Killer WASPs (10 page)

His hair had been combed, his stubble had been shorn, and he looked positively symphony-­ready.
You could have popped him into a box at the opera hall downtown, stuck a program for
Mozart’s Requiem in his hand, and no one would have blinked an eye.

What was Mike doing here? And more importantly, what was he doing in Gucci loafers?

“You have a basset hound?” asked the vet. I tore myself away from staring at the cowherd.

“Great dogs,” said the hot vet, leaning down to grab a few carrot sticks from the
buffet. “Prone to obesity and back problems, but really great breed.”

I nodded, but I had the uncomfortable sense that Mike was watching me, and I’d lost
my appetite for my shrimp. Well, almost. I ate another one, gulped my champagne, and
put my plate down on one of the little tables.

As I did so, I suddenly felt Mariellen’s icy blue gaze fixed on me. Surprised, I looked
away, then looked back, and saw La Merriwether stub out her cigarette in a glass ashtray
in a positively sinister, Joan-­Crawford-­in-­
Mommie-­Dearest
way, still eyeing me with evident disdain. What had I done to upset her? Was there
cocktail sauce on my face? Or did she know that I was the trespasser who’d helped
make an unfortunate discovery at her best friend’s estate three nights before? Then
I looked back, and noticed that her malevolent glare had been transferred to the good-­looking
veterinarian.

It was probably time to head home.

“Oh, hiya, Kristin, ya having fun?” squeaked Sophie suddenly, appearing at my elbow.
“Like the shrimp? They’re from Palm Beach! Gianni had ’em flown in!”

“They’re fantastic,” I told her. “Thank you so much, they’re really incredible, and
so, uh, big! Sophie Shields, this is . . .” I gestured toward the vet, realizing I
didn’t know his name.

“John Hall,” he said, shaking Sophie’s teeny hand, which was obscured by two giant
cocktail rings. “Thank you for having me.”

“Think nothing of it!” she said, looking over her shoulder nervously. “Eek, Gerda
looks a little mad.” She giggled. “She’s my Pilates instructor,” she whispered to
John Hall. “The one over there with the clipboard.”

Gerda glared at Sophie from her check-­in station, and crunched angrily on a stalk
of raw broccoli. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Mariellen and Honey walking
swiftly toward Sophie’s house. Either they needed a bathroom break, or they were succumbing
to the same impulse to snoop that Bootsie had given in to.

Gerda got up from her table, and hotfooted it after Mariellen and Honey, perhaps sensing
an imminent ransacking of her and Sophie’s desks and closets. She pointed at Sophie’s
glass of champagne, shaking her head in disapproval as she disappeared inside the
house.

“Gerda banned me from drinking anything alcoholic or carbonated. Champagne’s a double
no-­no, so I gotta sneak it,” Sophie told me and John, turning her back on Gerda to
chug a flute of Mumm. “She won’t even drink beer, which is like her national beverage.
Plus she and the chef already had a big fight when he brought in a tub of veal shanks
for the next course. He’s making osso buco to serve after the seafood tonight, but
Gerda claims to be a vegan! But I happen to know that one time last year she scarfed
a whole plate of leftover sausage before my ex moved out, and boy, was he pissed!”

“That’s unfortunate,” said John politely. He looked confused by Sophie’s monologue,
and he was starting to sweat a little. He signaled to the girl at the bar for a glass
of water.

“Oh fuck!” shrieked Sophie, glancing up at the house, where Gianni stood on a little
patio outside the kitchen. “There’s the chef, flagging me down with that goddamn dish
towel again. I gotta go.”

“Sophie!” yelled the chef from his terrace, his tall form bent over the railing to
shout across the pool to Sophie. “There is big problem with your stove!”

Sophie hustled toward him as quickly as her tiny frame and giant heels would take
her toward the house, but just as she neared the edge of the pool near the house,
Gianni erupted in Italian.

We all looked up, including Sophie, whose mouth formed an O of horror.

The chef had somehow lost his balance: He tumbled off the balcony, Crocs flying, arms
flailing, and did a mid-­air somersault as he thumped heavily into a bank of rosebushes
below. He also managed to topple onto the quartet’s cello player. His colleagues crashed
to a halt in their song, while Sophie, just inches away, was unhurt. She seemed frozen
on the spot, and indeed for a moment, no one spoke, or even breathed.

“
Merda!
” screamed the chef, finally breaking the silence.

