Killer Punch (5 page)

“That's probably why he's so pissy!” I told Sophie.

“That, and he wasn't in the mood for lovin' last night after we saw Gerda,” Sophie said. “And then this morning, he said he never should have left town and left Holly to deal with Eula Morris on her own, because he knows exactly how to handle Eula.” She paused for a second. “He really hates Eula! It's kinda weird, to be honest.”

“It dates back to the senior prom,” I told her.

“Speaking of Eula,” Bootsie said, “I'm heading out in a minute to trail her movements for the next twelve hours. I'm fairly certain she's going to have to move
Heifer in Tomato Patch
if it's in her house, because Walt will look for it there.”

“I'll come with ya!” Sophie told her. “I got nothing else to do, and maybe if Joe misses me, he'll start to appreciate me.”

“One thing's for sure, Eula has to get her Early Girls to the club by 6 p.m. today to meet the contest deadline,” Bootsie said, getting up and grabbing her tote bag. “Even though her mom probably grew her tomatoes for her.”

“That's exactly what you're doing,” I told Bootsie, frustrated. “You're taking credit for your mom's Early Girls.”

“Whatever.” She shrugged. “I already dropped them off this morning, and I don't mean to brag, but I did a fantastic job for a first-­time exhibitor.”

“You didn't grow them!”

“Doesn't Eula drive a Miata?” asked Sophie, squinting out the front window of my shop. “Because there's a blue Miata pulling out of the ten-­minute parking spot in front of the diner right now, and I think she's behind the wheel.”

“Eula's on the move!” screamed Bootsie. “Let's go!”

F
ORTY-
­
FIVE
MINUTES LATER,
the Miata exited the Atlantic City expressway at Farmville, N.J., and Eula turned right onto a two-­lane road that a rusty sign indicated was Route 192.

All around us were neat fields of squash, lettuce, and—­what else?—­tomatoes. After following her for several miles at a discreet distance, and letting first a tractor and then a pickup truck turn onto Route 192 between us and Eula, the Miata took another right down a long dusty lane toward a large greenhouse.

Bootsie parked behind a convenient grove of pine trees, concealing her Range Rover, which was no easy feat given that there was still a canoe strapped to the roof. She kept the engine running and the air conditioner at full blast, since the temperature outside was eighty-­one and humid.

In the backseat next to me was Waffles, who I'd insisted we take with us. I'd told Bootsie it was because of the paint fumes at The Striped Awning weren't healthy for the dog to breathe, but the truth is that once you get in the car with Bootsie at the wheel, you don't know how long you're going to be gone. Luckily, I'd stopped home at noon to let out John's pack of dogs and had given them a lunchtime snack. I'd have to call Joe or Holly to take the next doggie shift if the Eula stalking took too long, and neither one of them are exactly dog ­people.

“Luckily, I've got bird-­watching binoculars from L.L. Bean sale right here,” Bootsie said, ripping open a box she grabbed from the backseat and aiming the lenses at Eula. “I didn't get around to unpacking the car yet.”

“I'm real surprised this girl wears beige to schlep plants,” observed Sophie. “Her dry-­cleaning bill must be through the roof.”

Eula took a key out of the pocket of her swoopy beige skirt, and the door swung open. A moment later, she reemerged from the greenhouse, carefully toting a tall, lush plant, staked in its terracotta pot. Even from our spot behind the trees, I could see that the leafy vine was fully loaded with robust red vegetables.

“She's picking up tomato plants!” said Bootsie, outraged, staring through her binoculars, her mouth agape. She dropped the binoculars and grabbed her phone, snapping photos of Eula and her Jersey tomatoes as her nemesis toted the plants out of the greenhouse and into the Miata.

“Those are Early Girls!” screamed Bootsie. “My category! I can't believe she's growing them in Jersey. That's a flagrant violation of rule seven of the Tomato Show. Obviously, any vegetable grown east of the Delaware River is going to win. The soil over here is unbeatable!”

“They don't call it the Garden State for nothin'!” Sophie observed, checking her own phone for about the millionth time since we'd gotten in Bootsie's car. “I can't believe Joe still hasn't texted me.”

Just then, Eula locked up the greenhouse, put the top up on her Miata, did a three-­point turn, and carefully steered down the bumpy lane and back out onto Route 192. She took a left back toward the expressway, presumably intent on getting her Jersey tomatoes back to the country club by 6 p.m. and never glancing in the direction of our grove of trees.

