Killer WASPs (13 page)

“Gianni’s note was left in his car. He’s got an old Fiat, he’s really proud of it
because it’s an Italian classic. Actually, it’s a really cool old convertible, and
last night after she left the hospital, Jessica came back to Sophie’s to pick up the
Fiat for Gianni. I was still there, of course.”

Of course. It was a good thing I’d left the party with Hugh Best. I couldn’t imagine
what time Bootsie had left Sophie’s. Thankfully, she and Will have a live-­in nanny,
because you can never predict what time Bootsie might get home if there’s any kind
of gossip-­worthy episode.

“Anyway, the note was sitting on the driver’s seat. It had Gianni’s name on the front,
and read, ‘You are swine.’ ”

I digested this for a minute as we drove past the country club, and steered the U-­Haul
onto my road.

“Interesting,” I said. “Though given what we’ve seen of Gianni’s behavior over the
past few days, calling him swine might be an insult to the pork community. But does
the note really mean that Gianni was pushed over that railing?”

Bootsie nodded. “I’m positive the note was a warning that Gianni ignored!” she said.
“Though, I have to admit, his food is outrageously awesome. That’s why ­people keep
hiring him to cater their parties. ”

“I guess it could be an employee with a grudge who pushed him—­
if
he was pushed over the balcony, that is,” I mused aloud.

“But the swine comment is harsh, don’t you think?” I added. “It seems so specific.
Not many ­people would come up with that word.”

“Gerda would,” said Bootsie confidently. “I mean, she just called your dog a fat load.”

I nodded, since I was thinking the same thing. Gerda didn’t mince words.

“For now, my money’s on Gerda,” Bootsie concluded. “She’s strong, and she knows the
house inside out. Plus she
was
inside while Gianni was in the kitchen, and it would have been easy for her to sneak
up and, boom!—­push the chef right off that little overhang.”

“I guess,” I agreed doubtfully.

“I made a reservation at Gianni’s restaurant for Friday night for me and Will. I can
snoop around while I’m there, and see what the mood among the staff is like,” Bootsie
said, as we pulled up to my house. “Mummy went to dinner at Gianni on Saturday night,
and you know she never eats anywhere but the club. She said she fainted for a minute
when she tasted the truffled tagliatelle—­that’s how good it was! So it’s got to be
someone who’s not into food—­like Gerda!—­writing these notes,” Bootsie summarized.
“Because as much as you can hate Gianni personally, his pasta is perfection.”

I wasn’t sure this theory made too much sense, but Bootsie did have a point about
Gianni’s food being awesome, I thought as I parked and attempted to get Waffles out
of the rented truck and into the house. He sat wedged at Bootsie’s feet, looking stubborn.

“Come on, Waffles,” I wheedled, trying to sound excited and happy, which the dog could
tell was bullshit. His big brown eyes stared at me from under Bootsie’s knees, projecting
No way
at me. When Waffles doesn’t want to move, you can’t budge his basset ass without
an incentive. So I ran inside, grabbed two Beggin’ Strips, and waved them at him to
lure him into the yard. Luckily, there’s never been a time when Waffles said no to
fake bacon. He jumped out happily and trotted into the gate and up to the back door
into the kitchen, where I gave him the treats, locked the door, and ran back to the
car.

Bootsie said nothing, but her expression was pure disapproval. Her Labs never needed
bribes to get moving.

Just then, the Best brothers’ ancient Volvo roared down the hill next to me, billowing
its usual plumes of smoke. It went by fast, but I could see Jimmy at the wheel, fully
clothed, with what appeared to be a carload of cardboard boxes and paintings. He gave
me and Bootsie a friendly wave, then aimed a stiff middle finger toward his brother
Hugh, who was standing by their gate, shouting something and looking frantic.

I would have stopped to see if I could help Hugh, but frankly, it looked like a situation
I didn’t want to get involved in. Plus I was too frightened of Gerda to make her wait,
so we steered out of the driveway and took off once the smoke from the Volvo had cleared
a bit.

“The Bests,” I told Bootsie. “They’re fighting over moving to Florida.”

“Heard about that at the club.” She nodded. “Word is that they met with Barclay Shields
about selling their place.”

