Killer Getaway (9 page)

Scooter, his stepmother, Susie, and Scooter's younger half-­brother, Bingo were the main holders of Simmons Properties these days, but Susie and Bingo weren't as ambitious as Scooter. Bingo, in fact, was an avid environmentalist, and while he'd once been a bit of a party animal, these days he spent his time saving things like manatees and rare seagulls. While Scooter was an avid consumer of bacon and Scotch, Bingo stuck to a vegan diet and limited himself to one margarita per day.

“He does seem to smoke a lot, though,” Adelia said vaguely. “Very fragrant, too, and he rolls his own cigarettes!” At this Ozzy gave a polite smile.

“Scooter's next door to my left, and Bingo lives just on the other side, to my right,” Adelia explained. “Take a peek through the hedge in the backyard. Bingo's got a charming cottage, but he spends most of his time in the backyard. He lives in a—­what do you call it, Ozzy?”

“A yurt,” Ozzy told us.

“I'll send Ozzy over there to get Bingo. He doesn't believe in phones,” Adelia told us. While Adelia dialed Susie Simmons, who lived on the next street, we all went out to peer through the tall hedge to the right of Adelia's pool. Joe pulled aside some of the dense shrubbery, revealing a pretty yard, slightly overgrown with citrus and avocado trees. The yurt was there, too: Along the lines of a teepee, it was a sizable structure in cylindrical form with some lovely lemon trees flanking it. Given the beautiful nighttime temperatures in Magnolia Beach, I could imagine it being a pleasant place to spend the night.

“I usually hate camping, but that looks pretty nice,” Joe shrugged. “The grapefruit trees are pretty, too.”

Adelia reported that she'd reached Susie Simmons's dog-­sitter, who was minding Susie's dachshund while its owner was on a Turner Classic Movies cruise to St. Lucia. The dog lady said she would try to reach her employer on board the ship—­which might take a day or two, she explained, because Susie rarely used her cell phone. In fact, the flip phone was sitting right here in Susie's kitchen.

Five minutes later, a man arrived at the door to Adelia's living room, giving a little knock on the door frame as he walked in behind Ozzy.

“Bingo!” said Adelia. “Your brother's up to no good again. Have a margarita and sit down, dear.”

“You know I don't drink before five,” said Bingo with a friendly smile. “But thanks.”

As Bingo shook all our hands and we exchanged greetings, I noticed he resembled his half brother but was taller, leaner, and had a brown ponytail, which gave him an appealing 1970s vibe. He wore a white cotton shirt, faded jeans, and flip-­flops, and he emitted a vaguely smoky aroma, which might have been the scent of patchouli . . . or possibly something stronger.

“So what's this all about, Adelia?” Bingo said, seating himself next to Bootsie on a chintz love seat.

Gerda handed over the pertinent document, which Bingo scanned quickly, shaking his head. Then Sophie sketched out a quick description of her ex Barclay, and his apparent budding partnership with Bingo's half-­brother.

“Scooter promised me and Mom that he'd never try to develop that land!” Bingo said, running a hand over his tanned forehead and ponytail, looking upset. “He knows there's a jacaranda on the property that's over two hundred years old, plus Bahamian swallowtails nest there, and they're almost extinct.” He scanned the e-­mails again.

“Let me go talk to him,” Bingo said. “Maybe Scooter's getting scammed by this guy Barclay.”

“I doubt it,” snorted Adelia. “Your mother always told me Scooter was a little sneak.”

B
INGO CAME BACK
moments later, reporting that Scooter's housekeeper had told him that Scooter was down in Miami for the day (probably with Barclay, I thought), but was due back for the opening of Gianni Mare at 7:00 p.m.

We all agreed to meet Bingo at the big opening party, except Adelia, who said she never missed
The Voice
elimination round episodes. With that, Bingo left, while Joe and Sophie made a quick detour to the Versace boutique in Palm Beach, which Sophie had convinced to open early on a Sunday for her. The dress that Lady Gaga was wearing in her current issue of
Marie Claire
had finally gotten FedExed in.

