Killer Getaway

by Amy Korman

  I sighed, and decided to tell Mike the truth.

  “We’re trying to help Joe’s friend and client, Adelia Earle, prevent that guy over there in the pink shirt from building on one of the last pieces of undeveloped land in Magnolia Beach,” I explained. “His name’s Scooter Simmons, and he and the handsome guy next to Holly are probably partners with Barclay Shields. They also might be trying to sabotage Vicino.”

  “How does that translate into you looking like a—­” Mike paused here. “I mean, wearing that outfit and all that makeup?”

  “I’m not entirely sure,” I admitted. “Holly basically ordered me to show up here as a Brazilian, or possibly French, girl—­someone Scooter wouldn’t be able to resist spilling information to. But now poor Scooter’s too drunk to talk. And Holly’s date is too smart to let any secrets slip.”

  We looked around the giant tower of flowers again, and I could see Gianni was getting up to continue his tour de dining room. Holly caught my eye and gave me a “Get Back Here Now” glare.

  “I need to go,” I said to Mike.

  “I thought you were pretty serious with John Hall, and isn’t Holly still married to Howard?” Mike asked, waving a disapproving finger at me. I couldn’t address all his points just now, so I grabbed Alessandra’s borrowed Gucci clutch bag.

  As I reluctantly turned to head back to the table, a tall, well-­dressed man entered Gianni Mare. I realized immediately that it was Holly’s husband, Howard.

  He gave me one quick glance, but his eye went instantly across the restaurant to where Holly was seated on the banquette . . . very close to J. D.

  Holly saw Howard and froze. And Howard merely turned around and left.

  DINNER, THANKFULLY, ENDED three minutes after I sat down again. “I think I should take my friend home,” J. D. told us, eyeing the slumped form of Scooter across the table.

  Scooter’s head was listing slightly toward my shoulder, and I tried to gently prop him upright with my left arm. I felt a little bad for Scooter, who was now in the nonverbal stage of overconsumption. He seemed like an experienced drinker, but he probably shouldn’t have mixed vodka with champagne. To be honest, while Scooter might be a sneak and a liar, he wasn’t the worst date I’ve ever had. Unless he’d killed his brother Bingo—­then he was the worst, hands down.

  J. D., who had impeccable manners, refrained from further comment about Scooter’s blotto condition. He merely paid the bill, left a generous tip, held both my and Holly’s chairs as we exited the table, and retrieved Holly’s car from the valet for us.

  He then politely scooped up Scooter from the table and inserted him into the passenger side of his own black sedan.

  “Thawasdelightful . . . lessalldoagain,” Scooter mumbled, giving us what might have been a wink as Holly pulled away from the curb in front of Gianni Mare.

  SINCE DINNER ENDED early, we got back just as Bootsie was finishing up her perusal of Scooter’s zoning filing, which she had spread out on Holly’s living room coffee table along with a half-­empty bottle of wine.

  Holly refused to talk about Howard on the ride home. In fact, she didn’t seem to be able to talk. Holly isn’t much of a drinker, but she headed straight to the liquor and poured herself a vodka.

  “Call Howard!” I urged her. “You can explain about the dinner.”

  Still frozen in her seat, Holly told me she was thinking over her course of action. “But Howard should have come over to the table and asked me what was going on,” she said.

  “What’s to ask?” Bootsie told her. “You were on a date with a guy, and your husband walked in and caught you. What’s Howard supposed to do, join you?”

  “I never thought Howard would show up unexpectedly,” Holly admitted, taking another gulp of her drink. “He’s usually more of the type that sends you his itinerary a week in advance.” She checked her phone. “He’s at The Breakers,” Holly said. “I have him on my iPhone tracker.”

  “You should have used that tracking app earlier,” Bootsie pointed out. “Then you would have noticed he wasn’t in Indianapolis and was heading right for you at Gianni’s.”

  “So helpful of you to tell me that,” Holly told her. “I was a little busy trying to solve the potential murders of myself and Jessica, plus poor Bingo Simmons.”

  “Well, you better get over to The Breakers, pronto,” Bootsie told her. I noticed she seemed a little tipsy. Maybe this wasn’t her first bottle of wine tonight.

