Killer Punch (3 page)

 

Chapter 4

W
ALT AND
J
ARED
arrived in the barroom at the same time we did, where Gianni was flat on the ground in front of the darkened mahogany bar, a bottle of Macallan smashed next to him alongside a heavy rocks glass. Gianni was facedown, the back of his be-­earringed bald head looking oddly vulnerable as he lay there moaning. A steely, sharp knife was stuck through his leather pants into the back of his thigh.

“Ohmigosh!” screamed Sophie. “Chef, did ya fall on a knife and stab yourself?”

“How I gonna fall facedown and stab myself in the back of my leg?” Gianni yelled at her, pointing at the blade. “Gianni was attacked from behind by some kind of crazed killer—­probably that sore loser, Skipper!”

“Should we, you know, wiggle the knife out?” asked Bootsie, as Officer Walt turned on the lights and dialed 911 for an ambulance. “Because it looks kind of painful.”

“Those rugs just came in from Savafieh, so I wouldn't yank on that blade,” Holly said, shrugging. “Howard and I just paid to redecorate this room, since I think the old carpets in here were from 1902. Although, given this incident, we probably should have waited.”

She bent over to give a sympathetic assessment of Gianni—­who didn't seem to be oozing all that much blood. His tight leather pants were seemingly acting as a giant tourniquet. “Can I get you anything, Chef? Maybe a nice martini?”

“I'm bleeding to death here!” screamed Gianni, who tried to turn over but then moaned even louder.

“Even more reason to break out the Grey Goose,” Holly told him.

“I took a CPR course in college, and I'm pretty sure leg wounds are rarely fatal,” Bootsie announced.

“Fuck you!” responded Gianni.

“Jared, please go outside and direct the EMTs when they get here,” Walt said calmly. “Now, Chef Gianni, what happened?”

“How the hell I know?” shouted the chef. “I come into bar to grab myself a drink. I see the Scotch sitting right at end of counter, so I reach over to pour myself a big one when suddenly Gianni feels the worst pain of his life!

“I fall facedown and so I never get good look at this person, but I get quick glance over my shoulder and I see it was some short guy wearing green polo shirt, like everyone wear at this
putana
country club. So Gianni is one hundred percent sure it was Skipper!” Just then, Skipper himself poked his head into the bar, his face frozen with apparently genuine shock as he took in the scene before him.

“I was back in the kitchen this whole time!” Skipper protested. “I didn't do this to you.”

Gianni turned his head to glare at him, which wasn't all that effective given his prone position. “Skipper, you nothing but a glorified burger flipper. You try to murder me out of insane jealousy, but you never gonna keep Gianni down!”

T
WENTY MINUTES LA
TER,
Gianni had been rolled out on a gurney (still facedown, since the medics explained that it's really not a good idea to remove a freshly plunged-­in knife). The instrument used appeared to be Gianni's own deboning blade—­which he'd left out in the kitchen, ready to tackle his ducks.

At seven-­fifteen, as dusk was falling outside, Officer Walt told us we were free to go. I needed to go to bed early and be up early for a full day of painting my shop.

Additionally, I'm currently dog-­sitting four motley mutts belonging to my boyfriend of one year, John Hall. And Waffles, my adored hound, likes to eat at 6 p.m. sharp, so he was going to be miffed. I started explaining all this, but Sophie turned sad brown eyes on me, tears welling up, and told me she needed all her friends around her after her the process server incident.

“I need pasta,” Sophie wailed. “I eat when I'm stressed.”

“This is the perfect night to go to Gianni's restaurant for dinner, since he'll be stuck in the ER for hours,” Holly said, turning on her elegant Prada heel. “We can discuss Sophie's divorce problems and solve the mystery of who stabbed Gianni.”

“Okay,” I relented. “I've got to go get Waffles and then feed the herd of dogs at my house. See you there in twenty minutes.”

R
ISTORANTE
G
IA
NNI, IN
the charming old Bryn Mawr Firehouse, was in lively full swing tonight, even on a Thursday. It's a stylish bistro the temperamental chef opened last year before fame had beckoned him to California, and is the most sought-­after reservation in town. The old stone firehouse was always an appealing building, but after its restaurant redo, the place is absolutely gorgeous, with French doors that are thrown open on warm nights, a long glossy bar, and an antique wooden chandelier brought back from Italy.

