Killer Getaway (3 page)

“Thank you!” I said to Adelia and the butler-­guy.

“That's Osbourne, my house manager,” Adelia told me. “We call him Ozzy. Would you like some toast, or maybe some egg salad, dear?”

“Um, no, thank you,” I said, sipping my drink, which was delicious.

“All my friends are so jealous that I found Joe!” Adelia told me as we sat down on poufy chintz sofas. “He's the perfect extra man at any party!” She sipped delicately at her drink but somehow drained it by a third in about four seconds. “If I'm not careful, all the gals in Magnolia Beach are going to hire him, too, and I won't be able to get my dining pavilion finished!”

I could see Joe's eyes light up at the thought of Adelia's friends as he gulped down his drink, and I had to stifle a laugh. Joe's dream is working with ladies of a certain age. He's big on lunching and dinner-­ing with this kind of clientele, who love him and who always end up hiring him for months at a time and taking him on all-­expenses-­paid antiquing excursions in places like Provence and Umbria.

“Maybe we could schedule a lunch with some of the ladies,” he suggested hopefully, pouring Adelia a refill from the Waterford pitcher Ozzy had thoughtfully left on the coffee table in front of us. “As soon as we finish your project, of course,” he added hastily, noticing that Adelia didn't look all that pleased at his suggestion.

“Have you ever seen my advertisements?” sang out Adelia brightly, changing the subject. Next to the handsome Chinese Chippendale gilt mirrors were beautifully framed black-­and-­white magazine layouts of a fragile-­looking girl in a white ball gown, leaning back dramatically and puffing a delicate pouf of smoke from a Stokes cigarette.

“C'est moi from my debutante days!” she said in her Virginia drawl. “We just love the cigarettes, darlin', because they're payin' for that new dining pavilion. I don't smoke anymore, but we have boxes of the things all over the dang place! Do you smoke?” she asked me, indicating a vast porcelain box heaped with Stokes cigarettes.

“Not usually, but I could try to light one up if I drink enough,” I told her. The smoking on top of morning drinking didn't seem like a great idea, but Osbourne mixed a mean margarita.

“Let's visit that marvelous gazebo of yours, Adelia!” suggested Joe, giving me a meaningful glance toward the pool and backyard as he rose from the sofa and politely offered Adelia his arm. I was enjoying myself, honestly, and could have spent the day with Mrs. Earle in a pleasant haze of tequila, but Joe seemed to be ready to get moving on his project, no doubt calculating how much money he could make once he finished up with Adelia and got working on similar projects with all her friends.

Trailed by Ozzy, we cruised out to the pool, bordered by an L-­shaped wing of the house, which, I could see, included a dated-­looking kitchen and butler's pantry.

“Here's the gun room,” Adelia said tipsily, pausing at a locked white door just past the pool. “Have I shown you this yet, Joe, honey?”

“Oh, yes, Mrs. Earle,” Joe said grimly. “Twice.”

“Ozzy, unlock this door, please,” she said to Osbourne, who whipped out a ring of keys and had the door open in a jiffy. Shotguns, rifles, and pistols were arranged in neat rows in racks along the walls. I sighed through my slight tequila haze. What is it with rich older ladies and guns, anyway? Having been on the wrong end of Mariellen Merriwether's pistol not seven months ago, I really didn't want to see Adelia's collection of firearms. Of course, Adelia seemed like a sweet person, completely unlike the evil Mariellen, but Adelia did have a lot of Patrón coursing through her veins.

Joe and I exchanged scared glances as Adelia picked up a three-­foot-­long Remington and brandished it in the direction of a hedge separating her property from the stunning estate next door. “No bullets,” Mr. Osbourne mouthed to us.

“I love to do target practice at night when my neighbor is having cocktails by the pool!” Adelia said happily, making a few practice squeezes on the trigger of the Remington. “Scooter Simmons. He's a lawyer and advisor to the Magnolia Beach Town Council.” She hooted. “Back in Virginia we'd have called him a professional bottom-­feeder. I like to whiz a few bullets right past his ear as he's mixing up a vodka tonic.”

