Killer Punch (12 page)

“You did?” I asked, pausing, surprised that John was home this early. I hadn't heard from him since early yesterday, when he'd mentioned in a text that he was trying to skip his last meeting and make the drive home later in the day. I'd assumed he'd stayed in West Virginia last night after all, and was en route this morning.

“He said he got back yesterday afternoon and jumped into a doubles match at the club,” Sophie said. “And he's gonna be playing today, too, 'cause he and that chiropractor he plays with won! He advanced in the tournament.”

She noticed my shocked look, and aimed a concerned gaze at me.

“What—­he didn't tell you he got back last night?”

“No, and I have, like, a hundred dogs at my house belonging to him that he could have at least picked up,” I said.

“He did say his match ran real late last night and he played under the lights!” Sophie said, trying to make me feel better, and failing.

“And then he said a bunch of the players stayed late for drinks at the club, because there were a bunch of preliminary men's and women's doubles matches yesterday. It turned into a party. It probably got too late to call you!”

“He could have texted me,” I whined miserably.

Unless he'd been spending time with his flawless ex, Lilly, last night?

This possibility left me slightly short of breath. John and Lilly had ended their marriage on good terms, and she probably had called to let him know she was in town.

Why
was
Lilly staying around town this week, anyway? Had she broken up with the wealthy tennis pro? If Lilly moved back to town, I'd see her everywhere, because our town is too small to
not
see pretty much every resident about forty times a week.

I'd have to avoid the club, the Pub, the drugstore, and Gianni's restaurant (which I don't go to much anyway, but still). Forget that—­I'd have to move. How dare Lilly drive me from my hometown!

Self-­pity wasn't getting my paint job touched up, so I forced myself to toss aside my Lilly mini-­obsession and deal with the can of pink paint before me. With renewed focus, I turned on the country music station and painted at marathon pace, ignoring my screaming shoulders and thinking ahead to possible store promotions. I could offer twenty percent off anything pink in the store for the rest of July, and serve up Bootsie's specialty cocktails every Friday afternoon.

“John knows ya usually go to bed real early!” Sophie said kindly. “Anyway, I'd help you finish that, but I can't get paint on these Stuart Weitzman slingbacks,” Sophie told me, applying some lip gloss as she checked her phone.

“That's okay,” I told her, “but thanks. I'm almost done. But Sophie, you know a lot about men and relationships . . . let me ask you something.”

Sophie had put up with quite a bit of drama during her marriage to Barclay, and had accumulated some wisdom along the way.

“Do you think John would have a fling with Lilly? I mean, she had to have been at the club last night for that party.”

“Abso-­freakin'-­lutely he would!” Sophie said, staring at me. “I mean, John Hall's a nice guy, but that ex of his is stunning.” Noticing my devastation, she tried to bolster me a bit.

“Listen, hon, I'm a realist. I don't think John had sex with Lilly last night, but ya might want to load on some makeup today and lose the Old Navy outfits now that he's back in town.

“Not that you don't look cute sometimes, too!” she added, which did little to improve my spirits. “Remember when you had those hair and eyelash extensions down in Florida? That looked good. And when Holly lends you her clothes, ya actually look stylish.

“One more piece of advice,” she continued. “Ya need to get over to that country club. Your boyfriend just got back in town and he's probably checking out his gorgeous ex in a tight tennis dress as we speak.”

Sophie has a way of bluntly but effectively laying out the core of an issue. I considered her words for about three seconds, then realized she was one hundred percent right. If paint touch-­ups were needed, they could be done at 7 a.m. tomorrow before Bootsie arrived with the punch and the snacks for the reopening party.

Right now, it was time to get to the club.

“No offense,” Sophie told me, whipping a dress, some sunglasses, and her makeup kit out of her purse, “but here's that caftan you had on the other day at Midnight Tony's. Put this on, add my Michael Kors shades, and let me swipe ya with my Benefit mascara and lip gloss. I'd take you to Ursula at Le Spa for the works, but we don't have time.”

 

Chapter 19

J
OE OUTLINED
HIS
plan while Bootsie and Gerda warmed up before heading out to the main court at the country club.

