Killer Getaway (7 page)

Ninety seconds after we sat down, our waiter showed up with two bottles of Laurent-­Perrier champagne.

“From the gentleman at the bar,” he said, addressing Holly, “for the lady in the black dress.”

Men sending Holly drinks was nothing new: This happens pretty much anytime you go anywhere with Holly. As much as she spends on clothing, furniture, artwork, and travel, I don't think she's ever paid for a drink in her whole perfect blond life.

We all peeked to see who the champagne-­sender was, though, since he'd been nice enough to buy free bubbly for our whole group. The waiter discreetly indicated a dark-­haired guy at the end of the bar closest to the front door.

“Who's
that
hottie?” shrieked Sophie, voicing my own thoughts.

The man was indeed gorgeous. Not in the hunky manner of Channing, or the preppy handsome John Hall type. This guy was more mature, with cheekbones you could hang your dry cleaning from.

Put together Antonio Sabato Jr., any member of the Iglesias singing family, and throw in Robb Stark from
Game of Thrones,
and you get the general idea of the genetically blessed guy with sculpted cheekbones and dark eyes who'd sent the drinks. I tried not to stare as openly as Bootsie was currently doing.

“I'd like to check into a motel with that guy for about four hours,” Bootsie announced. “Maybe I got married too young.” She seemed like she was about to expand on her thoughts concerning what she'd do once she got into the motel room with the guy, but just then he started walking toward our table.

“Hello,” said the Cheekbones politely with an elegant nod of his head to us all. He had your basic American accent but possessed a European vibe in his perfectly tailored sport coat. He also wore some kind of scent that brought to mind new leather, freshly mown grass, cigars, and good red wine. “I'm J. D. Alvarez. Enjoy the champagne.”

He gave Holly a polite nod but didn't invite himself to sit at our table—­not that we would have minded.

Another head poked around from behind Alvarez. It belonged to a slightly sunburned guy in a golf shirt, khakis, and a belt embroidered with jaunty anchors. His vibe was “Golfed all day, gonna do it again tomorrow!” He was about forty, and attractive, but he looked as though he might be slightly too fond of vodka tonics and porterhouse steaks.

“Scott Simmons,” he said, sticking out his hand and shaking all of ours. “Magnolia Beach attorney, businessman, and”—­here, he gave a wink of a blue and slightly bloodshot eye—­“willing tour guide! You girls should call me anytime!” Simmons realized that he was leaving out Joe while flirting with the rest of the table, so he gave Joe a friendly slap on the back.

“And you, too, buddy. If you need any tee times or have any deals down here you need any legal advice on!” He handed around some business cards and addressed this last to Joe, who barely controlled an eye roll.

“My Honey Bunny doesn't golf—­he's a decorator!” Sophie told the Simmons guy.

As Sophie chatted away, the handsome J. D. Alvarez retreated politely back to his bar stool, taking an occasional glance at Holly—­who pretended she didn't notice.

I tuned all of this out as I stared down at the business card Scott Simmons had handed over.

It read, “Scott ‘Scooter' Simmons, Attorney at Law,” and listed an office on Royal Palm Way. This had to be Adelia's neighbor—­the guy whose happy hour she liked to liven up with her afternoon target practice. There couldn't be more than one Scooter in Magnolia Beach.

Well, maybe there could be two Scooters—­you never know. But I felt sure that this had to be Adelia's neighbor. I could see bells of recognition going off for Bootsie and Joe, too, while they examined Scooter's card. Meanwhile, with Simmons nodding along, Sophie rattled on about how Joe could eat anything he wanted and not gain weight, but he never exercised, let alone swung a golf club.

For her part, Holly had checked out of the conversation. She fixed her lip gloss, glanced at her phone, and gave a ­couple of quick looks in the direction of the gorgeous J. D. This surprised me a little, because Holly isn't the type to flirt unless it's for a specific reason, like getting a better deal on a car or something like that. She's really devoted to Howard, and she respects their relationship.

After a few minutes, Scooter wandered back to his drink and his bar stool, and Bootsie announced she was starving and it was time to head to Vicino.