“I'm dying to see that pavilion!” I said, which appeared to refocus Mrs. Earle. She put down the gun, Ozzy quickly locked up the little room, and we made for a structure that was centered in her perfectly cut back lawn. Adelia's octagonal gazebo was open to the elements, with adorable Victorian-­style woodwork revealing a charming interior—­or what once was probably very charming. In contrast to the rest of her perfectly maintained property, the gazebo was a complete wreck. The woodwork was rotting, the paint was peeling, and the interior contained nothing but two falling-­apart old pool chairs.

“I've got my ladies poker club coming here the Wednesday after next, and I promised them we'd be having our crab salad right here!” Adelia said brightly, turning to Joe. “So what do you think? Can y'all get this little shack up and running in nine days?”

 

Chapter 4

“N
INE DAYS,” MOANED
Joe at Vicino that evening, where we were sitting with Bootsie, Holly, and Sophie on the same corner banquette. Joe hadn't stopped complaining since we'd left Adelia's house six hours earlier, but I couldn't blame him, given the fact that the gazebo was more like a six-­week job. “I know Adelia was drinking, but when she says nine days, she means it. I mean, she has guns. A
lot
of guns.”

“Don't worry, Honey Bunny!” Sophie told him. ­“People hardly ever get killed over gazebos. I mean, if you fucked up her living room, she might shoot you, but she's not gonna do that over some dumb pool house.”

“That's so comforting,” Joe told her. “How did I ever manage stress before you came into my life?”

“I don't know!” Sophie told him, throwing her arms around him and giving him a big smack on the lips. “But you don't have to worry about that, 'cause I ain't going anywhere. You're stuck with me!”

“Is there any Scotch in this joint?” Joe whispered. “How much Xanax do you have left?” he asked Holly, who stocks up on anxiety meds but mostly ends up giving them to Joe. He hailed a passing waiter, who took notice of Joe's desperate expression and immediately returned with a glass of Glenfiddich.

“Let's dial down the meds for tonight,” Holly told Joe. “Your pupils are the size of quarters.”

“Definitely!” I agreed, since Joe's head was beginning to droop dangerously close to his chilled cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto. “So, do you three eat here every night?” I asked Holly, trying to change the subject. “Not that that's a bad thing!” I added hastily, thinking of my cabinets at home, which held a lonely can of tomato soup, as waiters arrived with several delicious-­looking thin-­crust pizzas topped with fresh mozzarella and basil leaves.

“Absolutely. We drink at other establishments, though,” Holly told me.

“We usually have lunch at The Breakers, or sometimes at Tiki Joe's!” Sophie added. “Have ya heard of it? It's the cutest restaurant. Everyone goes there!”

“Very retro and cool,” Joe confirmed. “Think sixties Hollywood lounge meets pu-­pu platter.” Then his expression darkened. “That's where I first encountered Adelia. She was sitting next to us at the bar when we stopped in for a drink on my first night here. She seemed so innocent that night.” He noisily sucked down his Glenfiddich.

“I love Tiki Joe's!” said Bootsie, tanned from her day of watching tennis. She crunched some pizza, then grabbed an oyster from a platter Joe had ordered but was now too drunk to eat. “I once met Lilly Pulitzer there, which was on my bucket list.”

We all stopped to take in Bootsie's outfit for a moment, which was a Lilly P. maxi dress in a vivid pink floral print. It was actually pretty fashion-­forward for Bootsie, who usually goes for a more tailored silhouette.

“If only you'd been able to meet the actual L. L. Bean,” offered Joe.

“Believe me, I've looked into it,” Bootsie said, chewing. “He died in 1967.”

“I would've wanted to meet either one of them!” piped up Sophie, as the waiter popped open some Moët and poured it for everyone. “I love designers!”

“Sophie, L. L. Bean invented the waterproof hunting boot,” Joe told her. “The company he founded makes thirty-­eight-­dollar tote bags, not two-­thousand-­dollar handbags.”

“Oh, right,” said Sophie, undaunted as usual. “I guess I was thinking of someone else. Well, just so you know, Honey Bunch, my bucket list consists of one item: Meeting Donatella Versace! Or Lady Gaga. Either one would be awesome.”

“What about Kelly Ripa?” Bootsie asked. “I thought you had an obsession with her, too.”

“I forgot about her!” shrieked Sophie. “She's on the list!”

