by Amy Korman
“I don’t have to tell you why I’m here, but why are you sitting out here spying on Simmons?” Officer Walt returned mildly. “Because you’re on private property, and I had an e-mail from Lilly Merriwether that an old family friend was going to be staying at her mom’s house this week, and not to worry if I saw some lights on and a car here. Also,” he added, “I like to check in here every week or so as a favor to Lilly.”
“We’re trying to help out Eula Morris,” Bootsie told him. “She doesn’t know what a shyster her new boyfriend is. Just look at him!” she said, indicating Scooter’s outline through the curtains. “The blue blazer and the fancy loafers scream ‘guilty’!”
“He would be more comfortable in a tracksuit while relaxing watching television,” agreed Gerda from the backseat.
“The point is, Walt, that we’re pretty sure Scooter Simmons stole something valuable from Eula,” Holly told the officer, “and since what he swiped from his sort-of-girlfriend was something she neglected to declare at customs, we promised her we wouldn’t share the details with you.”
“Eula hasn’t reported anything missing,” Walt replied. “So let’s call it a night.”
“I’ll drive,” I offered, and Joe and I exchanged places and I followed Walt’s car out of the driveway and down Camellia Lane. “I’ll drop everyone off and bring your car back in the morning, okay, Joe?”
“Absolutely not,” he said. “Just pull into Holly’s driveway, wait five minutes, and then go back to Mariellen’s house. This suitcase snatch is going down tonight.”
Everyone else thought this was a great idea, so 11:45 saw us back in the same grove of spruce trees. For my part, I felt extremely nervous. If Walt came back, how would I explain to John that I’d been arrested breaking into his ex-mother-in-law’s house? That didn’t sound good. Lilly Merriwether might think I had some weird obsession with her, too, which isn’t all that far from the truth—but that manifests itself more with worrying that she’ll move back here. To that end, I occasionally ask John how his ex is doing. (In a casual way, of course.) Getting caught jimmying a lock to wander around at midnight in Lilly’s mom’s house would definitely throw a wrench into my relationship with John.
“What do you think is the most vulnerable door in the house?” Bootsie asked me and Holly, since the three of us have been inside Mariellen’s house before—Holly and Bootsie for garden tour parties, and myself at gunpoint when Mariellen went cuckoo two summers ago and almost killed me, my neighbors the Bests, and Waffles.
“I’m thinking we go through the door to Mariellen’s library,” Bootsie said. “The farm-style Dutch door. Probably will take me less than a minute to open.” With this, she waved her trusty barrette, which is her tool of choice for locked doors and cabinets. Bootsie’s technique was honed as a teen when her parents attempted to bar her and Chip from their liquor cabinet with a simple padlock, which she quickly mastered the art of opening with a bobby pin.
“I’m ready!” said Joe, way too loudly.
“You are too drunk to be burglar,” Gerda told him. “You must stay in car.”
Terrified at the prospect of returning to the scene of my almost-demise, but more scared to let Bootsie and Gerda head in a deux, since both tend to go rogue, I followed the two six-foot blondes toward the farm door that leads to Mariellen’s fancy library. Bootsie jiggled the hair accessory in the lock for about ten seconds, and the door popped open. No alarm sounded, probably because Lilly had remotely disabled it for her houseguest.
It was dark inside the elegant Colonial home, but a single front hall sconce lent minimal illumination to the library. I shook in my fake Uggs as I saw the monogrammed cushions, the hot-pink toile upholstery, and tons of photos of the gorgeous Lilly and Norman, Mariellen’s beloved horse! Leena had been taking her dusting duties seriously, I noticed, since the house looked spotless and in good order.
The sound of gentle, boozy snoring came from the living room, and the three of us paused, not sure which way to direct our search.
“You think the Samsonite is in living room with Scooter? Or, like, hidden in kitchen cupboards under sacks of flour?” whispered Gerda.
“I’m thinking Scooter would keep it near him,” hissed Bootsie. “And every once in a while, he probably flips the suitcase open just to admire all that gold. Since he’s asleep, you go in and roll out the Samsonite, Kristin.”
“What?” I said, shocked. “I’m not going into the living room all by myself!”
