden horrible thought.

Had Eula
spent the night
at Mike's?

Was she sneaking off the property so Honey wouldn't see her leaving? Although who does a walk of shame pushing a wheelbarrow?

“Are you and Eula, er, friends?” I asked Mike, who handed me a coffee. “Close friends?” I added.

“We're acquaintances,” he told me, popping an English muffin into his toaster. “To answer your other question, I didn't see her this morning, but I'm pretty sure I know what she was doing with the wheelbarrow.”

“Mikey?” yelled Honey Potts outside his open window. “You got company?”

Mrs. Potts was the last person I wanted to see! What if Honey thought
I
had stayed over with Mike? She makes me nervous as it is. I needed to leave.

“Bye!” I said, racing out of his house with Waffles in tow and Mike following behind us.

I said a polite but brief hello to Mrs. Potts as I raced up her driveway, while she aimed a suspicious look at me, obviously wondering if I'd just had a racy fling with her hot nephew.

I get the feeling I'm not Mrs. Potts's favorite person ever since Lilly's mom, Mariellen Merriwether, tried to kill me and my neighbors. Mariellen is Mrs. Potts's BFF, and there might be some lingering resentment over the whole episode.

“I'll tell you what Eula had in the wheelbarrow later,” Mike called after me. “Over a drink.”

F
IVE MINUTES LATER
I flicked on the lights at The Striped Awning, and blinked at the spectacular scene before me.

My paint tarps were gone, and the shop had been arranged in chic, symmetrical style, with the large round 1970s table Joe had trucked from one of his storage units anchoring the front of the store. The ceiling and moldings were now glossy deep brown, so dark they were almost black, in a chic punctuation to my Smashing Pink walls. He'd added a huge sisal rug and a Sputnik-­style glass-­and-­bronze light fixture, which looked amazing above the round table. The rear area of the shop had been arranged as a lounge-­y seating area, with the French settee and dining chairs I'd had in stock and under tarps now creating an inviting vibe. More of Joe's clients' castoffs—­cool ikat pillows, Foo dogs, modern little lamps—­added a modern touch to the seating area, above which a half-­dozen chandeliers I'd bought at flea markets now cast a cozy glow.

I called Joe and rattled on for several minutes about how much I loved what he'd done, and how I'd pay him back one day for all the cool accents he'd installed, and how his storage units deserved their own blog and Instagram account, which he seemed to enjoy. Finally, though, he cut me off.

“It's true—­your junk store is suddenly as cool as one of those boutique New York hotels where Bowery meets Boho chic,” he agreed. “It's like One Kings Lane exploded in there. I've outdone myself! Anyway, while I was hiding those hideous paintings by Eula in your back room, I had a genius idea to figure out whether Eula took
Heifer
.

“I can't explain right now,” Joe added. “I'm heading to my storage units in Holly's SUV, with her as designated driver. I plan to combine tranquilizers, Excedrin Migraine, and alcohol today, so I probably shouldn't take the wheel.”

“Maybe you should hold off on the prescription medications,” I suggested.

“Anyway,” he said, “I'm going to need Bootsie to help me pull off my plan. She needs to make herself available from three till five this afternoon.”

“I don't think that will be a problem,” I told him. “By the way, I saw Eula sneaking something out of Sanderson today with a wheelbarrow, and I asked Mike Woodford about it, and he said he'll explain later.”

“Whatever,” said Joe. “I can only focus on one Eula problem at a time.”

I was about to hang up when Joe told me that I needed to touch up my paint job on the back wall of the store.

“It needs to be
perfect
,” he informed me. “I left a tarp draped over the floor there for you. I lent my peerless talent for design, and you can lend your mediocre skills as painter.”

Next, I texted Bootsie that Joe needed her for a special Eula project this afternoon, and would she be done volunteering at her kids' camp by then? She immediately called back, and when I picked up, I could hear children screaming, playing, crying, and shouting in the background.

“Pipe down, kids,” she announced. “Go play by the lake.”

“Shouldn't you be keeping your attention on the three-­year-­olds?” I asked, alarmed.

“I'm leaving,” she said. “I did an hour of tennis drills with thirty-­five toddlers, and I need to conserve my strength to kick Eula's tail this afternoon in the club doubles tourney. The match is at two, then I'll be free to help Joe.

