Killer WASPs (8 page)

“I can’t remember,” mused Jenny. “Could have been that market down on South Street
in Philly?” I knew this antiques dumping ground, which was so dark and dank that even
Waffles and I tend to avoid it. “Or was it a church sale somewhere around here, or
the festival in Massachusetts back in April . . . I’m drawing a blank,” she admitted,
eyes closed above her starry cheeks, lost in thought. “Then again, I’ve been smoking
a lot of weed lately.”

“You can have them for fifteen dollars each,” said Annie. “We got them for ten, so
it’s not much of a markup, but you’re on the frequent-­customer discount.” She smiled
at me, lighting an American Spirit cigarette and sipping what looked like a cup of
wheatgrass juice. At least I think it was an American Spirit. “Great!” I said, starting
to help rewrap the acorns gratefully.

Just then, Waffles, seeing that I was distracted, sprang up on his back legs and tipped
over the plate of cruelty-­free cookies, hoovering all of them up off the grass and
into his mouth in one motion. It all happened in a brown-­and-­white blur of ears,
paws, and freckled brown-­and-­white basset ass.

“No!” I screamed at him. Annie and Jenny both thought it was funny, luckily. Waffles
sat there, trying to look guilty and tilting up his head to give us Sad Eyes as he
worked the giant mass of quinoa in his jaws. I could tell he didn’t give a crap, though.
He was just happy he’d gotten the cookies, so they must have been good after all.

“I didn’t know he was that hungry,” I said, apologizing, as we wrapped up my purchases,
and Annie helped me carry the silver items and the bench over to my car, Waffles trotting
along behind happily, still chewing. “He already had an Egg McMuffin. I guess I should’ve
gotten him a bratwurst.”

“He’s an animal!” agreed Annie equably. “Very in tune with his desires. Hey, that
can be very Zen and honest.”

Just as I popped open the trunk and stashed the bookends, a big white truck pulled
up to a few spaces down from me. On its side was scrolled, elegant black lettering
that read simply “Colkett.”

“Bye, Annie!” I said hastily, eyeing the truck with naked curiosity as Annie ambled
back to her table, waving farewell.
What were the most upscale florists/landscape designers in Philadelphia doing schlepping
it at Stoltzfus’s?

Of course, that the Colketts might find things here that were useful in their floral
business was possible. There were some pretty vases and planters at one stand, and
great old wrought-­iron and wicker pieces at another that they could paint and restore,
which might come in handy for clients, but frankly, the Colketts seemed too fancy
for flea-­marketing. The one time I convinced Holly to come here with me, she took
one look at an toothless dealer stationed near the parking lot, said she was “scared,”
got back into the car, and refused to get out again until we were back in Bryn Mawr.

I watched the two florists hop nimbly out of their truck and head inside the roomy
barn, then trailed after them as inconspicuously as I could, given that I was accompanied
by an oversize basset hound. I wasn’t sure Waffles was allowed in the indoor part
of the flea market, but I decided to risk it. ­People in Lancaster County tend to
be pretty dog-­friendly.

Inside the barn, the Colketts stopped briefly at a vendor who had some lovely Limoges
china, bought a teapot painted with delicate roses, and then went right to the beer
stand. They each got a twenty-­ounce pilsner and went to one of the benches, carefully
dusting off the seat with napkins before they sat down.

Now, this was shocking. The Colketts drinking beer? I didn’t see that one coming.

I wasn’t sure why, but I felt compelled to talk to them, like I was possessed by the
inquisitive spirit of Bootsie. Since they were now working for Sophie Shields, I might
learn something of interest about Sophie or her husband. So Waffles and I made our
way to the bar, and after I ordered a small Summer Ale, I looked over and smiled.

“Hi! Didn’t I meet you at Gianni’s opening the other night?” I asked them. “You did
those beautiful topiaries and flowers.” I didn’t mention anything about having watched
Gianni rip into them and assault them, as I didn’t think this was a good topic to
stimulate sparkling conversation.

“Oh, hi, doll,” said one of the Colketts, who was turned out in a handsome light yellow
checked sport coat. He looked ready for the paddock at Ascot, but was a bit overdressed
for Stoltzfus’s. He shook my hand politely, and introduced himself as Tom Colkett.
“Cute dog,” he added as he noticed Waffles, though in truth he looked semi-­horrified
at the chubby mutt before him. “This is Tim Colkett,” he added, gesturing to the man
next to him, and I greeted the other Colkett, who was clearly the one Gianni had nailed
with the pomegranate; his ear was still red and swollen, and there was a bandage just
under his scalp. “We were just visiting our greenhouses out here, they’re a few miles
down Route 100,” Tim explained.

“You’re friends with Holly Jones, right?” he added. “We’ve done work for her and her
ex! Remember the Yellow Non-­Valentine Valentine’s Day Party?”