  “I’m not going over there! If Howard doesn’t trust me, he can deal with my lawyers!” Holly said.

  I sighed and sat down to look at the Simmons condo papers.

  “This isn’t what Scooter described to Holly,” I said as Bootsie handed me drawings and documents requesting that zoning rights be waived for a new condo development on Seabreeze Lane. While some of the legalese was tough to decipher, the gist of the proposed plan was clear.

  Scooter et al were going to build a mid-­rise, eight-­story structure that would include two enormous condos per floor, plus a huge shared pool, tennis courts, and a separate clubhouse and gym. An architect’s rendering showed two bulky, columned structures that took up every square inch of beach frontage.

  Demolition of the schoolhouse was noted as having been approved in a private zoning hearing.

  As soon as a permit was issued, probably by Friday, the teardown could begin. And no one could get in touch with either Bingo or Susie Simmons to try to stop the schoolhouse deal.

  Chapter 16

  WE CALLED ADELIA to tell her about the secret condo plan early the next morning, and she promised to try to reach Susie Simmons again via her dog-­sitter.

  As for Bingo—­no one had heard from him. Adelia said that Scooter had to be lying about his brother being in Maine, since no Magnolia Beacher would go that far north this time of year.

  “Maine?” Adelia asked. “In January? That can’t be right.”

  Sophie called to check in with Gerda, who said she’d work the Internet to track Bingo in Maine—­if that’s where he was.

  Holly flatly refused to discuss the Howard situation, insisting that he needed to contact her. After twenty minutes of begging her and offering to call Howard myself, I dropped the subject for the moment.

  After that, we decided to take Tuesday off from anything to do with Vicino, Gianni Mare, Gerda, and the Colketts. Even Bootsie agreed that a break from snooping was in order, and we agreed to spend the day doing actual Florida-­style activities.

  Since we all had different ideas about what constituted a relaxing day, everyone got to pick one activity.

  “Lunch at Captain Harry’s Sea Shanty,” said Bootsie. “It’s right on the water in Deerfield Beach. Everything’s fried, and there’s buttery corn on the cob and pitchers of beer. Newspaper instead of tablecloths and peanut shells on the floor.”

  “Let’s go to the beach!” I said. “There is a beach in Magnolia Beach, right?”

  “I pick Bal Harbour,” said Holly. “And don’t worry, I won’t bring any credit cards.” I’d heard of Bal Harbour, in north Miami Beach, about an hour south of us. Its reputation was a mecca of the most glittering and expensive shops the world has ever dreamed up. But since Bootsie was getting her beer, and I was pushing for the beach, it seemed fair to let Holly do her retail thing.

  “Calypso St. Barth’s!” Sophie shrieked. “It’s a store with the mother lode of caftans! We’re talking silk chiffon embroidered ones!”

  “Sophie, are you wearing Lilly Pulitzer?” I asked, suddenly noticing that Sophie was wearing a full-­length, brightly patterned cotton frock. Where were the Versace and the Cavalli?

  “You bet,” she told me. “Bootsie and I hit a ­couple of shops yesterday. I figured, I might as well get into the whole Palm Beach look since we’re hanging out near there.”

  Joe looked alarmed, and I, too, wondered about Sophie’s intere
st in a Lilly caftan. Sophie is one of the smallest girls around, topping out at four foot eleven. Her tiny frame was swimming in the flowered caftan.

  “Adelia’s look is great for her,” Joe told Sophie, “but on you—­you’re too, uh, young and beautiful!”

  “I’m getting at least four more caftans today,” Sophie said. “You’re gonna love it, Honey Bunny. But maybe that’s not really a day off, since caftans are becoming kind of part-­time job for me. What about . . . um . . . miniature golf?”

  Bootsie perked up at this. “There’s mini-­golf right by Captain Harry’s!”

  “La Tente,” said Joe. “I want look at some Colefax and Fowler they just got in.”

  “How is going to La Tente a day off?” Bootsie demanded.

  “I don’t like downtime,” Joe admitted. “There’s always something annoying about it. Look at the schedule you four cooked up. Sand, messy food, an hour drive to the same stores they have right here in Magnolia Beach, and then probably a bunch of crying kids at a mini-­golf joint. But”—­he paused—­“let’s do this!”