“Hugh met with him,” I said. “Jimmy doesn’t want to sell, and Hugh’s not sure, either.”

“You don’t think those two could have attacked Barclay, do you?”

“I don’t think they could stop fighting long enough to get the job done,” I told her.
Truthfully, I couldn’t imagine the Bests going after Barclay, but I’d have to give
it more thought after we were finished with this furniture transport.

Two minutes later, we pulled into Sophie’s sweeping driveway behind her SUV, and I
took a moment to get another good look at Casa Shields in the full light of day. Yup,
it was pretty much how it had seemed the night before: huge, and from the
Dynasty
school of architecture. I could swear that even the squirrels and birds perched in
the trees and bushes were gawking at Sophie’s oversize house, their bright button
eyes confused.

Sophie, looking excited and a little stressed, was waiting for us in the driveway
in her pink sweat suit. Gerda meanwhile, unlatched the doors of the truck bed and
lifted a large, heavy desk from the back of the truck as effortlessly as if it were
a loaf of bread. There was a lot of action going on in the driveway: In front of the
Escalade and our U-­Haul was a truck bearing Chef Gianni’s navy-­blue logo, and a
familiar black SUV.

“Beebee, it’s nice of you to help Kristin schlep this stuff!” Sophie said to Bootsie.
“I’ll show you girls around the place.”

I had to admit that Sophie herself made her house seem a lot less daunting. Her I’m-­from-­Joisey!
vibe was friendly and easy, and she didn’t seem to take herself all that seriously.
Sophie was like the Keebler Elf, done up in Cavalli outfits and sent to live in the
Emerald City. She definitely didn’t seem dangerous, and her anger at Barclay seemed
more like the kind that she would pursue with highly paid lawyers, rather than the
rage that might inspire her to send Gerda out to bludgeon her ex.

I just couldn’t picture Sophie as the mastermind behind trying to kill Barclay.

“Sophie, where we put this stuff?” asked Gerda, who had put down the desk in the driveway,
and was buckling on a back brace.

“You know what, I’m hiring a new interior designer, so I gotta redo the whole house,”
said Sophie. “But the decorator said he needs to draw up plans before we figure out
what to do with this junk. So for now, we’re just gonna stuff it all in the wine cellar,”
she explained.

“In the cellar?” barked Gerda. She cracked her knuckles. “I don’t think so. Cellar
is where I have my office.”

“We’re not gonna put the stuff anywhere near your office,” Sophie explained to her.
“It’s all going to go into Barclay’s stupid
wine
cellar. It’s on the opposite side of the basement, Gerda.”

Gerda’s face registered an imminent tantrum, but she finally nodded her agreement.
Bootsie and I grabbed a ­couple of small boxes from the truck.

Sophie trotted up the entrance stairs. “Come on in!” she said, pushing open the enormous
wooden door. “I have a big surprise for you girls!”

“I don’t like surprises,” said Gerda grimly.

Inside the foyer were blindingly white marble floors, purple walls, a massive gilded
staircase, and a slim young man who had a tape measure in one hand and was gazing,
horrified, at a chandelier above him that looked like a disco ball had exploded.

“Here’s my new decorator . . . it’s your friend Joe!” shrieked Sophie. “We’re gonna
use all the crap from your store, and then get even more antiques,” crowed Sophie
to me, “which is gonna probably give my husband another angioplasty! I mean, he’s
literally gonna blow a gasket. He once popped a vein in his eye when I brought home
a Tiffany lamp.”

“Of course, that’s not the goal here, to make your husband blow a gasket,” said Joe,
looking harried.

“He already did blow one!” said Sophie. “That’s why he needed the angioplasty!”

Chapter 12

I
T TOOK A
few moments to absorb the foyer and the various rooms that I could glimpse from where
we stood. Jeannie’s bottle on
I Dream of Jeannie
and the Borgata in Atlantic City sprang to mind as possible design influences. Purple
was the dominant color, and crystal, glitter, and gold vermeil seemed to be other
key components of the overall look.

This color palette and profusion of shininess definitely wasn’t going to fly with
Joe, who stood surrounded by fan decks of paint colors, fabric swatches, and his omnipresent
measuring tape, and wore the expression that one imagines the deckhands on the
Titanic
had as they helped load the lifeboats.

