Killer WASPs

by Amy Korman

  He squeezed half a lemon on his crab, and in a gentlemanly way offered to squeeze some on my shrimp.

  “Thanks,” I said, proffering my plate for the lemon spritz. “Honestly, these shrimp are so good, they’re worth it.”

  “You’re right,” he said, popping some crab in his mouth. “I have a theory about buffets. You need to skip all the extraneous stuff—­like bread, salad, anything that’s just filler—­and focus on the key items. Any kind of fish or filet mignon comes first. If it’s brunch, then I do the omelet bar, the cheeses, the roast turkey, and then I go right to dessert. You can’t waste stomach space on things like donuts.” I had to agree, this made a lot of sense.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that about the shrimp,” he added apologetically. He really had nice eyes with some great crinkly lines around them, which made him all the more appealing. “I just read a story in a medical journal about some of the health risks of shellfish, but it’s not good cocktail conversation.”

  Was he a doctor? I love doctors. As Holly would say, they’re so medical.

  “You’re a doctor?” I asked hopefully.

  “I’m a vet,” he said. “Large animals, mostly. But I read the AMA journal, too. Sometimes research on ­people can have implications for how we treat our animal patients. Not that the animals I treat are eating a lot of shrimp.” I tried to follow along with the conversation, but was preoccupied by taking in his deep tan and the sexy lines around his blue eyes.

  He also had this kind of incredibly honest look to him. That isn’t my usual type, but then again, my type wasn’t exactly working for me. And there was absolutely nothing about the vet that said Going to Thailand. If anything, his vibe was more: Going to gas up my station wagon, then take a jog around Bryn Mawr, grill a steak, and go to sleep. In other words, he seemed really normal.

  “I have a dog,” I told him. “He’s a really sweet basset hound. He’s a little stubborn, but he’s so lovable . . .” My voice trailed off for a second as I was momentarily distracted by the sight of Honey and Mariellen lurking near the house. “It’s too bad that Lilly isn’t here tonight,” I heard Honey growl. “Where is she, again?”

  “Tennis tournament,” Mariellen drawled. “Up in Greenwich. You know my daughter, she won’t miss a tennis match.” I did a mental eye roll. How could anyone get excited enough to drive four hours to Connecticut to swat a tennis ball?

  And then I noticed that standing next to Honey was a man in a navy blazer, khakis, and what appeared to be Gucci loafers. He was youngish, handsome, and not too tall. He looked perfectly at ease among the symphony crowd. And then I almost dropped my drink, because the man was grinning at me, and the man was Mike Woodford.

  His hair had been combed, his stubble had been shorn, and he looked positively symphony-­ready. You could have popped him into a box at the opera hall downtown, stuck a program for Mozart’s Requiem in his hand, and no one would have blinked an eye.

  What was Mike doing here? And more importantly, what was he doing in Gucci loafers?

  “You have a basset hound?” asked the vet. I tore myself away from staring at the cowherd.

  “Great dogs,” said the hot vet, leaning down to grab a few carrot sticks from the buffet. “Prone to obesity and back problems, but really great breed.”

  I nodded, but I had the uncomfortable sense that Mike was watching me, and I’d lost my appetite for my shrimp. Well, almost. I ate another one, gulped my champagne, and put my plate down on one of the little tables.

  As I did so, I suddenly felt Mariellen’s icy blue gaze fixed on me. Surprised, I looked away, then looked back, and saw La Merriwether stub out her cigarette in a glass ashtray in a positively sinister, Joan-­Crawford-­in-­Mommie-­Dearest way, still eyeing me with evident disdain. What had I done to upset her? Was there cocktail sauce on my face? Or did she know that I was the trespasser who’d helped make an unfortunate discovery at her best friend’s estate three nights before? Then I looked back, and noticed that her malevolent glare had been transferred to the good-­looking veterinarian.

  It was probably time to head home.

  “Oh, hiya, Kristin, ya having fun?” squeaked Sophie suddenly, appearing at my elbow. “Like the shrimp? They’re from Palm Beach! Gianni had ’em flown in!”