Gerda plus Bootsie made quite an intimidating doubles pair, I thought happily, as Gerda did hamstring stretches and Bootsie ran in place and did a ritual warm-­up chant.

Holly sat next to me, sipping a Perrier. For her part, Sophie had decided to hit Le Spa and skip watching tennis.

I spied Lilly across the court, giving her an unnoticed evil glare from behind my borrowed fancy sunglasses. But I didn't see John anywhere at the club. A tiny ray of hope sparked within me—­if John wasn't here to cheer on Lilly, that had to be a positive sign, didn't it?

“Here's the deal: I'm going to flatter Eula about her paintings, and then tell her I'm between jobs and want to do a two-­hour makeover on her house,” said Joe. “At no cost! Which, by the way, is my new concept for an HGTV show. With all the stuff my clients custom-­order and then change their minds about, I've got three more storage units full of great furniture. I have, like thirty-­five throw pillows, six lamps, and two Eames-­style chairs in Holly's truck right now that are going to make Eula's place look fabulous!”

He did a
Godfather
-­ish kiss of his hand to indicate the awesomeness of the storage locker contents. I gave Joe a closer look—­how tipsy was he, exactly?

“One-­day makeovers have been done to death,” Bootsie observed, still jogging in place. “And what's the part of the plan that screws over Eula?”

“We search her house for that stupid
Heifer
painting while we do the makeover!” Joe screamed at her. “So shut up and get ready to ransack!”

“You and Eula don't like each other,” I reminded him. “Why would she believe you want to redecorate her house? And maybe slow down on the medication. The tranquilizers seem to be making you
less
calm.”

“I haven't started with the prescription meds yet,” said Joe, a bit defensively. “This is vodka only. And trust me, Eula won't suspect anything. She's totally susceptible to flattery.”

“That's true,” Bootsie agreed. “I got Eula to help me plant Mummy's tulip beds last fall by telling her I've always admired her eye for spacing bulbs.”

“Please,” sniffed Joe. “Your mom's tulips were way too close together this spring. Bulbs need to breathe.”

“I hate to say it,” Bootsie said, “but I think Eula's going to take first prize next week with her SuperSauce Hybrids. She put some pics up on Instagram that were pretty impressive.”

“There's another tomato contest in this town?” asked Joe in disbelief.

“All the late-­ripening tomatoes will be judged next week,” Holly explained. “And I can't believe I just said the words ‘late-­ripening tomatoes,' ” she added.

“Some of the later categories are huge!” said Bootsie. “They don't call 'em Big Boys for nothing.”

“You know what would be cool?” asked Joe. “If the world's largest tomato somehow smashed into Eula's face.”

He did some quick searching on his phone and pushed his sunglasses up to read the screen. “The record is 8.41 pounds, grown by a guy in Minnesota. I mean, I'd settle for a three-­ or four-­pounder to explode on Eula.”

Holly's face brightened. “Can you send me that link?” she asked Joe.

“Anyway,” I said, sensing that we were getting off topic, “don't forget that Bootsie needs to stop by the Binghams' house and find out more about Mega Wine Mart. And say you do get into Eula's house—­maybe the painting's not even there! It could be at her office or something.”

Where
was
John, anyway? Why hadn't he called me? I thought, watching Gerda bench-­press a nearby Poland Spring dispenser.

“Eula doesn't have an office—­we don't really have those at the
Gazette
,” Bootsie said. “She shares a desk in the newsroom. Plus the painting is pretty big, and we only have seven hundred square feet of office space.”

“If she has it, it's in her house,” Joe said positively. “Eula's not good at things like stashing away stolen items. That's why she was a good class treasurer, and also, it's why she's no fun and needs to be sent on that two-­year-­long cruise.”

A
S EX
PECTED,
B
OOTSIE
and Gerda emerged triumphant after seventy-­five minutes of grueling tennis.

“You played great, Lilly,” enthused Bootsie, which I found to be annoying. “Gerda and I had the height advantage, but you guys almost beat us.”

“Your backhand is
so
Serena meets Venus mixed with vintage Navratilova,” Lilly sang out to Bootsie and Gerda sweetly, appearing not to mind one bit that she and Eula had lost the championship.

Then again, why
would
Lilly care? She already had everything else going for her. Including, probably, an ex-­husband who wanted her back.