“Joe is gonna work some magic here!” shrieked Sophie, gesturing to him, Vanna White
style. “He thinks he can make my house a little more ‘old Philadelphia.’ But it’s
still gonna be kinda glitzy and fabulous, right, hon?”

“I don’t think ‘glitzy’ is what we’ll be trying to achieve,” said Joe patiently, but
with desperation in his blue eyes. Joe seemed composed, but I could tell that his
mind was roiling with an inner debate that went something like,
I’m going to make a ton of money from this job, but it might not be worth it if I’m
institutionalized with a nervous breakdown
.

From what I could see all around me—­the giant spangled chandelier, a mauve dining
room to my right, and a giant gilded console table with cherub heads and wings sprouting
from it over by the stairs—­a complete gut job was the only shot at bringing “old
Philadelphia” into this house.

I surreptitiously peeked into Sophie’s dining room, which had a smoked purple glass
table and chairs upholstered in lavender silk atop gold legs. It was as if a red-­carpet
outfit worn by Nicki Minaj had somehow multiplied, flown to Bryn Mawr, and become
a dining room.

“You know, Joe,” said Sophie, tapping her small, sneakered foot, evidently continuing
a debate that had started prior to our arrival, “I hear what you were saying about
losing some of the purple. But I gotta tell you that I took Honey Potts and Mariellen
Merriwether for a quick tour of the house last night, and they were absolutely speechless!”

“I’m sure they were,” agreed Joe. I wondered why Bootsie was being surprisingly well
behaved, merely listening to Joe and Sophie, rather than inspecting each room. Then
I remembered she’d already snooped through the house the night before.

“Actually, the only thing those two ladies said the whole time was that they both
wanted their drinks topped off,” giggled Sophie. “I’ll tell ya, I thought ­people
drank a lot in Joisey, but that’s nothing compared to you Bryn Mawr ­people!”

Just then, Channing from Restaurant Gianni emerged from a hallway into the foyer,
carrying a giant plastic container filled with spoons and serving utensils, heading
toward the front door to take them out to Gianni’s truck. When he saw us he paused,
smiled, and stood there for a minute as we took in the display of rippling muscles
and movie-­star bone structure.

All of our jaws dropped, even Gerda’s. If anything, this guy looked even better than
he had the night before.

“Hi there,” he said, in an absurdly deep, testosterone-­oozing voice to all of us,
white teeth flashing like Chiclets in his tanned face. We all sighed. It was like
an Armani model had suddenly jumped off a billboard and mistakenly wandered into Sophie’s
crazy purple front hall.

“Everybody, this is Channing,” Sophie said, grabbing one of his glistening biceps.
“He’s the—­the—­some kind of chef—­what the hell are you again, Channing?”

“I’m the sous-­chef at Restaurant Gianni,” said Channing, flashing us a grin. “Well,
nice to meet you all,” he added, climbing into the truck as we all watched his departure
appreciatively. He looked almost as good going as he had coming. We all came back
to reality, Bootsie almost in a full drool, as Gerda shut the door behind him.

“Isn’t he hawt?” squeaked Sophie. “His tush is like two big round honeydews!”

“Let’s move stuff,” said Gerda, getting back to business.

“Yeah, good idea,” said Joe. “I’ll help.”

“I lead you to basement,” Gerda barked. “Stay only where I tell you.”

“Is Channing a, uh, trusted employee of Chef Gianni?” wondered Bootsie, as she and
I each picked up boxes to schlep down to the wine cellar. We followed Gerda’s spandex
backside and Sophie’s tiny pink one into a lavender hallway that led toward the kitchen,
turned left into a side hallway, and went down a flight of stairs to the basement.

“I guess so,” said Sophie. “I mean, Channing seems like a nice guy. Then again, who
knows? Or cares! He’s so freakin’ handsome that I’ve never really paid attention to
his personality.”

“Has he worked for the chef long?” continued Bootsie, as we trudged down the beige-­carpeted
steps, her head swiveling around as Gerda flicked on some overhead lights.