Holly was still looking at her phone for a text from Howard—­which I hoped would be full of reassurance and erase all vestiges of doubt about the gorgeous Dawnelle Stewart. As we piled into Bootsie's car, though, where I got stuck in the middle backseat, Holly turned her iPhone off, inserted it into her clutch, then closed the tiny purse, but not before I noticed a card inside.

The name on the simple, embossed business card read, “J. D. Alvarez” and was followed only by a cell phone number.

How Alvarez had slipped her the card without any of us noticing, I couldn't tell. My emotions ran toward worry about this handsome guy making a play for my married friend—­and a grudging respect for a guy who could sneak his card into a girl's YSL clutch without any one of her four nosy friends noticing.

I felt a quick bolt of worry as I sneaked a quick look at Holly's perfect profile. With Holly in mid-­Howard meltdown, one J. D. Alvarez—­handsome, cool, who looked like money and smelled like an intoxicating blend of freshly mown grass with a whiff of ridiculously overpriced cologne splashed into the mix—­was way too enticing.

I sighed as Bootsie zoomed around the corner toward Vicino. Luckily, Holly doesn't have a business card, because other than being a (mostly) silent partner in Vicino, she doesn't really have a business.

Then things got worse. “Where's your wedding ring?” Sophie said, checking out Holly's bare left hand. “And your engagement band?”

“I'm having them cleaned,” said Holly in a carefree tone.

Just then, my phone started ringing with incoming texts.

“It's Martha,” I told everyone. “Waffles is having a dog-­trum. He's howling at Holly's front door, and angry Bahama Lane neighbors are calling Martha. Can you please drop me off back at Holly's? I'll skip dinner.”

The looks that came my way from the front seat called to mind a horror movie I saw recently on Cinemax, in which a single glare melted off the recipient's face. Bootsie didn't even need to tell me that this would never happen with her Labs—­I already knew from her expression. Joe started muttering things like “freaking hound” and “who the hell brings their dog to Florida.”

Two minutes later, Waffles erupted out of Holly's front door, aiming for me as I climbed out of the car. Then he saw Sophie. He's always had a soft spot for Sophie, who's tiny and easily knocked over, which Waffles does with a certain joie de basset every time he gets the chance.

“Hiya, doggie,” Sophie said, reaching out of the open door to pat him on the head. He whined soulfully, turned, and gave me the droopiest, most guilt-­inducing Sad Eyes I've ever seen. With Waffles, that's saying a lot, because his patented Sad Eyes look is honestly really sad. My heart sank. I'd dragged him to Florida, which was obviously a lot better than staying in Bryn Mawr, where he'd be freezing and have to stay with my neighbors the Bests. But then I'd left him pretty much all day.

“I can't go to dinner and leave him like this. Look at him!” I said, love welling up inside my slightly sunburned self.

We all gazed at Waffles, who realized he was the topic of our conversation and suddenly perked up.

“You're staying home with
that
?” said Bootsie. “When you could be sitting at Vicino, listening to bossa nova, looking at Channing in a tight T-­shirt, drinking Prosecco?”

“And after you spent thirty minutes flat-­ironing that mop of hair?” added Joe from the car.

“I know what to do!” shrieked Sophie. “Bring him! I mean, what the hell, I own the friggin' restaurant. Well, Holly and I do, mostly. We can sit on the terrace. The doggie and I can split a petite filet!”

Waffles started wagging and suddenly looked as happy as Adelia Earle when presented with a fresh margarita. He knew he'd won.

 

Chapter 9

“I
S IT NORMAL
for him to look like that?” asked Sophie, gazing down at Waffles.

As soon as we'd parked at Vicino, the dog had rocketed out of Bootsie's car, going temporarily nuts as he'd headed toward the delicious smell of meats being grilled and pastas being served to diners seated on the outdoor patio.

Before I could catch him, Waffles tangled up his leash in a potted night-­blooming jasmine tree and tackled a waiter carrying a twenty-­eight-­dollar cheese plate, gobbling down the little slices of cheese and fig jam in about four seconds.

