Killer Punch (2 page)

As much as I dislike Eula, I felt a pang of sympathy for her. Her neck was turning pink with rage, and her beige dress looked slightly rumpled next to Holly's pristine white cotton one. That's the thing about Holly—­she just doesn't rumple. As her friend, I'm used to the fact that she wafts through life having drinks bought for her and getting upgraded to an even better first-­class seat than the one she originally paid for. For Eula, though, it had to rankle. Plus Eula was wearing a necklace and earrings comprised of tiny red tomato charms that looked absolutely awful. Even with my Old Navy budget and lack of fashion mojo, I knew tomato jewelry was a risky idea.

It seemed like Holly had the situation well in hand, plus Eula scares me a little, so I took a left turn and said hi to Skipper Parnell, the club's preppy blond chef, who was out on the porch, admiring the gorgeous white canvas structure that The Trendy Tent had just finished erecting. Just then, Bootsie popped back in from the bar, where I could see Officer Walt, Bryn Mawr's sole policeman, in earnest conversation with Honey Potts.

Nearby lurked Jared, an eighteen-­year-­old recent graduate of Bryn Mawr Prep who interns with Officer Walt, and is also serving as Holly's part-­time tomato assistant. Jared's a nice enough kid, but is lanky, uncoordinated, and has a huge crush on Holly and spends most of his time staring at her slack-­jawed, which isn't a great look because he still has braces.

“Everyone needs to be in the Camellia Room,” Bootsie yelled to anyone within shouting distance. “Walt's going to put this place on lockdown in a few minutes.”

“Oh, hi, Bootsie,” said Eula, giving her a breezy little wave. “I see you're back from your
vacation
.”

She gave this last a snippy edge, to indicate that leaving town was an indulgence enjoyed only by irresponsible slackers—­which is sometimes true in Bootsie's case, but then again, no one else in town is as annoyingly driven as Eula, who tirelessly raises funds for the Symphony Women's Board all winter, and spends summers perfecting her tomatoes and her tennis game.

“I've got great news,” continued Eula. “I've joined the
Gazette
as part-­time reporter. We'll
both
be covering the party and real estate beat!”

Bootsie froze, her mouth agape. A moment later, a stream of F-­bombs flew out. “If you think for one freakin' minute that you're going to steal my stories,” she told Eula, grabbing a silver tennis trophy from a nearby display case, “I'm gonna take this trophy, which by the way I've been awarded as women's singles champion for the last four summers, and shove it right up your—­ ”

“We need everyone in the Camellia Room now!” boomed Mrs. Potts. “Pronto!”

T
WO MIN
UTES LATER,
inside the Camellia Room, which is used for club board meetings and the occasional bridge game, I took a surreptitious look at Mrs. Potts, who had to be upset about the theft of her artwork. She looked about the same as she always did: tanned, fit, somewhere in her late sixties, makeup-­free face, and in Bermuda shorts. I had to hand it to her: Mrs. Potts is one of those stalwart, indomitable ladies whose herd of cows is her main passion in life; stolen paintings don't rattle her. She comes from a long line of never-­say-­die Pottses, who've been doing things like fighting the British at the Battle of Valley Forge since time immemorial.

Fear and self-­pity aren't really allowed in the Potts bloodline. One Potts survived the
Lusitania
by doing a swan dive and swimming to the shore of Ireland, and a battalion of Mrs. Potts's uncles and cousins stormed the beaches of Europe during World War II. They just don't give up.

“Should we cancel the party?” asked Eula. “Because I feel absolutely terrible for Mrs. Potts here.” She gave Holly a nasty little glare. “Even if other ­people want to use your painting as a PR ploy.”

“No, no,” said Mrs. Potts gruffly, waving Eula aside. “Pottses never cancel events. I trust Walt here to figure out what happened to
Heifer in Tomato Patch
.”

We all looked askance at this statement, since Walt's a hardworking guy, but since there's only one of him and he's usually dealing with things like bar fights at the Bryn Mawr Pub and lost cats. However, Honey's faith in Walt was touching, and seemed to give him a confidence boost.

“Why was the painting here at the club, exactly, again?” Walt asked her gently. “And how many ­people knew it here?”