  “They’re fantastic,” I told her. “Thank you so much, they’re really incredible, and so, uh, big! Sophie Shields, this is . . .” I gestured toward the vet, realizing I didn’t know his name.

  “John Hall,” he said, shaking Sophie’s teeny hand, which was obscured by two giant cocktail rings. “Thank you for having me.”

  “Think nothing of it!” she said, looking over her shoulder nervously. “Eek, Gerda looks a little mad.” She giggled. “She’s my Pilates instructor,” she whispered to John Hall. “The one over there with the clipboard.”

  Gerda glared at Sophie from her check-­in station, and crunched angrily on a stalk of raw broccoli. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Mariellen and Honey walking swiftly toward Sophie’s house. Either they needed a bathroom break, or they were succumbing to the same impulse to snoop that Bootsie had given in to.

  Gerda got up from her table, and hotfooted it after Mariellen and Honey, perhaps sensing an imminent ransacking of her and Sophie’s desks and closets. She pointed at Sophie’s glass of champagne, shaking her head in disapproval as she disappeared inside the house.

  “Gerda banned me from drinking anything alcoholic or carbonated. Champagne’s a double no-­no, so I gotta sneak it,” Sophie told me and John, turning her back on Gerda to chug a flute of Mumm. “She won’t even drink beer, which is like her national beverage. Plus she and the chef already had a big fight when he brought in a tub of veal shanks for the next course. He’s making osso buco to serve after the seafood tonight, but Gerda claims to be a vegan! But I happen to know that one time last year she scarfed a whole plate of leftover sausage before my ex moved out, and boy, was he pissed!”

  “That’s unfortunate,” said John politely. He looked confused by Sophie’s monologue, and he was starting to sweat a little. He signaled to the girl at the bar for a glass of water.

  “Oh fuck!” shrieked Sophie, glancing up at the house, where Gianni stood on a little patio outside the kitchen. “There’s the chef, flagging me down with that goddamn dish towel again. I gotta go.”

  “Sophie!” yelled the chef from his terrace, his tall form bent over the railing to shout across the pool to Sophie. “There is big problem with your stove!”

  Sophie hustled toward him as quickly as her tiny frame and giant heels would take her toward the house, but just as she neared the edge of the pool near the house, Gianni erupted in Italian.

  We all looked up, including Sophie, whose mouth formed an O of horror.

  The chef had somehow lost his balance: He tumbled off the balcony, Crocs flying, arms flailing, and did a mid-­air somersault as he thumped heavily into a bank of rosebushes below. He also managed to topple onto the quartet’s cello player. His colleagues crashed to a halt in their song, while Sophie, just inches away, was unhurt. She seemed frozen on the spot, and indeed for a moment, no one spoke, or even breathed.

  “Merda!” screamed the chef, finally breaking the silence.

  “Ouch,” moaned the cellist.

  “Ohmigod!” exploded Sophie. “Chef Gianni’s dead!”

  Chapter 9

  THE CHEF WASN’T dead, though. No dead man could scream that loudly. The bushes he’d landed on were newly planted in a thick, pillowy layer of mulch, which appeared to break his fall, and also, luckily, cushioned his impact on the hapless cello player—­though the cello itself hadn’t been as fortunate. The chef was thrashing, cursing, and struggling to get up. The cello player, meanwhile, had rolled onto his back, the wind knocked out of him, his tuxedo torn and covered with rose petals and mulch. The cellist was a robust man, but he appeared dazed as he clutched his bow and stared at the tragic remains of his once-­beautiful and expensive instrument.

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nbsp; “Excuse me,” said John Hall. “I’ll go check on those two,” and he walked over calmly toward the two men to assist with their medical care, insomuch as a vet can doctor two-­legged creatures. I noticed that Mariellen and Honey had blithely reemerged from the house by the basement door. They cast a bemused eye at the tattooed chef and the fallen musician. The Colketts, on the other hand, looked panicked. They, too, had been inside the house during the over-­the-­railing incident, and their heads popped out at the top of the patio from which the chef had fallen. Their sunglasses were off, and their handsome faces looked terrified, until a millisecond later, when they disappeared back into the house.

