Killer WASPs

Dedication

For John and my family.

Contents

Chapter 1

“
Y
OU
FOUND
B
ARCLAY
Shields after someone tried to kill him last night?”

I didn’t have all that much information about what had happened to Barclay Shields,
local builder of shoddy mini-­mansions that are about as well constructed as your
average game-­show set. But I knew from long experience that Bootsie McElvoy would
never leave until she had put me through a Guantanamo-­style interrogation that would
stop just short of waterboarding.

“I did find him.” I sighed as Bootsie flung open the screen door to my antiques store,
The Striped Awning, and charged toward a little French chair in front of my desk.
“How did you hear?”

“More like, how would I
not
hear?” responded Bootsie, her sky-­blue eyes bulging with intensity. “Let’s start
with the police report,” she said, rummaging in her canvas tote bag, and emerging
with a sheaf of papers, which she brandished triumphantly. “I have a lot of questions.”

I sat down at my in-­the-­style-­of-­Chippendale desk, pushing aside a stack of paperwork—­actually,
a pile of unpaid bills—­ resigned to being grilled like a rib-­eye.

What a waste of a gorgeous, sunny May morning. All around Bryn Mawr, lilacs were blooming
in front yards, drivers were tooling by in convertibles, and women were happily pulling
out their summer clothes—­which in Bootsie’s case meant a pair of flowered Talbots
shorts, a Lacoste shirt, and pink sandals embroidered with whales. My dog Waffles,
a freckled, drooling basset hound with an oversize belly, a permanently soulful expression,
and an addiction to Beggin’ Strips, wagged happily at Bootsie from his bed in the
front of the store. He likes to sit up there, close to the tall front windows, where
he can chew his rawhide bones and check out passing poodles.

Bootsie ignored Waffles—­she doesn’t believe in any dogs that aren’t Labs, which are
the preferred breed of her L.L. Bean–catalog family. Bootsie
defines
preppy: Even her marriage is preppy, with her two adorable toddlers, a chintz-­filled
brick Colonial, and tennis matches galore.

Bootsie, who graduated from high school with me fifteen years ago, is six feet tall,
has chin-­length blond hair and a permanent tennis tan, and is married to a former
Duke lacrosse star named Will, whom she met through her equally bronzed, blond brothers.
Bootsie and I don’t have much in common, but we’ve stayed friends over the years—­she
works just down the street from my store, at the
Bryn Mawr Gazette
, the local newspaper in our small town outside of Philadelphia, where she covers
both real estate and charity events. Basically, she writes about gossip.

Working at the newspaper is perfect for Bootsie, because she’s incredibly nosy. She
has a network of family members and friends placed around the suburbs of Philly who
funnel her information each day. When she’s not on her cell phone, she’s working the
aisles of the Publix, the liquor store, and the post office. She’s honestly pretty
talented at intelligence gathering: Bootsie once called me in the middle of the night
to tell me that our friend Holly Jones was getting divorced, which Holly herself didn’t
even know until the next morning.

“You probably remember Will’s cousin Louis from our Christmas party,” Bootsie went
on. “Tall? Blond? Big on golf and skiing?” This described every member of the McElvoy
clan, but I nodded agreement.

“Louis is a lawyer, and he’s defending Barclay in a lawsuit about those town houses
Barclay built that fell into the giant sinkhole. And Louis got a call from Barclay’s
wife at one-­thirty this morning about the attack on Barclay,” said Bootsie triumphantly,
pleased that her husband had such a useful person for a cousin. “Of course, the police
called Barclay’s wife to let her know about him being attacked, even though Barclay
and his wife are in the middle of an epic divorce. So, anyway, Louis got the police
report faxed over, which said that a Kristin Clark—­
you
, that is”—­with this, Bootsie pointed a tennis-­tanned finger at me—­“found Barclay
after he’d been bashed in the head with something heavy. Like a hammer.”

I nodded glumly, and shuddered at the memory of the inert mass of real estate developer,
prone under a hydrangea. It all seemed unreal, and the memory was especially blurry
given that it had been made late at night, in the dark, after three glasses of Barolo
wine at a party. Waffles, sensing my discomfort, gave a sympathetic whine.

