by Amy Korman
“I did a couple of classes with Holly at The Breakers,” Sophie told her nervously. “Maybe I haven’t been working out quite as much as I used to.”
“News flash! Barclay has sunk a ton of cash into Gianni Mare,” Holly announced excitedly, brandishing one of the e-mails. “This e-mail copies Gianni and Barclay’s lawyer about a transfer made into Gianni’s account. He’s into that place for over four hundred thousand dollars.”
“I knew that place was too expensive for HGTV!” screamed Joe. “When I auditioned for my own show, they told me no project would go over fifty grand. Can you believe they said they thought I’d have trouble sticking to a budget?”
“You do have trouble sticking to a budget, Honey Bunny,” Sophie told him. Luckily, Adelia, whose budget Joe was currently exceeding, seemed to miss Sophie’s comment. “But that’s okay, I do, too!”
“HGTV picked up the first fifty thousand for the renovation of Gianni Mare,” nodded Holly, continuing to scan the papers in front of us. “After that, Barclay financed the rest of the restaurant with a couple of other minor investors.” She paused for a moment to read.
“Barclay e-mailed Gianni back in December to make sure that Gianni Mare ‘puts Vicino out of business within a month so that bitch Sophie loses every dime she put into it.’ And I quote.”
“What an asshole!” shrieked Sophie. “Oh, sorry, Mrs. Earle,” she added. “I’m from Jersey. Sometimes my language gets kinda dicey.”
“Please, dear, I’m from Virginia. I can curse the hair off a dog,” Adelia said, waving a languid hand as she sipped her drink.
“And it’s not just me he’s screwing,” Sophie said. “Channing and Jessica can’t afford to lose Vicino.”
“By the way,” Adelia said, “I don’t like what’s happening to your friends at Vicino. Slavica already called me to tell me about getting sick, along with everyone else she knows. So tell this Channing person that I’m going to move my annual Reptile Preservation Foundation to his restaurant. It’s next week! I’ll have Ozzy tell all the ladies that it’s going to be at Vicino.”
“That’s real sweet of you, Mrs. E.,” said Sophie. “Cause Channing and Jessica are poor, like Kristin and my Honey Bunny here. I mean, for me, the two hundred grand ain’t a big deal. Not to brag or anything,” she added. “And wait a minute. Won’t Barclay want to be at the opening of Gianni Mare tonight?”
Gerda shook her head firmly. “Barclay talk to me a lot when he’s drunk,” she told us. “Which is pretty often.
“He said his lawyers tell him not to go to Gianni’s opening. He’s trying to keep quiet about investing in this restaurant. Lawyers told him it open up a big can of worms if you”—she indicated Sophie—“try to get half of that place.”
“Well, I’m going to. And he better not go after my stake in Vicino!” Sophie fumed.
Gerda shook her head. “Mr. Shields heard last night about someone getting sick at that place. He was drunk and tells me Vicino going to be out of business soon,” she said grimly. “Bad clams, plus he said he heard through grapevine about someone getting almost run over in alley behind it. He doesn’t care about getting half of it. He says it will be half of nothing.”
Bootsie, Holly, Joe, and I exchanged glances.
“How does Barclay know that Vicino’s going to be out of business?” Holly asked. “Is Barclay the one who’s behind all the problems?”
“I CAN’T FIND any e-mails in which Barclay mentions bad clams or the Death Chevy,” Joe told us, taking a look for himself through the stack of printouts.
“But it looks like Barclay’s cc’d someone else on some of these e-mails about Gianni Mare,” Joe told us. “He’s e-mailed an S. Simmons a bunch of times about whether Vicino violates any Magnolia Beach zoning laws, which he’s hoping it does. And he’s got Simmons working on setting up some surprise health code inspections.”
“Scooter Simmons, most likely,” snorted Adelia, a bit tipsily. Her snort was somehow refined, but extremely derisive. “My next-door neighbor. Has a part-time position advising the town zoning board. He’d steal cookies from a Girl Scout.”
“We met him last night at Tiki Joe’s,” Bootsie told Adelia. “Scooter! What a dumb nickname!” Joe rolled his eyes at this, since Bootsie never seems to realize that the name Bootsie, is, well, somewhat debatable in itself.
