Killer Punch

by Amy Korman

  I shuddered, nodding sympathetically. Actually, this was another reason I’d been avoiding Holly recently: Eula Morris. The head of the tomato contest for the past six years, Eula had been royally pissed off when Honey Potts had ordered her to add Holly as co-­chair. Since Mrs. Potts runs every social and charitable event in our town, Eula had to suck it up and plaster a smile on her face, but I could tell it was killing her to have to work with Holly.

  Eula was our nemesis in high school, and if anything, the last fifteen years had made her even more annoying. Holly herself absolutely loathes Eula, with whom she’s clashed over everything from the theme of our senior prom to the lights on the town Christmas tree, and the fact that they were jointly running this event made me wonder just how many of the anxiety meds Holly keeps for emergencies she’d gulped in the past few days.

  “Plus Eula’s ideas are terrible,” Tom seconded. “I mean, I get it, it’s a tomato show, but of course Eula got stuck on the obvious and pushed for a Tuscan farm theme with red lanterns and tomato topiaries. Plus, like we told Eula, all that red wasn’t doing her complexion any favors—­she’s spent way too much time on the tennis court, and she’s super splotchy.”

  Tim nodded. “Meanwhile, we’re bringing the L.A. to PA! Between the palm trees and movie stars out there, we’re totally inspired. We’ve created half the tent in 1940s Hollywood Regency meets ’70s Jack Nicholson, with the bar painted a glossy dark gray and a loungy, moody vibe that’s totally un-­tomato. Then, in the other half, we’re installing white sofas and Lucite tables on floors painted a cool red-­and-­white chevron pattern. The only hint of tomato will be huge six-­foot-­tall glass vases filled with glossy red Romas. Trust me, unless you assemble seven thousand of them in a sculptural display and light them properly, there’s nothing chic about nightshade vegetables.”

  “I think tomatoes are technically a berry, believe it or not,” Tom told him.

  “Whatever,” said Tim. “Although Eula actually painted some still-­lifes to hang in the party tent of, like, Beefsteaks on the vine! We hung them in a corner behind where the tomatoes are going to be staged, and luckily Eula got mad and demanded her paintings back. Phew! The point is, the party isn’t really about the Big Boys and Sweet Seedless hybrids. It’s about showing up in a great outfit and having some drinks! Seriously, what good is a tomato unless it’s turned into juice, blended with vodka, and spiked with horseradish and a big old stick of celery?”

  Since this question didn’t seem to really demand an answer, we exchanged good-­byes and Sophie made some more smooch air kisses with the guys.

  I noticed that the club was looking extra beautiful this afternoon. To be honest, when Holly’s in party-­planning mode, it’s a good time to avoid her, and I hadn’t stopped over for almost a week. During my absence, huge pink roses had burst into bloom all around the clubhouse, and banks of lilies wafted a magnificent fragrance over the shady grounds. Huge sycamores cast graceful shadows in the late-­afternoon sun, and I breathed the non-­paint-­fumed air gratefully.

  I followed Sophie through the huge wooden front doors into the rambling old clubhouse, where just outside the cozy bar area, there was Holly.

  Holly was directing the placement of some potted fruit trees on the porch, looking serene in a chic white sleeveless dress and flat brown sandals, her long blond hair as glossy and effortless as ever. If you don’t know Holly, she can be a little intimidating: She’s one of those naturally flawless girls who is somehow always glows with a light tan, sleek hair, and some simple but pricey outfit that costs more than The Striped Awning brings in during an average month. However, Holly’s the most loyal friend imaginable, and she’s all about sharing her good fortune, including her wardrobe.

  Holly projected an air of calm as she talked to a shorter, stouter young woman in a swoopy beige dress—­the aforementioned Eula Morris—­but I knew she was seething inside. Eula’s been a preppy thorn in Holly’s side for more than fifteen years, ever since their senior prom theme clash (Holly’s super-­cool 1970s–Bianca Jagger–Studio 54 idea had won out in a class vote over Eula’s Grease-­inspired sock-­hop concept).

  As I heard Eula say, “I knew we should have spent some of that fourteen thousand dollars we’re spending on flowers and hired a security guard,” I suddenly recalled that Eula had once beaten Holly out in a campaign for junior class treasurer at Bryn Mawr Prep.

