Killer Punch (7 page)

“I talk to my tomato seeds during the winter,” Mrs. Bingham was telling me and Sophie, as her husband gallantly handed her a fresh white zinfandel. I noticed his striped bow tie had slipped to a jaunty angle, and Toby the dog had joined them at the party, still wagging politely at passing guests.

“Uh-­huh,” said Sophie. “What kind of stuff do ya tell them?”

“I tell them they're destined for greatness!” Mrs. Bingham said with a giggle.

“That, or to be sliced up and served with mozzarella and basil,” whispered Tim Colkett.

“Keep talking,” said Jimmy Best, my grouchy next-­door neighbor, to Mrs. Bingham. “You drink enough, your plants might start answering you.”

“I think I have a real shot this year at getting first place in the Mighty Sweets,” Mrs. Bingham replied. “I did some new composting, and my babies are the best they've ever been!”

“Mummy gave me some great tips,” Bootsie said. “For one, she spritzes everything with vodka. Keeps away the beetles. That, and she uses a ton of Miracle-­Gro.”

“You ain't allowed to use Miracle-­Gro on competition veggies,” Jimmy informed her. “No chemicals. I guess vodka's okay, though.”

“Hey, isn't that the cute guy you make out with sometimes over there?” Sophie added, giving me a little elbow nudge and nodding in the direction of the tomato display.

Mike Woodford was sipping a vodka drink and inspecting the Early Girl plants alongside his aunt Honey Potts.

“That's him,” I confirmed, noting that Mike was in his standard party attire of navy blazer and khakis, along with some brown Gucci loafers. To be honest, Mike looks better when he's in jeans and a T-­shirt, but he still looked very cute.

“He's a hot guy!” Sophie said, giving me a little wink.

“But just look at him with those tomatoes—­he's more interested in them than he is in talking to me,” I told her. Mike was currently bent over what a placard indicated was Eula Morris's plant, looking absolutely fascinated by the glossy red veggies that hung from the slender green stalks. He and Honey were engaged in whispered conversation over the plant with the intensity most ­people reserve for juicy gossip, not juicy produce.

I tried not to notice the dark beard scruff I found so irresistible on Mike, as he talked animatedly with his aunt. Also, I ignored his deep tan, dark brown eyes, and long lashes, and suppressed the memory of that time we made out in the back room at The Striped Awning . . .

Wait! I was dating John, I told myself sternly. Who was
also
tan, handsome, and actually called me, and spent time with me on a regular basis! Well, usually he did, when he wasn't away at veterinary clinics.

“You know,” Bootsie said, interrupting my reverie, “Mike's on my list of suspects for Honey's painting.”

“Mike's her nephew, isn't he?” squeaked Sophie. “And, like, her favorite person in the world. He's gonna inherit everything, so he's got no reason to steal it.”

“Maybe he needs cash right now,” Bootsie told us. “I mean, I hope it was Eula who took
Heifer
, but it could have been Mike. He probably read about that sale of the seven-­hundred-­thousand-­dollar Huntingdon-­Mews and decided to grab it, sell it, and speed up his inheritance!”

I considered Bootsie's latest theory for a moment while perching on a bar stool, since Holly's wedge sandals were starting to pinch my toes. In Agatha Christie novels, impatient heirs are always trying to either steal from their own family members or—­and this I couldn't even contemplate vis-­à-­vis Mike Woodford—­poison wealthy relatives and accelerate the process of getting their hands on what was listed in a will as rightfully theirs.

But Mike had never shown any interest—­other than those Gucci loafers he busts out for parties—­in the fancy side of life. Like Honey, he only cares about cows. Plus he already lives on the gorgeous grounds of Sanderson in a fantastic little stone cottage.

“I'm pretty sure the only thing Mike reads is
Organic Farming
,” I informed Bootsie. “They probably didn't cover that auction where the other Huntingdon-­Mews sold for big bucks.”

“I thought you were positive it was either Eula or Gianni who took that piece of art!” added Sophie.

“It's probably Eula or Gianni,” agreed Bootsie. “Which is why my plan is to get Eula drunk and then ransack her attic. Wish me luck!”

At that moment, Holly announced that she was ready to head home.