“Ouch,” moaned the cellist.

“Ohmigod!” exploded Sophie. “Chef Gianni’s dead!”

Chapter 9

T
HE CHEF WASN’T
dead, though. No dead man could scream that loudly. The bushes he’d landed on were
newly planted in a thick, pillowy layer of mulch, which appeared to break his fall,
and also, luckily, cushioned his impact on the hapless cello player—­though the cello
itself hadn’t been as fortunate. The chef was thrashing, cursing, and struggling to
get up. The cello player, meanwhile, had rolled onto his back, the wind knocked out
of him, his tuxedo torn and covered with rose petals and mulch. The cellist was a
robust man, but he appeared dazed as he clutched his bow and stared at the tragic
remains of his once-­beautiful and expensive instrument.

“Excuse me,” said John Hall. “I’ll go check on those two,” and he walked over calmly
toward the two men to assist with their medical care, insomuch as a vet can doctor
two-­legged creatures. I noticed that Mariellen and Honey had blithely reemerged from
the house by the basement door. They cast a bemused eye at the tattooed chef and the
fallen musician. The Colketts, on the other hand, looked panicked. They, too, had
been inside the house during the over-­the-­railing incident, and their heads popped
out at the top of the patio from which the chef had fallen. Their sunglasses were
off, and their handsome faces looked terrified, until a millisecond later, when they
disappeared back into the house.

Above me, Bootsie popped out on another balcony on the third floor, outside what I
guessed was Sophie’s bedroom, her eyes bulging as she took in the situation below.
She turned and ran back into the house. I felt a little badly that she’d missed out
on the ruckus.

“Oh, Chef, I’m so sorry!” wailed Sophie, hovering over him and helplessly trying to
pluck thorny branches from his thighs while the vet examined the cellist for broken
bones. “You musta slipped on some seafood! Shrimp and crab get so gooey when it gets
warm. I feel terrible for ya!”

“I did not slip!” screamed the chef. “I have special treads on my Crocs—­I never slip.”
He sat up, and gestured toward the kitchen. “I was pushed!”

Sophie looked thunderstruck by this accusation, as did most of the crowd, but Gerda,
standing over him, was having none of it. “No one here would commit crime. I am like
security guard as well as Pilates professional.” She crossed her muscular arms and
stared down at the chef. “You slipped,” she said firmly.

“Fuck you!” he replied.

I noticed that Gianni’s girlfriend Jessica didn’t look all that worried about her
boyfriend. She sauntered over to a table, sucked down the last of her mojito, and
ground out her cigarette with her Louboutin before she made her way over to Gianni,
who was still screaming insults at Sophie and Gerda.

Within a ­couple of minutes, I heard the wails of an ambulance arriving. Bad news
traveled fast, apparently, and I noticed the same two medics who’d removed Barclay
Shields on Thursday night galloping down Sophie’s driveway with their gurney at the
ready. On their heels was Officer Walt.

I figured this was the perfect time to leave, so I booked it over to Holly and Joe,
who were standing at the other bar, to say good-­bye.

“I should go over to the chef and act sympathetic,” said Holly, sighing and topping
off her own glass, since the bartenders had stopped serving and were simply standing
and gaping.

“I’m going to wait until the screaming subsides,” said Joe, blithely munching on crab.

Mariellen, meanwhile, was watching the cluster of ­people gathering around Gianni
with her mouth pursed in disapproval as she pulled at her pearls distractedly. Honey
gathered up her L.L. Bean tote bag—­not very cocktail-­party-­appropriate, but then
again, neither were her kelly-­green blazer and shorts—­and, with drink and bag in
hand, made one last run at the hors d’oeuvres buffet (which, given the chef’s predicament,
clearly wasn’t going to be restocked).

If I knew Honey—­which I didn’t, but I seemed to be running into her a lot lately—­she
was at least six minutes away from departing. There was still a good twenty pounds
of crab on ice on the buffet, and no matter how much Mariellen nagged, Honey wasn’t
going to leave until she did some damage to that pile of shellfish. From what I’d
observed, while she wasn’t an eater on par with Barclay Shields, Honey was no slouch.

Since I now seemed to be on Mariellen’s shit list, and was still avoiding Honey, I
used her proclivity for grazing as the perfect opportunity to leave before the three
of us were caught in an awkward standoff in the valet-­parking line. Quickly, I scanned
the crowd again, wondering where the hell Bootsie was, when a glass of champagne appeared
in front of me. And the flute of bubbly in question was being held by one extremely
tanned hand.