  Since Holly is the kind of willowy blonde who wafts through life without ever losing to anyone, I knew neither one of them had forgotten. Maybe that’s why Holly had agreed to co-­chair this party, a decision I’d had trouble understanding.

  “Eula, you just don’t understand parties,” Holly told her with a forced sweetness and a note of fake pity. “Having this painting stolen means the Tomato Show is already a huge success! ­People love crime with their cocktails. My intern Jared just told me he’s gotten forty-­five new ticket sales in the last twenty minutes!”

  Holly paused for a second and regrouped. “Obviously, it’s a huge tragedy for Mrs. Potts, who’s basically the Brooke Astor of Bryn Mawr, so we need to get the painting back,” she added, “but I’m going to help Officer Walt with that as soon as I help the Colketts figure out how many orchids go in each branch of the flowering light fixtures.”

  As much as I dislike Eula, I felt a pang of sympathy for her. Her neck was turning pink with rage, and her beige dress looked slightly rumpled next to Holly’s pristine white cotton one. That’s the thing about Holly—­she just doesn’t rumple. As her friend, I’m used to the fact that she wafts through life having drinks bought for her and getting upgraded to an even better first-­class seat than the one she originally paid for. For Eula, though, it had to rankle. Plus Eula was wearing a necklace and earrings comprised of tiny red tomato charms that looked absolutely awful. Even with my Old Navy budget and lack of fashion mojo, I knew tomato jewelry was a risky idea.

  It seemed like Holly had the situation well in hand, plus Eula scares me a little, so I took a left turn and said hi to Skipper Parnell, the club’s preppy blond chef, who was out on the porch, admiring the gorgeous white canvas structure that The Trendy Tent had just finished erecting. Just then, Bootsie popped back in from the bar, where I could see Officer Walt, Bryn Mawr’s sole policeman, in earnest conversation with Honey Potts.

  Nearby lurked Jared, an eighteen-­year-­old recent graduate of Bryn Mawr Prep who interns with Officer Walt, and is also serving as Holly’s part-­time tomato assistant. Jared’s a nice enough kid, but is lanky, uncoordinated, and has a huge crush on Holly and spends most of his time staring at her slack-­jawed, which isn’t a great look because he still has braces.

  “Everyone needs to be in the Camellia Room,” Bootsie yelled to anyone within shouting distance. “Walt’s going to put this place on lockdown in a few minutes.”

  “Oh, hi, Bootsie,” said Eula, giving her a breezy little wave. “I see you’re back from your vacation.”

  She gave this last a snippy edge, to indicate that leaving town was an indulgence enjoyed only by irresponsible slackers—­which is sometimes true in Bootsie’s case, but then again, no one else in town is as annoyingly driven as Eula, who tirelessly raises funds for the Symphony Women’s Board all winter, and spends summers perfecting her tomatoes and her tennis game.

  “I’ve got great news,” continued Eula. “I’ve joined the Gazette as part-­time reporter. We’ll both be covering the party and real estate beat!”

  Bootsie froze, her mouth agape. A moment later, a stream of F-­bombs flew out. “If you think for one freakin’ minute that you’re going to steal my stories,” she told Eula, grabbing a silver tennis trophy from a nearby display case, “I’m gonna take this trophy, which by the way I’ve been awarded as women’s singles champion for the last four summers, and shove it right up your—­ ”

  “We need everyone in the Camellia Room now!” boomed Mrs. Potts. “Pronto!”

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nbsp; TWO MINUTES LATER, inside the Camellia Room, which is used for club board meetings and the occasional bridge game, I took a surreptitious look at Mrs. Potts, who had to be upset about the theft of her artwork. She looked about the same as she always did: tanned, fit, somewhere in her late sixties, makeup-­free face, and in Bermuda shorts. I had to hand it to her: Mrs. Potts is one of those stalwart, indomitable ladies whose herd of cows is her main passion in life; stolen paintings don’t rattle her. She comes from a long line of never-­say-­die Pottses, who’ve been doing things like fighting the British at the Battle of Valley Forge since time immemorial.

  Fear and self-­pity aren’t really allowed in the Potts bloodline. One Potts survived the Lusitania by doing a swan dive and swimming to the shore of Ireland, and a battalion of Mrs. Potts’s uncles and cousins stormed the beaches of Europe during World War II. They just don’t give up.