Once we were seated on the patio, he finally calmed down as he sat at my feet, panting and drooling happily. Remnants of Brie speckled his ears, and fellow diners looked appalled but soon returned to their conversation.

“I never saw anyone eat cheese that fast!” Sophie said. “Is that why there's so much drool? Doesn't his belly look kinda swollen, too?”

I looked down at Waffles, who lay gazing happily at the buzz of well-­dressed ­people at the tables all around us. The patio at Vicino was subtly lit by lanterns and votive candles, and upbeat Latin music emanated from hidden speakers. The outdoor temperature was perfection now that the sun had set, and it was a balmy seventy-­four degrees, with a crescent moon above the palm trees. Waffles sighed happily, rolled onto his side, and fell asleep on my foot.

“He's fine,” I told Sophie. “He was probably just hungry.” Bootsie rolled her eyes, while Holly, who'd chosen to disregard the entire incident, checked her phone—­probably hoping for a text message from Howard. I thought about asking her how Howard was doing but decided against it, in case she was still obsessing about Dawnelle Stewart.

“What's up with Howard?” asked Joe, who's not always known for his tact and timing.

To be honest, Joe can be a little too blunt at times. For instance, he doesn't hold back on telling me when my hair looks terrible, or that the “natural look” I strive for with makeup in fact looks more like I just rolled out of bed.

Joe also isn't shy about saying he doesn't like style that's
too
done, either. He's gone up against Sophie countless times over her proclivity for glittery clothing, shoes, and even furniture, and told her that they would have to break up if she bought a single statue to display at her new house. (Sophie has a love of classical statuary and was hoping to surround her pool with half-­nude figures a la the Parthenon.) Then again, Joe's never tactless when he's schmoozing his other decorating clients—­he's a model of diplomacy.

“I really haven't talked to Howard,” said Holly coolly. “But who's that interesting woman there in the head-­to-­toe Chanel?” She indicated a sleek-­looking woman in pink two tables away. Bootsie, thanks to her avid reading of gossip columns, had already studied most of the local boldface names and had a full resume for the woman, who not only had a long necklace of Chanel charms but was also currently depositing her phone back into a gorgeous quilted handbag.

“Slavica d'Aranville. She's Magnolia Beach's top realtor. Well, she and her brother combined are the top realtor. They're like the Lannisters in
Game of Thrones
, but without the inbreeding!” said Bootsie. “I read about her in
Town & Country
. Slavica's big thing is creating the ultimate move-­in-­ready lifestyle. She'll have a full wardrobe from Ralph Lauren and Façonnable installed in closets before clients move in. She pre-­hires a chef and housekeeper, and arranges for cheese-­and-­wine receptions with all the fanciest ­people in town.” Bootsie paused to sip her drink, then added, “The magazine story said Slavica once stayed up all night single-­handedly repainting a twenty-­by-­twenty-­foot dining room in Benjamin Moore's Really Red satin-­gloss paint before an open house when she noticed a chip in the wall that was invisible to the naked eye. The woman is unstoppable.”

Slavica appeared to be in her early fifties. She had a sleek black bob and wore a pink Chanel shift dress. She was exotically beautiful and was seated with a handsome, dark-­haired man.

“Is she, uh, Slavic?” asked Joe.

“She's all American,” Jessica told us with her usual blasé delivery, as she stopped by our table and joined the conversation. “Used to be named Mandy, but in Florida real estate, it helps to be exotic. Plus, she's obviously stunning, so she gets the best listings. That's her brother with her, Harry d'Aranville. They specialize in the five-­million-­and-­above house and condo market. They've been really good customers since we opened in November, and they pick up takeout a lot, too.”

While I pondered the fact that anyone would pay thirty-­eight dollars for a takeout pasta, Channing appeared, his Chiclet smile gleaming in the candlelight. He pulled up a chair next to Sophie and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.

“Channing, I know you've gotta be feeling like crap with all of this going on across the street,” Sophie told him. “I mean, that freakin' Gianni's got a lot of nerve doing his restaurant right there. He could have at least picked a location down the block or something!”

