Killer Punch (17 page)

 

Chapter 24

W
E WERE IN
Bootsie's SUV on the way home from A.C. when my phone dinged with a text from Holly. “The Colketts are at my house, and they have news. Officer Walt's coming over, and you need to get here ASAP.”

“Maybe they did take the painting! Will we ever know where
Heifer
was for the last week?” Bootsie wondered. “And is it like the proverbial tree that fell in the forest, if that's the phrase I'm looking for? On a cosmic level, do we need to know where it is?”

“Maybe there is connection between the painting and the Wine Mart,” offered Gerda.

“We got the Binghams back, and it looks like the Wine Mart is kaput, so maybe we should leave well enough alone,” I suggested.

“Do you think, um, Louis Pasteur left well enough alone? Or George Washington or FDR or for that matter, L.L. Bean?” Bootsie demanded.

“I hear you,” Sophie piped up. “I mean, think of Lady Gaga. Who else would have worn a dress entirely constructed of meat? Some ­people were born to push the envelope!”

“How is meat dress pertinent to finding a painting?” asked Gerda.

“It's a metaphor,” said Bootsie. “Anyway, I predict within a week, my investigative skills will uncover the exact movements of
Heifer in Tomato Patch
.”

A
FTER WE DROPPED
the Binghams at their house, we headed to Holly's patio, lit by lanterns and with Brazilian music emanating from hidden speakers. The Colketts faced Officer Walt with tipsy but determined forthrightness.

“We wanted to come clean before we head back to Beverly Hills,” said Tom. “I don't think we did anything that's too illegal,” he added hopefully.

“It was all kind of a joke,” said Tim, “brought on by too much time with Eula bossing us around at that Tomato Party. And maybe one too many Bloody Marys. But just to be clear, we didn't steal
Heifer in Tomato Patch
. However, we did
see
it after it was pilfered.”

“This was all on the same night it went missing—­the night Gianni showed up at the club and got stabbed,” his business partner explained. “We were totally flustered, and went into the men's locker room to sneak a cigarette when I happened to look up and notice
Heifer
hanging over the laundry bin. We knew it was the original, because for a cow painting, it was really special. I mean, the thing glowed.

“We didn't say anything,” Tom continued apologetically, “figuring it was right there for everyone to see, and you'd find it in, like, fifteen minutes. But the next morning,
Heifer
was still missing, and we were going to tell you it was in the locker room. But when we got to the country club, it was gone and replaced by a portrait of one of the past club presidents from, like, 1920, so we kept our mouths shut.”

“Then a ­couple days ago, we were at the storage locker we rent out by the highway, because we remembered we had some amazing chairs that once might have belonged to Bette Davis and are super-­sexy, clubby numbers in black lacquer that would be perfect for the foyer at Gianni's place in L.A.,” Tim said.

“And while we were at our storage space, we found a ­couple of kitschy paintings we bought from the guy who sells corndogs out at Stoltzfus's Flea Market,” he continued. “We thought they'd be perfect for a client with a sense of humor who wanted, like, a tavern in their paneled basement or something. Anyway, one of them was an identical copy of
Heifer in Tomato Patch
. We snuck over to the country club and hung it up in the Camellia Room. It was a hoot!”

“We also found a fake Picasso that we boxed up and dropped at the Pack-­N-­Ship to be delivered to Gianni at the Beverly Hills restaurant,” Tom said. “We mail him stuff anonymously all the time.”

“Last month we sent him a leather toilet seat and a case of Spam,” Tim said. “Seeing him get mad helps when you're working twenty-­two-­hour days. Anyway, then I realized I always kind of liked that Picasso fake. So on Monday morning, we stopped back at the Pack-­N-­Ship, and while Tom distracted Leena at the front counter, I went around back and stole our painting back from her storeroom. Which probably isn't a crime—­right?”

“Uh-­huh,” said Walt, who'd given up on taking notes. His face registered surprise and consternation. “So you saw the real
Heifer
painting at the club on the night it went missing. But then it was gone the next morning, and you never saw it again.”

“Exactly,” said Tom, jumping up. “And if it's okay, we've got Uber waiting again outside and heading right to the airport. We need to be back at Gianni's new restaurant at eight tomorrow morning. This has been fun!”

