Killer Getaway

by Amy Korman

  “Where’s Bootsie?” I asked Joe. It’s not like Bootsie to miss a gathering, especially if there’s potential information being downloaded, not to mention food being served.

  “She left twenty minutes ago,” Joe said. “She took off for some tennis tournament down in Delray Beach. And Sophie’s got conference calls and Skype sessions all morning with her divorce lawyers.

  “Which leaves you free to come along and help me with my new client!” Joe told me. “Let’s go.”

  “SO, WHO IS this mysterious new client?” I asked Joe as he steered his rented beige Cadillac convertible down South Ocean Boulevard. Joe had informed me that the Caddy embodied “retro cool.” Plus, it had a ding in the door, so the rental agent had given it to him for a hundred bucks a week.

  “Adelia Earle,” Joe told me, a jaunty straw hat tipped back off his forehead. “She’s absolutely adorable! Dresses impeccably. Lots of hats and jewels. You know the type, somewhere between sixty-­five and eighty-­five, but with a youthful spirit. She has this old gazebo thing in her backyard that she wants to turn into an outdoor dining room.”

  “She sounds like fun,” I said. “Is she a native Magnolia Beacher?”

  “Virginia tobacco money,” Joe told me. “Look, there’s the old Woolworth estate,” he added, pointing to a low, elegant old house that sat right on the ocean. “Anyway, Adelia’s a Stokes by birth. You know the old cigarette ads: ‘Stokes Makes the Best Smokes’? Adelia even appeared in some of their ad campaigns when she was Debutante of the Year. She’s a little vague about her age, so I’m not clear on when she was this celebrity deb, but I think it was sometime in the late fifties.”

  “I’ve seen Stokes cigarettes ads in old magazines,” I nodded, thinking of the vintage Vogue and Town & Country issues from the ’50s and ’60s I sometimes pick up at flea markets and stock at The Striped Awning. “Very stylish!”

  “Think Gone With the Wind meets Mad Men,” Joe told me. “That’s Adelia. More Vivien Leigh than Elisabeth Moss, though.”

  Across the inlet I could see The Breakers, its grand main structure facing a long, palm-­lined drive. I could easily picture Holly frantically working out in order to stave off the urge to shop. We drove through the center of town, where busboys were cleaning the sidewalks outside Vicino, then swung past some upscale shops and rode through a district of mansions, each more beautiful than the next.

  Tall ficus hedges were clipped to perfection. The town had looked beautiful the night before, but now, in the sunshine, I realized I’d never seen a place so perfect in all my life: The hibiscus flowers on all the bushes were bigger and a more vivid crimson, the bluebirds flying past the Cadillac were bluer, and the blond girls walking down Palm Avenue were blonder. It was like the movie Pleasantville, where the rest of the world was in black and white, and Magnolia Beach was in stunning color.

  Joe told me that Adelia lived south of Palm Avenue, and as we drove, he pointed out various houses that he’d seen in Elle Decor. There were hotel-­sized, newly built, Moroccan-­style palaces with minarets and towers. There were vintage Addison Mizner Mediterranean castles and French-­style manors with shingled mansard roofs. I felt my mood skyrocket as I took in the velvet lawns, meticulous gravel driveways, and expanse of gorgeous ocean at our left.

  “Just a heads-­up about Adelia,” Joe told me casually as he hung a right onto a tiny street called Bougainvillea Way. He pulled into a circular driveway paved with white stones, which sat at the foot of a Colonial-­style house that would have looked right at home in Pennsylvania, except for the hibiscus hedges and hot-­pink shutters.

  “She, uh, drinks a little.”

  SINCE JOE IS no slouch himself when it comes to rum and vodka, and given that the annual consumption of alcohol in the five-­county Philly region rivals that of Siberia and the Ukraine combined, Mrs. Earle must have been a truly epic consumer of cocktails, I thought to myself, digesting this information and putting it into context as we walked up a white-­coral stone walkway toward Adelia’s house. At the country club, unless someone falls down the stairs or drives into the giant oak at the end of the driveway, which happens about once a summer, drinking isn’t really mentioned. It’s just assumed that there will be a festive drinking at the club, accompanied by secondary pursuits including golf, tennis, and food.

  As Joe rang a doorbell that played the refrain of “Dixie,” I admired Adelia’s lawn: Well-­clipped lime trees lined the walkway, their shiny fruit gleaming, and elegant Chinese porcelain planters bursting with orchids flanked the bright-­green-­lacquered double front doors.