Channing's handsome face lost a bit of its hopeful confidence, and he looked across the street, where the hive of activity continued with spotlights trained on guys toting ladders, paint, and furniture in and out of Gianni Mare, followed by cameramen and production types with headsets and clipboards. Luckily, there was no sign of Gianni—­which was surprising, since he's a renowned control freak—­but there was no denying that Gianni Mare was going to be competition for Vicino, and the HGTV angle was only adding to the buzz surrounding the new restaurant.

Jessica reached out her bony little hand to clasp Channing's.

“Once Gianni Mare is open, Gianni will get bored,” she told her boyfriend. “He has the attention span of a hamster. As soon as Gianni gets a few newspaper stories and sees himself on TV, he'll pack up and move on. Plus, Florida is full of celebrity chefs, and Gianni doesn't like that kind of competition.”

Channing brightened a bit, while Holly nodded in agreement. She even put down her phone and focused on the conversation.

“Gianni is all about attention!” she said to Channing. “When he catered my almost-­divorce party, he had that girlfriend of his, Olivia, secretly taking pictures the whole time. Then he posted pics on his website and released photos to Bootsie's newspaper. I threatened to never hire him again.”

“Yeah, but after that, you had him cater that all-­truffle dinner party in September,” Joe reminded her.

“That's because you can't host a dinner in Philly and expect ­people to show up if Gianni doesn't cater it,” Holly told him. “I thought the blogging was a little too much, but I'm starting to wonder if maybe I was wrong. Although,” Holly paused, and looked at Channing apologetically, “I might have to hire Gianni again for my next party when I get home, especially now that he's going to be on TV. Sorry.”

“That's okay,” said Channing with his usual good humor. “I'd love to get my own cooking show, so I totally get it.”

“Channing, you'd be the next Emeril, but with biceps and a square jaw!” said a charming voice behind us. “Or Alton Brown, but with the body of an Armani model! Or that guy Curtis Stone with . . . well, actually, he's pretty hot as it is. You've got what it takes to be on the Food Network.”

“Nothing against Gianni, of course,” added another voice hastily. “He's got the muscles and tattoos, which is kind of a cool look, and he's obviously a superb chef. Not to mention that he put us up at The Breakers.”

We turned to see Tim and Tom Colkett, handsome and stylish in navy blazers and white shirts open at the collars (showing off deep tans that they seemed to have acquired in just twenty-­four hours despite putting in a full day of work at Gianni Mare rather than laying out on the beach). They pulled up chairs at our table and gushed for a few minutes in the direction of Holly, then did some “mwah” air kisses with Sophie, who's also hired them many times, including one time the previous spring for a yard makeover that, Joe told me, cost forty thousand dollars in plants and labor.

“We're starving,” said Tim Colkett, waving down our waiter and ordering a bottle of pinot noir, two pizzas, and a grilled branzino, as Tom mimed fainting from hunger. “Not to bite the hand that's paying us, but Gianni's been at the restaurant cooking all day and hasn't offered us so much as a Wheat Thin. Finally, the HGTV guys ordered in some takeout from a hoagie place in West Palm, but we thought we saw you guys out here on the patio, so we snuck over here.”

“Actually, we might want to move inside,” Tom told him. “I don't think it'll go over so great if Gianni sees us dining here.”

“I'd hurry if I were you,” Holly told them. “I think he is on his way over.”

We all turned to see a tattooed, earring-­bedecked man in chef's whites, parachute pants, and Crocs charging across the street, the willowy Olivia behind him.

“Cancel the branzino,” whispered Tom Colkett. “We'll get room ser­vice.” He grabbed Tim's arm, then they vaulted a potted hibiscus and disappeared down the alley behind Vicino.

“W
E COME TO
spend a little money in your fast-­food restaurant,” Gianni told Channing and Jessica a moment later. “Olivia and I, we laugh at your orange walls.” He pointed inside to the bar. “I keep thinking I get a Big Mac!”