“I'm starving,” announced Bootsie. “I'm trying to decide if I should send these pics of Eula right to the tomato committee, or wait till she wins, and then discredit her right then and there. I need food.”

“You finished lunch barely two hours ago,” I told Bootsie, who shrugged and told me that her whole family has to eat six meals a day, and that she was protein-­loading for an upcoming tennis tournament.

“I'm kinda hungry, too,” agreed Sophie. “Look at all these tomato fields around here!” She paused for a second, staring down the road as recognition dawned on her small face.

“You know what, this road looks real familiar,” she said. “See that barn with the faded Budweiser logo on it, and that farm stand with the sign in the shape of a chicken?”

We peered down the empty two-­lane road, where only the chirp of crickets could be heard in the afternoon sunshine. Down the road, there was indeed a barn, the Bud logo, truckloads of squash and veggies for sale, and the bird-­shaped sign.

“I know where we are!” yelped Sophie. “We're less than a mile from the best restaurant in Jersey. Take a left at the giant chicken!”

 

Chapter 8

“
Y
O
U
'
RE GONNA LOVE
Midnight Tony's!” shrieked Sophie three minutes later, as we bounced down the unmarked road she'd indicated.

Suddenly, just past a field of zucchini, a large parking lot and spotlighted structure appeared that would have been right at home on the Vegas Strip. The exterior of the structure featured columns, statues of Zeus and Apollo, and a large fountain near the front door. The music of Michael Bublé was emanating from hidden speakers.

I blinked. Midnight Tony's projected a fun vibe, to be sure, and the parking lot was already close to full at—­I consulted my watch—­four in the afternoon.

Next to us, a group got out of large BMW sedan with New York plates. All four arrivees were dressed to the nines, the men in sharp-­looking dark suits and their wives fully decked out in sexy summer dresses and heels. I looked first at Waffles, who was wagging and drooling next to me, eager to check out the action, and then down at my outfit: khaki shorts and Target tank top.

“I can't go in—­this place looks pretty fancy,” I told Sophie, self-­pity swelling up inside me. “Plus I need to keep the air-­conditioning on in the car for Waffles. I'll take him for a walk around the parking lot while you guys grab some food.”

“Don't worry!” Sophie told me. “Dogs are welcome at Midnight Tony's! He operates outside most of the standard health and licensing rules, since Tony's friends with tons of politicians. Here,” she said, digging inside her gold purse. “I have a caftan in here that I was gonna see if you wanted—­it's perfect for ya!”

Two minutes later, I was inside the caftan (which wasn't so easy to wriggle into, even in the roomy backseat of a Range Rover), which was a flowered Lilly Pulitzer number that must have been way too long on Sophie, but just grazed my ankles and had a really cute pink seahorse pattern. Sophie gave me a quick coat of mascara and lip gloss, since she carries a full makeup kit at all times, and we were ready to go.

“This place smells amazing!” crowed Bootsie.

Midnight Tony's was indeed scented with a heady aroma of tomato, garlic, sausage, and rosemary. There was a huge U-­shaped bar in the front, with chocolate-­hued walls and tiny brass sconces creating a convivial, Rat Packy–style vibe, and a large dining room that included comfy leather-­upholstered booths and white-­clothed tables behind it. The air-­conditioning was on full blast, and customers ranged in age from guys in their twenties all the way up to ­couples in their eighties, with women in sparkly shoes, guys in suits and sport coats. Cleavage was lavish, and eyelashes were long. A band fronted by a guy in a tuxedo belted out oldies, and the mood was super-­festive.

The ­people who didn't really fit in, to be honest, were me and Bootsie. Every other hemline in the place stopped at mid-­thigh, and my caftan was getting strange looks. Bootsie's Talbots golf skirt, polo shirt, and whale-­print sandals were even more out of place, as was her makeup-­free, sporty vibe. No one seemed to mind, though, that we had a large basset hound with us, wagging at everything in sight.

Plus Sophie was right: Waffles wasn't the only mutt in the place. I saw a Yorkie, a Bichon, a Cavalier King Charles, and several other tiny dogs sitting in the dining room with a group of Real Housewife–style ladies in their forties. Another booth was full of uniformed policemen digging into plates of clams casino, and behind them were a bunch of girls having a bachelorette celebration complete with one wearing a “Bride” sash and a tiara.

“Sophiieeee!” said a man in a crisp white shirt and a beautifully cut suit who rushed toward us, shaking Sophie's hand and emitting a waft of pleasant-­smelling cologne. He was tanned and impeccably groomed, and appeared to be in his early sixties. He beamed down at our friend.