  “What’s her drink of choice?” I whispered to Joe.

  Just then, the door was opened by a gray-­haired man in a white shirt, long white apron, and yellow trousers. Close on his heels was a bejeweled person in a glittery green caftan.

  “Margaritas for everyone!” hooted a silvery, Southern-­tinged voice from inside the caftan, answering my question.

  “Adelia, this is my friend Kristin Clark,” Joe told her as the guy in the yellow pants closed the door. I extended my hand and shook Mrs. Earle’s, which was tiny and warm. She had red hair, wore a lot of makeup, and had a sweet smile beneath a pair of giant Chanel sunglasses. A faint waft of Joy perfume floated my way, along with a whiff of tequila.

  “Where’s your other gal today?” Adelia asked Joe with a slightly tipsy wink from behind her vast sunglasses. “Sophie, isn’t that her name?” She paused to assess Joe approvingly. “Do you have two girlfriends? I love it!”

  “We’re just friends,” I assured Ms. Earle. “Sophie is Joe’s girlfriend, but she has a call scheduled with her lawyers this morning.”

  “A likely story!” hooted Adelia, winking at Joe. “I knew I liked you, you old bird-­doggin’ decorator. Well, let’s have a little drink, and then look at the pavilion.”

  Adelia’s house was anchored by a fifteen-­foot-­wide, gallery-­style central hallway that ran nearly seventy-­five feet in length. We followed her and her butler past doors to a dining room, a library, various sitting rooms, and a fantastic paneled bar as we traversed the corridor, which went right into a green-­and-­white, chintz-­filled living room with a nonexistent back wall: The living room was essentially a fabulous twenty-­five-­by-­forty-­foot covered space open to the pool, with adorable seating areas, a grand piano, and a handsomely carved fireplace. Big-­band music played jauntily over speakers hidden somewhere in the room, and despite the fact that the room was open to the outdoors, an arctic blast of air conditioning was gusting overhead.

  The man in the yellow pants immediately began squeezing limes and crunching ice into an enormous Waterford pitcher, glugging in most of the contents of a fat bottle of Patrón Silver. I took a quick look at my watch: 10:00 a.m. I shrugged to myself and followed Joe’s lead, accepting an icy crystal rocks glass from a silver tray.

  “Thank you!” I said to Adelia and the butler-­guy.

  “That’s Osbourne, my house manager,” Adelia told me. “We call him Ozzy. Would you like some toast, or maybe some egg salad, dear?”

  “Um, no, thank you,” I said, sipping my drink, which was delicious.

  “All my friends are so jealous that I found Joe!” Adelia told me as we sat down on poufy chintz sofas. “He’s the perfect extra man at any party!” She sipped delicately at her drink but somehow drained it by a third in about four seconds. “If I’m not careful, all the gals in Magnolia Beach are going to hire him, too, and I won’t be able to get my dining pavilion finished!”

  I could see Joe’s eyes light up at the thought of Adelia’s friends as he gulped down his drink, and I had to stifle a laugh. Joe’s dream is working with ladies of a certain age. He’s big on lunching and dinner-­ing with this kind of clientele, who love him and who always end up hiring him for months at a time and taking him on all-­expenses-­paid antiquing excursions in places like Provence and Umbria.

  “M
aybe we could schedule a lunch with some of the ladies,” he suggested hopefully, pouring Adelia a refill from the Waterford pitcher Ozzy had thoughtfully left on the coffee table in front of us. “As soon as we finish your project, of course,” he added hastily, noticing that Adelia didn’t look all that pleased at his suggestion.

  “Have you ever seen my advertisements?” sang out Adelia brightly, changing the subject. Next to the handsome Chinese Chippendale gilt mirrors were beautifully framed black-­and-­white magazine layouts of a fragile-­looking girl in a white ball gown, leaning back dramatically and puffing a delicate pouf of smoke from a Stokes cigarette.

  “C’est moi from my debutante days!” she said in her Virginia drawl. “We just love the cigarettes, darlin’, because they’re payin’ for that new dining pavilion. I don’t smoke anymore, but we have boxes of the things all over the dang place! Do you smoke?” she asked me, indicating a vast porcelain box heaped with Stokes cigarettes.