  Above me, Bootsie popped out on another balcony on the third floor, outside what I guessed was Sophie’s bedroom, her eyes bulging as she took in the situation below. She turned and ran back into the house. I felt a little badly that she’d missed out on the ruckus.

  “Oh, Chef, I’m so sorry!” wailed Sophie, hovering over him and helplessly trying to pluck thorny branches from his thighs while the vet examined the cellist for broken bones. “You musta slipped on some seafood! Shrimp and crab get so gooey when it gets warm. I feel terrible for ya!”

  “I did not slip!” screamed the chef. “I have special treads on my Crocs—­I never slip.” He sat up, and gestured toward the kitchen. “I was pushed!”

  Sophie looked thunderstruck by this accusation, as did most of the crowd, but Gerda, standing over him, was having none of it. “No one here would commit crime. I am like security guard as well as Pilates professional.” She crossed her muscular arms and stared down at the chef. “You slipped,” she said firmly.

  “Fuck you!” he replied.

  I noticed that Gianni’s girlfriend Jessica didn’t look all that worried about her boyfriend. She sauntered over to a table, sucked down the last of her mojito, and ground out her cigarette with her Louboutin before she made her way over to Gianni, who was still screaming insults at Sophie and Gerda.

  Within a ­couple of minutes, I heard the wails of an ambulance arriving. Bad news traveled fast, apparently, and I noticed the same two medics who’d removed Barclay Shields on Thursday night galloping down Sophie’s driveway with their gurney at the ready. On their heels was Officer Walt.

  I figured this was the perfect time to leave, so I booked it over to Holly and Joe, who were standing at the other bar, to say good-­bye.

  “I should go over to the chef and act sympathetic,” said Holly, sighing and topping off her own glass, since the bartenders had stopped serving and were simply standing and gaping.

  “I’m going to wait until the screaming subsides,” said Joe, blithely munching on crab.

  Mariellen, meanwhile, was watching the cluster of ­people gathering around Gianni with her mouth pursed in disapproval as she pulled at her pearls distractedly. Honey gathered up her L.L. Bean tote bag—­not very cocktail-­party-­appropriate, but then again, neither were her kelly-­green blazer and shorts—­and, with drink and bag in hand, made one last run at the hors d’oeuvres buffet (which, given the chef’s predicament, clearly wasn’t going to be restocked).

  If I knew Honey—­which I didn’t, but I seemed to be running into her a lot lately—­she was at least six minutes away from departing. There was still a good twenty pounds of crab on ice on the buffet, and no matter how much Mariellen nagged, Honey wasn’t going to leave until she did some damage to that pile of shellfish. From what I’d observed, while she wasn’t an eater on par with Barclay Shields, Honey was no slouch.

  Since I now seemed to be on Mariellen’s shit list, and was still avoiding Honey, I used her proclivity for grazing as the perfect opportunity to leave before the three of us were caught in an awkward standoff in the valet-­parking line. Quickly, I scanned the crowd again, wondering where the hell Bootsie was, when a glass of champagne appeared in front of me. And the flute of bubbly in question was being held by one extremely tanned hand.

  “Leaving already?” said Mike Woodford.

  I turned around as my stomach did a small flip. I have to admit, Mike cleaned up well. I actually preferred his usual T-­shirt and Levi’s outfit, but the blue blazer and white shirt looked really good with his tan. I couldn’t even smell any eau de cow, just some manly-­smelling soap. Irish Spring, if I wasn’t mistaken. “Don’t go yet,” he said in my ear. The beard stubble felt amazing against my earlobe, and I looked into his dark brown eyes, which looked friendly and a little amused.

  “What did I miss?” exploded Bootsie, suddenly popping up next to me. She was so anguished about missing the chef’s tumble that she didn’t even notice Mike and his beard stubble invading my ear.

