Killer WASPs

by Amy Korman

  “I’m heading up to check out the kitchen,” Bootsie said.

  “Don’t touch anything!” I told her, knowing full well she’d likely post photos of the contents of Sophie’s refrigerator and cabinets on Twitter.

  Five minutes later, I brought the empty boxes out to the U-­Haul, then went back in the house to grab Bootsie and say good-­bye to Joe. I was surprised to see Gerda in the front hallway, since I figured she’d be forcing Sophie to labor through at least an hour of Pilates. She gave me a wary glare as she bounded athletically toward the basement stairs.

  Uh-­oh, I thought, petrified that Gerda would be able to tell that Bootsie had infiltrated her cave.

  Bootsie had chattily shared with me—­while I’d finished unpacking and she texted her friends at the newspaper—­that her parents had never once guessed that she and her brothers had consistently raided the locked liquor cabinet. This wasn’t a reassuring piece of information, because I’ve known Bootsie’s parents my whole life, and while they’re very nice ­people, I’d bet that Gerda could outsmart them when it came to security any day of the week. The Delaneys, Bootsie’s mom and dad, are great for knowing things like when sales are coming up at L.L. Bean, or the right amount of Tabasco to perk up a Bloody Mary, but they aren’t ­people that, say, the CIA would hire.

  Apparently, Sophie was done early today with her Pilates because she and Joe were now embroiled in a decorating discussion, and it wasn’t going well. They were in Sophie’s mauve dining room. Sophie was pouting, while Joe was perspiring under his crisp white shirt.

  “I think a more neutral color palette will lend some, uh, gravitas to the house,” Joe was explaining in strained but patient tones. He rummaged in his briefcase for some fabric swatches and opened the paint fan deck to the beige paint chips.

  “What do you mean neutral?” Sophie was asking. She looked a little winded from the Pilates, but still perky. She bounced up and down energetically on the balls of her feet. “Make sure it isn’t green. Especially army green. Not that I don’t support the army, I do. Those ­people are heroes. I love soldiers. And they’re usually hot young guys, let’s be honest! But I don’t want to feel like I’m in the army.”

  “I was thinking of more of an oyster color,” explained Joe in the tone you use with a two-­year-­old who’s is about to have a candy-­aisle meltdown, flipping to the pale beige section of his paint chips. Bootsie appeared next to Joe, and showed no sign of leaving him and Sophie to hash out their paint differences.

  “No way!” shrieked Sophie. “I hate oysters! They’re disgusting, and slimy. Barclay likes oysters, he said they make him horny, which—­believe you me—­is not a good memory for me. One time we were in Miami, and he ordered oysters at the Fontainebleau, we had all these huge platters of them sent up to our suite, and then he wanted me to tie him to this chair on the balcony and—­”

  “Okay, forget oyster!” interjected Joe. “Let’s go with this color, a beautiful beige. And for your bedroom, a cool ice blue.” He hastily shoved some paint samples toward her.

  “Isn’t beige kinda boring?” whined Sophie.

  “Can we get back to what happened when you tied Barclay up?” Bootsie asked.

  “Beige is restful,” said Joe, looking at me desperately for backup.

  “Definitely,” I agreed quickly. “A lot of ­people in Bryn Mawr love that shade of beige, and I know Eula Morris would really like it. You could probably host a dinner here in the fall for the symphony once you’ve redecorated.”

  “Really?” squeaked Sophie, interested. “You’re saying beige is big around here?”

  “Beige is huge,” nodded Bootsie, who’d moved on from the Fontainebleau-­bondage scenario. “Eula loves beige.”

  Just then the doorbell rang, and the front door swung open. The Colketts were on the stoop, and smiled in their charming manner to everyone.

  “Choosing new paint?” said Tim Colkett cheerfully.

  “Hiya, guys. Come on in,” said Sophie, beckoning the Colketts inside, her small face scrunched into a frown of concentration. “Well, I guess this color’s okay, because I really like that symphony crowd. And Eula, she knows a lot of ­people. But I’m not sure I want to get rid of all the color,” she said, turning back to Joe. “What about keeping my bedroom pink?”

  “That’s not going to work,” said Joe firmly. He seemed a lot more confident now that he had the specter of Eula Morris as his ally.