“And get this,” she added. “It's me and Gerda versus Eula and Lilly Merriwether!”

“Stomp them! Beat Lilly's skinny ass into the ground!” I found myself shouting. “I mean, I hope you win.”

“Oh, we're
going
to win,” Bootsie assured me. “Listen, don't forget, Gianni invited us to some top-­secret event tonight for his new business. And don't even try to weasel out of coming along!”

I'd actually been planning to do just that, but figured I'd say nothing for now.

“I'm stopping by your shop to see Joe's makeover, but first I need to drop in at the
Gazette
to pitch my story about Gianni's new venture. See you in fifteen,” Bootsie told me, and disconnected.

T
EN MINUTES LATER,
Sophie showed up at the store.

“Wow! This looks real cute,” she said, sitting down in the cool new seating area in back. “I can tell Joe did one of his mini-­makeovers here.” Her eyes welled up with tears briefly. “He's soooo good at what he does.”

Just then, Bootsie stuck her head inside the door. “Eula stole my Gianni story!” she screamed. “That bitch got to the
Gazette
at eight this morning and grabbed the assignment.” She left, vowing revenge.

“I keep thinking about Diana-­Maria, Lobster Phil's ex,” I told Sophie after Bootsie's exit, hoping to distract my friend from her Joe woes. “Maybe we can look her up on Facebook, or call one of your old friends to ask if she's okay?”

“I found her on Facebook last night while I was posting all the feelings I'm having about me and Joe,” Sophie said. “Diana-­Maria hasn't been on Facebook for, like, six months! It's kinda weird. She used to put pics up all the time. I knew what she ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, like, every freakin' day.”

“That doesn't sound good,” I said, worried. “Where did she work? Maybe we can try to call her there.”

“Diana-­Maria had a job selling gorgeous jewelry in the boutique at the Borgata,” Sophie told me, and burst into tears. “She handled mega-­carat rocks that any girl, especially one from Jersey, would love to get as engagement bling. They keep it in a special counter for high rollers in the back, and it's open 24/7. Picture Mariah Carey's jewelry box, and you get the picture.”

It looked like Sophie was again about to start obsessing about when Joe and engagement rings, so I changed the subject.

“How's your lawyer doing with Barclay's legal filing about your new house and the shoes?” I asked her, Windexing the front windows.

“It's all BS!” Sophie yelped. “We got the house petition dismissed already. I bought that place with my own money. I had a lot saved up from when I worked in the cement business, plus sometimes Barclay used to give me cash for my birthday, so that's not community property.”

“Uh-­huh.” I nodded, half listening. Maybe I should buy some extra cheddar and Triscuits for the party tomorrow, I thought, since Bootsie seemed way more focused on the booze than the food. One we got this reopening party done, I'd probably have tons of new customers who'll love the hot-­pink walls! And if I didn't, I'd focus on my eBay sales, and if all else failed, I could probably get more hours at the Pack-­N-­Ship.

“The judge seemed way more interested in the shoes,” Sophie told me. “He said he needs to get a deposition from Barclay about my size five and a halfs, but of course, my ex is off in Atlantic City and not returning calls. So the shoes are in limbo.”

I nodded sympathetically, concurrently dreaming of a quiet, tranquil existence, weeding my yard and catching up on all my overdue bills. I'd ask Leena if she could give me another few hours a week as package sorter—­maybe if I worked on, say, Wednesday nights after I closed the shop, her back room wouldn't be so stuffed with unsent and undistributed boxes every weekend.

“By the way, I just saw the Binghams at the luncheonette,” Sophie told me. “They were acting real strange, even for them. They were getting takeout and normally they're so chatty and friendly, but they just waved and left real fast with a bunch of take-­out food.”

I nodded, thinking maybe Bootsie could go track the Binghams down at their house, which is just a few hundred yards from the club. It was so unlike them to not be out and about, and they always had time to stop for a quick gossip. Maybe one of them hadn't been feeling well?

Or maybe they didn't want to admit they'd knowingly sold the charming old garden shop to Mega Wine Mart—­if they'd known about Maison de Booze being a teardown, that is! I was about to grab my phone to call Bootsie when Sophie piped up, “Oh yeah, and I saw your boyfriend at the luncheonette, too!”