“Where's Channing?” I whispered to Holly. “Why isn't he out here working the room?” I'm no restaurant expert, but given the fact that Channing resembles a genetic blend of David Beckham, the guy in the Eternity perfume ads, and any of the hot guys who portray vampires on the WB Network, it wouldn't hurt for him to work the dining room a little. Then again, chefs are supposed to actually cook, so I could understand why we hadn't seen him the night before.

“I told him the same thing,” Holly replied, looking annoyed. “Last night he had some glitch with the veal chops, which is why we didn't see him or Jessica. We need him out here, front and center.”

“Hey, guys,” a smooth, charming male voice murmured just then.

Channing!
His deep voice was almost as good as the package it emanated from. Our heads swiveled as one to gaze upon the chef, who stood there in a tight white T-­shirt and dark jeans, over which he wore a manly looking long chef's apron.

Channing really is ridiculously handsome: He's somewhere in his late twenties, with a soap-­opera actor's perfectly muscled arms, glossy blue eyes, and square jaw. His smile could star in a tooth-­whitening commercial, and he unleashes his irresistible grin quite frequently. Six months in Florida had somehow made him even better-­looking, which I didn't think possible.

Honestly, Channing had never really fit in when he'd lived in Bryn Mawr, but he appeared to have been made for Magnolia Beach. His skin had a golden glow now (maybe I would take Holly up on the spray tan she insisted I needed), and he had the confidence of the newly minted entrepreneur, now that he helmed his own restaurant. Even if he only owned ten percent of it.

Though Holly had dropped the subject, I hadn't forgotten her tale of almost being run down by the speeding car in the back alley with Jessica the other night. Had the driver been after Holly—­who, as far as I know, has no enemies? I mean, Holly doesn't really do anything much except shop and throw the occasional party.

Had Jessica made an enemy in Magnolia Beach during the time they'd been down here? It didn't seem like the kind of place where enemies would abound, unless someone stole your parking spot or bought the mansion you'd been eyeing. It was too perfect a place to create dissension among its lucky ranks.

As per usual, women at every single table in the restaurant were staring at the hunky chef, and anyone who had the bad luck to be seated outside was straining to get him in her sightline. This was impressive, since most of the women were over sixty-­five, but the beefcake that is Channing crosses all age lines. Men were staring, too: This wasn't surprising, since even in Bryn Mawr, where ­people tend to be pretty restrained, everyone, whether straight or gay, had a crush on Channing. Here in South Florida, with palm trees rustling and fresh-­squeezed cocktails on every table, he looked even hotter.

I noticed that Bootsie's mouth was hanging open as she took in the sight of Channing, who she's always had the hots for. Sophie, meanwhile, actually caressed the chef's left bicep as she squeaked, “Hiya, Channing!”

“Hi,” added a second, somewhat bored-­sounding girlish voice from behind Channing.

Jessica, the restaurant manager and Channing's girlfriend, had teetered out to say hello to us, which was about all she usually says. She's not exactly unfriendly, Jessica, but she's not the effusive type, either. Her pedicured feet were shod in her ever-­present Louboutins, this time a pair of teetery, glossy black patent sandals, and she wore white jeans and a silver tank top on her skinny frame. Her injured wrist had a small bandage wrapped around it, but she appeared the same as usual: beautiful and somewhat sour.

Jessica's permanent expression is one of mild contempt for all of humanity, unless she's looking at Channing, who brings out a sunnier side to her personality. She also seems to like Holly and Joe, and from what I'd observed of her design skills and work ethic, Jessica's actually a pretty determined person.

“I hope you guys are enjoying yourselves,” Channing said. “How's the pizza? We had the oven specially constructed in Naples and installed by Neapolitan stonemasons. It hits eleven hundred degrees no problem.”

“The pizza looks really good,” Holly told him. “If I ate carbs, I'm sure I'd love it.”

“It
is
really good,” said Bootsie, back to chewing.

“Everything's awesome,” Sophie agreed. She adopted a stern, scolding tone, which was at odds with her outfit: a cropped pink silk top and matching miniskirt, plus a large gold Versace necklace. “But Channing, seriously, I got two hundred grand sunk in this place, and I need you out here in the dining room, schmoozing. No one gives a crap about the food! They just want to see your hot bod!