“
Heifer in Tomato Patch
is one of the only pieces of English pastoral art that features my two passions in life,” explained Mrs. Potts. “The Potts family has always been devoted to both cattle and tomatoes.”

“Uh-­huh,” said Walt, as everyone's eyes except Eula's glazed over, since she's an avid grower of Early Girls herself.

Predictably, Holly and the Colketts had zero interest in the subject of the party they were planning, since tomato growing was generally done by a more senior group of Bryn Mawr stalwarts.

In fact, so obsessed is the town by the tasty veggie that Saturday's event was part one of the Tomato Show, which includes the kickoff party and the Early Girl competition. Part two of the show happens a ­couple of weeks later, and features about forty-­five additional categories of said plant that ripen at the end of July.

As Mrs. Potts explained that the painting was the centerpiece of her annual Tomato Show lecture, I saw Sophie and Bootsie exchange an eye roll and start checking their phones, with Sophie clicking on what looked like the Neiman Marcus Web site. To be honest, it did sound like the lecture could have been a bit of a snooze.

“And a lot of ­people knew the painting would be here?” continued Walt.

“This
Bryn Mawr Gazette
had it on the front page last Thursday,” said Honey, indicating Bootsie with an outstretched glass of vodka. “Bootsie wrote the story, so who knows, maybe that brought out the criminal element.”

“Sorry.” Bootsie shrugged. Guilt isn't an emotion Bootsie really experiences, which is why she's great at unearthing gossip and has an actual talent for digging up clues—­or at least digging through personal belongings, medicine cabinets, and trash cans.

“So, everyone in town and anyone who reads the
Gazette
knew about the painting.” Walt nodded. He closed his notebook and looked around the room. “Bootsie, I need you to run a favor past your boss at the paper,” he told her. “Give me a day or two to get this painting back before you run a story about it.”

“The horse is out of the barn, Walt,” observed Mrs. Potts, clearing her throat and gulping down a bit of Smirnoff. “What's the difference now? And who knows, maybe whoever stole
Heifer
will get scared and bring it back.”

Walt was shaking his head. “Media coverage usually hurts more than it helps,” he told her. “First you get the weirdos, folks who claim to know where the painting is, or who try to find it themselves,” he explained. “Also, say the person who stole this thing had no idea it's worth over a hundred grand. We don't want that information out there.”

I felt for Walt. He looked tired and slightly rumpled.

“ 'I'm going to have Jared here gather all the club employees so we can ask if anyone saw anything unusual today, since most of the staff has been here all day today,” he said.

“I'm on it!” said Jared enthusiastically, glancing at Holly to see if she'd noticed his initiative. She hadn't.

“While you're here, Tim and Tom, you helped Mrs. Potts hang this piece of art, correct?” Walt asked the Colketts in his mild way.

I could tell the Colketts immediately plunged straight into panic when asked this question, so I politely looked away, picking up a pamphlet describing the Tomato Show events, which actually featured
Heifer in Tomato Patch
on its cover.

I was impressed, honestly. The painting captured a stunning English estate backed by majestic green hills with a lake in the distance. No wonder Hasley Huntingdon-­Mews paintings cost a mint! It was clear, even to my inexperienced eye, that it was a special painting, especially if you love cows as much as Honey Potts does. The heifer featured was a long-­lashed beauty who projected a Marilyn Monroe–esque, come-­hither gaze even while chewing cud. Everything about the painting screamed,
Old and rare!
and I could see why the Colketts were nervous.

“Well, we helped her for about four minutes,” admitted Tom. “And, in my opinion, Tim totally fucked up the hanging height! I'd have gone four millimeters higher,” Tom added, pointing a critical (and slightly boozy) finger toward the large picture hanger where
Heifer
had been. “And I told him, with a painting that size, we should have gone with two fifty-­pound, double nail brass hangers, not that cheapo fifteen-­pound steel one you used.”

“It's always easier to be the one shouting out suggestions rather than doing actual
work
,” sang out Tim.

“Walt, yell if you need us. We've got to get back to the furniture placement in the tent,” announced Tom, as they vanished out a side door.

I need a drink
, I thought.

Walt, meanwhile, announced that he, Jared, and Ronnie the club manager would search the club in case the painting had been misplaced and was still on the grounds. All staff and Trendy Tent employees should, for the moment, stay put.

