by Amy Korman
That was it? He’s “gotta go”? Apparently so, since he was already gone from sight.
“Be careful,” I called after him, suddenly feeling worried that he might get bashed in the head, too.
“I don’t build ugly houses, so I should be fine.”
Chapter 11
THE NEXT MORNING I woke up with a head that felt like it was stuffed into a helmet that was three sizes too small. Ugh. Scotch. My face felt raw from Mike’s stubble, and I was as thirsty as Chevy Chase in the desert sequence of the first Vacation movie.
I checked the weather from my bedroom window, which was breezy and cloud-free, and froze when I noticed movement on the Bests’ porch. Jimmy poked his head out, looked both ways, then ran out and grabbed his newspaper from the front lawn. He had a towel on.
“Phew!” I said to Waffles, then shut up, because it hurt to talk. This was a hangover that only a fried-egg sandwich and a giant coffee could cure.
Then I had a sudden flash of hope, realizing it was Monday, and Visa should have deposited Sophie’s funds into my checking account. I dialed the bank to get my automatic balance update over the phone. Forty-five seconds later, I sprang out of bed, let Waffles out in the backyard, and practically danced back upstairs and into the shower with the kind of joy that can only come when you’ve just found out that there’s more than seven thousand dollars in your bank account.
I could pay down my rent and settle my credit card balance! I could buy Waffles some new rawhide bones, and right after I got dressed and out of the shower, we were going to go get the biggest, most overpriced lattes in Bryn Mawr! My hangover instantly disappeared.
Forty-five minutes later, Waffles and I pulled out of Starbucks with four venti lattes anchored in a carrier, and aimed for the U-Haul rental behind the Sunoco station. Renting a truck took just ten minutes, and soon we were headed down Lancaster Avenue to pick up Bootsie. I’d called her earlier, catching her while she was dropping her kids off at nursery school, hoping she was still up for helping me move the stuff into Sophie’s house, which of course she was.
In the few minutes it took for me to drive over to Bootsie’s office, I briefly reviewed the night before and planned to leave the make-out session with Mike out of my chat with Bootsie. Bootsie can be surprisingly sex-obsessed, and tries to instigate other people into wild schtupping sessions as often as possible. I knew she’d eventually find out I’d kissed Mike, but decided to postpone the embarrassing questions as long as I could.
As I pulled up to the Gazette, Bootsie looked like she was about to explode with gossip. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes bright, and her toes tapping in the whale sandals.
“I’ve got a lot of news,” she said, climbing into my car. “Most of it about Gianni, some of it about Barclay, and a little bit about Sophie Shields.”
Even though I was still feeling the aftereffects of Mike’s stubble on my neck, I wondered if Bootsie had any information about the cute vet, John Hall. Then again, I didn’t have time to have a crush on a vet. I had to focus on Sophie’s delivery, and on getting the store restocked and ready for business. Also, I had to focus on not having a crush on Mike Woodford. I banished all thoughts of men from my mind and sucked down some coffee.
The Bryn Mawr Gazette offices, which are in an old limestone-fronted bank building, had been spruced up a bit in the past few days, I noticed. Planters on the steps to the front door had been filled with ivy and white geraniums, and the door had been painted a cheery yellow. Bootsie gratefully accepted her latte and was dumping Sugar in the Raw into it as we drove to The Striped Awning to meet Gerda and Sophie.
“I like that new front door to your office,” I told Bootsie, hoping to distract her from Waffles, who was currently breathing down her neck and wagging at her from the backseat. “Very south of France!”
“Circulation’s doubled with all the Barclay Shields news”—she nodded, pushing Waffles’s nose away—“so we’re making a few improvements. And this week’s bound to be even better. We’ve got Sophie’s party and Chef Gianni’s accident on page one. By the way, the chef is having some MRIs done, but so far his only real injury seems to be a broken ankle.
“Marcus, our society photographer, got a fabulous shot of Gianni mid-fall,” Bootsie added. “He actually captured the moment of impact when Gianni took out the cellist. See?”
She shoved the newspaper into my lap when I paused at a red light. Yup, that was a nice shot, I had to admit. It really did give a visceral sense of the “splat” of chef-on-cellist.