Holly and I exchanged eye rolls as Bootsie, Gerda, Eula, and Lilly offered one another sporty compliments about how great they'd all played. Then again, since I don't play tennis and my main form of exercise is schlepping antiques and mowing my lawn, maybe this was standard procedure.

Finally, thankfully, there was a break in what was turning into an admiring verbal rehash of each point, and Joe leaped in.

“I never told you this, Eula, but I have an obsession with your house—­I love it!” he said, with a slightly hysterical edge to his voice. “Those camellia bushes and the holly hedge and the French doors—­the place screams English country village meets Umbrian farmhouse hideaway!”

“It does?” replied Eula, looking perplexed, flattered, and somewhat sweaty.

“You bet your sweet self it does,” Joe told her. “It's close to perfect as it is, but I've got a really cool idea for an HGTV show where I do two-­hour home makeovers that basically turn houses into the bricks-­and-­mortar equivalent of Jessica Alba blended with Cate Blanchett! I need pics of a ­couple of places this week for my pitch. I'm tentatively calling it
Extreme Makeover, Storage Locker Edition
.

“Let's go to your place right now! I've got rugs, pillows, and lamps in my truck right now, and this makeover can't wait another minute.”

Eula hesitated for a minute, then finally agreed. “As long as you don't go upstairs,” she said. “My attic's kind of a mess. I've been meaning to clean it out! Anyway, the door's locked.”

“Of course, we won't go up there,” said Bootsie. Her blue eyes were bulging happily. There's nothing Bootsie loves more than picking a lock, unless it's rooting through a medicine cabinet. I almost felt bad for Eula as I watched her depart, Joe and Bootsie on her heels.

“See you at my house at five-­thirty to get ready for Gianni's super-­secret event,” said Holly, gathering up her bag and keys. Her toe was tapping and I noticed a large envelope of cash sticking out of her pristine beige Celine tote. “I might just go run a few errands. And do some organizing at home.”

Errands? This could only mean one thing: shopping. Holly has Martha and Jared to do things like buy laundry detergent or pick up half-­and-­half. Shopping is a sign of distress with Holly. I mean, last summer she spent more than seven thousand dollars on bikinis that are still in the fancy Chanel bags they arrived in. That can't be healthy for anyone.

Also, when Holly starts “organizing,” entire closets full of fantastic Theory outfits are sent to the Bryn Mawr Thrift Shop. This is great for the thrift shop, but seems a little impulsive. I should have known that Holly taking on three months of co-­chairing with Eula meant she was in crisis.

“What with the Tomato Show, we haven't had a chance to catch up in a while,” I told her. “And if you go to Saks—­I mean, go run errands—­you might run late, and miss Gianni's big announcement tonight.” Honestly, if Holly went on a buying bender, she wouldn't be back till the luxury store closed at nine-­thirty, or later, since they keep it open for her as long as she's still spending.

I noticed a slight eye twitch that for Holly indicated an emotional spiral.

“Howard's due back from Eugene soon, right?” I asked gently. “You must really miss him. But I hear Oregon is a beautiful place! Maybe you should fly out and spend a week!”

“I Googled Oregon,” she told me, “and I don't think I get it.”

“You don't get the whole state?”

“The only approved activities are fishing and hiking,” she informed me. “Even Howard, who likes it there, said that's pretty much it.”

I thought for a second, then remembered I'd had wine from Oregon once at the Pub.

“They have wineries!” I told her encouragingly. “That could be fun.”

“I know of very strict spa out in Oregon,” Gerda put in, as she zipped a tracksuit jacket on over her tennis outfit.

Holly perked up a little.

“This spa is run by Austrians,” Gerda told her. “They give you, like, one kale smoothie a day and you get a handful of nuts at bedtime. The hikes are straight uphill for hours and they berate you till you cry if you don't keep up!

“You leave this place, your skin glowing and you weigh almost zero,” Gerda added. “Maybe I go with you, Holly.”

I could see Holly getting seriously interested. Despite her love of luxury, when Holly's depressed, she goes quickly from binge shopping to excessive working out and dining on a few sprigs of arugula. I sighed.