There's a pretty stone patio and lots of potted trees and plants, votive candles everywhere, and the whole place is scented with heavenly rosemary, tomatoes bubbling on the stove, grilling meats, and other fragrances designed to compel the moneyed crowd who dines here into splurging on things like forty-­two-­dollar veal chops and five-­hundred-­dollar bottles of wine.

And believe me, it works. Gianni brags that he earns suitcases full of cash every night here—­which kind of makes you wonder about how much he's declaring in taxes.

Anyway, I'd stopped back at The Striped Awning, picked up Waffles, and taken him home to my tiny cottage, which happens to be right across the street from Sanderson.

All four of John's dogs were on my living room couch, wagging and drooling, when I got in, and I sighed as they burst out into the backyard with Waffles. I dished up five servings of kibbles, refilled the water bowls, and gave everyone some petting and belly rubs. I threw on a new coat of lip gloss, grabbed my keys, and locked the back door as the dogs headed back for the couch, fur flying everywhere.

Now, it was 8 p.m., which is around the time I like to jump into bed. I'd stay for one glass of wine and head home pronto.

“Your usual table, Ms. Jones?” asked a teenage hostess in a black Gap dress—­which I realized with some devastation that I had in my own closet. I'm not sure an antiques dealer in her thirties, even one who's as broke as I am, should have the same dress as a girl who looked like she was about seventeen years old.

“Did you hear about what happened to our boss, by the way?” she added. “He got stabbed! In the leg, which sounds really painful!”

Behind her, the bartenders grinned happily, and some of the busboys gave a happy fist pump.

“Absolutely,” said Holly airily. “We were in the next room when it happened, but unfortunately we missed the actual attack. Anyway, my favorite table is the one over near the French doors, but anywhere Gianni can't see us in the unlikely event he gets sprung quickly from the hospital is perfect.”

The hostess giggled and led us through the already crowded dining area to a white-­clothed table to the right of the bar area. I liked this table, too, because between the dogs and my paint job, I honestly looked pretty terrible. I sighed—­Ristorante Gianni isn't the kind of place where you want to show up ponytailed and with pink paint in your hair.

The two times I've eaten here, I've seen about forty-­five ­people I know, including Bootsie's parents, Eula Morris, Mike Woodford, and even Leena, the woman who runs the Pack-­N-­Ship.

“Isn't this kinda boring back here?” Sophie pouted. “I like it up front, right where you can see when everyone walks in!” I knew Bootsie would agree with Sophie, but luckily she'd actually decided to stop home, see her children and Will, and offload her L.L. Bean haul, and wasn't here yet.

I'd resolved to stay for one drink, since I currently had eleven dollars in crumpled ones in my wallet. I really don't want Holly and Sophie pay my bar tabs and meals anymore. It was one thing when we were in Florida and my two moneybags friends owned the restaurant we ate in most nights, but I'd vowed to myself this summer that I'd pay my own way.

Maybe I could hit the bread basket and then get Sophie to take me home, I thought, as a waiter passed by bearing what looked like a lobster spaghetti dish that looked absolutely delicious.

“Who picked this table?” said Bootsie, popping up behind me, and to be honest, scaring me as she suddenly leaned over the table to grab the handwritten list of specials.

“I'll have a glass of the California pinot noir!” I said to the waiter after I'd checked which was the least expensive vintage sold by the glass. He nodded politely, but his expression read that I was the first customer ever at Ristorante Gianni who'd shown up with a handful of bills dug out from the bottom of an Old Navy tote bag.

“Cancel that and bring us two bottles of the Sangiovese,” Holly told him.

Meanwhile, Sophie was furiously texting her lawyers about the legal papers she'd been served at the club, and venting.

“Just when Joe and I finally have my closet fully customized—­and by the way, it's awesome, with special handbag shelving and cubbies designed for boots, booties, wedges, and stilettos—­
now
Barclay decides it's joint property?” shrieked Sophie. “He already has our old house. Plus Barclay hates antiques and is afraid of houses built before 1980! I guarantee he'd have an aneurysm if he had to ever set foot in my place, which was built in 1932!”

I nodded sympathetically, taking in the scene around me. I was starving, and couldn't stop thinking about that lobster dish that had just sailed by.

At least I'm not eating Progresso soup
every
night anymore, I thought hopefully, since I've been dating John. He's not a great cook, either, but he does have a grill, and we sometimes end up barbecuing a steak or some chicken.