Bootsie looked really good today. As usual, she was beaming with good health and tanned muscles honed by tennis and a lifetime of eating plenty of fresh vegetables and drinking one-percent milk. Her outfit was pretty subdued for her, maybe because she figured there was no point in putting on full Lilly Pulitzer to schlep furniture. She had on khakis, a pink polo shirt, and the aforementioned sandals. She was wearing a flowered belt, but that was it in terms of floral motifs.
“And while I really shouldn’t be talking about this, I can tell you,” she said in a confiding tone, “that Gianni’s fall definitely wasn’t an accident. One of his waiters who was just about to come back up the kitchen stairs swears he saw someone reach out and give the chef a shove.”
“What?” I said skeptically. “Those waiters couldn’t have seen anything from down there.”
“This one did!” Bootsie insisted. “His name’s Jason. And he’s an engineering student at Penn, so he’s no dummy. He saw a hand emerge from the kitchen door and give Gianni a good hard push!
“And,” Bootsie continued, “Jason particularly noticed that the hand that shoved Gianni was jewelry-free, and the person wasn’t wearing nail polish. Other than that, he couldn’t say much. It wasn’t a really big hand, he did notice that. Sort of medium-size. Could have been a man’s hand, if the man was on the small side, or a woman’s hand.”
“Where were all the cooks and people working in the kitchen? Wouldn’t they have noticed someone shoving the chef? He was standing right outside the kitchen when he fell . . . or got pushed,” I said mildly.
“Cigarette break!” Bootsie said. “All four cooks were outside, smoking on Sophie’s front steps. And that incredibly hot guy who was leaving the party with Jessica, the one with the muscles? I asked Officer Walt about him. You know who I mean, right?” Bootsie’s eyes took on a lascivious glow.
I nodded. I remembered. It’s not like there are that many gorgeous twenty-something guys with incredible cheekbones, dreamy eyes, and biceps rippling through their T-shirts roaming around Bryn Mawr. It’s no Miami or Malibu.
“The guy’s name is Channing. And he doesn’t smoke,” Bootsie told me, “so he wasn’t out in front with the other cooks. But he wasn’t in the kitchen when Gianni got pushed, either.”
Bootsie paused for effect. “Apparently, Channing was somewhere else in the front yard, with Jessica, while she was having a cigarette.”
I wasn’t sure what Bootsie’s emphatic phrasing signified, but I assumed it conveyed suspicion about what Channing and Jessica had been doing outside. As always, Bootsie was hinting toward sex or make-out scenarios that might not have happened. Then again, the hot muscle-y guy and Jessica had indeed looked as if they were on intimate terms when we’d seen them the night before at Sophie’s house.
“But this Jason might have imagined the whole thing about Gianni being pushed,” I said, getting back to the chef’s fall. “I know people hate Chef Gianni, but it seems pretty reckless for someone to shove him over a railing in the middle of a crowded party. I think Sophie’s right, and it was a slippery shrimp incident.”
“No way!” shouted Bootsie, grabbing the Bryn Mawr Gazette back and waving it at me. “This was a targeted attack on Gianni.”
“I guess so,” I said doubtfully. “You don’t think one of Barclay’s Jersey relatives could have had anything to do with pushing Gianni, do you?” I added. I couldn’t imagine why the Newark cousins wo
uld have it in for the chef, and no one had mentioned seeing any unexpected guests at Sophie’s party, but I’d much rather blame professional criminals for the attack than pin it on someone local.
“Not a chance. Someone would have noticed two goombahs like that wandering around,” Bootsie speculated. “I think it was Gerda.”
Oh great, I thought, since we were about two seconds away from seeing Gerda. Hopefully she wouldn’t push one of us down Sophie’s stairs while we were lugging furniture into the house.
“Besides, the reason that I know Gianni was pushed,” Bootsie continued, her blue eyes gleaming with exultation, “is that Gianni got his own cream-colored handwritten note like Barclay’s!”
At this moment, we were pulling up to The Striped Awning. There was Sophie, looking minuscule at the wheel of the Escalade. Gerda was beside her, looking at her watch pointedly as we drove up. Even though I knew we weren’t late, I felt anxious and guilty.