“You know, Beebee, I’m not sure,” said Sophie, “but Channing seems to be real friendly
with the chef’s girlfriend, Jessica. I saw them talking together a lot last night.
They were over in a corner of the yard for quite a while. Channing was supposed to
be prepping the shellfish buffet. Gianni got really red in the face when he noticed
that Channing hadn’t finished setting up that buffet by four-­fifteen. I mean, the
chef could be next for an angioplasty if he doesn’t watch it!”

The basement was huge, the length of the house, and carpeted in basic beige, with
an ugly faux-­Irish-­pub-­style bar directly in front of us, and an equally dumb-­looking
pool table with lots of ridiculous scrollwork and carving on the legs to its left.
There were some light-­up beer signs on the walls behind it. Joe followed us down,
wincing. I guess he hadn’t seen the basement yet.

The space was mostly open with French doors that led out to the swimming pool, but
at each end were two smaller rooms. The door to the one on the left was closed—­most
likely Gerda’s office, since she was aggressively pointing us to the right, and blocking
off the area near the closed door to the left like a bouncer on a busy night at Studio
54 circa 1977. We followed Sophie, avoiding Gerda’s glowering countenance.

“Sounds like Channing and Jessica are
close
,” Bootsie said unsubtly.

“Yeah, they are! I think Channing drives Jessica home late at night when the chef
is stuck at work,” Sophie told us innocently, opening the door to her wine cellar.

I knew Bootsie and I were both thinking more along the lines of Channing and Jessica
getting hot and sweaty nowhere near a stove.

“This wine cellar is really nice,” observed Joe, sounding surprised. I looked around
at the room, which did have a pleasant, ancient-­French-­manor vibe, with charming
stone floor and wooden wine racks. There was a long wooden table and chairs with a
silver tray full of wineglasses and a corkscrew, evoking a dining room somewhere deep
in the lavender-­covered hills of Provence.

“I thought your husband hated antiques!” I said to Sophie.

“Yeah, he does. All this stuff is brand-­new. It just
looks
old, since he freaks out if stuff is actually antique,” she said. “Barclay paid extra
to get new stones, and then had these French guys beat the crap out of the rocks over
in France to give them a weathered look.”

We all refrained from pointing that rocks are, by definition, weathered.

“The table’s new, too,” Sophie told us. “Those Frenchies whacked the hell outta that
with some tire irons to give it, like, dings and dents!”

“Well, it looks great,” I said.

“It
should
be great!” Sophie shrieked. “With all the money Barclay spent on it, plus the fifty
thousand he spent two years ago on all those cases of stupid French wines! It was
my
idea to have an Irish pub in the basement, too.”

Joe looked upset at the mention of the bar, but didn’t say anything.

“Where’s all the wine?” asked Bootsie.

“My ex took it with him!” said Sophie. “Truck pulled up when he moved out all his
custom suits. All he left me was three bottles of crappy merlot.”

“You know my friend Holly?” I asked Sophie. “She gave away all her ex’s Armani and
Brioni suits to charity during their breakup.”

“That’s a good one!” shrieked Sophie admiringly.

“You could still donate his cars,” Bootsie told her. “I’d do it while he’s in the
hospital. Holly gave her ex’s car to the Police Athletic League. I can get you in
the newspaper for that, if the cars are worth more than a hundred grand. We always
do stories with a photo when ­people donate more than a hundred thousand dollars to
charity.”

“Ooh, that might work,” Sophie breathed, taking a minute to roll this over in her
mind. “He’s got the new convertible and then there’s the Porsche Cayenne. The Cayenne
might be worth a hundred grand just on its own. I can have Gerda research it.”

Gerda nodded, a happy gleam appearing on her face. It was like the sun reappearing
on a post-­nuclear landscape, and was frankly a little disconcerting.

“Good idea. I get the dollar amounts and make the donations today,” Gerda agreed.

“Anyway, girls, I gotta run. Gerda and I are due for Pilates, and then I’ve got my
personal shopper from Saks coming to drop off some clothes, and then I have hair at
noon,” Sophie rattled on, looking like an expensive pink chipmunk as she marched to
the door, jingling her bracelets. “So I’m kinda busy. If you can unpack the smaller
stuff and put it on that table, then Joe can do his decorating thing with it later.