“I do not have a light tread,” said Gerda, “so I stay here. Don’t trip in those large boots, though,” she told me, giving my almost-Uggs a withering glance. “There are many knickknacks, figurines, and lamps that could cause you to fall over.”
I gave up, tiptoed (if you can tiptoe in giant rubber-soled boots) down the hallway, from which vantage point I immediately saw the suitcase! It was indeed at Scooter’s feet, but luckily appeared to be latched, closed, and ready to roll.
I reached next to the slumbering lawyer—grasping the Samsonite’s handle and gently guiding it into the hall. The noise from its squeaky new wheels sounded deafening, and Bootsie clearly agreed, because she grabbed the piece of luggage, which weighed a ton, and we made a break for it through the library’s Dutch door.
“Did you hear something?” I hissed as we all jumped into the car, with me in the driver’s seat, and Bootsie next to me, cradling the Samsonite on her lap. “Maybe Scooter saw us!” I said, two-wheeling out of the driveway and down Camellia Lane.
“He was asleep! He couldn’t have seen us. And, even if he pretty much knows it was us, he can’t call the police to report that we grabbed what he already stole,” said Bootsie.
“What if he tells Eula?” I asked. “Oh, wait, he’ll have the same problem. He can’t admit that we broke in unless he confesses to grabbing her gold-filled luggage.”
“He is screwed. Also, that was good time,” said Gerda. “I enjoy stealing this large luggage item.”
“It was kind of fun,” agreed Bootsie. “Anyone have any idea where we can put the bag for a few days?”
“Wait—aren’t we going to return it to Eula?” I asked, pulling over in front of Holly’s driveway. “We need to tell her that her new boyfriend robbed her!”
“Eventually we’ll return the Samsonite.” Joe shrugged. “But we could torture Eula for, say, seventy-two hours thinking it’s still missing. After that, I guess we should tell her Scooter isn’t a good guy,” he added reluctantly.
“I agree to tell Eula this information about her terrible boyfriend,” Gerda said solemnly. “She claims she hasn’t gotten naked with the guy yet, and we can save her from that indignity.”
“Maybe we can find Eula a new boyfriend,” I mused, feeling a bit bad for our nemesis. Until I met John, I was spectacularly unlucky in love myself, and it seemed sad that Eula had literally won the lottery but still was stuck with a terrible guy.
Holly stared at me with disdain. “We already got her a Powerball win,” she said finally. “She’s lucky that we’re bothering to tell her that Scooter is a loser. Anyway, I like the idea of hiding the suitcase somewhere to ruin Eula’s week.”
“I have idea. We should put suitcase in this one’s antiques store,” Gerda intoned, nodding at me. “Lot of junk in her storage room. No one look there.”
I started to protest that this was a bad idea, and that The Striped Awning was about to start hosting twice-a-week holiday poker parties and things were already a little messier than I’d like, given that it was the busiest shopping month of the year, but no one was listening. Gerda was still talking, and had a look of evil happiness on her face.
“Plus, I have great idea,” Gerda added triumphantly. “You know how we supposed to get one gold brick for finding suitcase? I have better idea.
“Maybe we keep four of the gold bricks and we tell this Eula girl that’s all that we found inside suitcase. Bingo, we make ton of cash for ourselves and I finally move out of Sophie’s house!”
; Chapter Eleven
The vodka was flowing when Waffles and I got to Holly’s house at 9 a.m. the next morning. Gerda was tapping at Chip’s computer, for which she hadn’t yet figured out the password. The Colketts were helping Sophie brainstorm fun ideas for free food and drinks at the town festival.
The landscape designers were pushing for a Christmassy Bloody Mary bar at the gazebo, which Gerda was obviously against. Sophie, who’d been tasting the drinks the Colketts were stirring up, was singing “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas.” Martha was flipping Havarti-and-spinach omelettes for the talented but boozy decorators, which was probably good because both Tom and Tim were midway through what looked like their third drink, and Holly was using her Uber app to summon Jared in his borrowed vehicle.
“We’re heading out on the brisket boondoggle in fifteen minutes,” said Tim Colkett. “We only have five more days to find the mysterious barbecue shack near Wilmington, Delaware.”