  After some minor arguing about how to organize the day, plus gathering beach towels and sunscreen, we all piled into Bootsie’s Range Rover at 9:45 a.m. and headed south. Waffles was set for a special day with Martha, who would walk him, sauté some chicken for his lunch, and watch his favorite show (Ellen) in the guesthouse with him later in the afternoon.

  La Tente was first, where Sophie got Joe to agree that they could tent the ceiling of at least one of her rooms in Bryn Mawr. Sophie was still pushing for her living room, while Joe, who’d taken an unlikely frugal stance, was pushing for the front entry hall, which was relatively small and would cost about one-­twentieth of the living room.

  Next, Bootsie sped down 95 to Bal Harbour, where between the Gucci, Lanvin, and Tiffany & Co. stores, I hugged my arms close to my sides, terrified I’d somehow topple a two-­thousand-­dollar handbag or bump into a shelf of hand-­painted dinner plates. But the shopping district was seriously gorgeous, all glossy marble and gleaming chandeliers. We breezed in and out in under forty-­five minutes, since Holly decided it was “not worth it” to be at Bal Harbour without her credit cards.

  By 2:00 p.m., we were at Captain Harry’s. Sea grapes and dunes and indigo sea were just beyond the outdoor deck, where Jimmy Buffett blasted over the speakers and a balmy breeze wafted through the festive bar, decorated with faded beer signs and fishing nets. Two pitchers of frosty Heineken sat on the table, and Sophie and Bootsie had gamely tied on lobster bibs, while I was working my way through a plastic basket of spicy shrimp. Joe was midway through a drippy and awesome cheeseburger. (Holly had a salad and some white wine.)

  “This is fun!” shrieked Sophie, cracking a claw.

  “Can we have some more butter, please?” Bootsie asked the waiter.

  “And some Perrier?” Holly added.

  “We got seltzer,” the waiter told her.

  After lunch, we all used the free sanitizing wipes provided by Captain Harry, then did eighteen holes of putt-­putt, with Holly’s competitive streak emerging and prompting a somewhat heated battle between her and Bootsie. Holly won by one stroke.

  Finally, at 4:00, we hit the beach in Delray. The ocean water was a little chilly, but I jumped in, if only to silence Joe, who was taunting me. Finally, wrapped in towels and covered with sand, we got back to Holly’s at 5:30 p.m.

  “That was a freakin’ awesome day!” Sophie proclaimed.

  “It was the best!” I agreed, hugging Waffles, who wore a blissful, pampered look and was slightly damp from an outdoor bath that Martha had administered using fragrant coconut shampoo.

  “It was sixty-­seven percent not horrible,” said Holly, sounding surprised.

  Sophie’s phone rang. “Should I get it?” she asked. “It’s Gerda. I know we said we weren’t going to do any restaurant or divorce stuff today.” She hesitated for a second. “I can’t resist picking up! Hi, Gerda!” she said into the phone.

  She listened for a few minutes, adding an occasional “Uh-­huh” or “You’re shitting me” to the conversation, then ended the call.

  “My ex got nailed again,” she told us, popping some gum into her mouth. “Attacked at his rental house while Gerda was out jogging.”

  IT TURNED OUT that around the same time we’d been hitting the miniature golf course, Gerda had returned from a five-­mile run to Barclay’s rented house and found the real estate mogul facedown in his backyard near the pool. A meatball sandwich that Barclay had been halfway through had been found next to his prone form, a few bites gone from the mass of meatballs and provolone cheese.

  He’d been knocked out cold. A sizable and growing bump had been visible on the back of Barclay’s head, and Gerda had called for an ambulance. It had arrived minutes later. With some effort, a ­couple of EMTs had transported the developer to Palm Beach Gardens Medical Center, with Gerda along for the ride. Barclay had regained consciousness in the ER and told the staff there that he had no idea what, or who, had knocked him flat. He hadn’t been all that coherent, but he’d conveyed that he’d been about to head to his pool house to chow down on the meatballs before Gerda got back, when boom! He’d blacked out.