Who knows, maybe a week with Gerda would make Holly appreciate her cushy existence.

“What about phones and iPads?” Holly asked breathlessly. “I like the sound of the kale and the crying, but I might need access to technology.”

“Austrians don't mind technology,” Gerda told her. As if to prove this, her phone dinged, and she rooted through her tennis bag and eyed it.

“I had feeling Barclay was gonna be back today!” she barked. “Find My Friends alert me that he's heading back here on the A.C. Expressway. I gotta go. I gonna break my own rule and pick up a lot of booze and carbs for him so I can break the news that I'm opening new Pilates studio. I know Barclay—­when I go out and get successful, he gonna be real mad.”

B
ACK AT THE
store, I hung up Sophie's caftan, put on my Bermuda shorts and Old Navy tank, and was about to head home with Waffles when Joe called.

“Nothing,” said Joe when I answered. “Eula's got nothing incriminating in her house other than a bathrobe she stole from a W Hotel. Bootsie got into the attic, but it was just a bunch of musty old canvases. A few were painted over with Eula's version of, like, the
Mona Lisa
, but we didn't find Honey's painting.”

“Could one of her
Mona Lisa
s have the real
Heifer
underneath Eula's paint job?” I asked.

“They were all much smaller, and none of the canvases we saw had a big gold frame like the one
Heifer
was in. Anyway, I've got to finish decorating Eula's living room in twelve minutes, so I gotta run,” he said, and hung up.

I
CHECKED MY
phone for the millionth time that afternoon as I steered my rusty Subaru out of my driveway at five-­thirty and turned toward Holly's place. I'd considered canceling on the Gianni event, but it sounded too depressing to stay home alone knowing my boyfriend was somewhere in town . . . and hadn't even bothered to pick up his dogs! All five mutts had eaten, run around the yard, and were back inside on the sofa, with the windows open to the summer breeze, but the gorgeous weather didn't do much for my mood.

Not even a text from John! He was probably clinking glasses right now with Lilly at her mom's fancy monogrammed house on Camellia Lane, caressing his ex's dewy, glowy cheekbones while they planned a tennis-­themed wedding. Lilly would probably tell him he had too many dogs and they shed too much, and I'd end up having to adopt them all, spending the rest of my days alone but for a panting pack of beige fur.

And what about that drink Mike Woodford had mentioned? He could have called to make good on the offer he'd extended this morning, but so far my phone was completely silent.

My spirits lifted slightly when Holly's white Colonial house came into view after a lengthy meander down her driveway. Since she bought the place after old Mrs. Bingham died a ­couple of years back, she's had the Colketts installing roses, peonies, and hydrangeas in amazing profusion, and the result is spectacular.

Sure, I consoled myself as I pushed the gleaming doorbell, my boyfriend had been too busy playing tennis and hanging out with his ex-­wife to call me, but at least I could be sure that Holly had a great outfit picked out for me to borrow while my heart crumbled into a million painful pieces.

“We're ready for ya!” sang Sophie as she opened Holly's door as soon as I rang. Behind her, Gerda nodded to me. “Just because you schlep antiques for a living doesn't mean you have to look like one!”

For her part, Sophie's tiny form was encased in a backless black silk frock that could only have been designed by Donatella Versace, her hair was swept up in the front in a poufy up-­do, and she had on teetery six-­inch gladiator heels.

For a girl who still hadn't wound up her divorce and might have broken up with her boyfriend, Sophie looked fabulous.

“How are you feeling?” I asked her. “Because you look great!”

“You know what, I'm doing awesome!” Sophie shrieked bravely. “Joe tried to stifle my mojo, and now I'm back and better than ever!”

I followed Sophie into Holly's minimalist foyer, which contains only a modern white light fixture, a low white marble table, and an expensive modern painting. The living room is similarly chic, which is why Howard has a clubby man cave in the basement where he can drink beer and eat nachos. Luckily for Howard, their housekeeper, Martha, cooks a lot of breakfasts and lunches when he's in town, since obviously Holly isn't going to make, say, pancakes. And fortunately for the rest of us, Martha loves to whip up magazine-­worthy meals which Holly refuses to eat, so we get to enjoy amazing things like eggs Benedict on the patio all summer.