“I think it’s down by the beach,” Tom told him. “That’s nowhere near Wilmington. Or maybe it’s close to Georgetown, Delaware? Didn’t we go there once for a farmhouse table? Anyway, so far we’ve got Jared driving, Gerda along as Google Maps navigator, and Bootsie just because she wants to come.”
“Yes, but I have my shift at Maison de Booze from 2 p.m. until 6,” Gerda informed them. “And I am still trying to crack the password on Chip’s computer. So this trip cannot include, like, seventeen stops at antiques stores, which has been my experience on previous excursions with you guys.”
“We’re steering for steer! We’re pulling for pork!” Tim assured her. “This is a totally food-focused road trip.”
“I wish I could go, but I’m gonna be warming up my vocal cords for my cabaret tonight!” Sophie said. “You guys have your instrumentals all set, right?” she asked the Colketts.
“We know every song!” they reassured her.
“Your road trip sounds like fun,” said Holly, “but I’ve got to go get Howard’s mom’s holiday gift. I can’t put it off any longer. Lemieux the Jeweler is having a sale, and his mother likes nothing more than a silver tabletop ornamental bird.”
I perked up at this, having a passion for anything in the avian decorative-object family myself. The handmade birds at the upscale gift shop in question were absolutely gorgeous: lifelike, feathered, delicate, birdy creatures that made a holiday table look super-festive. They were also very pricey, so I limited my enjoyment of them to driving by the Lemieux windows and admiring them from my car. Lemieux is the kind of place where one wrong step or awkward elbow movement could topple a Bernardaud salad bowl that would set you back three hundred dollars.
“Lemieux the Jeweler! I love that guy!” shrieked Sophie. “Ya ever been there, Kristin? It’s that place over by Chip’s golf store where all the walls are lined in suede—or maybe it’s Ultrasuede—anyway, they have to buzz you in, and then you get handed champagne and they start bringing out giant diamonds! And, like, mini-quiches and Brie on crackers!”
“You’re going to buy your hubby’s mom a sterling silver swan when you could get her a fancy bracelet?” Tim Colkett asked Holly, as Bootsie and Joe walked in and took advantage of the Blood Mary bar.
“Trust me, the only way to get Howard’s mom to break a smile is to get her a silver pheasant, chicken, or owl from the Lemieuxs,” Holly informed him.
“She’ll love it!” I said. Obviously, the Colketts and Holly weren’t fans of bird decor, though. They all looked depressed.
“Well, you’re missing out, because the Lemieuxs are originally from France, and they have a real good-looking son,” Sophie told us. “This guy is basically a movie star. Picture Orlando Bloom meets Colin Firth meets Matt Bomer, and you’re almost getting the picture.”
“You won’t be buying anything for yourself at this expensive shop, will you?” Gerda demanded of Holly. “Because you told me not to let you buy jewelry, shoes, boots, and clutch handbags for all of December. You had two glasses of wine at Sophie’s post-Thanksgiving brunch and admitted you bought seven pairs of ankle booties that morning.”
Holly looked stressed, but kept her composure. “Gerda, you’re such a hoot!” she said with a little laugh. “I haven’t even been tempted by the Lemieuxs 1930s vintage pendants or the Liz Taylor-esque bracelet with the diamond starburst pattern that I might possibly buy once this month is over.”
“Well, let me at the jewelry!” Sophie said. “Because other than my budding cabaret career, I’m real depressed. Well, that and decorating town square and planning the festival, which we need to do Monday, by the way. The town holiday decorations are in that police station which is right near the Lemieuxs, so I’ll stop in and see what’s in there today,” Sophie told Gerda and the Colketts.
“Maybe decking out the town square will make me feel better,” Sophie added sadly. “Although mostly, the gnomes just remind me that last year, our first holiday together, my ex–Honey Bunny over there and I woke up to a gorgeous snowfall and had an argument over what color to paint my powder room. Then we made up and had mimosas and French toast. It was so romantic. Until we went for a walk, and Joe saw some gnomes displayed over by the luncheonette. We had to turn around, because he said those little smiling faces and chubby bodies and pointed red hats gave him nightmares worse than Krampus.” Here, she aimed a pout at Joe, who shrugged.