“Toooonyyy!” sang Sophie. “I've missed ya!” she added, giving him a double cheek kiss.

“I can't believe it, what's it been, five years?” said Midnight Tony. “And you won't believe it, but guess who's here, too?”

He indicated a dark-­haired man at the bar, who was several years younger than Tony, but just as flawlessly bronzed and handsome, and in a cool navy sport coat and dark jeans. He immediately jumped up and enveloped Sophie in a huge hug.

“Lobster Phil LaMonte!” shrieked Sophie. “What are you doing back in Jersey?”

A
FT
ER
M
IDNIGHT
T
ONY,
Lobster Phil, and Sophie had exchanged about five minutes of “You keep getting younger” and “It's been too long” greetings, Tony led us to his best booth, whereupon Phil joined us and insisted he was going to buy us dinner.

“What the hell. Order a petit filet for the doggie, too!” Lobster Phil said, immediately endearing himself to me.

To be honest, I was slightly nervous about dining in an off-­the-­books restaurant with what could only be some of Sophie and Barclay's former Trenton business associates. Then again, Lobster Phil was clearly a dog lover, so he had to be okay. And if the police were eating here, that made the place perfectly safe—­right?

“These are my friends Bootsie and Kristin,” Sophie said as Tony seated us on the Naugahyde banquette and waiters immediately delivered Chianti, rustic bread, olive oil, and a huge plate of grilled figs topped with Gorgonzola. “We all live over in Pennsylvania, and this one”—­here, she indicated Bootsie—­“is, like, a champion eater.”

“Luckily, I got a lotta money with me!” joked Phil—­at least I thought he was joking, until he whipped out a packet of bills and started tipping every waiter who passed by our table.

“Is that a poker game I see in the back?” Bootsie asked Tony, who was still hovering at our table, as she ripped into the bread. “Because I happen to be an excellent card player.”

I knew this to be bullshit—­Bootsie's not that good at cards. She's decent at bluffing, but that's about it. I gave her a nervous elbow in the side, mouthing
Be quiet!
at her.

“Poker is for members only,” Tony told her smoothly. “Probably it's better if you eat and drink only. Enjoy yourself! I'm going to send out my famous fourteen-­layer lasagna!” With that, Tony excused himself.

“Best lasagna on the East Coast!” Lobster Phil promised. “So, Sophie, I heard you moved to a quiet little village somewhere and dumped that deadweight, Barclay. And I hear my old friend Gianni Brunello has a fancy restaurant over in the same town. Whaddaya doing over here in Farmville?” he added.

“We were following someone,” Sophie told him. “A pricey painting was stolen from a lady we know, and Bootsie here thinks it was stolen by this girl Eula, who, incidentally, is a real pain in the ass.”

“Uh-­huh.” Phil nodded, as if this all made sense to him. “Is this painting a Monet? A Manet? Some other famous artist?”

“It's by a guy named Hasley Huntingdon-­Mews,” Bootsie told him. “And it's worth somewhere between one hundred and two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, according to a friend of ours who works at Sotheby's.”

Phil's eyebrows shot north. “And this disappeared when?” he asked.

“Yesterday!” Sophie said. “And the police—­well, it's
a
police in Bryn Mawr, 'cause there's only one guy in the whole department, unless you count his teenage intern—­think maybe someone took this artwork not knowing that the thing's worth a ton of money!”

“I might just look into this a little,” Phil told us. “Just in case the painting wasn't stolen by the pain-­in-­the-­ass girl, but by someone more professional. I could maybe help out a little.”

“Oh yeah, Phil, you always did like art!” Sophie said, glugging some wine. “If you hear anything that would be a big help to our friend Mrs. Potts.”

“I'll send a ­couple texts,” said Phil, then proceeded to tap at his phone while I experienced mild alarm bells. Why would a guy named Lobster Phil care about an old British painting?

Did Vegas crime ties extend into international art theft . . . that had somehow found its way to tiny Bryn Mawr? When he said “help out,” did he mean he'd return
Heifer
to Mrs. Potts—­or grab it for himself, unload it in Europe or Canada, and pocket two hundred and fifty grand?

“Anyway, we followed Eula over here, but then it turned out she was just picking up tomatoes,” Sophie told him. She didn't seem to think Phil's interest in
Heifer
was out of the ordinary. “Turns out she's cheating in a tomato-­growing contest.”

