Killer Punch (15 page)

 

Chapter 22

A
GENTLE
KNOCK
on my back door woke me up at seven-­thirty the next morning. I peeked from my window, and saw John Dogs exploded out of my bedroom, hurtling down the stairs, barking and wagging in a frenzy of joy at reuniting with their owner, and after I showered and got dressed, we all piled into his huge SUV.

“We'll ride out to Gianni's farm, get breakfast, and I'll drop you back at The Striped Awning before lunch,” John told me. “And even though you haven't invited me, I'm coming to your reopening party this afternoon. I'll bartend!”

“Great!” I said, instantly forgiving him.

I mean, how many guys will adopt every stray mutt in town and serve drinks at your antiques store party? He'd picked up Starbucks, too. I needed to forget about Lilly Merriwether. This guy was a keeper.

A
S WE PULLED
up to Gianni's farm, two Amish men in hats and simple clothing were waiting in the driveway, and greeted John with handshakes. Gianni, for his part, emerged from his farmhouse shaking his fist at the pasture.

“These
putana
goats still doing nothing for me!” he told John. “We got, like, two drops of milk today. Plus they eating everything!”

As predicted by the Colketts, overnight the goats had chewed through the fencing, mowed down the hydrangeas to stubs, and started in on the cushions for the outdoor sofas on Gianni's patio.

“These
caprino
a real pain in the ass!” Gianni raged. “They defective!”

“Goats don't respond well to yelling and stress,” John told the chef. “Which is why I asked the Stoltzfuses here to help you out, Chef.”

“You guys from that flea market?” Gianni asked the two men suspiciously.

“We're cousins of the owners,” one answered.

“Trust me, Chef, this will work out better for everyone,” John said reassuringly. “You can go back to what you do best—­restaurants—­and your goats will start producing a ton of great cheese.”

“Okay,” agreed Gianni. “Maybe that work better for Gianni. You're hired,” he told the two men, who nodded and headed toward the goat pasture, making a gentle clucking noise as they opened the gate.

The herd ran joyfully toward the farmers, and we were about to leave when a black town car pulled up and a man in a sport coat emerged from the backseat.

“Lobster Phil!” I said, waving. I paused when I saw the expression on Phil's face as he walked toward Gianni. He didn't look like usual charming self.

“We need to talk,” he told the chef. “I've come across some information that gives me a lot of concerns about this goat place, and also another business I think you're trying to sneak past me and Sweet Freddie.”

“Uh, now not a good time,” said Gianni nervously, indicating the Stoltzfuses. “These guys my new employees, and I got to meet with them.”

Phil paused, shading his eyes to observe the gamboling goats and their new management.

“I see you're lucky again,” he told Gianni. “I got respect for Amish ­people, so I'm leaving. We'll talk later,” he added grimly.

B
OOTSIE WAS GLUGGING
Paul Masson brandy into her mom's punch bowl while John added ginger ale, seltzer, and fresh peach slices when Leena arrived at The Striped Awning that afternoon.

“Hey, there,” Leena said. “Looks like this reopening's going to be a real blowout!”

“Any news about that missing package?” asked Bootsie, making a neat free throw with the empties into my recycling bin.

“Nothing yet,” said Leena, unconcerned. “That's working in the mail business for you, though! If I lost sleep over every package that got sidetracked, I'd be in the wrong line of work.”

“Uh-­huh,” I said, thinking that this explained a lot. “Have some peach punch, Leena,” I added. “Thanks for coming.”

“Sure,” said Leena. “By the way, Kristin, I brought you something.” She whipped a bright red shirt out of her handbag. “It's a Pack-­N-­Ship polo in your size! I noticed that you took one of my uniforms the other day, and I wanted to tell you it's okay!” She added an understanding wink. “The shirt you took is probably too big for you. You can bring it back anytime.”

“Um—­thanks,” I said, glaring at Bootsie. “That's really nice of you.”

“I'm out of here,” said Joe, seeing Eula park her Miata across the street, and Honey Potts steering an old station wagon into the no-­parking zone in front of my shop.