“I don’t do gnomes,” he told her, pronging a forkful of the omelet Martha had just cooked for him.
“I cannot understand this attitude! Sophie, working with the gnomes tomorrow will cheer you up,” promised Gerda. “There is no way that you can be sad with the adorable small figures in pointy hats peeking out from corners around the village. They are treasured holiday tradition.”
Just then, a honk sounded outside in Holly’s driveway. It was Jared in his parents’ black Yukon. “Uber is here, as driven by Jared,” announced Gerda.
“Let’s get our brisket on! Grab some Clif Bars and let’s go!” screamed Bootsie, herding her group out the door.
“I can only hope they go off-course and wind up at a spare-rib shack in Maryland by mistake,” sighed Holly tragically, once we’d heard the Yukon zoom away. “My dream is that Gerda will miss her shift at the Maison. Every day I hope she can’t come in, but she never gets sick!
“I don’t know how to tell Gerda this, but she’s not as welcoming as I’d like to customers,” added Holly. “She’s great at moving around huge crates of wine, and I love how organized she is, but it’s the holidays, when I should be selling pricey vintages out the wazoo.
“I mean, she’s even been limiting the Binghams to, like, two sips of wine at tastings, and she told Leena that too much free Brie would give her a spare tire and a muffin top. It doesn’t create the breezy, fun vibe I was hoping for.”
“I hate to say it,” Joe offered dispiritedly, “because I hate Gerda, but she’s great at her Pilates and aerobics classes. Wine—no. Squats and core strengthening—yes.”
“I told her that, too!” Holly said, agitated. “But she said she needs more space than Le Spa can give her if she’s going to expand her gym business.”
“You need to get her out of the wine shop if you’re ever going to break even on that place,” observed Joe. “She’s not exactly easy to get rid of, though. Look at how long she’s been living with Sophie.” He paused for a minute, chin in hand, which signified serious thought.
“Your only hope is a project that will get her so busy that she doesn’t have time for Maison de Booze. She needs to be full-time at Pilates.”
“Gerda can’t offer more classes,” Holly told him. “Le Spa doesn’t want her there ten hours a day. She’s mornings-only there.”
“What about renovating that outbuilding next to your wine store and turning it into a gym that Gerda can run?” I suggested, gathering up my stuff and attempting to aim Waffles for the door—no easy task, because Martha had made him an omelette, too, which he’d eaten with gusto, and he was now asleep on the kitchen f
loor.
“That’s perfect!” Holly said. “People can go through one of Gerda’s hellish classes and come right over to Maison de Booze for some sauvignon blanc! Obviously everyone’s going to need a lot of alcohol after the physical and emotional pain Gerda likes to inflict.
“You can redo the place for me and Gerda!” she told Joe. “She likes all white walls and blond wood floors. I’ll order all the machines and equipment, and you handle the renovations and do an amazing marble lobby with front desk and changing room with gorgeous orchids everywhere and a steam room. That won’t take long to do, right?”
“If you’re willing to pay overtime, it won’t,” Joe informed her.
“Can you get it done in three weeks?”
“That’s a lot of overtime,” he said, starting to run numbers on his iPhone calculator, his eye taking on a signature gleam that reflected a new and pricey project.
“Of course, I’ll give you a friends-and-family discount on my design fee,” Joe said, still entering numbers, “but given the fact that I’m pretty sure that old barn, or whatever it is, hasn’t been touched since 1927, this could get expensive. I’m heading over there now to look around a little, but given that there’s likely no plumbing, wiring, heat, and the roof has sizable holes in it, I’m thinking six weeks and a mid-February opening, with a team of four guys working fourteen-hour days.”
“Great!” said Holly. “And I just had a genius idea, let’s add Gerda to your construction team, which will keep her out of the wine store. Can your guys start tomorrow?”
Chapter Twelve
“I thought the brisket place was down Route 912, which leads to a bunch of farm towns where we get buy roses and hydrangeas in the summer,” Tim Colkett explained when he, Tom, and Bootsie stopped by The Striped Awning at 5:45 that afternoon. “Plus, there are some great discount liquor places down there.”