“Early Girls,” Bootsie informed him, as a waiter brought a bowl of chilled water for Waffles, which he happily slurped.

“I hear you,” nodded Phil. “There's a lot of tomato fraud in this part of Jersey. Farmville's known for its Sweet 100s and Supersteaks, but the quick-­growing varieties are real good around here, too. Midnight Tony uses them in his famous sauce. Wait till you taste it!” he told Bootsie, with an admiring look as she polished off the figs.

“I like your style,” he told her. “My ex-­girlfriend Diana-­Maria could eat like a champ, too. Unfortunately, the girl had no brains! Which is why she's not around anymore,” he added bitterly, his genial vibe suddenly gone.

Not around anymore?
What did that mean?

With that, Phil got up, excusing himself to go greet a federal judge who'd just walked in, and promising he'd be back in a few minutes.

“Bootsie, eat up and let's go!” I whispered. “Stop asking if you can get in on a card game. Those guys are not ­people you'd want to win money from unless you want to float up from the bottom of the Delaware River tomorrow morning.”

The lasagna and steak arrived as Phil returned, his good mood restored.

“It's great to be back in Jersey!” he told us, giving Sophie's arm an affectionate little squeeze. “I live in Vegas now, but I can't go a whole summer without hitting the beach. I have a suite at Caesar's in A.C. for a ­couple weeks. You girls should come down and hit the slots with me!”

“What's the story on your nickname?” Bootsie asked as we all dug into the lasagna, which was as decadent as it sounded, and Waffles hoovered up his steak, which had been thoughtfully sliced into basset-­friendly bites.

“Phil had a real good seafood spot at the Jersey shore when I was first dating Barclay,” Sophie told us. “Steamed, broiled, grilled, you name it, he did it to a lobster. It was awesome.”

“We did shrimp and clams, too,” Phil told us. “All types of seafood, but ninety percent of my business was lobster. The secret is butter. ­People told us, ‘Oh, I want it plain, too much cholesterol,' yada yada. If you're having lobster, you gotta have butter.”

“I hear that,” said Bootsie.

“So we agreed with them, but put butter on everything anyway!” Phil told us, pushing aside his lasagna and pouring himself some wine. I noticed that he, like Midnight Tony, smelled excellent, and was so well groomed that his skin actually glowed.

“It was a real fun place with live music and a dock,” Sophie explained. “Why'd you close it again, Phil? I never understood! You always had a packed house!”

“Tax misunderstanding,” Phil explained. “But you know what, I just opened a new Lobster Phil's in Vegas. We recreated everything down to the salt air misting every ten minutes, we got a dance band, we even have a little mini-­boardwalk and deck. Plus there are slot machines. You'd never know you weren't in Jersey!

“So, Sophie, you like living over near Philly?” Lobster Phil asked, turning more serious. “Because you deserve a good life. You're a nice girl.”

“I love where I live now, and I have a great new boyfriend—­he's a decorator,” Sophie told Phil. Then her eyes welled up with tears. “Well, make that
had
a boyfriend. We had a fight. But anyway, the little town where we live is really nice, and there are tons of trees and old houses. It's beautiful!”

Phil looked upset when a tear dropped onto Sophie's cheek. “Yeesh. I didn't mean to make you cry,” he told her. “Not that I don't know how you feel,” he added consolingly. “I mean, just look at what happened with me and my girlfriend Diana-­Maria.”

“What
did
happen to her?” asked Sophie, as she blew her nose into a napkin.

“You don't want to know,” said Phil. “Anyway, Sophie, give me your number. I'll drive over one day to check out this cute little village you live in now. Maybe find out more about your friend's missing painting, too.”

Sophie and Phil exchanged contact info while Bootsie finished my lasagna, and I checked a ­couple of texts from Holly.

Gianni was at the club on crutches. With the assistance of the Colketts, Gerda was building him a grill-­slash-­smoker out of a steel drum and some chicken wire. Eula had dropped off her Early Girls. Joe had come to the club at four, spied the margarita machine, plugged it in, and downed half the tank.

Concurrently, I worried about Diana-­Maria. Had she disappeared into the bottom of a bay or been cemented into a casino? As I pondered this, a guy came up to the table, eyeing Bootsie with interest.

“How 'bout a dance, hon?” he asked.

Bootsie, who took ballroom lessons with her husband, Will, before they got married, leaped to her feet, but just then, a text dinged in my phone from Holly that indicated things back home were blowing up.

“Time to go!” I told Sophie and Bootsie. “There's a Colkett crisis at the club.”