 

Chapter 25

G
ERDA
'
S
P
ILATES
STUDIO
launched the following Monday, and classes immediately sold out for the next two months. Part two of the Tomato Show opened the same afternoon, and Mrs. Potts gave her lecture about tomatoes, pastoral art, and Hasley Huntingdon-­Mews. Unfortunately, her prized painting was still missing, since no one had been able to trace its movements after the Colketts had seen it in the men's locker room. As for Eula Morris, all week she'd been avoiding Bootsie, who'd wanted to grill Eula about the copy of
Heifer
the Colketts had bought at Stoltzfus's.

“That speech was real boring,” Sophie announced after Mrs. Potts wound up her forty-­five-­minute monologue. “But I'm happy for Mrs. Potts. Let's go check out these veggies!”

Rows of white tables groaned under robust, carefully manicured plants from which dangled every size, shape, and color of tomato. I looked at Beefsteaks, Mortgage Lifters, Mr. Stripeys, and Yellow Pears, which all looked delicious, but left me wondering—­were they worth making secret trips to a Jersey greenhouse?

Just then, I saw Lilly Merriwether give Bootsie a hug, then head in the direction of the parking lot.

“Lilly's gone again!” Bootsie told me four seconds later. “Heading back to Connecticut. She and her boyfriend are back together.”

“Great!” I said, barely restraining a fist pump and a jig. I could breathe again, safe in the knowledge that Lilly and her Lacoste tennis outfits would be ruining the days of other women farther up the East Coast, and that I could go to the Pub and the grocery store without bracing myself for sightings of her willowy blond form.

I paused to look at a blue ribbon placed on a plant bursting with neat orange tomatoes. “First Prize for Sun Golds: Eula Morris.”

“Guess what!” shrieked Eula, arriving at the table and apparently out of hiding. “That painting George saw at your shop, Kristin,
is
a small Huntingdon-­Mews. And it's worth, like, fifty thousand dollars! George just called me. They had to ship it to England to some expert there, and they just got word!”

I was floored. I'd almost forgotten about Eula's possible windfall from the canvas upon which she'd painted her own tomato still life. Bootsie's mouth fell open, and Holly did an eye roll and left to go talk to the Binghams about their Sweet 100s, which had come in second place.

“I'm rich!” said Eula, then picked up her tiny feet and did a happy dance.

“Not so fast—­you should split that money with Kristin,” Bootsie told Eula. “You never would have found out the painting was worth anything if she hadn't offered to sell it at The Striped Awning. You would have sold your crappy tomato painting at Stoltzfus's for seventy-­five dollars if Kristin hadn't been willing to take it on in her store.”

“No, it's fine,” I said, embarrassed. “The painting belongs to Eula. I was only going to take ten percent commission if it sold at the shop.”

“You could give her ten percent, Eula,” Sophie suggested. “That would be the least ya can do for Kristin, and what's a measly five grand when you'll still be getting, like, forty-­five thousand dollars?”

I could see Eula wrestling in her mind about the ten percent. She's not all that good at hiding her emotions, and her face registered dismay, confusion, a twinge of guilt, and greed.

“Also, Eula, if you don't hand over Kristin's ten percent, I'll tell the tomato committee you grew your Early Girls in New Jersey, and they'll strip you of your first place ribbon,” Bootsie said, making a bomb-­detonating hand gesture. “Boom! Does that help you make up your mind?”

Eula's expression changed instantly, adopting instant regret.

“That sounds fair,” she said. “It's gonna take a month to get the canvas restored, and then George said he'll put it in an auction in early September. I'll keep you posted.”

“Thank you so much!” I told her, genuinely elated. Five grand would enable me to pay off almost all my bills, catch up on rent on The Striped Awning, and hopefully cut back my hours at the Pack-­N-­Ship to every other weekend.

“By the way,” said Eula with a shrug, “now that I'm getting this huge windfall of cash, and we're being all honest here, you know that fake
Heifer in Tomato Patch
that was returned to the club last week? I
did
paint it.”

“I knew it!” yelled Bootsie.