“Well, Scooter e-mailed back that he’d look into it, but that as far as he knew, Vicino’s up to code, but he’d definitely set up something,” Holly told us, still reading. “But here’s something weird. This e-mail’s from last week, and Scooter wrote that when Barclay got into town, they’d sit down and take care of business. Listen to this, he even listed an agenda for their meeting: Point 1. Hotties. Point 2: Condos.”
“Hotties?” Sophie repeated, jumping up and grabbing the page from Holly. “What the heck does that mean?”
Gerda looked uncomfortable and stage-whispered to Sophie, “I think I know. But I don’t want to say in front of this lady.” She made a not-so-subtle gesture in the direction of Mrs. Earle.
“Don’t hold back on my account,” Adelia told her. “If there’s dirt for diggin’, hand me a shovel!”
“The hotties are, well, paid ladies,” said Gerda, looking embarrassed. “They come over yesterday while I was at tennis match. I see two of them leaving when I come back. They don’t spend the afternoon with Barclay for free, trust me on this one.”
“Hookers!” Sophie shrieked, throwing down the page she’d grabbed from Holly. “Again with the hookers! I gotta call my lawyer.” She snatched up her phone and was heading out toward the pool when Joe stopped her.
“Sophie, the e-mail also mentions condos,” he said, reading over the page she’d tossed aside. “Is Barclay buying a condo down here? You might want to mention that to your lawyer.”
“You bet,” she said. “If Barclay’s getting a condo down here, I’ll own half of it by the time my attorney’s done with him.”
WITH GERDA, YOU never knew what was going to happen next, and once again, she surprised us all by striking up an unlikely bond with the tipsy Mrs. Earle. While Sophie made the call to her lawyers, Gerda and Mrs. Earle wandered over to admire Adelia’s display of vintage framed magazine stills and Stokes cigarette ads. Gerda seemed intrigued, though I’d have thought that learning that tobacco money was the source of all the splendor of Adelia’s home would have set Gerda’s health-nut radar off. Instead, Gerda looked impressed.
“This style, I like,” Gerda told Mrs. Earle approvingly, looking at her debutante photos. “Classic. Not like the flashy clothes people wear today.”
She nodded in the direction of Sophie, who was storming back into the living room in a yellow silk Versace sundress and teetery gold sandals. “This is what I mean. Too flashy.”
“Henry said he’d check around and call me back in a few minutes,” Sophie told us, ignoring Gerda. “He thinks there’s no way Barclay would buy a condo right now, though, since it would technically be community property until we sign off on the divorce.”
“That’s Divorce Law 101,” Holly said, looking up from the sofa, where she was still scanning the stack of printed e-mails. “When Howard and I got our almost-divorce, you wouldn’t believe the stink my lawyers made over me buying a house. I’m sure Barclay knows that though.
“Wait a minute!” Holly added. “Right here, at the end of the e-mail trail, there’s another mention of condos,” she said, holding the last page aloft. “Barclay’s going to build condos, not buy one. Scooter wrote to Barclay that he has a meeting planned for them today with a guy named J. D. Alvarez, and that the three of them are just about ready to break ground on the condos.”
Holly looked up, eyes wide with surprise. We all remembered J. D. Alvarez from the tiki place, since, as mentioned, he’d looked and smelled extremely good.
“We met Mr. A
lvarez at Tiki Joe’s last night, too,” Joe informed Adelia and Gerda. “He sent us champagne. Well, he mostly sent it to Holly, but there was a lot of it.”
“This guy was hot!” Sophie told Gerda and Adelia. “If I wasn’t dating Joe, Mr. Alvarez would be at the top of my to-do list.”
“I wish I knew this town better. I’m not sure what Scooter’s talking about,” mused Holly. “He says here that once they get a few details done with, they can get the schoolhouse torn down and start construction.”
“I know exactly what Scooter’s talking about,” said Mrs. Earle, her face flushed pink with anger. “That little rat is making a run at putting up condos on the site of the old Magnolia Beach Schoolhouse.”
Adelia told us that Scooter’s family had long owned real estate in South Florida, most of which had been sold and developed, making the Simmons clan a very wealthy one. One of the most sought-after pieces of land they’d held onto for years was down past Palm Avenue: approximately seven acres of oceanfront land around a tumbledown former schoolhouse. It was worth millions, being the only undeveloped site of its kind on the island.