“Leaving already?” said Mike Woodford.

I turned around as my stomach did a small flip. I have to admit, Mike cleaned up well.
I actually preferred his usual T-­shirt and Levi’s outfit, but the blue blazer and
white shirt looked really good with his tan. I couldn’t even smell any eau de cow,
just some manly-­smelling soap. Irish Spring, if I wasn’t mistaken. “Don’t go yet,”
he said in my ear. The beard stubble felt amazing against my earlobe, and I looked
into his dark brown eyes, which looked friendly and a little amused.

“What did I miss?” exploded Bootsie, suddenly popping up next to me. She was so anguished
about missing the chef’s tumble that she didn’t even notice Mike and his beard stubble
invading my ear.

“Bootsie, we should go. The medics need all the cars out of the driveway,” I improvised,
turning away from Mike and ignoring the champagne he’d brought me. I didn’t want to
be rude, but this wasn’t the time to introduce him to Bootsie.

“Are you nuts?” said Bootsie. “This is the social event of the season!” I shot an
embarrassed glance back at Mike, told him, “Bye!” and bolted up the path toward the
driveway at a quick trot, Bootsie on my heels.

“Did someone really push Gianni?” she hissed.

“It all happened really quickly,” I told her over my shoulder. “It seemed more like
an accident.” The chef, quieter now, was being wheeled up the pathway to the ambulance
into which the medics neatly inserted him and sped away. Another ambulance wailed
into the driveway to pick up the cellist.

“Can we please leave now?” I implored Bootsie.

“Of course not,” she said. “I’m a
journalist
,” Bootsie added. “This is big news now that the che’s been injured.”

I’m pretty sure writing up suburban real estate transactions doesn’t make Bootsie
the next Chris­tiane Amanpour, but it was pointless to argue with her.

“Honestly, it looked like Chef Gianni just lost his footing,” I told her, inwardly
debating my options of ways to get home.

Bootsie brushed this aside. “Just so you know, I’m here reporting for the paper
and
doing a little research for Will’s cousin Louis, the lawyer,” she told me. “Louis
asked me to help him come up with some theories about what might have happened to
Barclay Shields on Thursday night. And right now, I’m thinking Sophie and her Pilates
teacher were somehow involved with both attacks.”

Bootsie nodded meaningfully at Gerda, who was helping the medics push a gurney containing
the cello player up the hill. “Just look at her! Sophie probably had Gerda push Gianni
over the railing just now, and I think Gerda also did the job on Barclay’s head the
other night.”

“Maybe,” I said doubtfully. “But Sophie told us she loses money if Barclay dies. And
why would Sophie want to kill the chef? Sophie needed the chef alive and cooking tonight.
There was another whole course to go after the shrimp—­Sophie wouldn’t have wanted
her guests to miss out on the osso buco.”

“Well, then, maybe Gerda attacked him without Sophie’s approval,” mused Bootsie determinedly.
“Gerda could be a rogue operator. I’m positive she had something to do with this.
Look at her—­she’s beaming!”

Gerda did have a creepy smile on her makeup-­free face as she left the driveway and
marched back toward the house, seemingly pleased that the party was over and that
­people were beginning to head up the hill from the pool area.

“Why don’t you come back here with me tomorrow?” I whispered to Bootsie. “I’m sending
over a truckload of stuff from the store to Sophie. You can help me unpack it. Now,
will you take me home?”

Bootsie perked up at this opportunity to further nose around Sophie’s. “Count me in
on moving the stuff from your store!”

“Great!” I said, relieved. “Let’s get your car.” I waved frantically at one of the
valet parkers.

Suddenly, Bootsie elbowed me in my side (which kind of hurt), and hissed, “Look at
that!” She nodded at the far end of the driveway, where Jessica the interior designer
was disappearing off toward an SUV parked over with the catering trucks—­presumably
to rush to Gianni’s side at the hospital. And Jessica was accompanied by one of the
cooks who worked for Gianni.

I could see why Bootsie was staring. The cook was gorgeous. He looked to be in his
mid-­twenties, with ridiculously muscular arms rippling under his white T-­shirt and
cook’s jacket, a deep tan, brownish-­blond hair brushed back from his high cheekbones.
He was the ultimate in cabana-­boy fantasy. He was shepherding Jessica up the stairs,
his arm crooked under her skinny elbow, and they were whispering to each other in
a way that suggested—­okay, screamed—­intimacy.