  “Not usually, but I could try to light one up if I drink enough,” I told her. The smoking on top of morning drinking didn’t seem like a great idea, but Osbourne mixed a mean margarita.

  “Let’s visit that marvelous gazebo of yours, Adelia!” suggested Joe, giving me a meaningful glance toward the pool and backyard as he rose from the sofa and politely offered Adelia his arm. I was enjoying myself, honestly, and could have spent the day with Mrs. Earle in a pleasant haze of tequila, but Joe seemed to be ready to get moving on his project, no doubt calculating how much money he could make once he finished up with Adelia and got working on similar projects with all her friends.

  Trailed by Ozzy, we cruised out to the pool, bordered by an L-­shaped wing of the house, which, I could see, included a dated-­looking kitchen and butler’s pantry.

  “Here’s the gun room,” Adelia said tipsily, pausing at a locked white door just past the pool. “Have I shown you this yet, Joe, honey?”

  “Oh, yes, Mrs. Earle,” Joe said grimly. “Twice.”

  “Ozzy, unlock this door, please,” she said to Osbourne, who whipped out a ring of keys and had the door open in a jiffy. Shotguns, rifles, and pistols were arranged in neat rows in racks along the walls. I sighed through my slight tequila haze. What is it with rich older ladies and guns, anyway? Having been on the wrong end of Mariellen Merriwether’s pistol not seven months ago, I really didn’t want to see Adelia’s collection of firearms. Of course, Adelia seemed like a sweet person, completely unlike the evil Mariellen, but Adelia did have a lot of Patrón coursing through her veins.

  Joe and I exchanged scared glances as Adelia picked up a three-­foot-­long Remington and brandished it in the direction of a hedge separating her property from the stunning estate next door. “No bullets,” Mr. Osbourne mouthed to us.

  “I love to do target practice at night when my neighbor is having cocktails by the pool!” Adelia said happily, making a few practice squeezes on the trigger of the Remington. “Scooter Simmons. He’s a lawyer and advisor to the Magnolia Beach Town Council.” She hooted. “Back in Virginia we’d have called him a professional bottom-­feeder. I like to whiz a few bullets right past his ear as he’s mixing up a vodka tonic.”

  “I’m dying to see that pavilion!” I said, which appeared to refocus Mrs. Earle. She put down the gun, Ozzy quickly locked up the little room, and we made for a structure that was centered in her perfectly cut back lawn. Adelia’s octagonal gazebo was open to the elements, with adorable Victorian-­style woodwork revealing a charming interior—­or what once was probably very charming. In contrast to the rest of her perfectly maintained property, the gazebo was a complete wreck. The woodwork was rotting, the paint was peeling, and the interior contained nothing but two falling-­apart old pool chairs.

  “I’ve got my ladies poker club coming here the Wednesday after next, and I promised them we’d be having our crab salad right here!” Adelia said brightly, turning to Joe. “So what do you think? Can y’all get this little shack up and running in nine days?”

  Chapter 4

  “NINE DAYS,” MOANED Joe at Vicino that evening, where we were sitting with Bootsie, Holly, and Sophie on the same corner banquette. Joe hadn’t stopped complaining since we’d left Adelia’s house six hours earlier, but I couldn’t blame him, given the fact that the gazebo was more like a six-­week job. “I know Adelia was drinking, but when she says nine days, she means it. I mean, she has guns. A lot of guns.”

  “Don’t worry, Honey Bunny!” Sophie told him. ­“People hardly ever get killed over gazebos. I mean, if you fucked up her living room, she might shoot you, but she’s not gonna do that over some dumb pool house.”

  “That’s so comforting,” Joe told her. “How did I ever manage stress before you came into my life?”

  “I don’t know!” Sophie told him, throwing her arms around him and giving him a big smack on the lips. “But you don’t have to worry about that, ’cause I ain’t going anywhere. You’re stuck with me!”

  “Is there any Scotch in this joint?” Joe whispered. “How much Xanax do you have left?” he asked Holly, who stocks up on anxiety meds but mostly ends up giving them to Joe. He hailed a passing waiter, who took notice of Joe’s desperate expression and immediately returned with a glass of Glenfiddich.

  “Let’s dial down the meds for tonight,” Holly told Joe. “Your pupils are the size of quarters.”