“Obviously, this is going to be big news,” Bootsie continued happily, not looking
upset in the least at the thought of Mr. Shields’s recent head injury, “because Barclay
Shields is loathed by pretty much everyone in Bryn Mawr, the entire Philadelphia area,
and even as far as Wilmington, Atlantic City, and Lancaster County. Even Amish ­people
hate Barclay! And it’s not like ­people are whacked in the head with blunt objects
around here very often.”

True on both counts, I thought to myself. Thanks to his habit of cramming as many
townhomes as possible onto tiny plots and his zestful overcharging of unsuspecting
buyers, Barclay was one of the biggest and least popular builders around Philly. (And
I do mean big: Even in the dark last night, I could see that the man weighed a good
two hundred and seventy-­five pounds.) In addition to the man’s real estate notoriety,
a violent attack in Bryn Mawr is unheard of: In downtown Philly, ­people get beaten
to a pulp all the time, but things are pretty quiet in the suburbs. Bryn Mawr is where
­people live in charming old stone houses, play tennis, and break out the vodka tonics
at five-­thirty every night. A dog show or a restaurant opening constitutes big news.
For instance, a new place called Restaurant Gianni had been front-­page fodder this
week for Bootsie’s newspaper. Actually, Wednesday’s entire front page had been devoted
to the chef, the fabulous decor, the chef’s girlfriend—­who happened to be a decorator
and had designed the place—­the wine list, and his recipe for cappellini con vongole.

Bootsie and I had both been at Restaurant Gianni’s opening party the night before,
and it was after the party that I had found Barclay, right across the street from
my house, while I’d been taking Waffles for a quick late-­night stroll. Barclay had
been bleeding from the head when I’d last seen him, but definitely alive when police
and medics had arrived and whisked him into an ambulance headed for Bryn Mawr Hospital,
if you can use the word “whisk” to describe hoisting a man the size of a vending machine.

“I called the hospital an hour ago, and as luck would have it, our old babysitter
Jeannie was at the nurses’ station”—­Bootsie has a seemingly endless supply of nursing-­student
nannies—­“and she told me that not only did Barclay make it through the night, he’s
awake. Awake and eating—­he ordered in a salami-­and-­egg hoagie from the diner this
morning.

“But none of that is important,” Bootsie finished. “What matters is: Who do you think
hit him?”

“You must be talking about my husband,” squeaked a petite blond woman from the doorway,
in an accent that rang with the unmistakable tones of South Jersey. “Can you believe
the police had the nerve”—­in Jersey, that’s pronounced “noive”—­“to ask me where
I was last night? Like I have the upper-­body strength to knock Barclay out!”

She had on four-­inch heels, purple jeans, and a swoopy Roberto Cavalli multicolored
silk blouse that retailed for seven hundred dollars. I knew this only because I’d
seen the same blouse in my friend Holly’s closet, with the Neiman Marcus tags still
dangling from it. Behind her, a massive Cadillac Escalade was idling in the no-­parking
zone in front of my shop.

Clearly, this apparition was Sophie Shields, aka Mrs. Barclay Shields. Bootsie stared
at her, her mouth agape and her eyes registering gossip nirvana.

“Besides, I was with my Pilates instructor all night last night—­Gerda’s from Austria,
and she lives in our guest room—­and then before that I was at Restaurant Gianni’s
party, so I’ve got an alibi,” Sophie Shields chattered on. “You two were at the party,
too, right?” Sophie said to us, a gleam of recognition in her puppylike brown eyes.
I could only nod back at her, too stunned to speak. Her voice had the timbre of Fran
Drescher mixed with the intonation of Tony Soprano, all in a package the size of your
average fourth-­grader.

“I thought ya looked familiar! Anyway, the police told me you found him, and then
I tracked you down to this place. So I wanted to come by and thank you for finding
him,” she continued. “You saved me a bundle. If he dies before the divorce is finalized,
I’m screwed. I need him alive! He hasn’t signed anything yet, except some papers that
cut me out of his will if he croaks before the divorce is done.”

“That’s too bad,” I said weakly.

“Cute store,” she said, looking around at the pieces in my shop, which range from
little French sofas to English dining tables to mid-­century lamps. “This is like
a museum of, you know,
old stuff
!”

“Thank you,” I said uncertainly, getting up to make sure Waffles didn’t tackle Mrs.
Shields in his overly friendly way, since he definitely outweighed her, and was already
huffing over toward her happily. I took hold of his collar before he could drool on
her shoes.