“Don't leave,” I implored as a group including Skipper, Holly, George Fogle, Officer Walt, and the Colketts arrived, and Eula swung through the front door behind them. “Please help me with Eula and Mrs. Potts. And at least stay long enough to brag to the Colketts that you gave this place its makeover!”

“Five minutes,” Joe agreed, gulping down some peach punch. He straightened his shoulders and plastered on a charming smile, while I sent thankful glances his way.

“Mrs. Potts!” he said. “And Eula. Don't you both look absolutely
gorgeous
today!”

“
S
O
­
PEOPLE BUY
this kind of old stuff?” asked Mrs. Potts, apparently stymied as she eyed old crystal decanters on trays and embroidered footrests, looking her usual tanned, outdoorsy self in knee-­length green shorts and a crisp shirt. “ 'Cause these are the sort of knickknacks I'm always giving away to the town rummage sale.”

“Half the store's probably from your attic!” Joe agreed. “This one”—­here, he indicated me—­“gets all the stuff for this antiques store at flea markets, and out of the back of a van from some hippies out in Lancaster County.”

“And you can make a living that way?” Honey asked with evident surprise, taking a suspicious sip of punch. She plunked it down on a silver tray and asked for a vodka, which Joe gallantly supplied.

“Not really,” Joe told her. “I mean, Kristin's working part-­time at the Pack-­N-­Ship, too, so that pretty much says it all.”

“I give ya credit for trying.” Mrs. P. shrugged. “I'll call Holly next time I'm doing a clean-­out, and you can have first pick.”

“Thank you!” I told her gratefully as the Honey picked up a monogrammed serving spoon, inspected it, shook her head doubtfully, and made for the door—­but not before Bootsie aimed a question at her.

“Any word on your painting?” Bootsie asked. “
Heifer
's still missing, right, Mrs. P.?”

Bootsie must have had a few servings of peach punch already, I realized, since this wasn't a question most ­people would lob at the town's preeminent doyenne. Honey's expression turned more sour than usual, and she shook her head as she exchanged good-­byes with George and Holly.

“Walt's been doing his best, and George here has called everyone and their uncle in art circles from New York to Paris, so I still believe
Heifer
will be back,” she said, making a dignified exit.

“That makes one of us,” said Joe. “Hey, guys,” he added to Tim and Tom, who were eyeing the pink, brown, and modern-­meets-­antique decor of my store. “Just to give you some background, I took a store full of crapola antiques and a single can of paint and gave this place its Palm Springs–meets–Provence cool factor. In
one
day,” he added smugly.

“Cute,” said Tim dismissively. “It's really got that roadside-­shack-­turned-­convenience-­store vibe.”

“Remember that time we were coming back from an antiques show in Massachusetts and our car broke down, and the guy who towed us out of the ditch sold both antiques and homemade beef jerky out of his garage?” Tom asked him. “This kind of reminds me of that place.”

Joe's eyes bulged angrily, but before he had a chance to formulate a Colkett-­aimed insult, Holly gently steered him to the back seating area, grabbing George and me on the way.

“I have a plan that will keep Sophie happy and buy you some time while you work on your commitment issues,” Holly informed Joe. “George has a connection for a ring that would be perfect for Sophie as preengagement bling. Something that's flashy enough for Sophie, but doesn't weigh more than she does.”

“I'm nodding.” Joe nodded.

“I got a call from some guy who says he was a driver on the Lady Gaga–Tony Bennett Cheek to Cheek Tour,” George told us. “He has an amethyst ring that Lady Gaga wore one night onstage, and he sent me a picture. Let me find it in my phone,” he added, scrolling through e-­mails.

“Is it stolen?” asked Joe, alarmed.

“No, it's not
stolen
,” George informed him. “Well, it probably isn't. This driver guy claims a lot of items from the tour were sold to benefit charity, and he got a good deal on it.”

“Anyway, the guy's girlfriend broke up with him, so he's selling it for five hundred dollars, since it's impossible to prove that Lady Gaga actually ever wore it,” Holly told Joe. “But if you mention the Gaga connection to Sophie, she'll stop bothering you about those rings she saw in
Town & Country
.”