  “Should we cancel the party?” asked Eula. “Because I feel absolutely terrible for Mrs. Potts here.” She gave Holly a nasty little glare. “Even if other ­people want to use your painting as a PR ploy.”

  “No, no,” said Mrs. Potts gruffly, waving Eula aside. “Pottses never cancel events. I trust Walt here to figure out what happened to Heifer in Tomato Patch.”

  We all looked askance at this statement, since Walt’s a hardworking guy, but since there’s only one of him and he’s usually dealing with things like bar fights at the Bryn Mawr Pub and lost cats. However, Honey’s faith in Walt was touching, and seemed to give him a confidence boost.

  “Why was the painting here at the club, exactly, again?” Walt asked her gently. “And how many ­people knew it here?”

  “Heifer in Tomato Patch is one of the only pieces of English pastoral art that features my two passions in life,” explained Mrs. Potts. “The Potts family has always been devoted to both cattle and tomatoes.”

  “Uh-­huh,” said Walt, as everyone’s eyes except Eula’s glazed over, since she’s an avid grower of Early Girls herself.

  Predictably, Holly and the Colketts had zero interest in the subject of the party they were planning, since tomato growing was generally done by a more senior group of Bryn Mawr stalwarts.

  In fact, so obsessed is the town by the tasty veggie that Saturday’s event was part one of the Tomato Show, which includes the kickoff party and the Early Girl competition. Part two of the show happens a ­couple of weeks later, and features about forty-­five additional categories of said plant that ripen at the end of July.

  As Mrs. Potts explained that the painting was the centerpiece of her annual Tomato Show lecture, I saw Sophie and Bootsie exchange an eye roll and start checking their phones, with Sophie clicking on what looked like the Neiman Marcus Web site. To be honest, it did sound like the lecture could have been a bit of a snooze.

  “And a lot of ­people knew the painting would be here?” continued Walt.

  “This Bryn Mawr Gazette had it on the front page last Thursday,” said Honey, indicating Bootsie with an outstretched glass of vodka. “Bootsie wrote the story, so who knows, maybe that brought out the criminal element.”

  “Sorry.” Bootsie shrugged. Guilt isn’t an emotion Bootsie really experiences, which is why she’s great at unearthing gossip and has an actual talent for digging up clues—­or at least digging through personal belongings, medicine cabinets, and trash cans.

  “So, everyone in town and anyone who reads the Gazette knew about the painting.” Walt nodded. He closed his notebook and looked around the room. “Bootsie, I need you to run a favor past your boss at the paper,” he told her. “Give me a day or two to get this painting back before you run a story about it.”

  “The horse is out of the barn, Walt,” observed Mrs. Potts, clearing her throat and gulping down a bit of Smirnoff. “What’s the difference now? And who knows, maybe whoever stole Heifer will get scared and bring it back.”

  Walt was shaking his head. “Media coverage usually hurts more than it helps,” he told her. “First you get the weirdos, folks who claim to know where the painting is, or who try to find it themselves,” he explained. “Also, say the person who stole this thing had no idea it’s worth over a hundred grand. We don’t want that information out there.”

  I felt for Walt. He looked tired and slightly rumpled.

  “ ’I’m going to have Jared here gather all the club employees so we can ask if anyone saw anything unusual today, since most of the staff has been here all day today,” he said.

  “I’m on it!” said Jared enthusiastically, glancing at Holly to see if she’d noticed his initiative. She hadn’t.

  “While you’re here, Tim and Tom, you helped Mrs. Potts hang this piece of art, correct?” Walt asked the Colketts in his mild way.

  I could tell the Colketts immediately plunged straight into panic when asked this question, so I politely looked away, picking up a pamphlet describing the Tomato Show events, which actually featured Heifer in Tomato Patch on its cover.

  I was impressed, honestly. The painting captured a stunning English estate backed by majestic green hills with a lake in the distance. No wonder Hasley Huntingdon-­Mews paintings cost a mint! It was clear, even to my inexperienced eye, that it was a special painting, especially if you love cows as much as Honey Potts does. The heifer featured was a long-­lashed beauty who projected a Marilyn Monroe–esque, come-­hither gaze even while chewing cud. Everything about the painting screamed, Old and rare! and I could see why the Colketts were nervous.