“That guy is
hot
!” exploded Bootsie.

She took off to eavesdrop on Jessica and the cook, and I looked at the valet parkers,
who were all about nineteen and looked like they could use an extra ten bucks to buy
beer with.

I bet I could bribe one of them to give me a quick ride home in Bootsie’s SUV. Or
maybe I could walk. My borrowed shoes, though they had three-­inch heels, weren’t
all that uncomfortable, and the walk would take less than fifteen minutes. Unless
I got a bad blister, which happens a lot with Holly’s shoes.

“Kristin?” I heard an elderly voice call from behind me.

Reluctantly, I turned around. It was my fussy neighbor, Hugh Best, in a pink sport
coat. Right behind him was Mike, who was handing a numbered ticket to one of the valets.

“May I offer you a ride home, my dear?” Hugh Best wheezed gallantly. He gestured toward
his ancient dark red Volvo, which was idling in Sophie’s driveway, a cloud of smoke
bellowing from its rusty tailpipe.

“Thank you. That would be great!” I said, ignoring Mike’s raised eyebrows as Hugh
scurried over to open the dusty passenger-­side door and push aside a box of Kleenex,
a pipe spilling tobacco, and a giant container of Metamucil.

“My brother is always leaving a mess in here,” he apologized.

I climbed into the car, determined not to look back at Mike. This was better than
walking home in heels—­probably—­so who cared what he thought. “I like your jacket,”
I told Hugh, trying to make conversation. “It’s very cheerful.”

Hugh had on old, well-­pressed khakis, a white-­and-­blue striped shirt (slightly
frayed), that pink sport coat circa 1968, and a silk ascot. He did look very gentlemanly,
with his white hair combed back and his good posture. He had an appealing, courtly
quality. And Hugh struck me as the type who hated to stay out past 8 p.m., just like
me.

“And may I say, your dress is very attractive,” said Hugh gallantly, as we pulled
out onto Dark Hollow Road. “This was quite an interesting evening.”

“That’s for sure,” I agreed.

“Actually, we don’t really support the symphony financially as much as we used to,”
Hugh told me, looking a little embarrassed. “We, er, would, but our investments are
down a little this year, so Eula Morris invited me and my brother as her guests.”

“I don’t support it, either!” I told him. “I’m only going because the hostess, Mrs.
Shields, bought a lot of things at my store the other day, and she invited me.”

“Interesting decision, moving the party to the Shields residence,” Hugh said chattily,
steering the old car carefully. “I’d originally planned to walk over to Sanderson
for this fete, but then when all that happened”—­he made a vague gesture toward the
crime scene tape at Sanderson, which we were just passing—­“I got a call from Eula
about the change of venue. My brother had been planning to go, but when he heard at
was at this Shields woman’s house, he ‘shit-­canned’ the idea, as he put it. He doesn’t
approve of flashy ­people. I, on the other hand, am open to new things and ideas.”

We turned into the Bests’ driveway next to mine, the car huffing and puffing up the
little hill to their house, belching smoke. I noticed the last inspection sticker
on the windshield was dated 1989, so I guess Hugh’s interest in modernity didn’t include
keeping current with state car inspections.

The Best house was about as different from Sophie’s as you could get, though it was
nearly as big. The brothers had lived in the beautiful white stucco Georgian, half
hidden by hedges and old rose gardens, their whole lives. As the years went on and
family members had died off, only Hugh and his brother were left. They occasionally
appeared on the lawn to pull weeds and trim shrubs, but for the most part, I heard
them bickering on their back porch more often than I actually saw them these days.
They also listened to a lot of big band music, and songs by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis
Armstrong often floated over the fence along with cigar smoke.

After Hugh’s confiding that he’d been at the party as a fellow freebie, it seemed
clear that the Bests’ fortunes had indeed declined over the past ­couple of decades.
No wonder their house was looking a little more rickety every year.

They belonged to the country club, too, and I always stopped to say hello if I spied
them on the club porch or in the bar. My grandparents had been friendly with the brothers
at one time, until Jimmy had had too many Scotches one night at the club and groped
Grandma as she passed him en route to the ladies’ room, which had resulted in Grandpa
temporarily banning the Bests from their house. Grandma had laughed it off—­she had
always been gorgeous, and continued to be so into her seventies, but Grandpa apparently
hadn’t found it all that funny.