  “Definitely, darling, you don’t want pink,” echoed a Colkett. “Only peonies should be pink.”

  I gazed at the Colketts, who were taking in the situation, amused. They couldn’t have been the ones who’d pushed Gianni down the stairs last night, I was positive. Or almost positive. Even though they had reason to hate the chef, and had been uncomfortably close to him at the very moment he’d taken his tumble, the Colketts just didn’t seem to have a mean bone anywhere inside their well-­dressed bodies.

  “There’s also my bathroom, or wait, even better, my closet!” Sophie cried. “My closet could be pink!”

  “The closet will be in a color related to the blue of your bedroom,” said Joe, “but we could go with a slightly deeper blue, or maybe wallpaper it in a Chinese floral pattern. I’ll think it over.”

  “What about something brighter for just one part of the shoe room?” Sophie asked hopefully. “We could do the Gucci section in a separate color—­like maybe gold?”

  “No gold,” Joe informed her.

  Sophie sulked for a moment, but appeared to be digesting Joe’s insistent stance against bright colors. Then she looked at me and piped up, “Hey Kristin, who was that tall guy you were talking to at the party last night? The one you introduced me to, the guy named John? Did he ask ya out or anything?”

  Bootsie’s nose twitched at this question, and Joe looked up from his briefcase with interest. Just then, though, I heard a loud stomping noise coming up the basement stairs. Gerda.

  I grabbed Bootsie’s hand and yanked her toward the front door.

  “Thank you, Sophie!” I called over my shoulder, and ran. Thankfully the Colketts hadn’t blocked in the U-­Haul with their truck, and for once, Bootsie didn’t dawdle.

  “WHO’S JOHN?” ASKED Bootsie as I sped toward my house.

  “He’s a guy I met over by the shrimp last night at Sophie’s,” I told her. “John Hall. He’s a veterinarian.”

  “And?” Bootsie prompted.

  “And, nothing. He didn’t ask me out, if that’s what you want to know,” I told her.

  “Was he cute?”

  “Yup, he was cute,” I confirmed. “If you like tall, handsome men, he was cute.” Bootsie rolled her eyes at me.

  “Married?”

  “He didn’t seem married, but I’m not sure,” I told her. Actually . . . was he married? That hadn’t occurred to me. He’d been alone at the party and had projected a distinctly single vibe, but then again, married guys have been known to do that. Maybe his wife had been over at the cheese and fruit table.

  Luckily, we were pulling into my driveway, so this conversation’s sell-­by date was coming fast. I’d pick up Waffles and then drop Bootsie at her office, which was less than a five-­minute drive away, then go to the store and get on with my life.

  “You’ve got to work on finding out more about the men you meet,” Bootsie lectured me as I parked. “You see a tall, good-­looking guy, you need to find out everything about him immediately. Where he lives, if he plays tennis, where he went to college, how he likes his steak cooked, and definitely whether or not he’s married. Or if you can’t do it yourself, you can wave me over, and I’ll do it for you.”

  “Kristin?” I heard an old and wavering voice emanating from the holly bushes next door. “Excuse me, dear, do you have a moment?” Hugh Best popped into view, a vision of skinny legs and rumpled gray hair framing a concerned expression. “My brother stormed out this morning over a small tiff we had, and he still isn’t back. And, well, I’m getting a bit worried.”
/>   I glanced at my watch—­eleven-­thirty in the morning. Hardly cause for alarm, I thought.

  “Well, Jimmy’s only been gone a ­couple of hours,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “He’s probably just out doing some errands, or, um, hitting some golf balls with a friend? I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

  “But he never shops. And he doesn’t have any friends! Jimmy sometimes goes to the liquor store and the cigar store, but that’s it. He refuses to even go to the Buy-­Right and do the food shopping, which is a good thing, because if it was up to him we’d be eating nothing but ham loaf and Fritos!” Hugh’s anger at his brother seemed intact, even if he was worried that Jimmy was missing.

  “Does he have a cell phone?” I asked, feeling fairly certain I knew the answer already.

  “Heavens, no,” said Hugh, horrified.

  “Er, well, maybe you could call the liquor store and see if he’s been there?” I suggested. Bootsie had cranked down her window and was listening with mild curiosity. This wasn’t gossip at the level she really appreciates, but if Jimmy Best was doing something dangerous or had gone off on a Scotch bender at the Bryn Mawr Pub, she’d at least need to know about it.