“My ex hates antiques,” squawked Sophie. Looking around again, her small face broke
out in a smile. “And you know what, since we’re splitting up, I can buy as many as
I want! And this junk—­I mean, these things—­really would add an old Philly feel to
the place. I gotta bring my decorator back here. Well, when I hire a decorator, I’ll
bring him here.”

“Thank you,” I said again, hoping I could show her around the shop a little. Sophie
was clearly the Holy Grail of Retail: the Revenge Shopper. Just then, though, incessant
honking erupted from the Escalade waiting at the curb, and a woman with incredibly
muscular shoulders in the passenger’s seat gestured sternly at Mrs. Shields to hurry
it up and get back in the car.

“That’s Gerda,” whispered Sophie, looking scared and waving at her passenger in an
attempt to placate her. “But anyway, I really do like your store.” She teetered indecisively
on her heels for a second, while Gerda gave another thunderous blast on the Cadillac’s
horn.

“What the hell!” Sophie finally shrieked. “I’ll take all of it. I have to meet with
my lawyers in five minutes, and then I got Pilates at eleven-­thirty, so I can’t dick
around looking through all this stuff. Just wrap up the whole store, all the tchotchkes
and the furniture—­the whole nine yards. Here’s my Visa card. I’ll have a truck pick
it up tomorrow!”

A
FTER
I
’D DULY
recorded Sophie’s Visa number, she, Gerda, and the SUV whooshed away, Bootsie and
I high-­fived each other, and I did an impromptu happy dance for a few seconds. Bootsie
knows I’ve been struggling to make rent on The Striped Awning (and, well, pay my AmEx
bill, too), since I inherited the store from my grandparents last year. The contents
of the whole store—­sold! I started calculating in my head how much money I’d make,
and took out a notepad to start listing my inventory and totaling the bill. I turned
over the sign on the door to read “Closed.”

Unfortunately, though, Bootsie didn’t take the hint.

“Well, now we know that Barclay Shields’s wife claims she didn’t attack her husband,
and she has reason to want him alive. Why were you wandering around across the street
at midnight, anyway?” she asked.

This was a good question, because I’m not really a midnight kind of person, and Bootsie
knows it. I’m more of a pajamas-­at-­8:30-­p.m. kind of person. “It also says here
in the report that you were with someone, the guy who made the emergency call when
the body turned up. Named”—­she consulted her paperwork—­“Mike Woodford. Who is
that
?”

“Is Woodford his last name?” I blurted out. I had never met this guy Mike before last
night, and had only been in his company for about thirty minutes before we’d stumbled
onto Barclay Shields. And I really didn’t want to talk about said person with Bootsie,
because, truth be told, I had been slightly drunk when I’d met him last night, but
if memory served, he was very cute. Bootsie was tapping her foot while I considered
all this; I could feel my face turning fuchsia, and I started hedging.

“Mike works across the street from my house at the Potts estate,” I told Bootsie.
“Waffles needed to go out, and then we bumped into this guy Mike, and then the three
of us found Barclay Shields,” I said, heading into the back storeroom to grab some
newspaper and boxes to begin wrapping up my entire store.

“Well, I better start packing all the silver and china!” I yelled cheerfully over
my shoulder. “Thanks for coming by!”

“You took the dog for a walk that late?” demanded Bootsie.

“Well, I don’t think it was
that
late,” I said, returning with my boxes and resisting an urge to scream.

“Yes, it was. It was 12:04 a.m. when Mike Woodford called 911 and said he’d found
a body at Sanderson,” she sang back at me, brandishing her fax, which I was tempted
to grab and rip to shreds. “It’s on the police report.” Bootsie’s a good person at
heart, but her persistence was taking on the quality of Barbara Walters during an
Oscar night interview. “And why were you walking that mutt over at Sanderson, anyway?”
she prompted.

Sanderson, an estate in Bryn Mawr, is home to the blue-­blooded Potts family, which
has, amazingly, kept three hundred acres of valuable real estate intact as an exceptionally
lush farm around their 1920s stone manor house. There’s a barn, a ballroom, a greenhouse
filled with rare orchids, and a library that holds thousands of rare books, and all
of this happens to be across the street from my tiny, slightly creaky old cottage,
which is, no doubt, a blot on the landscape in the eyes of the Potts family.