“You waited till now to tell me there was a note?” I said. Bootsie has an annoying habit of waiting until a conversation is ending before doling out the pertinent item of gossip, and this was one of those times. “What exactly did the note to Gianni say?”
“Shh!” Bootsie warned me, putting her finger to her lips, pointing through her open window to Gerda.
I rolled my eyes. Obviously, I wasn’t going to talk about this in front of Gerda the Computer Hacker. “I’ll tell you after we pack up,” Bootsie hissed.
We hopped out of the U-Haul, me bearing extra venti lattes for Gerda and Sophie, and Waffles bolting from the back and leaping out onto the sidewalk after Bootsie.
“Hi, Sophie, and hi, er, Gerda! I got you a decaf soy latte, Gerda, since Sophie mentioned you’re vegan. And Sophie, yours is nonfat.”
“My fave!” said Sophie, who was clad in a pink Juicy Couture tracksuit and pink sneakers. “Gerda won’t mind just this once if I down some caffeine. And you better believe I need it, after the night we had!”
Gerda’s expression, however, was cloudy as she regarded Sophie sipping her venti drink, and became even stormier as she glanced down at the giant coffee I had offered her. “It’s, er, decaf. And soy,” I repeated hopefully.
“Starbucks, very bad. Mass product, sugar, all bad,” Gerda said, waving the drink away. This really rubbed me the wrong way. I love Starbucks, and it’s a luxury I can’t afford on my Dunkin’ Donuts budget. “Um, okay,” I said. I didn’t know what to do, so I walked over a few steps and put the venti cup in the big public trash can on the corner of Lancaster Avenue.
“Gerda’s such a stickler!” giggled Sophie nervously, looking embarrassed. “Hiya, doggie!” she added, patting Waffles timidly on his brown head.
“What is this?” said Gerda, gazing down at Waffles, who was panting at her feet, looking incredibly cute and friendly. His brown eyes and huge ears were irresistible! Even Gerda would have to admit that.
“This is Waffles, my dog,” I said proudly.
Gerda eyed Waffles critically for a few moments.
“He is fat load,” she pronounced, finally. “This animal needs more exercise. And you are causing problem by spoiling him with fatty foods.”
The Egg McMuffins we’d eaten over the weekend flashed before me. And then there’d been the Havarti and crackers we’d shared last night before bed. And the breakfast sandwich I’d just gotten him from Starbucks. He’d eaten it in about five seconds, and I’d tossed the wrappers in the U-Haul office trash can so Bootsie, another health nut, wouldn’t see it.
“He’s just big-boned,” I told her, trying to sound neutral, though I was boiling inside. I guess the truth hurts. Waffles probably could use a few more long walks and a few less sandwiches. “Well, thank you for helping us move this stuff,” I added, hoping to defuse the situation.
“Will be easy,” Gerda proclaimed to us. She eyed Bootsie’s tawny, muscled form with beaming approval, and then turned her gaze to me and my Old Navy flip-flops ($2.99), Target dress ($24.99), and lack of bulging biceps (obviously no time or money had been spent on them). Disappointment spread quickly across her face. What the hell, I thought, annoyed, as I unlocked the store. First she dissed Waffles, and now she was dissing me.
“No security system?” Gerda asked disapprovingly as I unlocked the door, and we walked into the store. “Is bad idea, eh?”
“Oh, it’s very safe around here!” I chirped breezily. “No one’s into crime in Bryn Mawr. They’re more into tennis and dogs.”
“I think not,” Gerda intoned. “Mr. Shields was nailed pretty good the other night.”
I briefly considered telling Gerda to go screw herself, but I wanted to stay on good terms with Sophie. Plus Gerda was right about my flimsy old door lock. The security at The Striped Awning isn’t too impressive.
When we all got inside, I picked up the heaviest box, and almost threw out my back, so I put it down, and Gerda and Bootsie toted it out. I carried out some newspaper-wrapped serving dishes and a small box of silver to the truck, while for her part, Sophie carried out a pillow, then stood watching and making helpful suggestions while the three of us did the schlepping.
Thanks to Gerda and Bootsie, we had everything packed into the truck in ten minutes flat.
“We meet you at house in a few minutes,” said Gerda, as Sophie scrambled into the driver’s seat of the SUV. I nodded sourly at her, and locked up.