“I'll help,” said a male voice from the doorway. My stomach did a flip, since I knew this voice belonged to a tanned guy with dark beard stubble, muscly forearms, and an annoying but undeniable sexiness.

I
T WA
S
M
IKE
Woodford, Honey's nephew, who lives in a cottage on her vast property and, naturally, shares the Potts passion for cows. In fact, Mike takes care of Honey's herd, and is her closest relative and heir apparent to all things Sanderson, which is the name of his aunt's beautiful old home.

I snuck a quick look at Mike, trying not to make eye contact, since that usually results in problems for me. Too much eye contact usually leads to forgetting that I have an amazing boyfriend and picturing myself and Mike in a steamy make-­out scenario.

Last spring, I shared several such sessions with Mike. Then, the same week, I met an amazing, dependable, handsome veterinarian named John Hall, who I've been dating for more than a year now. John is an excellent boyfriend, in addition to being in great shape from playing a ton of tennis.

Since Mike Woodford is the kind of guy who makes out with you in a barn, then never calls you for three months, I've sworn to steer clear of him. Unfortunately, my boyfriend's devotion to his veterinary practice had sent him to a bovine medicine clinic this month, and he'd been in West Virginia for the past two weeks.

I needed to leave, and stay as far away as possible from Mike. This is something of a daily task for me, since Sanderson, where Mike and Honey both live, is right across the street from me. But I sternly reminded myself that I was practically immune to his dreamy brown eyes, tanned arms, and fantastic Irish Spring soap smell, which lingered in the Camellia Room after he and Jared left to go hunt for
Heifer
.

“Anyway, I've got that painting insured,” Mrs. Potts told Walt. “As long as I'm covered once I took it off Sanderson property. I probably shoulda checked that.”

“I'm going to call George Fogle, my friend who works at Sotheby's!” Holly announced. “He knows everything about art. He also knows tons about art thieves! George will probably be able to solve this crime with, like, three text messages and an Instagram post.”

“Okay,” said Mrs. Potts. “But don't cancel the party on my account.”

Just then, a tall man with a gleaming bald head appeared in the doorway, a wooden crate full of feathered dead ducks in his muscly arms.

He wore a tight white T-­shirt, skinny black leather pants, and gold earrings. His biceps were bedecked with depictions of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Roman Forum, and additional tattooed landmarks of his native land.

“The party is guaranteed to be amazing!” shouted the new arrival in a heavily accented voice. “Because I, Chef Gianni Brunello, star of my own Food Network show, am gonna cater your Tomato Party!”

 

Chapter 3

C
HEF
G
IANNI WAS
followed by small group of white-­clad cooks and staff members, who he directed toward the club's kitchen. Walt, sensing he'd lost control of the situation, took off with Jared and Ronnie to do another search for
Heifer
in the rambling building, while Gianni held court, giving effusive greetings and hand kisses to Holly and Sophie.

He'd flown in to surprise Holly, he explained, since he'd suddenly found himself with a week off from his new restaurant venture and Food Network gig.

“Gianni, this is the club's chef, Skipper Parnell,” Holly said politely as she introduced the two men. Skipper, a compact, onetime high school soccer star, is friendly with Bootsie's brothers from years of prep school competitions. Skipper went to culinary school ten years back, and after working in several high-­end Philly restaurants, joined the club's staff the previous year. He'd quickly become a favorite for his deft hand with things like just the right amount of tarragon in the chicken salad, and fun theme nights featuring fondue and burger bars.

Skipper, who's pretty cute if you're into sporty, muscly guys who can cook, gave Gianni a friendly hello and handshake.

“Skipper, this is so last minute and I hope you won't hate me, but I'd forgotten that Gianni offered to do the food for the Tomato Show. That was months ago, before he got his own TV series!” Holly explained.

I remembered Holly telling me that Gianni had sat down at dinner with her and Howard one night at his Bryn Mawr restaurant before he began his California Food Network gig, and that the chef had bragged that he'd show the country club crowd what real Italian food was at her party. Naturally, she'd figured this was bullshit and that Gianni would never show up—­but here he was, ready to cook.

Actually, the timing seemed a little strange.