  “Definitely!” I agreed, since Joe’s head was beginning to droop dangerously close to his chilled cantaloupe wrapped in prosciutto. “So, do you three eat here every night?” I asked Holly, trying to change the subject. “Not that that’s a bad thing!” I added hastily, thinking of my cabinets at home, which held a lonely can of tomato soup, as waiters arrived with several delicious-­looking thin-­crust pizzas topped with fresh mozzarella and basil leaves.

  “Absolutely. We drink at other establishments, though,” Holly told me.

  “We usually have lunch at The Breakers, or sometimes at Tiki Joe’s!” Sophie added. “Have ya heard of it? It’s the cutest restaurant. Everyone goes there!”

  “Very retro and cool,” Joe confirmed. “Think sixties Hollywood lounge meets pu-­pu platter.” Then his expression darkened. “That’s where I first encountered Adelia. She was sitting next to us at the bar when we stopped in for a drink on my first night here. She seemed so innocent that night.” He noisily sucked down his Glenfiddich.

  “I love Tiki Joe’s!” said Bootsie, tanned from her day of watching tennis. She crunched some pizza, then grabbed an oyster from a platter Joe had ordered but was now too drunk to eat. “I once met Lilly Pulitzer there, which was on my bucket list.”

  We all stopped to take in Bootsie’s outfit for a moment, which was a Lilly P. maxi dress in a vivid pink floral print. It was actually pretty fashion-­forward for Bootsie, who usually goes for a more tailored silhouette.

  “If only you’d been able to meet the actual L. L. Bean,” offered Joe.

  “Believe me, I’ve looked into it,” Bootsie said, chewing. “He died in 1967.”

  “I would’ve wanted to meet either one of them!” piped up Sophie, as the waiter popped open some Moët and poured it for everyone. “I love designers!”

  “Sophie, L. L. Bean invented the waterproof hunting boot,” Joe told her. “The company he founded makes thirty-­eight-­dollar tote bags, not two-­thousand-­dollar handbags.”

  “Oh, right,” said Sophie, undaunted as usual. “I guess I was thinking of someone else. Well, just so you know, Honey Bunch, my bucket list consists of one item: Meeting Donatella Versace! Or Lady Gaga. Either one would be awesome.”

  “What about Kelly Ripa?” Bootsie asked. “I thought you had an obsession with her, too.”

  “I forgot about her!” shrieked Sophie. “She’s on the list!”

  “Where’s Channing?” I whispered to Holly. “Why isn’t he out here working the room?” I’m no restaurant expert, but given the fact that Channi
ng resembles a genetic blend of David Beckham, the guy in the Eternity perfume ads, and any of the hot guys who portray vampires on the WB Network, it wouldn’t hurt for him to work the dining room a little. Then again, chefs are supposed to actually cook, so I could understand why we hadn’t seen him the night before.

  “I told him the same thing,” Holly replied, looking annoyed. “Last night he had some glitch with the veal chops, which is why we didn’t see him or Jessica. We need him out here, front and center.”

  “Hey, guys,” a smooth, charming male voice murmured just then.

  Channing! His deep voice was almost as good as the package it emanated from. Our heads swiveled as one to gaze upon the chef, who stood there in a tight white T-­shirt and dark jeans, over which he wore a manly looking long chef’s apron.

  Channing really is ridiculously handsome: He’s somewhere in his late twenties, with a soap-­opera actor’s perfectly muscled arms, glossy blue eyes, and square jaw. His smile could star in a tooth-­whitening commercial, and he unleashes his irresistible grin quite frequently. Six months in Florida had somehow made him even better-­looking, which I didn’t think possible.

  Honestly, Channing had never really fit in when he’d lived in Bryn Mawr, but he appeared to have been made for Magnolia Beach. His skin had a golden glow now (maybe I would take Holly up on the spray tan she insisted I needed), and he had the confidence of the newly minted entrepreneur, now that he helmed his own restaurant. Even if he only owned ten percent of it.

  Though Holly had dropped the subject, I hadn’t forgotten her tale of almost being run down by the speeding car in the back alley with Jessica the other night. Had the driver been after Holly—­who, as far as I know, has no enemies? I mean, Holly doesn’t really do anything much except shop and throw the occasional party.

  Had Jessica made an enemy in Magnolia Beach during the time they’d been down here? It didn’t seem like the kind of place where enemies would abound, unless someone stole your parking spot or bought the mansion you’d been eyeing. It was too perfect a place to create dissension among its lucky ranks.