I did remember. It had been in Holly’s old penthouse downtown when Holly had decided
that pink and red were “over” for Valentine’s Day, and had her entire apartment draped
in pale yellow silk for a dinner party for seventy-­five ­people. Every table had
had towering vases filled with lemons topped with towering lemon-­tree branches, and
there had been something like four thousand votive candles on the terrace and no electric
lights. It had been actually a very beautiful party.

“That was fab!” I told them.

“That was us!” said Tom proudly. “And let me tell you, trying to get four hundred
live lemon branches to Philadelphia in February is no cakewalk!”

“Isn’t this beer delicious?” said the other Colkett, as Waffles hovered near him,
sniffing his handmade suede shoes. I realized I still had no idea what the relationship
was between the men. They was a resemblance between them, but were they brothers?

“Sorry!” I said, yanking Waffles back over toward me and trying to surreptitiously
remove some drool from his whiskers with a beer-­garden napkin. “The beer
is
great,” I agreed. We chatted about Holly’s new Divorce House for a few minutes—­the
Colketts would be landscaping it to resemble the grounds of Holly’s favorite hotel
in Italy. “We give divorce discounts!” said Tom Colkett. “And for Holly, we’d do anything.
She’s so fabulously impractical.”

The Colketts were clearly in a talkative mood, so I mustered my inner Bootsie and
pressed on. I’m usually a failure at producing tasty morsels of gossip, which irks
Bootsie. She’d grill me mercilessly once she heard I’d run into the Colketts, so I
desperately threw out what I hoped was a conversation opener. “Did you ever work out
your fee with the chef?” I asked. “He, er, seemed a little mercurial the night at
his party,” I added lamely.

“We’re dealing with Jessica, his girlfriend, on the flowers for the restaurant now,”
explained Tom Colkett. “She’s a lot more reasonable than Gianni. Not that he’s
un
reasonable,” he added nervously, backtracking. “Just, um, temperamental. Talented
beyond belief, though.”

“A genius with pasta. And his veal chops are even better,” agreed Tim, rubbing his
red ear agitatedly.

“But his temper is kind of deranged, don’t you think?” I felt a little buzzed from
the Summer Ale so early in the day, which made me blunter than I’d usually be. I didn’t
want to annoy the Colketts, but maybe they knew more about Gianni and Barclay’s feud,
having been around the restaurant a lot. In what I hoped was a casual tone, I added,
“Did you ever hear about his disagreement with Barclay Shields? I mean, a lot of ­people
hate Barclay Shields, but he and the chef really loathe each other.”

Both Colketts looked alarmed, drained their beers, and got up, dusting off their jackets.
They looked at each other, and finally Tim Colkett spoke.

“Look, doll, we don’t want to get involved,” he said urgently. “Not that we know anything,
of course,” he added, turning pink and running his hands through his hair. “We’re
just trying to make an honest living. Look at my ear! I’m still hoping to get one
hundred percent of my hearing back after the pomegranate incident the other night.”

“You know how it is. Business has to come first. We’re out here picking up some trees
and rosebushes for Mrs. Shields’s party tomorrow night,” whispered Tom. “She’s redoing
her entire yard in one day. You gotta respect that. And our policy is, we get along
with everyone. Well, everyone that can afford us, that is,” he added.

“Well, cheerio,” said Tim, grabbing his companion. The two drained their glasses,
got up, and dashed out of the barn.

I stared after them, confused. Were they just scared that Gianni would physically
attack them again—­maybe with something more dangerous than dried fruit—­if he heard
that the Colketts talked about him behind his back, or did the guys actually know
something damning about Gianni that related to Barclay’s attack? And were they brothers?

I went back out to the car with Waffles, gave him water in his portable bowl, then
we packed up and went to a barn sale out in Lancaster. We scored a few great items,
packed up, and turned toward home.

Once up in the front seat next to me, Waffles lay down with a giant thump. He drank
another bowl of water, which seemed like a good idea given his cookie binge. He looked
a little green around the gills. He sighed heavily and peered at his belly, looking
depressed. All that quinoa couldn’t be feeling good in his stomach.

I patted his head, and looked around at the lengthening shadows of the leafy apple
orchards that graced the bucolic farms we were passing. It really was so gorgeous
here. Life was simple. ­People worked hard, and no doubt slept as soundly as boulders
until they rose with the sun to thresh wheat and build barns.

Maybe I could change my life up entirely
, I thought suddenly. I’d find a brawny, stoic Amish man who’d forgo the sect’s no-­makeup
rule and allow me to wear mascara and lip gloss, and together we’d sip lemonade on
Sunday afternoons while lambs grazed in our yard. Waffles and I would give up borrowing
Holly’s expensive shoes and struggling to pay the bills, and adopt simpler pleasures.

But then again, I don’t know if I’m really the farming type.