“Help yourselves to anything from the kitchen. We got a lot of leftover crab claws
up there!” Sophie disappeared, Gerda on her heels.

“Rest of basement is off-­limits.” Gerda chewed out the words at us over her shoulder
as she left. I guess her good mood about donating Barclay’s cars had disappeared.

“I keep thinking she’s going to come out dressed in lederhosen, and axe-­murder us,”
Joe whispered to me and Bootsie.

“She could beat up any of us, even me,” Bootsie agreed.

“I’ll help you move a ­couple of boxes.” Joe sighed. “Then I have to get back upstairs.
You have no idea how much work I’ve got ahead of me. That guy who climbed Mount Everest
with all his toes frozen off had it easy compared to this decorating gig. Even the
books in this place are purple.”

“It’s going to take you all summer,” agreed Bootsie gleefully.

“Sophie told me she’s got Barclay’s crew coming to start painting tomorrow,” Joe added,
“so I’ve got to choose paint colors pronto. Normally, I don’t like to rush into color
decisions, but Barclay’s whole crew is temporarily out of work due to all the lawsuits
against his company right now, and Sophie said we should keep them busy.”

Joe, Bootsie, and I schlepped in the rest of the boxes and furniture from the U-­Haul.
Then Joe, looking depressed, disappeared with a fan deck of paint colors.

Per Sophie’s instructions, I started carefully unpacking boxes of china and lining
everything up on the big table, wondering how these old Philadelphia tchotchkes were
ever going to fit into the Vegas decor.

Then again, Joe is really good at what he does. Holly’s place downtown with Howard
was amazing, all modern art and antiques with a Parisian–New York flair. Her new Divorce
House would no doubt be just as great when Joe was done with it.

Meanwhile, after three minutes, Bootsie lost interest in unpacking. She took a seat
at the table and drummed her fingers on the chic, battered oak surface. Honestly,
Bootsie’s attention span is even worse than mine, and was never that great, even in
high school. Field hockey and gossip were about the only things that kept her interest.
Her leg started tapping, too, and her sky-­blue eyes took on a telltale nosy gleam.

“The Pilates equipment is up on the third floor, as I learned last night during the
party when I just happened to wander up there,” she told me in a loud whisper, jumping
up from the table and heading to the wine cellar door back into the basement. “So
I’m going to take a little exploratory stroll around down here. Gerda will never hear
me from all the way on the top floor.”

“No!” I hissed at her. “I don’t want Sophie to be mad at me. And what if Gerda comes
down here and I’m all by myself!”

Too late. Bootsie was gone. I dashed after her, lugging a pair of silver candlesticks,
as she headed for Gerda’s bunker—­of course.

“She’s probably got the door alarmed!” I told Bootsie in a panic.

Sophie was easygoing, but if she got upset with us for breaking into a locked door
in her basement, she could still return my entire inventory to The Striped Awning,
and if I had to refund her seven thousand, five hundred, and seventy-­dollars, I was
ruined. And while I didn’t necessarily buy into Bootsie’s theory that Gerda had attacked
both Barclay and the chef . . . it
was
possible. Bootsie and I could be next on Gerda’s hit list.

“She doesn’t have an alarm,” said Bootsie calmly. “There aren’t any sensors on the
door. She might have it booby-­trapped, but I can risk that.” She tried the door handle.
Locked.

Bootsie pulled a barrette out of her blond bob and poked it into the lock, jiggled
it, and the door popped open.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” I said, impressed.

“My parents’ liquor cabinet. They installed a lock when we were in high school, remember?
My brothers and I learned how to pick it that same night. It’s been a hobby ever since.”

She disappeared inside Gerda’s office. I stood outside, adrenaline pumping, clutching
the candlesticks and keeping watch for Gerda. Luckily, Bootsie returned in less than
three minutes.

“Everything is spic-­and-­span in there,” she said dejectedly. “And there’s a desk
with a padlock that I don’t know how to pick on the file drawer. Naturally, the computer’s
password-­protected.”

To my relief, she shut the door. “I’ll have to research that lock and get back in
there another time.”