Bootsie, Holly and I headed over to Vicino to see what Channing had called about. When Bootsie pulled up outside the restaurant ten minutes later, we could see that Gianni Mare was a hive of frantic pre-­party activity. Workers were carrying in massive potted trees and armloads of flowers, and painters were applying a glossy white finish on the French doors out to the patio. Next to a small outdoor bar, musicians were assembling sound equipment, and cases of wine and champagne were wheeling past us as we parked.

This was all well and good. But after Gianni's evident happiness at the Slavica episode—­not to mention his insulting Waffles—­I'd privately resolved the night before that I wouldn't go to his opening party, even though he'd invited all of Magnolia Beach and much of the state of Florida.

Even Holly and Bootsie, who don't usually miss a party, had made some bold statements that we shouldn't support Gianni's new place. However, I could tell the three of us were having the same thoughts as we took in the party preparations:
Gianni being somewhat of an expert in throwing seriously awesome parties, his opening promised to be pretty fun.
I mean, there would be a live band, all those flowers, the champagne, and those shrimp being flown in from Italy.  . . .

Just then, a bakery truck arrived and opened its doors, unleashing the sumptuous scent of just-­baked baguettes and Italian loaves. A guy began toting brown paper bundles of the gorgeous bread right past us into Gianni's front doors, which had a similar effect to waving bacon under Waffles's nose.

Bootsie made “mmm” noises, and even Holly, who doesn't eat bread, took a delicate sniff and took on a hungry look. Right behind him, a girl carrying boxes labeled
Louis the Cheese Purveyor
was toting in oversized wheels of Parmesan and Asiago. More cases of wine rolled by after the cheese girl.

The three of us exchanged glances, and Bootsie said what had to be said.

“Screw it, we're going to Gianni's tonight!” she exploded. “Sorry, Holly, I know you and Sophie have money in Vicino, but there's no way I'm missing this party.”

“That's okay,” Holly said, shrugging her shoulders, which were encased in a little sleeveless Lacoste dress. “I'm going tonight, too. I'll tell Channing and Jessica that I'm there to make sure we're on top of Gianni's plots and schemes to take down Vicino. But obviously, I can't be in Magnolia Beach and
not
be at Gianni's opening. I'd have to leave town and never come back.”

“I'll tell Channing that I have to be at the party to write a story for the
Gazette,
” Bootsie said. “Which is true! I'm getting the
Gazette
to pay for all the gas I used getting down here, and I'm not taking vacation days, so I need to turn in something about Gianni's bash.

“And I need some Asiago cheese, stat!” Bootsie added, whipping out her mobile. “Martha said she was going to the supermarket. Maybe she can grab some Asiago for tomorrow's omelets—­do you think she'd mind if I sent her a quick text?”

I stayed silent, thinking if I was Martha I
would
mind getting texts about cheese. Also, I was still mad about what Gianni had said about Waffles—­he'd called my dog a fattie.
I shouldn't go tonight.

Just because Gianni Mare looked like it was going to open with an all-­out, five-­star, champagne-­fueled bash—­with special gamberetti being flown in from Italy, and heavenly smelling bread, not to mention a band and deejay—­didn't mean I needed to ride Holly and Bootsie's coattails into the party. I mean, I could exhibit some backbone and stay home with Waffles and watch
Friends
reruns. Plus, I was honestly pretty tired and could use an early night. And there was that fluffy white terry robe in the guesthouse, which I hadn't spent nearly enough time in.

Bootsie gave me an appraising look. “Don't think you're going to skip this party,” she told me. “First of all, I know for a fact you can't stop thinking about those giant shrimp Gianni's getting. And another thing—­I didn't drive you and that mutt fourteen hundred miles so you can sit home in a bathrobe.”

Phew, I thought. I really didn't want to miss this shindig.

“L
ISTEN, ANY RESTAURANT
can mistakenly serve a piece of meat or fish that's got potentially dangerous bacteria in it. But I can't stress this enough—­we double-­, triple-­check everything that comes in and out of this kitchen,” Channing told us a few minutes later. He seemed to want to unburden himself about how upset he was about Slavica getting sick and also explain himself to Holly, his biggest investor.

I knew Holly trusted Channing. Still, he clearly felt terrible about the incident, and talking about it seemed to be helping him process what had happened.