And right now, it was almost cocktail hour, and I was really thirsty. Also, I couldn’t
miss Sophie’s party tomorrow night. I’d have to table this Amish idea for a while.
After unloading my purchases into the back room of The Striped Awning, we headed home.
Waffles spent some quality time behind his bush and emerged looking relieved while
I took a bath, and we both went to bed at our favorite hour: eight-­thirty.

Chapter 7

B
OOTS
IE WAS IN
my driveway honking impatiently at four twenty-­five the next afternoon, thirty minutes
earlier than she was supposed to pick me up for Sophie’s symphony benefit, but I was
dressed and ready to go. I’d had a productive day cleaning up my yard and had stopped
into the store to polish the silver acorns and serving pieces I’d bought in Lancaster
County. I’d even gone to the 11 a.m. church ser­vice, then splurged on a five-­dollar
mocha at Starbucks. This was my perfect version of a Sunday.

“This party is going to be huge!” Bootsie crowed as I climbed into her giant SUV,
wearing a fantastic yellow sundress that Holly had given to me after wearing it once
to the post office and deciding she was “tired of it.”

“Bootsie, the event doesn’t start till five,” I said. “And Sophie’s house is less
than a mile away.”

“Who cares?” shouted Bootsie, gunning her engine and throwing the gearshift into reverse.
“Everyone in Philadelphia is early for parties. Eula Morris knows that. This shindig
will kick off at four-­thirty, mark my words.”

Bootsie roared out of the driveway on two wheels, and Mario-­Andrettied the short
distance to the Shields mansion.

“Sophie told me yesterday that she’s worried Barclay’s going to crash the party tonight,”
I told Bootsie, while my eyes adjusted to the mind-­boggling lime-­green pattern of
her Lilly Pulitzer dress. “If he gets out of the hospital, he’d love to make things
uncomfortable for her in front of the symphony crowd.”

“Sophie doesn’t need to worry about Barclay coming tonight,” Bootsie replied, two-­wheeling
it around a corner of Dark Hollow Road. “He’s still in the hospital, and won’t get
sprung until Friday at the earliest. He wanted to leave this afternoon, but as soon
as they wheeled him out of the hospital, Barclay collapsed in the parking lot. They
did an EKG in the emergency room, and immediately had to perform an angioplasty.”

At this, Bootsie sniffed disapprovingly. Bootsie doesn’t believe in angioplasties,
or in being fat. She comes from the kind of family that thinks that no matter what
the problem, a brisk jog, an aspirin, and a bracing five-­mile swim around an icy
lake will cure you. Whenever Bootsie’s mother, Kitty Delaney, gains a pound, she eats
nothing but avocadoes and grapefruit for a week, and Bootsie subscribes to the same
spartan regimen.

“Jeannie, our old sitter, was just arriving for her nursing shift and saw the whole
thing,” Bootsie continued happily. “Now Barclay’s on clear liquids, and they’ve given
him a bunch of pamphlets about lap-­band surgery,” she continued, delivering this
news with some relish. “He’s stuck there for at least five more days. And he’s scared
that someone’s going to try to kill him again, so he hired a security guard and stationed
the guy outside his room.”

“Did Jeannie the nurse fill you in about Barclay’s visitors on Friday?”

“Of course,” Bootsie replied. “Two guys with Jersey accents, in black jeans and leather
blazers. They were pissed off about not getting in to see Barclay, and said they were
relatives.”

“Make that Beppe,” I told her. “That’s Barclay’s real name: Beppe Santino. His nickname
was the Forklift, before he had to leave North Jersey when his parents were killed
in a suspicious catering-­hall incident.”

“Are you kidding me!” shrieked Bootsie. “That’s fantastic. I had a feeling there was
more to Barclay’s past!”

“Let’s just hope the cousins don’t show up at Sophie’s,” I said. “I don’t think Eula
Morris was counting on anything other than tomatoes arriving from Jersey tonight.”

Bootsie took a left and squealed into a long driveway flanked by arbor vitae, where
she almost crashed into Holly and Joe, who’d pulled into the valet parking line before
us in Joe’s Range Rover. Bootsie was right—­we didn’t need to worry about being early.
There were already a dozen cars queued up to be parked. No one could wait to inspect
Sophie, or more importantly, her house. Since I’m as inquisitive as anyone else, I
craned my neck out the window to try to see around the line of expensive SUVs into
Sophie’s property.

I’d never gotten a glimpse of the inner recesses of the Shields estate before, since
it was hidden from the road by those enormous hedges. Now, though, a palatial, monstrous
structure loomed ahead, evoking Cinderella’s castle at Disney World in size and scope.
Overhead, the letters BS were woven into the arched gate of a wrought-­iron fence
that soared above the driveway.

“BS!” shrieked Bootsie. “I love it. This is going to be great!”