by Amy Korman
Meanwhile, Channing hotfooted it around the side of the building toward the side entrance to the kitchen. I wondered if John noticed any of this, but his back had been to them and he seemed oblivious. He good-naturedly joined in the applause, then asked me in an upbeat way, “So, how do you feel about gnocchi?”
FORTY MINUTES LATER, I took a bite of homemade spaghetti pomodoro. I’m pretty sure it was the best thing I’ve ever tasted. This isn’t saying all that much because I don’t cook, and the menu at the club, where I usually dine out, hasn’t varied in the last thirty years. It’s basically limited to Reubens, prime rib, and crab salads. But this pasta was a revelation.
And, actually, so was the hot vet. It turned out that he asked about the gnocchi because he wanted to order something that I liked, so he could share it with me. He put a generous little pile of gnocchi on my bread plate before he even tasted his dinner (light, buttery sauce with herbs and feather-light pasta), and was telling me about his job as a vet. It turned out that most of his work these days was out in Lancaster County, with all its farms, since Bryn Mawr was getting too crowded with people and houses to leave much room for cows.
“There’s still a herd at Sanderson, of course,” John said. “You know the property, right?”
“I live right across the street.” I nodded, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t bring up the Barclay Shields incident. He didn’t, but what came next was even worse.
“Honey Potts is lucky. She has a great guy who manages her place, and it’s hard to find that these days,” John continued. “Mike Woodford. Have you ever met him?”
I choked on a gnocchi, gulped water, and while John patted my back, I croaked, “I’m okay!” and took a gulp of Montepulciano.
“Is there any, um, pepper on the table?” I added in a desperate non sequitur. John hailed a passing waiter, who ground pepper industriously over my plate for a moment and then disappeared. “So yeah,” John said, “Mike Woodford is Honey’s—”
A pair of muscular shoulders and beautifully gleaming teeth flashed in front of us. “Hey, Doc Hall! It’s me, Channing,” said the sous-chef, smiling at us in all his tanned Armani-model gorgeousness. “I thought I saw you out here. How’s your pasta, dude?” he said to John, and then noticed me.
“Hey, I know you!” he said to me, recognition dawning in his dimwitted but dreamy navy-blue eyes. “Met you at Mrs. Shields’s place!”
“Nice to see you,” I said, which was true.
“Great pasta,” John told him.
“Dude, thanks,” Channing said. “The secret is to make the gnocchi fresh throughout the night. Can’t be more than ten minutes from rolling pin to boiling water.
“Anyway,” concluded Channing cheerfully, “I gotta get back in the kitchen. The chef’s got that bum ankle, so he can’t stay on his feet all night. See ya.” He made his way inside toward the kitchen door, women in the restaurant suddenly abandoning their forks and craning their necks to watch his broad-shouldered handsomeness as he passed.
“Channing used to work for Honey Potts, too,” John explained to me. “While he was attending culinary school, he helped out part-time at Sanderson.”
Was there anyone in Bryn Mawr not connected to Sanderson? I wondered. Everyone either lived near it or wanted to visit it. And those who didn’t wanted to buy up some of Sanderson.
And I couldn’t help thinking that if Channing was a former Sanderson employee, he’d definitely know his way around the place, and was certainly strong enough to have dragged Barclay under the hydrangea bush.
But then, what would Channing gain by attacking Barclay Shields? I turned my attention back to the vet and his chiseled features and friendly eyes. Let the police figure out what happened to Barclay—I was on a date.
Over the wine, John told me about his love of traveling to Italy, his summer weekends spent fishing in the Chesapeake Bay, his herb garden, and his new hobby of cooking. He didn’t take himself too seriously, admitting that he’d recently made a lasagna so bad that he’d offered it to his dogs, but they had steered clear of it.
“None of them would eat it,” John was saying after he’d paid the check and we walked to the car. “I’ve seen them eat deer shit, so I was a little insulted.”