“I was scared to admit it to Walt,” Eula told us. “I didn't want him to think I'd stolen the original. And I honestly don't know how my copy got to the club. I sold it at Stoltzfus's last summer, and I painted it more than a year ago after I took a garden club tour at Mrs. Potts's place and was able to sneak a few pics of it.

“Well, I better go get on my computer and start planning how to spend all this cash!” Eula added, picking up a ­couple of tomato plants and the accompanying blue ribbons. Just as she tripped happily up the porch steps, a giant vegetable flew down from the top floor of the club and squashed onto Eula's head.

“It was only a four-­pounder,” said Holly. “We got it overnighted from a farmer in Wisconsin who won the state fair this year. That was still pretty awesome though.”

“
T
HA
T PAINTING CASH
is enough to get rid of Eula for a few months,” said Holly five minutes later, after Eula had stormed out, covered in tomato. “She'll go on a great vacation somewhere, but it's not enough for that cruise.” She sighed tragically. “If I know Eula, she'll rent a house in Hilton Head or Barbados, blow through the money, and be back in three months.”

“At least we'll be Eula-­free for most of the fall,” I said, looking around the tomato exhibits, which had a festive air. I couldn't help noticing that the event was your basic country-­club festivity—­very pretty, with white tablecloths and a few bunches of hydrangeas on the tables, and Abby the waitress passing around pigs in a blanket.

The club was back to normal!

“Where are Gianni's sous-­chefs?” I asked Holly. “And why isn't the customized smoker turning out short ribs that have been marinated for forty-­eight hours and gently massaged?”

“Gianni flew back to Los Angeles last night, and he told his staff to go back to his restaurant,” Holly said. “Skipper is back in the kitchen. The Colketts left, too.”

“Are you going to tell the committee about Eula's secret greenhouse?” I asked Bootsie.

“I decided to keep that piece of information, and the photos, which are date-­ and time-­stamped, to myself—­for now,” Bootsie said, with a slightly evil smile. “You never know when we're going to need a favor from Eula.”

“Speaking of Eula,” said Holly, “that Powerball drawing is tonight, and I have a very strong feeling we're going to win. Does anyone know how much the jackpot's up to this week? Is it enough to get rid of Eula permanently?”

“Are you gonna try to win Powerball and then hire someone to take out Eula?” breathed Sophie. “Because that can backfire. Barclay told me that professional hit men always come back for more money!”

At this, Holly went to the bar, got some water, and popped three aspirin, while I explained quickly to Sophie that the plan was to make Eula's dream vacation happen—­not have her killed.

“The mega-­jackpot's up to $256 million, because no one's won for like two months,” Bootsie told me, after doing some quick iPhone Googling. “They keep putting all the cash back into the award pool, so it's huge for tomorrow's drawing.”

“Two hundred fifty-­six million,” echoed Sophie, elated. “That would be so awesome! If I won Powerball, I'd tell Barclay to go screw himself and buy those poor goats from Gianni and Sweet Freddie! I'm gonna stop at the deli after this and get, like, five tickets for myself!”

“Uh-­huh,” said Bootsie skeptically. “So if you win, you're going to spend a quarter of a billion dollars on goat cheese?”

“What else?” asked Sophie. “I mean, I'd give some to charity, too, and take care of my relatives in Jersey, plus I'd probably hit Neiman's, but mostly I keep thinking about those little goats.”

“Sounds like work,” said Bootsie. “Plus wouldn't you have to make good on Gianni's deal to provide organic goat cheese to a bunch of restaurants in Las Vegas?”

“I've been thinking about that,” said Sophie. “Those Amish guys, the Stoltzfuses, we met out at Gianni's place are super-­nice. I think they could do their own deal with Sweet Freddie and Lobster Phil, and make it a real legit business. It would be good for everyone! The farmers would make beaucoup cash, and Phil and Freddie might learn a few lessons about respectable business­people who will never let them down, overcharge them, or dump them feet-­first in Absecon Bay!”

“I guess,” said Bootsie doubtfully.

“See you gals later!” Sophie sang out, grabbing her handbag and heading for the club parking lot. “It's Powerball time and I gotta pick all my lucky numbers!”