I'm embarrassed to have Holly pay for yet another meal for me, but she reminded me that her husband is one of the silent partners in Gianni's restaurant, and that it was incumbent upon us to eat and drink heartily here, since Gianni pays back his investors in pasta.

“We
have
to eat here,” Holly informed me.

“Mr. Jones is awesome!” said the waiter, suddenly coming to life. “Sorry, I'm new here, but I've heard all about your husband. He's the best investor we ever had here at Gianni! He's got an unlimited tab, and he authorized an automatic thirty percent tip on top of any meal.

“Let me bring you something to snack on. I'm thinking these really teeny-­tiny lamb chops we do with rosemary, and the risotto Milanese. Be right back with those and the wine!”

 

Chapter 5

“
S
O F
AR, YOUR
Tomato Party is a disaster,” Bootsie told Holly as she dug into the first appetizers seven minutes later. “You've had a painting stolen, Chef Gianni got stabbed, and you've spent most of the past few months arguing with Eula Morris.”

“Having a painting stolen is totally fabulous!” Holly told her. “That plus a stabbing
makes
the party. I mean, I feel badly for Mrs. Potts and everything,” she added, “but trust me, Gianni will be up and cooking Saturday, and the tent will be packed!” She nibbled half an olive thoughtfully. “You have a point about Eula, though.”

“Luckily for you, I've already solved the painting problem,” Bootsie informed her. “I'm pretty sure Gianni took it. Before he got stabbed, obviously,” she added.

“Didn't Gianni say he flew in this afternoon and got stuck at the airport trying to free his unregulated pork?” I asked Bootsie. “How could he have stolen the painting if he wasn't even in town yet?”

“Gianni's lying,” she said confidently. “I'm going to make sure Walt checks with the airline and the customs ­people. Gianni probably flew back here a ­couple days ago, and made the whole thing up about the prosciutto problem.”

“I love prosciutto!” said Sophie, nibbling risotto. “It reminds me of Joe, too, even though he told me pork makes him bloated. And then he doesn't want to get any lovin' because he feels fat!”

“Thanks for sharing that, Sophie,” said Joe, who'd just appeared at the table.

“Honey Bunny!” shrieked Sophie, throwing herself into his arms. “You're back from Florida just in time for two new crimes!”

W
ANTING
TO SURPRISE
Sophie by returning a day early, Joe had texted Holly and learned we were at Gianni's. He'd come right from the airport, but somehow managed to look unrumpled in khakis, sock-­free loafers, and a polo, and listened to a quick download of the day's events as he simultaneously downed a glass of red wine.

“I guess it's possible someone else at the club could have gone into the Camellia Room and grabbed
Heifer in Tomato Patch
,” Bootsie said, forking in some agnolotti with morel mushrooms. I'd gotten one bite of this incredible dish before it landed in front of Bootsie, at which point it seemed to have reached its final destination.

We hadn't actually ordered anything, because once the waiter had made the Howard-­Holly connection, he'd started bringing dish after dish. Things like Barolo-­marinated short ribs and polenta with pecorino were now deliciously crowding the table.

“Wouldn't someone notice a painting being walked down the main hallway of the club past the bar and the dining room?” asked Joe. “Didn't you say the thing has a big gilt frame?”

“It was complete chaos, thanks to Eula,” Holly told him. “The Colketts and I were completely organized and were working with a small group of trusted staff from The Trendy Tent there, but Eula was a disaster. Every time the Colketts had the chandeliers in the perfect spot, she'd ask them some dumb question about fire safety, or demand that we make more space to showcase the tomatoes—­like anyone except her and Bootsie's mom cares about those dumb plants.”

“How did you end up in charge of this party again?” Joe asked. “You don't garden, and you hate Eula.”

“I care about tradition,” Holly said airily. “I wanted to support an important event honoring heirloom garden techniques.”

“I thought you wanted to stick it to Eula,” Bootsie said, digging into a grilled langoustine.

“That, too. By the way, Eula could have taken the painting,” Holly said. “And in fact, I think she did!”

We all paused to think this over for a moment.

“Also, Eula could have easily stabbed Gianni,” said Holly.

Eula as art thief and knife-­wielding attempted murderess? I could see her stealing a cake recipe off the Internet and passing it off as her own, but taking Honey's painting and then managing to shop it around on the international art market just didn't seem like Eula.