As we were about to get into John’s car, I saw a huge SUV pull in, and a tall girl with a blond bob launch herself athletically out of the driver’s seat. Bootsie. It was dark out, of course, since it was close to nine o’clock, but there were several lanterns illuminating the restaurant’s gravel parking area, and my date and I were directly in front of one of them. Luckily, Bootsie’s gaze was fixed for the moment on the entrance, but I knew she’d scan the parking area before she went in.
As John beeped open his car door, I rushed over, yanked the passenger door open, and jumped in before Bootsie could spot me. Looking quizzical, John quickly slid into the car and shot me a glance. “Are you okay?” he asked. “Anything wrong?”
“No—just tired!” I said, crouching down a little in the front seat. He smiled at me, with an expression that I interpreted as his thinking I’d had too much Montepulciano.
“I’ll drive you home,” he said. “Do you want me to pick you up tomorrow morning and drive you to the club to pick up your car?”
“I can walk to the club to get my car tomorrow, but thanks. It’s only half a mile,” I assured him.
Several minutes later, the vet dropped me off at home, where he walked me to the backyard gate, leaned down, and gave me a sweet, avuncular peck on the cheek. Luckily, the bulb on my porch light had burned out, so at least John couldn’t see how badly the house needed painting, I thought, as I considered this ill-fated farewell. There’s nothing worse than a cheek kiss at the end of a first date. It’s literally the kiss of death for future dates. Obviously, the vet would never call again, which I told myself was okay. I didn’t need any more toxic stares from Mariellen Merriwether. Feeling downcast, I jumped into bed, where I found some comfort in the presence of a snoring Waffles at the foot of the mattress. Before my head hit the pillow, I removed the huge cocktail ring and dropped it on a tray on my dresser.
The ring was too glamorous for me, and so was John. Clearly he was destined for Merriwethers, not girls who sold antiques and were obsessed with a basset hound.
THE TENNIS LESSON was horrible.
At seven the next morning, Waffles and I trotted the short distance to the club to pick up my car. In khaki shorts and sneakers, I zoomed over to Bootsie’s parents’ house, with its roomy yard and clay court, where Bootsie was waiting in full tennis regalia.
“I thought you said you were going back to The Striped Awning last night,” she said, glaring at me. “Then Mummy texted that you were at Gianni with that vet! But when I went to join Mummy and Dad for dessert you were gone.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll tell you all about it while we play,” I told her. I figured I’d combine the misery of the tennis and her interrogation. Faster that way.
For the next forty-five minutes, Bootsie ran me like Louis Gossett Jr. in An Officer and a Gentleman. While we did drills, sprints, and rallies, she grilled me mercilessly about my date, lobbing Wilson balls and questions at me with equal vigor. I told her the truth—that once I’d learned about John’s first marriage, the date seemed like an exercise in futility, which is why I hadn’t mentioned it to her.
Bootsie, undeterred, continued to question me about what we’d eaten, about Gianni’s dramatic mid-meal arrival, and whether John had brought up the fact that he was still legally married to Lilly.
“No, he didn’t,” I admitted ruefully. “It just didn’t come up, and it seemed too awkward to ask him.”
“At least you did something right,” Bootsie informed me. “Don’t ask him about his divorce. I’ll find out for you. And look out, here comes my backhand.”
Thwack! A Serena Williams–esque shot from Bootsie narrowly missed knocking my right shoulder out of its socket, and crashed into the wire fence be
hind me.
“Why shouldn’t I ask him?” I said, running for the next ball and actually making contact with my racket. It sailed over the net to Bootsie, who hammered it back at me.
“Because men hate those kind of questions,” she said sagely. “You just work on your tennis.”
“Okay,” I agreed doubtfully. I wasn’t sure this was good advice, but I was running so hard to return Bootsie’s slams that I couldn’t focus on anything else at the moment. “I really don’t think we’re ever going to go out again, though,” I told her.
The sun had barely been up for an hour, but it seemed to be beating down on me as if we lived in the sub-Sahara. What with the heat and a slight wine hangover, I felt like Ralph Fiennes wandering the desert in The English Patient.
“I called Walt last night to talk over a few things about last Thursday,” said Bootsie, who wasn’t even breathing hard.
“They haven’t totally ruled out Mike Woodford, by the way, as the guy who hit Barclay. Did he seem dangerous to you?”