  “Well, we helped her for about four minutes,” admitted Tom. “And, in my opinion, Tim totally fucked up the hanging height! I’d have gone four millimeters higher,” Tom added, pointing a critical (and slightly boozy) finger toward the large picture hanger where Heifer had been. “And I told him, with a painting that size, we should have gone with two fifty-­pound, double nail brass hangers, not that cheapo fifteen-­pound steel one you used.”

  “It’s always easier to be the one shouting out suggestions rather than doing actual work,” sang out Tim.

  “Walt, yell if you need us. We’ve got to get back to the furniture placement in the tent,” announced Tom, as they vanished out a side door.

  I need a drink, I thought.

  Walt, meanwhile, announced that he, Jared, and Ronnie the club manager would search the club in case the painting had been misplaced and was still on the grounds. All staff and Trendy Tent employees should, for the moment, stay put.

  “I’ll help,” said a male voice from the doorway. My stomach did a flip, since I knew this voice belonged to a tanned guy with dark beard stubble, muscly forearms, and an annoying but undeniable sexiness.

  IT WAS MIKE Woodford, Honey’s nephew, who lives in a cottage on her vast property and, naturally, shares the Potts passion for cows. In fact, Mike takes care of Honey’s herd, and is her closest relative and heir apparent to all things Sanderson, which is the name of his aunt’s beautiful old home.

  I snuck a quick look at Mike, trying not to make eye contact, since that usually results in problems for me. Too much eye contact usually leads to forgetting that I have an amazing boyfriend and picturing myself and Mike in a steamy make-­out scenario.

  Last spring, I shared several such sessions with Mike. Then, the same week, I met an amazing, dependable, handsome veterinarian named John Hall, who I’ve been dating for more than a year now. John is an excellent boyfriend, in addition to being in great shape from playing a ton of tennis.

  Since Mike Woodford is the kind of guy who makes out with you in a barn, then never calls you for three months, I’ve sworn to steer clear of him. Unfortunately, my boyfriend’s devotion to his veterinary practice had sent him to a bovine medicine clinic this month, and he’d been in West Virginia for the past two weeks.

  I needed to leave, and stay as far away as possible from Mike. This is something of a daily task for me, since Sanderson, where Mike and Honey both live, is right across the street
from me. But I sternly reminded myself that I was practically immune to his dreamy brown eyes, tanned arms, and fantastic Irish Spring soap smell, which lingered in the Camellia Room after he and Jared left to go hunt for Heifer.

  “Anyway, I’ve got that painting insured,” Mrs. Potts told Walt. “As long as I’m covered once I took it off Sanderson property. I probably shoulda checked that.”

  “I’m going to call George Fogle, my friend who works at Sotheby’s!” Holly announced. “He knows everything about art. He also knows tons about art thieves! George will probably be able to solve this crime with, like, three text messages and an Instagram post.”

  “Okay,” said Mrs. Potts. “But don’t cancel the party on my account.”

  Just then, a tall man with a gleaming bald head appeared in the doorway, a wooden crate full of feathered dead ducks in his muscly arms.

  He wore a tight white T-­shirt, skinny black leather pants, and gold earrings. His biceps were bedecked with depictions of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Roman Forum, and additional tattooed landmarks of his native land.

  “The party is guaranteed to be amazing!” shouted the new arrival in a heavily accented voice. “Because I, Chef Gianni Brunello, star of my own Food Network show, am gonna cater your Tomato Party!”

  Chapter 3

  CHEF GIANNI WAS followed by small group of white-­clad cooks and staff members, who he directed toward the club’s kitchen. Walt, sensing he’d lost control of the situation, took off with Jared and Ronnie to do another search for Heifer in the rambling building, while Gianni held court, giving effusive greetings and hand kisses to Holly and Sophie.

  He’d flown in to surprise Holly, he explained, since he’d suddenly found himself with a week off from his new restaurant venture and Food Network gig.

  “Gianni, this is the club’s chef, Skipper Parnell,” Holly said politely as she introduced the two men. Skipper, a compact, onetime high school soccer star, is friendly with Bootsie’s brothers from years of prep school competitions. Skipper went to culinary school ten years back, and after working in several high-­end Philly restaurants, joined the club’s staff the previous year. He’d quickly become a favorite for his deft hand with things like just the right amount of tarragon in the chicken salad, and fun theme nights featuring fondue and burger bars.