“You've just spent three months and twenty-­five thousand dollars of Howard's money on this party, and you're leaving after forty-­five minutes?” said Bootsie.

“My work is done,” Holly told her. “I wanted to support Mrs. Potts and her passion for the traditional.”

“I thought you just wanted to stick it to Eula Morris by taking over the party,” Joe pointed out.

“That, too,” agreed Holly. “Also, I might be in an existential crisis about whether tomatoes matter.”

“So, like, you're searching for the meaning of life?” Sophie asked.

“Not really,” Holly told her. “More just for the meaning of the past ninety days I spent planning this dumb party.”

“Ya need a sign!” Sophie told her. “I'm a big believer in stuff like messages and signs! I mean, look at how I met Gerda. I saw what I thought was the sign for a Versace boutique across a canal in Venice, and was leaning over to get a better look, and almost fell in the water—­and Gerda yanked me out! We've been friends ever since!”

Just then, a blindingly bright light flooded the tent. As a bewildered buzz rose from the guests, and everyone rushed outside.

A huge billboard was visible beyond some trees and just past the first golf tee, its border a Vegas-­style line of flashing bulbs.

In huge white letters, the sign read, “Mega Wine Mart! Opening Next Month with 40,000 Square Feet of Discount Booze!”

 

Chapter 12

W
ITH THAT, WE
all agreed it was time to leave, and went to the Bryn Mawr Pub.

“That Wine Mart has to be your ex's idea,” Bootsie told Sophie. “It's exactly the kind of thing he would do.”

“It better not be!” Sophie said, stamping her tiny bejeweled spiky heel as we slid into the large booth at the front of the pub. “ 'Cause if he owns it, I get half of it in the divorce! I gotta go call my lawyer.”

“How did you plan a party for three months and not notice that sign going up behind the eighteenth golf green?” Joe asked Holly.

“When Eula's around, I don't have time to look up,” she told him.

“My lawyer's gonna look into this new store,” Sophie told us, looking up from a text. “He's turned up a bunch a stuff Barclay owns but didn't list in his property accounting.”

“I'll find out who's behind the Wine Mart,” Bootsie promised. “I'm not going to let Eula steal this story from me!”

“She already did,” Joe informed her, holding up his phone, on which he'd brought up a recent
Bryn Mawr Gazette
piece about a new wine store coming to town—­which none of us had noticed in the last issue.

“How dare she!” screamed Bootsie. “I cover alcohol-­related events!”

“You're supposed to be the town's preeminent reporter,” Joe reminded Bootsie. “How did you not know that something called a Mega Wine Mart was being built right off the town's main shopping street?”

“I was in Maine this week,” said Bootsie angrily, then calmed down a little. “Although, come to think of it, I might have heard something about a new liquor store. It wasn't a superstore, though.”

I was facing the street in our booth, and just then, my attention was caught by a tall, willowy figure that had just wafted through the slightly dingy front door of the Pub.

The lighting was dim in here, emanating from neon beer signs and a Phillies game on a TV above the bar, but after blinking a few times, I knew with a sinking feeling that my first impression had been correct.

The slim and perfect blond girl up near the Pub's all-­you-­can-­eat barrel of peanuts was none other than Lilly Merriwether.

I
F
ANYTHING,
L
ILLY
—­
who happens to be the ex-­wife of my boyfriend, John, and honestly is everything you wouldn't want your boyfriend's ex to be—­had gotten better-­looking over the past year. Instead of the tennis outfits I'd always seen her in when she was in Bryn Mawr full-­time, she wore a really cool-­looking, flowy print dress with a halter neck, plus some chic suede sandals.

I gave a little nudge to Holly, and Sophie and Bootsie turned to gaze openmouthed at Lilly, too.

Luckily, Holly isn't a big fan of Lilly's, either. Some of this was out of loyalty to me, since everyone knows you're not supposed to be friendly to a girl who was married to your friend's boyfriend.

Mostly, though, it was because Lilly was Holly's main competition in the gorgeous, slim, and wealthy blond category of girls in town when she lived here.

“Lilly's got on the Thakoon dress I ordered last month,” noted Holly coolly. “Luckily, the Pack-­N-­Ship lost the package, because that dress will never be worn by me now.”