  “Maybe he’s in that back room at the cigar store,” Bootsie suggested to Hugh. “The room with the leather couches and ESPN on around the clock. My dad goes there a lot. You could give them a ring.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Hugh, brightening.

  “By the way, Hugh, where were you and Jimmy last Thursday when Barclay was getting whacked in the head?” Bootsie asked bluntly.

  Hugh looked startled. “Thursday?” He thought for a minute. “We went to Prime Rib Night at the club,” he said. “Were there all night, from six on, actually, since Jimmy got snockered and wouldn’t leave till after eleven.” He looked worried. “You can ask Ronnie the bartender, or anyone at the club. We weren’t anywhere near Sanderson!”

  “Great!” I said, relieved. I’d hate to think of the Bests spending the rest of their days in prison, which had to be worse than the conditions in their moldering old house. “Well, I’ll see you later, and I’m sure I’ll see Jimmy too, back home safe and sound.” Bootsie and I waved good-­bye as Hugh headed back inside. I retrieved Waffles, and the three of us peeled off toward town.

  “Looks like you’ve got a new best friend next door,” observed Bootsie as we drove back to her office. “Well, anyway, I’ll confirm the Bests’ alibis for Thursday during the time Barclay was attacked, but I believe Hugh. And I’ll look into that vet. I know I’ve heard of him,” she said slowly, taking on the faraway look she gets when her mind is whirring with her built-­in database of names and faces.

  “By the way, Bootsie,” I said, “you know that the Colketts popped out on the landing right after the chef was pushed—­or fell—­last night, don’t you?”

  “I didn’t know that,” she said, coming back briefly from her internal Google search. “Did you see them?”

  “Yup.” I nodded, feeling guilty about tattling on the Colketts, but not wanting to rule them out if they were cold-­hearted killers just because they were charming. It was bothering me that the Colketts, who obviously hated Gianni, had gone inside Sophie’s house moments before the chef’s tumble, and that they’d been so close to him when he fell. “But that doesn’t mean they pushed him,” I added hopefully. I’d much rather Gerda turn out to be the guilty party, given her critical temperament and lack of personal skills.

  “Hmm,” said Bootsie, unbuckling her seat belt determinedly as we pulled up at the newspaper’s yellow door. “And I was so sure it was Gerda. But I’ll keep the Colketts on my mental back burner. Plus Channing coming back to Sophie’s this morning is interesting,” she noted. “Returning to the scene of the crime. Just like the Colketts!”

  “Well, Channing had to come back to Sophie’s to pick up Gianni’s equipment, and the Colketts are still working on Sophie’s yard, but maybe they were also able to hide evidence or something,” I said doubtfully, adding, “Thanks for the help this morning. I really appreciate it.” Actually, Bootsie hadn’t been all that much help, but at least she’d done some of the heavy lifting at the store.

  “I’ll be in touch!” Bootsie promised. “I’m getting on my computer right now. As soon as find out all about that vet you met, I’ll see what I can dig up on Channing and the Colketts. And we’ll have to find a way back into Sophie’s house. I haven’t given up on snooping through Gerda’s desk!”

  Chapter 13

  IT WAS JUST before noon when Waffles and I got to the store. We’d returned the rented truck and picked up our car, and I felt optimistic as I unlocked the door. I was looking forward to getting the store organized, and, truthfully, to being free of Bootsie’s company for the rest of the day.

  Waffles took up residence on his dog bed, while I went in the back room to see what would be suitable for restocking the sales floor. A ­couple of hours later, I was feeling pretty optimistic. Somehow, what I’d managed to squirrel away in storage actually filled up the shop nicely. There was a small writing desk, some curvy Louis XV–style chairs (“in the style of,” in antiques parlance, which meant that they were twentieth-­century versions, not really antiques, but still attractive vintage pieces), and Limoges plates that I arranged on shelves in the front room. With the addition of some botanical prints I’d been saving and now hung in symmetrical rows over the writing desk, things quickly looked a lot better. The bench and other pieces I’d bought out at the flea markets over the weekend filled out the retail area. The Striped Awning was a functioning shop again.