“Sorry, Jessica,” she added to the bored-­looking girl, who shrugged, unperturbed. “But we need Channing to get his flirt on with these older gals. And you could be a little friendlier yourself to the husbands, Jessica. I mean, smile once in a while! Maybe you need some Saint-­John's-­wort or something! Because ­people spend more when you butter them up. When I worked in the concrete biz, I used to . . .”

Then, all of a sudden, Sophie paused, clasped her tiny cocktail ringed hand to her mouth, pointed dramatically toward the front doors of the restaurant, and squeaked, “Look!”

“S
Í,
I
HAVE
arrived in Florida!” shouted a tall, thin bald guy in parachute pants, Crocs, and a white chef's jacket, who'd just entered Vicino and now stood in the foyer. Gold earrings gleamed in each earlobe.

“Gianni has come to show this town what a real restaurant is!” added Chef Gianni Brunello, famed (at least in Philadelphia) Italian restaurateur, and the previous employer of both Channing and Jessica. Holly, Joe, and I exchanged horrified glances.

“Am I hallucinating from the Xanax?” Joe whispered. “Chef Gianni's in
Magnolia Beach
?” Next to Gianni stood a tall, slim girl in a clingy black dress, her long dark hair in a perfect ponytail. I assumed this was his new girlfriend, since she rolled her eyes at his pronouncement, opened her small handbag, and began texting.

Gianni has always been able to get beautiful girls—­such as Jessica and the willowy, dark-­haired model type he'd just arrived with—­ to go out with him, but they seem to tire quickly of his frequent outbursts and tantrums. On the plus side, Gianni's always going somewhere like Rome or St. Bart's to check out hot new restaurants, so there's some travel involved in dating him.

“I get sick of winter and decide to come see what Channing has done down here,” Gianni continued with typical lack of modesty, shouting over the music as curious heads swiveled at every table to take in his entrance.

“Plus, I want to see what my backstabbing bitch ex-­girlfriend's up to!” He aimed this last comment at Jessica, who had frozen like a Popsicle at the sight of her ex.

“Hey, Chef, take it easy,” said Channing politely, attempting to defuse the situation, since Gianni's face was turning purple with rage. “Can I get you a drink?”

Jessica, for her part, came back to life and disappeared through swinging doors into the kitchen.

“No, I just look around,” Gianni responded, appearing to calm down a little as he eyed the convivial long bar, the mosaic floors, the warm orange walls and comfortable upholstered banquettes. He looked up at the charming antique chandeliers and out at the lantern-­lit patio. Every table and bar stool was filled, and waiters were buzzing by with plates of grilled meats and seafood and inviting cocktails. The scent of jasmine votive candles and huge arrangements of orange blossoms added to the exotic appeal. To me, the place emanated fun, glamour, and Florida chic.

Apparently, Gianni didn't agree.

“Poof!” said Gianni finally, kissing his fingers in what I took to be a dismissive gesture. “Channing, your place looks like something for the fast food! I mean, you got orange walls like a hamburger joint!”

Just then, Chef Gianni noticed Holly. He loves Holly: Not only is she gorgeous but she always hires him to cater her parties at home, since Gianni is undeniably a fantastic talent in the kitchen. His mood improved immediately.

“Holleeee Jones!” he screamed. “And Sophie Shields! Two of my favorite ladies!” Gianni paused to do some dramatic fawning over Sophie and Holly, while his dark-­haired new girlfriend found a seat at the bar and ordered what appeared to be a shot of Jägermeister. I felt for her—­it had to be embarrassing and uncomfortable to see her boyfriend scream at Jessica, whose exit to South Florida he clearly hadn't gotten over.

“And is perfect timing I see you two girls,” he told Holly and Sophie, rudely ignoring the rest of our table. “Because I got big news. Look through the window, right over there!”

Gianni, heedless of the fact that he was impeding passing waiters, stood in the middle of the dining room and pointed dramatically through the open French doors toward a building situated directly across Ocean Boulevard.

In the large front window, a huge white banner had been hung, with a spotlight illuminating words that proclaimed in navy script “Opening this Sunday: Ristorante Gianni Mare!”