“Whatever you say, Chef,” Channing said with his usual equanimity. “I'm sure there's room enough for both of our restaurants, so I'm happy to have you come and dine here anytime.”

“I just drink tonight,” Gianni told him. “Me, I've been cooking all day so as to have complete perfection tomorrow at my opening party. I would invite you, but I'm sure you have to be here to oversee this . . . little place.” He waved dismissively at the bustling patio and lively scene inside the restaurant, while Jessica got up, rolled her eyes, and disappeared into the restaurant.

“Sure, boss,” said Channing with a laugh.

I noticed Waffles had woken up and was looking at Gianni, wagging.

“Perfect customer for this place!” Gianni said, taking note of Waffles. “Channing, I see you get dogs as your clientele! This one a big fattie, too.” Channing shrugged good-­naturedly, while I struggled not to give Gianni a heated reply to this insult aimed toward my beloved mutt. However, the chef had lost interest in the dog and was now focused on Holly, who'd finally put her phone away.

“Holly Jones, I demand that you attend my party tomorrow night!” the chef told her, leaning over to kiss Holly's hand in the manner of Cary Grant circa 1938. “Sophie, you come also,” he said. “I know you love to spend the money like crazy, Sophie. I love this about you!”

Olivia, who was clad in a strapless black dress, stood next to him, looking bored, exhausted, and like she could really use a cocktail. I'd never met Olivia, who'd been dating Gianni since the previous summer.

Jessica had mentioned offhandedly that, pre-­Gianni, she had once worked at the same downtown Philly restaurant as Olivia, and they'd been on good terms but hadn't really been friends. Apparently, around the same time Jessica had kicked off her hot-­and-­heavy affair with Channing, Olivia had started hanging out at the bar of Gianni's Bryn Mawr trattoria. From what Jessica had heard, as soon as she and Channing had taken off for Florida, Gianni had offered Olivia a job as part-­time manager of his Ristorante Gianni and had soon convinced her to date him.

I noticed Olivia and Jessica acknowledge each other with a nod, but it was hardly a warm greeting—­understandable, given the awkward circumstances. Olivia had replaced Jessica both professionally and personally.

As per usual with Gianni's girlfriends, Olivia was fifteen years younger and very attractive, and she seemed to be rapidly losing patience with his tantrums and public outbursts. At the moment, she was both texting and hissing a drink order to a passing waiter while Gianni regaled Holly and Sophie with the details of the opening party he'd planned for the following night, including a shipment of something called gamberetti, which he was having shipped in from Italy.

“The gamberetti is the juiciest, most delicious, most incredible shrimp in the world!” Gianni proclaimed.

I perked up a bit at this, since I have an embarrassing but unbridled obsession with shrimp. Shrimp from the Mediterranean? This honestly sounded pretty awesome. I'd wanted to skip Gianni's party, if indeed I could even wangle an invitation, but after all the Progresso soup and peanut butter I'd been eating at home this winter, the prospect of gamberetti was intriguing.

“Olivia, she have to haul ass down to Miami International on Sunday to pick up six crates of shrimp!” Gianni told us, giving Olivia a condescending pat on the tush. “She do the schlepping for Gianni!” The chef gave his girlfriend a little squeeze while she sipped at her vodka with what I considered to be remarkable self-­control.

I felt for Olivia. It couldn't feel good to run Gianni's errands. Plus, I'd forgotten his habit of referring to himself in the third person. That had to be painful to listen to on a regular basis, too.

Gianni had (thankfully) turned to head inside to the bar, taking Olivia's elbow to steer her in that direction, when all of a sudden, a commotion broke out at the table of Slavica and Harry d'Aranville. The elegant Slavica had turned green under her deftly applied makeup, and she was trying to rise, balancing unsteadily on her beige quilted pumps. Harry, who looked a little woozy himself, had one of Slavica's elbows, while a nervous-­looking waiter supported her gently.

“Bathroom!” Slavica moaned.

They rushed her indoors toward the restroom, Channing looking alarmed as he followed Slavica, while the happy buzz on the patio came to a crashing silence.