“Eula's short and stubby, but she's a good golfer and tennis player,” mused Joe. “I guess she could schlep a heavy painting out to her Miata—­if it fit in the trunk. And she's got a lot of upper body strength, so stabbing someone would be no big deal.”

“Gianni said a guy in a polo shirt tried to debone him,” I told him, shaking my head. “Eula had on her usual outfit today—­beige dress, beige pumps.”

“Everyone knows the staff uniforms are in the break room inside the kitchen,” Joe told me. “It would take Eula two seconds to go in there, borrow a polo shirt and shorts, and stab Gianni. And despite her size, she's very manly.”

Interestingly, Joe's one of the few ­people I know who isn't afraid of Eula. Since Eula's quite vindictive, most ­people won't stand up to her, but Joe lobs insults at her whenever he gets the chance.

“I guess it's possible,” I said. “It's true that Eula was nowhere to be seen after Gianni got nailed in the leg.”

“You know what—­I'm going to over to Eula's tonight!” shouted Bootsie, attracting annoyed glances from neighboring tables. “And I'm going to watch that crazy bitch through her living room windows till I catch her with either Honey's painting or a bloodstained polo shirt!”

W
ITH THIS,
B
OOTSIE
downed some more wine and texted her husband, Will, that she had some
Gazette
reporting to do and would be home late.

“You know, the Colketts could have grabbed Honey's painting, and I peg them as the stabbers—­one of them could have been on lookout while the other did the deed with the duck knife,” Bootsie told us.

Honestly, I thought, Bootsie always throws the Colketts into the ring as suspects of every crime in our town. So far they've never been the culprits, but they
are
actually on the spot most of the time whenever anything nefarious goes down. It seems that they're merely often at the wrong place at the wrong time.

“The Colketts are nice guys, but they have expensive taste, and who knows, maybe they have an obsession with antique paintings!” Bootsie continued. “And if they attacked Gianni, they'd probably get an award and a party thrown for them by anyone who's ever worked for the guy.”

“Amen to that,” said the waiter, dropping off another bottle of wine.

“How was the kitchen organizing, Honey Bunny?” Sophie asked Joe, still clinging to him with both arms. “Did ya get the Bernardaud plates in the cabinet the way you and Mrs. Earle wanted?”

“It was a
huge
battle that took a lot of margaritas to get Mrs. E. to agree to my plate placement,” Joe complained. Mrs. Earle, a sweet-­tempered but boozy tobacco heiress, has a beautiful old Florida home that Joe was helping to update. Luckily, he had the assistance of her butler, who had tired of a kitchen dating back to 1967.

Joe whipped out his iPad from his ever-­present tote bag, and showed us pictures of his kitchen update. The look was indeed fantastic, with glossy white cabinets, gorgeous crystal hardware, and a fabulous chandelier over a modern table.

“Uh-­huh,” said Sophie. “So, are ya done down in Florida?”

“There's a possibility I'll need to go back down and work on an installation of forks and napkins next week,” said Joe.

Holly and I rolled our eyes at this. Even Holly doesn't hire Joe for tasks this minor.

“Anyway, I have some info, too,” Joe told us, not looking too happy. “Someone we all know and don't love was on my flight up from West Palm Beach. Let me give you a hint: She was wearing a tracksuit.”

Just then, over the jaunty Ella Fitzgerald tunes being piped through the sound system and the buzz of happy diners, another familiar voice made its way through the old firehouse and made landfall at our table.

“I don't care what Mr. Shields said on phone! Cancel the pappardelle. Barclay, he only supposed to eat steamed fish and veggies.” All heads swiveled to regard a tall, muscular woman in a black Nike outfit at the bar, opening a huge bag of take-­out food and removing plastic containers of delicious pastas and risottos.

There was some polite arguing from the bartender, who was trying to hand over four additional bags of takeout.

“Barclay, who pays me to keep him healthy, is gonna die from the cholesterol if you give him this food! Meat and pasta, all poison!” said the woman, whose back was to us.

Joe froze, half a grilled langoustine on his fork and midway to his mouth.

“That's who was sitting behind me on the plane,” he moaned.

Only one person we knew would make a stand against pasta in the middle of Bryn Mawr's best Italian restaurant.

Gerda.

It was Sophie's former live-­in Pilates pro, and Joe's worst nightmare.