“In what sense?” I asked, trying in vain to serve, and instead sending a ball into the net.
“In the sense of someone who would hit Barclay Shields on the head!” said Bootsie, exasperated.
“Definitely not,” I told her, with more conviction than I actually felt. I mean, what did I really know about Mike other than that he had great arms and was an excellent kisser?
“Well, he’s one of many on the list, because they haven’t narrowed down the suspects much at all,” conceded Bootsie.
True to form, my aim and ball control were dreadful, so much so that at one point Waffles, after dodging a ball I lobbed dangerously close to his head, whimpered and disappeared under a nice cool azalea bush with just the end of his white tail sticking out.
Thankfully, the lesson ended at eight-thirty. Bootsie had to admit that I was nearly hopeless, but we made another date for tennis the following week.
“How about some orange juice, girls?” shrieked Kitty, Bootsie’s mom, from her perch on the porch, flagging us down as we headed toward our cars. “Or something stronger?” she said, holding up a bottle of Bloody Mary mix.
“Gosh, that’s so nice of you, I have to get to the store!” I said, grabbing Waffles’s leash from the bench and picking up his portable water bowl. He emerged, wagging, from under the bush and trotted after me as I dashed toward the car.
“Did you enjoy your dinner last night with that handsome man, dear?” Kitty shouted loudly enough to be heard in Trenton, forty miles away.
“It was very nice,” I told her. “Thank you!” I slammed my car door shut, but Bootsie tapped on my window and leaned in.
“Sorry about Mummy,” Bootsie whispered. Then she added, with all seriousness, “Sometimes she can be a little nosy.”
AT HOME, I showered, gulped some cold water, put on a pair of linen shorts and wedge sandals, picked up the cardboard box I’d brought back from Jimmy’s rooms at the club, grabbed the Bests’ cocktail ring from my bedside table, and lugged it all over to their house. When I rang his doorbell, Hugh gratefully accepted the large box with the fish forks and other old bric-a-brac. “I know you promised Jimmy not to tell me where he is,” he said. “But do you think he’ll come back tonight?”
“I’m guessing more like tomorrow or Friday,” I told him.
I also handed Hugh his mother’s ring, which I’d put safely back in its black leather box, but he encouraged me to keep it for a few days. “Wear it around for a bit,” he told me. “Lord knows, my brother and I haven’t even looked at it in years. It’ll be nice to see it out and about again. Mother used to wear it to all the parties at the club.”
“Are you sure?” I said. The ring looked just as good this morning as it had the night before, well-aged but still glittery and fabulous. I’d have to show it to Holly, who would love it.
“Absolutely,” said Hugh. He hesitated. “Tell Jimmy I miss him.”
Chapter 17
I LEFT HUGH, headed toward town, and parked under my favorite shady tree at the club, where I planned to do a quick check on Jimmy.
I entered the building by the grand, double-wide front door, where I intended to turn left and dash up the stairs unseen. Golfers and tennis players were visible outside, but the club doesn’t serve food until eleven-thirty and the building is usually empty except for a few housekeeping staff midmorning. I saw no one, but was surprised to hear a testy exchange coming from the dining room; I could hear, but not see, the two people speaking. Realizing with a slight chill that I recognized the voices, I stopped in the foyer, seized by an irresistible urge to eavesdrop.
“It’s too risky,” said a male voice. “If he finds out that we noticed he was missing, he’ll spiral-slice us like a honey-baked ham.”
“I don’t think we’re in danger—that is, if you will just shut the fuck up!” said a second man’s voice, rising in anger.
“It’s even riskier to stay quiet,” the first voice retorted. “We can’t just hope this all goes away. People are getting seriously hurt. Who knows where this is heading?”
I was certain that the voices belonged to the Colketts. But what and who, exactly, were they discussing? I desperately wanted to know—but more than that, I wanted to sneak upstairs before they saw me. It was one thing to theorize with Bootsie about the spate of local crimes, but this conversation had a far more serious, and scary tone. On tiptoe, I turned toward the locker rooms, but a floorboard squeaked and betrayed me.