Scooter, his stepmother, Susie, and Scooter’s younger half-brother, Bingo were the main holders of Simmons Properties these days, but Susie and Bingo weren’t as ambitious as Scooter. Bingo, in fact, was an avid environmentalist, and while he’d once been a bit of a party animal, these days he spent his time saving things like manatees and rare seagulls. While Scooter was an avid consumer of bacon and Scotch, Bingo stuck to a vegan diet and limited himself to one margarita per day.
“He does seem to smoke a lot, though,” Adelia said vaguely. “Very fragrant, too, and he rolls his own cigarettes!” At this Ozzy gave a polite smile.
“Scooter’s next door to my left, and Bingo lives just on the other side, to my right,” Adelia explained. “Take a peek through the hedge in the backyard. Bingo’s got a charming cottage, but he spends most of his time in the backyard. He lives in a—what do you call it, Ozzy?”
“A yurt,” Ozzy told us.
“I’ll send Ozzy over there to get Bingo. He doesn’t believe in phones,” Adelia told us. While Adelia dialed Susie Simmons, who lived on the next street, we all went out to peer through the tall hedge to the right of Adelia’s pool. Joe pulled aside some of the dense shrubbery, revealing a pretty yard, slightly overgrown with citrus and avocado trees. The yurt was there, too: Along the lines of a teepee, it was a sizable structure in cylindrical form with some lovely lemon trees flanking it. Given the beautiful nighttime temperatures in Magnolia Beach, I could imagine it being a pleasant place to spend the night.
“I usually hate camping, but that looks pretty nice,” Joe shrugged. “The grapefruit trees are pretty, too.”
Adelia reported that she’d reached Susie Simmons’s dog-sitter, who was minding Susie’s dachshund while its owner was on a Turner Classic Movies cruise to St. Lucia. The dog lady said she would try to reach her employer on board the ship—which might take a day or two, she explained, because Susie rarely used her cell phone. In fact, the flip phone was sitting right here in Susie’s kitchen.
Five minutes later, a man arrived at the door to Adelia’s living room, giving a little knock on the door frame as he walked in behind Ozzy.
“Bingo!” said Adelia. “Your brother’s up to no good again. Have a margarita and sit down, dear.”
“You know I don’t drink before five,” said Bingo with a friendly smile. “But thanks.”
As Bingo shook all our hands and we exchanged greetings, I noticed he resembled his half brother but was taller, leaner, and had a brown ponytail, which gave him an appealing 1970s vibe. He wore a white cotton shirt, faded jeans, and flip-flops, and he emitted a vaguely smoky aroma, which might have been the scent of patchouli . . . or possibly something stronger.
“So what’s this all about, Adelia?” Bingo said, seating himself next to Bootsie on a chintz love seat.
Gerda handed over the pertinent document, which Bingo scanned quickly, shaking his head. Then Sophie sketched out a quick description of her ex Barclay, and his apparent budding partnership with Bingo’s half-brother.
“Scooter promised me and Mom that he’d never try to develop that land!” Bingo said, running a hand over his tanned forehead and ponytail, looking upset. “He knows there’s a jacaranda on the property that’s over two hundred years old, plus Bahamian swallowtails nest there, and they’re almost extinct.” He scanned the e-mails again.
“Let me go talk to him,” Bingo said. “Maybe Scooter’s getting scammed by this guy Barclay.”
“I doubt it,” snorted Adelia. “Your mother always told me Scooter was a little sneak.”
BINGO CAME BACK moments later, reporting that Scooter’s housekeeper had told him that Scooter was down in Miami for the day (probably with Barclay, I thought), but was due back for the opening of Gianni Mare at 7:00 p.m.
We all agreed to meet Bingo at the big opening party, except Adelia, who said she never missed The Voice elimination round episodes. With that, Bingo left, while Joe and Sophie made a quick detour to the Versace boutique in Palm Beach, which Sophie had convinced to open early on a Sunday for her. The dress that Lady Gaga was wearing in her current issue of Marie Claire had finally gotten FedExed in.