  The police had been summoned to the hospital to interview Gerda and Barclay, and had then visited Barclay’s house with Gerda in tow. There, on the white marble kitchen island, they’d found the receipt for the hoagie, delivered from a pizza place in West Palm, and gone to visit the shop. The delivery guy had told the police he’d dropped off the sandwich without incident at around 4:30 (as soon as Gerda had left for her run—­apparently Barclay hadn’t wanted her to know about his unhealthy snack). Since there didn’t seem to be any reason why a twenty-­three-­year-­old part-­time college student/delivery man would have gone after Barclay, the meatball hoagie guy hadn’t been a suspect.

  Gerda, though not a woman who rattles easily, had decided she’d been slightly uneasy at Barclay’s house after the police left, so she’d walked the block and a half to Adelia’s.

  “Gerda and Adelia want us to come over,” Sophie told us.

  By 6:30, hastily showered, we were all in Adelia’s living room, where Gerda was sipping some spring water to calm her nerves.

  “I call up to Palm Beach Gardens. They said Barclay staying overnight in hospital, but he’s okay. He’s got a hard head,” Gerda informed us.

  “They should’ve gone after a different body part,” Sophie opined. “This is the second time he’s gotten whacked in the head and lived to tell about it.”

  Unsurprisingly, Sophie wasn’t too upset about her once-­beloved’s latest injury. When he’d gotten bashed in the head with a bookend the previous spring, she’d shrugged it off. Sophie explained that ­people were always getting mad at Barclay. Just in case someone successfully killed him before their divorce was final (Barclay had once had mafia ties, so it wasn’t impossible), she’d made sure her lawyers had an airtight agreement that gave her a hefty payday if Barclay died.

  “I had something else I was gonna call you about before this happened,” Gerda said. “I got on Barclay’s computer this morning while he was in the hot tub, and he had e-­mail from that guy Scooter. Scooter told Barclay he’s heading to the old schoolhouse tonight around 8:30 with a surveyor.”

  “Who surveys a property at night?” asked Joe, who was working his way quickly through a margarita. “It’s dark by seven-­thirty.”

  “Scooter knows the neighbors will kick up a storm if they see surveyors around the schoolhouse,” Adelia told us, sounding surprisingly sober for a tiny woman who’d been sipping tequila since lunchtime. “There’s quite a few rules in town about what can be torn down, as well as what can be built.” She sipped for a minute. “Though Scooter certainly knows all the right ­people to get the most favorable zoning. Especially if he blindsides the neighbors and starts demolition quickly enough.”


  “We’ll follow Scooter over there later,” Bootsie announced, nodding her blond bob decisively. “In the meantime, I can’t stop thinking about that meatball sub Barclay was eating when he got nailed. Gerda, do you know the name of the place the sub came from? And did it look good?”

  “Yeah, it’s called Broadway Pizza,” Gerda said, shaking her head disapprovingly. “But you don’t want that food. Meatballs sit in your gut. Shorten your life by like twenty years.”

  “I sure do want it!” said Bootsie, Googling the pizza place on her phone. “I can’t eat any more seafood. I need meatballs. I’ll order some pizzas, too.”

  The meatball sandwiches honestly did sound pretty good, even if Gerda was now muttering darkly about colonic clogs and genetically modified beef.

  “I don’t think we want to follow Scooter over to the schoolhouse,” I said, since no one else seemed to have noticed the first part of Bootsie’s plan. “That sounds like a bad idea.”

  “I’m up for it,” Joe announced.

  “This sounds fun!” Adelia said, excited. “We’ll trail that little sneak over to the schoolhouse and nail his ass. And pizza would be fun!” Apparently, pizza wasn’t something Adelia had ever ordered. She didn’t seem like the pepperoni type.

  “I’ll take care of ordering the food,” Ozzy said, who also looked pleased as Bootsie suggested he get three large pies and eight meatball hoagies. I guess a night off from cooking was a break for him, too.

  A ­COUPLE OF margaritas later, sneaking over to the schoolhouse was sounding better to me.

  Ozzy had gone to pick up the pizza and sandwiches. The delivery guy from Broadway Pizza, traumatized after being interviewed by the police, had told his bosses he was taking the night off.

  At this, Bootsie, Joe, and I exchanged glances.

  “We need to find this delivery guy tomorrow,” Bootsie announced. “Find him, tip him, and grill him. A college kid moonlighting as a delivery guy needs cash, and that’s how we can get info the police can’t.”