Joe eyed George's phone skeptically, and I took a look over his shoulder. The ring featured an oval-­shaped lavender stone framed by tiny diamonds in a simple, elegant setting.

“It's nice,” said Joe grudgingly.

“It comes with a signed Lady Gaga photo,” Holly told him. “This is your best shot at getting Sophie to be almost-­engaged.”

I knew Holly was right. When it comes to celebrities, the ring's possible previous owner is Sophie's hands-­down favorite, especially since the glamorous singer posed for Versace ads.

This plan was a guaranteed win—­if Joe was willing to almost-­commit to Sophie.

“I'm thinking,” said Joe.

“While you think, you might want to head out the back if you want to avoid your possible fiancée right now,” Holly told him. “She and Gerda just parked in the loading zone in front.”

“
S
O,
E
ULA,
I
hear you're doing some painting these days,” said George forty-­five minutes and two peach punches later. George isn't much of a drinker, and he seemed a little sauced.

“Eula did some nice still-­life paintings for the Tomato Show,” I told George. “I have a few of them here to sell,” I added, then wished I hadn't as I remembered Joe telling me he'd shoved them in my storage room. It's rare that I feel badly for Eula, but there was so much hate in the room for her that I had to say something positive.

“Where
are
my paintings?” asked Eula. “ 'Cause I don't see them hanging anywhere in the shop.”

“Um—­I'm saving them for when I officially reopen tomorrow!” I improvised. “I know they're going to sell right away, and I didn't want to have to stop in the middle of the party to run the credit card machine.”

We all trooped into the back room, where Eula looked annoyed to see her artwork under a tarp and behind a Swiffer, but George waited patiently while Eula pulled out the three paintings and told him they were inspired by Cezanne, but with more veggies than fruit. George half listened while he examined the third canvas, which had an ornate gold frame complete with baroque carvings of birds, leaves, and trompe l'oeil swags. As Eula rattled on about her brushwork, George inspected the edges of the tiny third painting, and stepped back to stare at the canvas from a distance of several feet, then interrupted her.

“Eula, do you remember what was underneath your painting?” he asked. “Was it a landscape—­maybe with a river?”

Eula thought for a moment and nodded.

“You know what, it was a landscape, but the colors were really dull,” she said. “I got it for fifteen bucks at the flea market, which I thought was worth it since the frame is so nice.”

“If it's okay with you, I'm going to borrow this for a few days and take it to New York with me tomorrow,” George told her, carefully tucking the painting under his arm. “I'll call you in the morning to get you to sign some paperwork, since I'm going to need to remove some paint from the lower right hand corner of the canvas.”

With that, George told Eula he thought her tomatoes had been painted on top of a small oil study by Honey Potts's favorite artist, Hasley Huntingdon-­Mews, and that a similar tiny work by the same artist had sold the previous month for sixty thousand dollars.

G
EORGE LEFT BY
the back door with Eula's painting. Stunned, I went back out front and downed some peach punch while Eula wandered out glassy-­eyed with shock.

When John showed up, I gave him the quick version of Eula's possible good fortune as Bootsie listened skeptically.

“George Fogle is wrong
a lot
,” she told Eula. “I wouldn't get too excited if I were you.”

“If you did suddenly get a massive amount of cash, you still want to sail around the world, though, right?” asked Holly hopefully.

“I guess so,” said Eula. “Although I'm loving my new job at the
Gazette
! Did you see my story about Gianni's goat farm today?”

“Eula, once again, you missed the real story,” Bootsie told her. “Gianni's goats aren't producing any goat cheese. He's been buying up chevre all over town, and repackaging it as his own.”

“Uh-­huh, sure,” said Eula skeptically. “Bootsie, I know you're mad that we're competing for front-­page stories now, but you don't have to make up lies.”

“I'm not lying!” screamed Bootsie. “Gianni went behind his mafia investors' backs to start this goat cheese gig, and he's one of the secret owners of the Mega Wine Mart. He might be dead by next week if those goats don't start making some cheese!”

Eula stared at Bootsie for a minute, then doubled over laughing.