  The storefront space isn’t very big, so I basically always put all the things I like on one side of the store—­funky old Venetian mirrors, 1930s vanities, oversize crystal chandeliers are on the right side. The things that most of my customers like, which are needlepoint pillows, anything Queen Anne or Chippendale, and old silver tea sets, I usually arrange on the left. One wall is painted pale pink, the other silver, and somehow everything ends up working together. Finally, I hung a Swedish-­style wooden chandelier in the center of the store, where I had the ceiling rigged for the constantly changing light fixtures that came in, were sold, and were replaced.

  I was polishing up the silver acorn bookends I’d gotten from Annie and Jenny, the hippie antiques dealers at Stoltzfus’s, when the phone rang.

  “I’m not sure I can do this job at Sophie’s,” said Joe, a note of hysteria rising in his voice. “She’s refused to give up the cherub table in the hall, and she’s digging in on the pool statues, too. I’m out of Xanax, and I’ve actually thought about killing myself today. Twice.”

  “Sophie needs you!” I told him. “She’ll come around on the cherubs.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I keep telling myself,” he said, sounding depressed. “I’ve never quit a job before, and I’m not sure I can afford to fire Sophie as my client. The Colketts have been here for hours, arguing with her about the Aphrodites and Dianas. They’re in worse shape than I am. One of them is sitting behind their truck crying.”

  “Sophie seems like the kind of person who could be easily influenced by celebrities,” I suggested. “Why don’t you bring over a book on Hollywood homes and tell her that, um, Eva Longoria doesn’t have any glitter tables?”

  “Okay,” sighed Joe. “That might work.”

  I was still having nagging thoughts about the Colketts. It seemed impossible to think of the good-­natured florists as cold-­blooded murderers, until I remembered the humiliation they’d suffered when the chef attacked them. Everyone has their limits, and maybe they’d been pushed to the edge.

  “Joe, do you think the Colketts could have shoved the chef off the balcony last night?” I asked. “Gianni really embarrassed them at his restaurant opening, and they could have easily pushed him. They were there at Sophie’s all day yesterday, getting her yard ready for the party, so they know the house and could have been lurking in a closet or something.”

  “I guess it’s possible,”
said Joe doubtfully. “But I doubt it. I don’t think they’d take a grudge that far. Besides, Tim Colkett got his hearing back and the swelling went down, so there’s no permanent damage. Anyway, I gotta get back to Sophie, but Holly and I will be at the club at five. She’s bringing me some spare anxiety meds.” I promised to meet them later, and as soon as I hung up, the phone jingled again.

  “Hugh Best calling,” said my neighbor. “Still no sign of my brother.”

  “Did you try the cigar store?”

  “Yup, and Jimmy was there early this morning,” said Hugh. “Right after he left home, he went and bought three boxes of cigars. He sat and smoked one in the back room with the ESPN and the leather couches, then took off. But that was hours ago!”

  “Three boxes? That sounds like a lot,” I said. Maybe Jimmy really was setting out on a road trip.

  “I know! He’s probably driving to Atlantic City right now to gamble all our money away!”

  “Is he a gambler?” I asked, surprised. Jimmy struck me as the type who might wager a dollar on a golf putt or a Scrabble match, but that’s about it.

  “Well, no, but I know he likes the cocktail waitresses there,” said Hugh miserably.

  “Why don’t you call the casinos? See if he’s registered as a hotel guest,” I suggested. “I’ll check in with you in a ­couple of hours to see how things are going.”

  Hugh agreed and hung up, and I greeted a few post-­luncheon customers, including a young ­couple getting married later in the month who bought some pillows and promised to think about coming back for the small bench.

  Despite the foot traffic, I was unable to squelch thoughts of Mike Woodford from suddenly popping into my mind. Did he actually enjoy putting on a blue blazer and escorting Honey Potts to parties? Did he like the symphony? Maybe he could actually tell Beethoven from, say, Wagner.

  Then I had a vision of John the cute vet holding his plate of crab claws, looking tan and wholesome. As I placed the polished acorn bookends I’d gotten at the flea market on a shelf, I realized it had been nice to engage in conversation with someone who emanated steadiness and normalcy, and who didn’t seem likely to become a resident of Phuket anytime soon.