B
Y
EIGHT THAT
night, we were all at the Bryn Mawr Pub, where we ordered the one-­hundred-­wing bucket and pitchers of beer. John had joined us, and we were catching him up on Eula's fifty-­thousand-­dollar pentimento painting, plus the well-­aimed giant tomato that Joe had neatly dropped from a third-­floor window.

“Hey, isn't that Abby from the club?” Bootsie asked, pointing a half-­eaten wing in the direction of the dartboard in the back room. “Hey, Abby, over here!” she shouted, and Abby waved and walked to the front of the bar to squeeze into our booth next to Bootsie.

“Is that your boyfriend from college?” Sophie asked her, nodding toward a tall blond guy in cargo shorts and a polo. “ 'Cause he's real cute.”

“Yup.” Abby nodded proudly. “He, um, doesn't know anything about those ­couple of dates I had with Gianni, so if you could not mention it, I'd really appreciate it.” She looked nervous for a few seconds, gulped some beer, and then spoke up again.

“There's another thing I wanted to tell you guys, if you can promise you won't tell Officer Walt or Eula Morris or Mrs. Potts,” she whispered. “I'm terrified of Mrs. P.! I can barely serve her lunch without my hands shaking!”

“Is it something bad about Eula Morris?” Holly asked hopefully. “We're excellent at keeping secrets, by the way. You can tell us anything.”

“Great!” said Abby, relieved. “It's not about Eula, though. It's about that painting that went missing.”

“
W
HAT HA
PPENED WAS
that the day when the Colketts were there setting up the tent for the big Tomato Show party and Eula was bossing everyone around, me and Stacy, the lunchtime waitress, got really tired of it,” Abby told us.

“Setting up the bar in the tent took forever, and then we had to help the Colketts arrange about eight thousand hydrangeas on the porch, and Eula kept making us reposition those rented sofas from The Trendy Tent, which weighed a ton! So Stacy and I each had four shots of tequila out in the tent when we were setting up the margarita machine, because finally Eula and the Colketts went inside to have lunch.” She looked embarrassed at this. “Which I feel real bad about.

“We like you and the Colketts, though!” Abby told Holly. “Anyway, after the tequila shots, we heard Mrs. Potts make them rehang her painting for, like, the twelfth time, Stacy and I snuck into the Camellia Room, and—­this seemed like a good idea, but we were honestly really drunk—­we took the painting of the cow and hung it in the men's locker room over the trash can!

“There was a painting of an old guy there, so there were two picture hooks already on the wall, and we replaced it with the
Heifer
thingy.”

We all stared at Abby.

“So the Colketts
did
see
Heifer in Tomato Patch
in the men's locker room,” said Holly. “Did you move it again?”

“No!” whispered Abby. “Because when we sobered up later that night, when Officer Walt arrived and we realized this was a major fuckup, we went into the locker room, and it was gone!”

“Excuse me,” said a wavy-­haired guy at the bar, turning around to face our table. “Remember me? I'm Randy, Gianni's cameraman. I think I have something to add to this story.

“I'm real sorry, but I was in a seriously bad mood when Gianni and I got to that country club on that Thursday,” the guy said, sipping his Corona. “I snuck out to that party tent, too, and drank everything I could get my hands on.

“Then when I heard the ruckus about a missing painting, I figured I could frame Gianni!”

Randy said he'd gone into locker room to use the bathroom and had seen a big framed painting that even in his drunken state he knew had to be
Heifer
.

Without much thought, he grabbed the painting and stuck it in the back of his rented car with his camera equipment, then drove to Ristorante Gianni to do some more drinking. Later that night, when Gianni was at the emergency room and the staff were busy with the dinner ser­vice, he'd stealthily gone in via Gianni's delivery entrance and hung the painting—­where else—­on a convenient hook in the men's room. A scene of ancient Rome that had been displayed there he'd stuck in his rental car, where it still resided.

“I feel kinda bad about this,” Randy admitted. “I figured someone would notice the fancy painting in Gianni's restaurant's bathroom—­but I guess no one has!”

Randy jumped up. “Well, I'm headed to the airport—­see ya. The Food Network wants me to film the return of Nonna Claudia to L.A. They're doubling her pay to come back. They love her!”

“I always thought you made up these stories about the stuff that happens whenever I leave town,” John told me, shaking his head as he sipped his beer.