“I not gonna let you down, Holly Jones, you gorgeous girl!” Gianni told her. “Although, to be honest, I'm too famous to be doing this party, but Gianni gets bored if he's not busy!”

“So, and this will obviously be the newest trend in party planning, we can have you
both
catering the event,” Holly told Skipper and Gianni.

“Hey, man, welcome,” Skipper said politely to Gianni. “Of course, we'd love to have you help out Saturday night in the kitchen.”

“Gianni is celebrity chef with tons of awards,” said the Italian chef. “Gianni don't ‘help.' ”

Skipper's too polite to complain, but he looked upset as he disappeared through the kitchen's swinging double doors. It had to be a bitter blow to have been working on the party menu for weeks and have Gianni show up and steal his thunder.

“Obviously, it's fabulous that you'll be cooking Saturday,” Holly told Gianni. “But aren't you supposed to be opening your restaurant in California in, like, four days?”

“It's gonna be delayed a ­couple weeks,” Gianni said, waving dismissively. “ 'Cause my camera guys and busboys been complaining they need a day off every three weeks! Those guys all whiners! And someone tip off Department of Labor out in California, so I get some
stupida
warning letter about employees working too many hours.”

“Uh-­huh,” said Holly, nodding, while Bootsie and I exchanged an eye roll. Gianni was widely known as the world's worst boss. “Well, anyway, poor Mrs. Potts has had a really hard day. She had her favorite painting stolen.”

“She lose a painting—­big deal!” opined the chef. “Gianni fly in from California, then I find out some report a suitcase of pancetta and soppressata I checked, and it got seized by the FDA!” Gianni told us, handing off his crate of birds to a passing Trendy Tent employee, who wisely didn't argue that it wasn't his job, and headed toward the kitchen.

We all sighed. Gianni's in negative range on the empathy meter—­not that Mrs. Potts cared. I noticed her shrugging and preparing to leave via a side entrance. She doesn't deal with the Giannis of this world. “I'll drive you, Aunt Honey,” said Mike Woodford, who'd returned with Jared. He offered the doyenne his arm and they disappeared—­but not before I caught a glimpse of his long-­lashed brown eyes.

“I had to have big fight with guys at baggage claim over my secret stash of meat!” complained Gianni. “Someone call to complain that it's not sanitary to bring uncured pork products on a flight. Big deal. Everyone jealous of Gianni, and trying to screw him over!”

This was interesting, I thought. The Colketts came to mind as possible tattletales about Gianni's skirting California labor laws, though they were said to be earning a hefty fee from Gianni for their design work, plus they were getting paid to be on his Food Network show. And any one of his staff might have made the calls to the FDA, since probably every one of them had some beef with the chef.

“Uh, boss?” Skipper came back from the kitchen, his polo shirt damp around the collar with perspiration and his handsome face registering anger. “Listen, Ronnie, I can't work like this. This guy”—­here, he indicated Gianni—­“told my staff to pack up our equipment and take it out to the golf shed. He's bringing in his own pans and has his staff moving all our meats and vegetables to the back of the walk-­in fridge to make room for his ducks.”

Ronnie, the club manager, normally the most unflappable and low-­key of men, manages with a seemingly effortless style that keeps everything from the chicken salad to the golf greens in perfect working order. The only time I've ever seen him frazzled was when my elderly neighbor Jimmy Best moved into the club for a few days last spring, and drove the staff crazy with constant demands for Scotch and fresh towels.

Today, though, Ronnie showed a slight sheen of perspiration around his temples, his hair was slightly ruffled, and there was a wrinkle in his Lands' End khakis.

“Try to ignore him,” Ronnie said, sotto voce. “I'll deal with him tomorrow.”

“I am so sorry, Skipper,” Holly told him. “Also, are we suspects, Walt?” she added. “Because I wouldn't mind being considered a possible criminal mastermind, but if not, I need to get out of here and away from Eula Morris.”

“I doubt you'd steal a painting from a party you've been planning for months,” said Walt with a faint smile. “Bootsie already told me she was driving back from Maine and just got back in town an hour ago, so she couldn't have stolen the thing.”

Just then, the Colketts tiptoed past the slightly open door to the Camellia Room—­almost making an escape, but not quite.