Bootsie, Holly and I headed over to Vicino to see what Channing had called about. When Bootsie pulled up outside the restaurant ten minutes later, we could see that Gianni Mare was a hive of frantic pre-party activity. Workers were carrying in massive potted trees and armloads of flowers, and painters were applying a glossy white finish on the French doors out to the patio. Next to a small outdoor bar, musicians were assembling sound equipment, and cases of wine and champagne were wheeling past us as we parked.
This was all well and good. But after Gianni’s evident happiness at the Slavica episode—not to mention his insulting Waffles—I’d privately resolved the night before that I wouldn’t go to his opening party, even though he’d invited all of Magnolia Beach and much of the state of Florida.
Even Holly and Bootsie, who don’t usually miss a party, had made some bold statements that we shouldn’t support Gianni’s new place. However, I could tell the three of us were having the same thoughts as we took in the party preparations: Gianni being somewhat of an expert in throwing seriously awesome parties, his opening promised to be pretty fun. I mean, there would be a live band, all those flowers, the champagne, and those shrimp being flown in from Italy. . . .
Just then, a bakery truck arrived and opened its doors, unleashing the sumptuous scent of just-baked baguettes and Italian loaves. A guy began toting brown paper bundles of the gorgeous bread right past us into Gianni’s front doors, which had a similar effect to waving bacon under Waffles’s nose.
Bootsie made “mmm” noises, and even Holly, who doesn’t eat bread, took a delicate sniff and took on a hungry look. Right behind him, a girl carrying boxes labeled Louis the Cheese Purveyor was toting in oversized wheels of Parmesan and Asiago. More cases of wine rolled by after the cheese girl.
The three of us exchanged glances, and Bootsie said what had to be said.
“Screw it, we’re going to Gianni’s tonight!” she exploded. “Sorry, Holly, I know you and Sophie have money in Vicino, but there’s no way I’m missing this party.”
“That’s okay,” Holly said, shrugging her shoulders, which were encased in a little sleeveless Lacoste dress. “I’m going tonight, too. I’ll tell Channing and Jessica that I’m there to make sure we’re on top of Gianni’s plots and schemes to take down Vicino. But obviously, I can’t be in Magnolia Beach and not be at Gianni’s opening. I’d have to leave town and never come back.”
“I’ll tell Channing that I have to be at the party to write a story for the Gazette,” Bootsie said. “Which is true! I’m getting the Gazette to pay for all the gas I used getting down here, and I’m not taking vacation days, so I ne
ed to turn in something about Gianni’s bash.
“And I need some Asiago cheese, stat!” Bootsie added, whipping out her mobile. “Martha said she was going to the supermarket. Maybe she can grab some Asiago for tomorrow’s omelets—do you think she’d mind if I sent her a quick text?”
I stayed silent, thinking if I was Martha I would mind getting texts about cheese. Also, I was still mad about what Gianni had said about Waffles—he’d called my dog a fattie. I shouldn’t go tonight.
Just because Gianni Mare looked like it was going to open with an all-out, five-star, champagne-fueled bash—with special gamberetti being flown in from Italy, and heavenly smelling bread, not to mention a band and deejay—didn’t mean I needed to ride Holly and Bootsie’s coattails into the party. I mean, I could exhibit some backbone and stay home with Waffles and watch Friends reruns. Plus, I was honestly pretty tired and could use an early night. And there was that fluffy white terry robe in the guesthouse, which I hadn’t spent nearly enough time in.
Bootsie gave me an appraising look. “Don’t think you’re going to skip this party,” she told me. “First of all, I know for a fact you can’t stop thinking about those giant shrimp Gianni’s getting. And another thing—I didn’t drive you and that mutt fourteen hundred miles so you can sit home in a bathrobe.”
Phew, I thought. I really didn’t want to miss this shindig.
“LISTEN, ANY RESTAURANT can mistakenly serve a piece of meat or fish that’s got potentially dangerous bacteria in it. But I can’t stress this enough—we double-, triple-check everything that comes in and out of this kitchen,” Channing told us a few minutes later. He seemed to want to unburden himself about how upset he was about Slavica getting sick and also explain himself to Holly, his biggest investor.
I knew Holly trusted Channing. Still, he clearly felt terrible about the incident, and talking about it seemed to be helping him process what had happened.
“We only buy from the absolute pickiest, most selective and meticulous purveyors in Palm Beach County,” Channing continued. “Most of the fish we serve comes from within twenty, thirty miles from where we’re standing right now.”