“Who’s there?” called out Tom Colkett nervously, poking his head around the doorway and looking relieved when he saw me. “Oh, hi, doll!” he said, beckoning me toward him. “Great to see you. Come say hello!” The florists had set up shop with huge buckets of lilies, roses, and ranunculus, which they were plucking out and skillfully arranging in the club’s collection of Chinese vases.
“We’re doing the flowers here now,” Tim Colkett informed me of the obvious, an apron protecting his well-tailored khakis and polo shirt. “Holly set it up. Love all this paneling and portraits and the old Philly vibe, don’t you? And these ladies who lunch in their vintage Lilly Pulitzer.”
“It’s definitely old world.” I nodded, admiring a profusion of roses they’d just placed on a console table in the hallway. I also noticed a pitcher of Bloody Marys on a silver tray next to the flowers, and two half-full glasses next to it. I guess the Colketts adhere to the same early cocktail schedule as the Binghams and Mrs. Delaney, who, predictably, has a needlepoint pillow embroidered with the words “It’s five o’clock somewhere!” in her living room.
The Colketts looked as uncomfortable as I did, so I turned to leave. I’d overheard enough to know that the Colketts were involved with something unpleasant and potentially dangerous.
“Well, I should go!” I said, aiming for a breezy tone. “I just was stopping in for a quick second. Better get to the store!”
“Want a drink, Kristin?” asked Tom Colkett, who seemed as eager to project nonchalance as I was. “We always find a quick Bloody in the morning gets our creative juices flowing. You can imagine how many cocktails we need now that we’re working for Sophie Shields, too. She’s got more statues than the Parthenon. ” He groaned, and I mustered a sympathetic expression.
“Oh, no, thanks,” I told him as he held up the pitcher of drinks and tinkled the ice cubes in it in my direction. “I was at Gianni last night and had a few glasses of wine, but thanks so much. Well, good luck with the flowers!”
I was about to make a break for the door when I turned, and surprising myself, said, “I couldn’t help overhearing you guys a few minutes ago. Do you know something about the chef being pushed down the stairs, or have information about Barclay Shields? Because if you do, you should go talk to Officer Walt. The situation could be pretty dangerous.” I wasn’t sure where my sudden burst of courage had come from, but I was worried about the Colketts. Whether they’d done something illegal themselves, or had witnessed a crime, it would be bet
ter for them to own up to it before anything more happened.
The Colketts exchanged glances. And then Tim Colkett wiped his hands on his white apron, and spoke up.
“Listen, Kristin, this isn’t easy. We’re completely baffled about who we can talk to, and we’re honestly scared to tell what we know. But you’re right, it might be worse not to say anything.”
“I think the police are your best bet,” I said. And then, against my better judgment, “But what is it that you know?”
Tim gestured silently toward the door to the lounge, and the three of us walked into the empty room and closed the door behind us. I seated myself on the leather Chesterfield sofa and the Colketts perched on either side of me.
“We sort of lied to you when you asked us about the chef and Barclay when we ran into you at the flea market,” said Tim regretfully. “Sorry about that. The truth is that, as you know, Barclay was attacked on the same night of the restaurant opening, and of course, we were recovering from that incident over the topiaries. After I got hit with the pomegranate that night, we abandoned the flowers and snuck outside to the patio to have a couple of cocktails while the party got into full swing.”
“Needless to say, we’ll never work with pomegranates again,” added Tom.
“So, while we were hiding from the chef on the patio, we came up with a plan where we could give the chef a big discount on his flowers, and we’d halve the cost of the topiaries if he’d put our ‘Flowers by Colkett’ insignia somewhere prominent on his menu. It would be tasteful, of course, a small and elegant logo, maybe right under the Gianni logo. And we’d probably get a ton of new customers from being associated with the hottest restaurant in town.
“Well, at about eight, with the party in full swing, we got up the courage to go talk to the chef about it. We figured by then he’d be in a great mood, with everyone raving about his new place. I mean, all the major socialites in town were there,” said Tim. “So we searched the entire restaurant for Gianni, and we couldn’t find him.