“We only buy from the absolute pickiest, most selective and meticulous purveyors in Palm Beach County,” Channing continued. “Most of the fish we serve comes from within twenty, thirty miles from where we're standing right now.”

Bootsie, Holly, and I were perched on stools in Vicino's kitchen, which luckily had one small window that faced the alley and had no view of the buzz of activity at Gianni Mare. Channing was running his hands through his wavy brown hair as he explained to us why he was so puzzled about what had happened to Slavica the night before. While he talked, his sous-­chef Rob, an old friend of Channing's from culinary school, was Lysoling the stainless steel counters, though they were already gleaming. Both chefs had been up most of the night, methodically inspecting every single item of food in the walk-­in fridge and freezer. Bleary-­eyed, they'd torn apart the kitchen to try to figure out how Slavica could have possibly gotten so ill.

“We buy from only two seafood vendors: Locally, we deal with the Martinez Brothers, who are incredibly good. They have exclusive deals with a few local fishing boats, and they're absolutely nuts about safe storage practices and transporting fish. As soon as it's off the boats and on ice, it's literally on its way here. And then there's Maine Coastal Catch, a company that overnights some of our shellfish, plus trout and bass caught up north. Their lobster and cold-­water fish are seriously pristine,” Channing told us, handing around mugs of coffee he'd just brewed.

“But we rarely sell fish that isn't caught locally—­to be honest, I'd like to insist on going one hundred percent local and sustainable, but customers want lobster,” the hot chef continued. “But all the clams we sell are all harvested in Florida. Plus, clam farming is a totally clean industry—­no chemicals or antibiotics, since clams can't tolerate them. There's great shellfish down here—­the littlenecks from the Keys are delicious, and then there's the Florida Spike, the Moccasinshell, the Chipola Slabshell. All fantastic!”

Channing, though clearly sleep-­deprived and upset, looked briefly enthused about the local seafood harvest. He opened a stainless steel door and stepped briefly inside the walk-­in refrigerator to pull a rectangular white plastic container slightly larger than a shoebox from a shelf in the back. He lifted the lid so we could see the shellfish it contained.

“I'm pretty sure these are how Slavica got sick,” Channing said. “Any clam that's alive should be totally safe to eat.

“See these? Notice anything?”

The small pile of tiny clams nestled on a bed of seaweed looked benign enough.

The three of us all shook our heads, admitting we didn't see a problem—­but then again, Holly doesn't eat, Bootsie can't cook, and I wouldn't know a mollusk unless it came in a can of Progresso Clam Chowder. Given Slavica's reaction last night, we all kept our distance, as if one of the small bivalves might leap out of the Tupperware and somehow attack us, horror-­movie style.

“They're bad clams—­dead clams. And they're not from Martinez Brothers—­this isn't the Martinez packaging. Usually Rob and I log in all the deliveries, and we would never have accepted these, but when dinner prep is on, it's crazy-­busy in here. One of the staff might have signed for the clams without checking with me first.

“We serve forty-­two-­dollar seafood risotto and fifty-­dollar steaks—­we can't afford to be anything less than perfect.” Channing explained that he'd sent the staff home at eleven after the dinner ser­vice so that he and Jessica could inspect the kitchen, finally realizing that someone must have delivered the rogue clams when he was distracted. “We can never, ever serve another bad clam—­if that's what it was—­again. Especially because Slavica's the most connected woman in all of South Florida.”

“She's been on the phone and Yelp all night,” Jessica said sourly, coming in from the dining room, holding up an iPad with the foodie website open. “She described her experience here. In detail.”

“There was one other giant clue that the clams were the culprit,” added Rob. He held up a colorful little box. “This was left right behind the box of dead shellfish—­a bottle of Pepto-­Bismol. I guess whoever delivered the bad clams decided to make one hundred percent sure we got the message.”

“Is it hot in here, or is it just that I'm looking at Channing?” Bootsie leaned over to whisper to me and Holly. She's always close to an overheated, full drool when she sees the hunky chef, but actually, the room temperature was noticeably on the rise. She grabbed the plastic top of a food bin and started fanning herself. “I mean, I know we're in the kitchen, but the stove isn't even on.”

It was getting kind of sweltering. Jessica overheard our whispered conversation and, obviously, took note of Bootsie's somewhat dramatic self-­fanning.