“Hey, Colketts! You guys supposed to be in California!” Gianni screamed. “Working on my new place! I give the painters and construction guys the week off, but I never tell you to take vacation.”

“When the painters and stonemasons for the pizza oven said they weren't coming in this week, Chef, we figured we could take a little time off, too,” Tim told him, looking terrified as he took a tentative step inside the space—­which I was personally desperate to flee. “I mean, we worked forty-­two days straight.”

“Everyone lazy except Gianni!” said the chef. “But anyway, that's okay, I can respect you guys do a little sneaking around. Gianni forgive you for lying to him! But now that I know you're here, I gonna get you guys to help me build a fire pit over by tennis court, with a customized smoker I gonna put the ducks in for eighteen hours before I make my ragout for Saturday night.”

“The club has a gas grill that you're welcome to use,” Ronnie informed him.

“I don't use gas grill,” said Gianni. “Which is why Colketts gonna make me a smoker.”

“Um, Chef, we don't really do things like build fire pits,” Tom said nervously. “Or customize smokers.”

“If Gianni say you make me a smoker, you going to,” said the chef, his face turning purple as he stalked out of the Camellia Room. “And you know what, you guys gonna help me pluck my ducks first! Meet me in the kitchen in two minutes!”

Luckily for the Colketts, at that moment, Gianni got distracted by a passing waitress.

I'd noticed this adorable girl the last few times I'd been at the club—­she was a sweet-­natured college student on summer break, named Abby, and possessed the upbeat personality and long blond curls that sent men's necks swiveling in her direction.

Also, Abby has fabulous boobs. She even makes the club's uniform—­a dark green, boxy polo shirt—­look sexy, which isn't all that easy to do.

“Hey, blondie,” shouted Gianni. “You real cute! Maybe you come work for Gianni!” At this, Abby gave a started look over her shoulder, and bolted toward the kitchen doors.

“Don't ya have a girlfriend-­hyphen-­assistant right now, Gianni?” asked Sophie. “I know you're a real ladies' man!”

This is actually true. When Gianni wants to, he turns on the charm and is actually irresistible to women from ages eighteen to eighty.

There's something undeniably sexy about him when he's in his element welcoming guests to his restaurants, presenting some delicious dish, or even when he's doing unbelievably over-­the-­top kissing and inappropriate squeezing of women of a certain age whose husbands don't mind spending two hundred and fifty dollars on dinner.

“I been too busy,” Gianni told Sophie, “but I gotta find new girlfriend soon. Gianni needs the sex! How about you, Sophie? You still dating that guy who picks out your sofas?”

“Absolutely,” said Sophie proudly. “My Honey Bunny and I are totally in love!”

“That's too bad. But I date you if you dump him!” Gianni told her, giving Sophie a bunch of hand kisses and a lascivious grope. “Anyway, Gianni got to make a quick phone call.” With that, he disappeared.

A neatly dressed guy popped his head into the room—­a new member of club management, I guessed, since he had an official air.

“Is there a Mrs. Sophie Shields here?” he asked politely. “I have a delivery.”

“That's me!” said Sophie, waving at him excitedly. “Do ya have flowers for me? Maybe it's a box of long-­stemmed roses from Joe!”

“Not exactly,” said the guy, reaching into his pockets and pulling out an envelope, which he handed to a startled Sophie. “This is notice from your estranged husband's legal representatives. You need to vacate your new home on Begonia Lane, list it for sale immediately, and escrow half the proceeds to be given to Mr. Shields.

“Also,” said the preppy guy, looking distinctly uncomfortable, “your ex is demanding that you turn over joint property in the form of twenty-­two pairs of Gucci sandals, size five and a half, which he says he bought you on your honeymoon in Venice, Italy. He says you'll know why he wants them. Um—­have a nice night!” he added, turning on his loafered heel and disappearing.

For once, Sophie was speechless. Her tiny hand went to her heart—­currently clad in a silk Lilly P. minidress—­and she looked down at her shoes, which were gold four-­inch-­high numbers, and appeared to be one of the twenty-­two pairs of Guccis under subpoena.

Just then, a crash of glass and heavy furniture erupted in the bar.

“
Merda!
” came a scream.