“She’s kind of rude, but she keeps herself in good shape,” said Bootsie, climbing back into my car after Waffles.
“So when did Gianni get the threatening note? And what did it say?” I asked, easing out of my parking spot in front of the store and heading for a stop at my house to drop off Waffles, so as not to subject him to any more of Gerda’s verbal abuse.
“Gianni’s note was left in his car. He’s got an old Fiat, he’s really proud of it because it’s an Italian classic. Actually, it’s a really cool old convertible, and last night after she left the hospital, Jessica came back to Sophie’s to pick up the Fiat for Gianni. I was still there, of course.”
Of course. It was a good thing I’d left the party with Hugh Best. I couldn’t imagine what time Bootsie had left Sophie’s. Thankfully, she and Will have a live-in nanny, because you can never predict what time Bootsie might get home if there’s any kind of gossip-worthy episode.
“Anyway, the note was sitting on the driver’s seat. It had Gianni’s name on the front, and read, ‘You are swine.’ ”
I digested this for a minute as we drove past the country club, and steered the U-Haul onto my road.
“Interesting,” I said. “Though given what we’ve seen of Gianni’s behavior over the past few days, calling him swine might be an insult to the pork community. But does the note really mean that Gianni was pushed over that railing?”
Bootsie nodded. “I’m positive the note was a warning that Gianni ignored!” she said. “Though, I have to admit, his food is outrageously awesome. That’s why people keep hiring him to cater their parties. ”
“I guess it could be an employee with a grudge who pushed him—if he was pushed over the balcony, that is,” I mused aloud.
“But the swine comment is harsh, don’t you think?” I added. “It seems so specific. Not many people would come up with that word.”
“Gerda would,” said Bootsie confidently. “I mean, she just called your dog a fat load.”
I nodded, since I was thinking the same thing. Gerda didn’t mince words.
“For now, my money’s on Gerda,” Bootsie concluded. “She’s strong, and she knows the house inside out. Plus she was inside while Gianni was in the kitchen, and it would have been easy for her to sneak up and, boom!—push the chef right off that little overhang.”
“I guess,” I agreed doubtfully.
“I made a reservation at Gianni’s restaurant for Friday night for me and Will. I can snoop around while I’m there, and see what the mood among the staff is like,” Bootsie said, as we pulled up to my house. “Mummy went
to dinner at Gianni on Saturday night, and you know she never eats anywhere but the club. She said she fainted for a minute when she tasted the truffled tagliatelle—that’s how good it was! So it’s got to be someone who’s not into food—like Gerda!—writing these notes,” Bootsie summarized. “Because as much as you can hate Gianni personally, his pasta is perfection.”
I wasn’t sure this theory made too much sense, but Bootsie did have a point about Gianni’s food being awesome, I thought as I parked and attempted to get Waffles out of the rented truck and into the house. He sat wedged at Bootsie’s feet, looking stubborn.
“Come on, Waffles,” I wheedled, trying to sound excited and happy, which the dog could tell was bullshit. His big brown eyes stared at me from under Bootsie’s knees, projecting No way at me. When Waffles doesn’t want to move, you can’t budge his basset ass without an incentive. So I ran inside, grabbed two Beggin’ Strips, and waved them at him to lure him into the yard. Luckily, there’s never been a time when Waffles said no to fake bacon. He jumped out happily and trotted into the gate and up to the back door into the kitchen, where I gave him the treats, locked the door, and ran back to the car.
Bootsie said nothing, but her expression was pure disapproval. Her Labs never needed bribes to get moving.
Just then, the Best brothers’ ancient Volvo roared down the hill next to me, billowing its usual plumes of smoke. It went by fast, but I could see Jimmy at the wheel, fully clothed, with what appeared to be a carload of cardboard boxes and paintings. He gave me and Bootsie a friendly wave, then aimed a stiff middle finger toward his brother Hugh, who was standing by their gate, shouting something and looking frantic.
I would have stopped to see if I could help Hugh, but frankly, it looked like a situation I didn’t want to get involved in. Plus I was too frightened of Gerda to make her wait, so we steered out of the driveway and took off once the smoke from the Volvo had cleared a bit.