“I love her sandals!” said Sophie. “Those are the Aquazzura platform suede ones that tie in the front, I just ordered 'em! They cost, like, seven hundred bucks!”

This news reminded me, with a tiny spark of hope, that Lilly was now living with the tennis-­loving scion of a banking family up in Connecticut.

Between Lilly's own family's assets and the tennis guy's cash, maybe she'd focus on fancy shoes, and forget about her ex, John Hall! John's not a pricey sandal kind of guy, thank goodness, so if Lilly was becoming a fashionista on par with Holly and Sophie, she'd be way better off with her banker.

Unfortunately, Bootsie's always been on good terms with Lilly, since they're both weirdly devoted to tennis. She waved Lilly down with a friendly hello, and Lilly floated our way, greeting us all in her sweet-­natured voice. Another of the super-­annoying things about her is that she's by all accounts a nice person—­even John says so, and he's divorced from her.

“How's your mom?” asked Sophie, bringing up the one subject I was desperately hoping to avoid.

When crime had broken out in Bryn Mawr last spring, with Barclay Shields getting attacked with a heavy silver bookend and Gianni getting shot on Holly's patio, Lilly's mom, Mariellen, had turned out to be the culprit.

This had shocked everyone, because while not exactly warm and fuzzy, Mariellen didn't seem like the criminal type. Mariellen's main interest had been her handsome chestnut horse, Norman, until she'd decided that ­people like Barclay and Gianni were ruining her beloved Bryn Mawr.

Then, after trying to kill Barclay and Gianni, she'd turned her anger toward me for dating John, her ex-­son-­in-­law.

This had seemed unfair, since Lilly and John had separated two years before I'd ever met him, but Mariellen isn't the kind of lady you have a reasonable discussion with over, say, a bowl of chips and salsa. Anyway, after kidnapping me, Waffles, and my neighbors Hugh and Jimmy Best at gunpoint, Mariellen was now living in a ritzy sanitarium within a quick drive of Lilly's new digs in Greenwich.

Which was exactly where they both should be! Far away from Bryn Mawr!

“Mummy's doing great,” Lilly said, in an upbeat tone I had to admire. “She and Norman are loving their new home!

“I'm supposed to be meeting a friend here,” added Lilly. “Oh, there she is now!” With this, she turned on her pricey heel, and ran over to hug the short girl who'd just flung open the Pub door. We did a group eye roll, because the person Lilly had enveloped in a happy embrace was none other than Eula Morris.

“
H
EY,
E
ULA.
”
B
OOT
SIE
beckoned her over. “What's up with that billboard and the new wine store? Because your
Gazette
story says nothing about a forty-­thousand-­square-­foot big box store.”

“I was told something completely different,” Eula said defensively. “Anyway, it was my first assignment for the
Gazette
. I mean, nobody's perfect.”

“You did a shitty job, Eula,” Joe informed her, waving his phone with the story in question up on his home screen. “You wrote a story about a charming cottage turned French wine store.”

“Fuck you, Joe!” Eula told him. “That's what the press release said. I have it right here.” She rummaged around in her tote bag and pulled out a sheet of paper.

“See?” she said, shoving it over to Joe, who began to read the two-­sided press release, which was headed up by a script-­y logo reading “Maison de Booze,” and pictured an adorable ivy-­covered building set in the woods and surrounded by roses.

“ ‘Formerly the late Mrs. Caroline Bingham's garden store, which closed fifteen years ago,' ” read Joe, “ ‘Maison de Booze will offer the best in Beaujolais and other reasonably priced bottles . . . and host free wine and cheese tastings every Thursday and Saturday afternoons . . . in a rustic eighteen-­hundred-­square-­foot setting where all will be welcome to sit and sip at our adorable café tables.' ”

“That sounds kind of awesome,” said Bootsie, forgetting that she was pissed at Eula. “I guess that's what the Binghams meant yesterday when they told us they were going to be mentioned in the
Gazette
this week. Old Mrs. Bingham's store was a total town landmark back in the day.”

“Which is just what I wrote!” said Eula triumphantly. “That the old shop was being turned into this cute Maison de Booze place.”

“You missed the second page of the press release,” Joe informed her. He'd flipped the release over. “On the back, it says that Maison de Booze will be torn down in eight weeks to make room for the Mega Wine Mart.”