  “Bootsie, we should go. The medics need all the cars out of the driveway,” I improvised, turning away from Mike and ignoring the champagne he’d brought me. I didn’t want to be rude, but this wasn’t the time to introduce him to Bootsie.

  “Are you nuts?” said Bootsie. “This is the social event of the season!” I shot an embarrassed glance back at Mike, told him, “Bye!” and bolted up the path toward the driveway at a quick trot, Bootsie on my heels.

  “Did someone really push Gianni?” she hissed.

  “It all happened really quickly,” I told her over my shoulder. “It seemed more like an accident.” The chef, quieter now, was being wheeled up the pathway to the ambulance into which the medics neatly inserted him and sped away. Another ambulance wailed into the driveway to pick up the cellist.

  “Can we please leave now?” I implored Bootsie.

  “Of course not,” she said. “I’m a journalist,” Bootsie added. “This is big news now that the che’s been injured.”

  I’m pretty sure writing up suburban real estate transactions doesn’t make Bootsie the next Chris­tiane Amanpour, but it was pointless to argue with her.

  “Honestly, it looked like Chef Gianni just lost his footing,” I told her, inwardly debating my options of ways to get home.

  Bootsie brushed this aside. “Just so you know, I’m here reporting for the paper and doing a little research for Will’s cousin Louis, the lawyer,” she told me. “Louis asked me to help him come up with some theories about what might have happened to Barclay Shields on Thursday night. And right now, I’m thinking Sophie and her Pilates teacher were somehow involved with both attacks.”

  Bootsie nodded meaningfully at Gerda, who was helping the medics push a gurney containing the cello player up the hill. “Just look at her! Sophie probably had Gerda push Gianni over the railing just now, and I think Gerda also did the job on Barclay’s head the other night.”

  “Maybe,” I said doubtfully. “But Sophie told us she loses money if Barclay dies. And why would Sophie want to kill the chef? Sophie needed the chef alive and cooking tonight. There was another whole course to go after the shrimp—­Sophie wouldn’t have wanted her guests to miss out on the osso buco.”

  “Well, then, maybe Gerda attacked him without Sophie’s approval,” mused Bootsie determinedly. “Gerda could be a rogue operator. I’m positive she had something to do with this. Look at her—­she’s beaming!”

  Gerda did have a creepy smile on her makeup-­free face as she left the driveway and marched back toward the house, seemingly pleased that the party was over and that ­people were beginning to head up the hill from the pool area.

  “Why don’t you come back here with me tomorrow?” I whispered to Bootsie. “I’m sending over a truckload of stuff from the store to Sophie. You can help me unpack it. Now, will you take me home?”

  Bootsie perked up at this opportunity to further nose around Sophie’s. “Count me in on moving the stuff from your store!”

  “Great!” I said, relieved. “Let’s get your car.” I waved frantically at one of the valet parkers.

  Suddenly, Bootsie elbowed me in my side (which kind of hurt), and hissed, “Look at that!” She nodded at the far end of the driveway, where Jessica the interior designer was disappearing off toward an SUV parked over with the catering trucks—­presumably to rush to G
ianni’s side at the hospital. And Jessica was accompanied by one of the cooks who worked for Gianni.

  I could see why Bootsie was staring. The cook was gorgeous. He looked to be in his mid-­twenties, with ridiculously muscular arms rippling under his white T-­shirt and cook’s jacket, a deep tan, brownish-­blond hair brushed back from his high cheekbones. He was the ultimate in cabana-­boy fantasy. He was shepherding Jessica up the stairs, his arm crooked under her skinny elbow, and they were whispering to each other in a way that suggested—­okay, screamed—­intimacy.

  “That guy is hot!” exploded Bootsie.

  She took off to eavesdrop on Jessica and the cook, and I looked at the valet parkers, who were all about nineteen and looked like they could use an extra ten bucks to buy beer with.

  I bet I could bribe one of them to give me a quick ride home in Bootsie’s SUV. Or maybe I could walk. My borrowed shoes, though they had three-­inch heels, weren’t all that uncomfortable, and the walk would take less than fifteen minutes. Unless I got a bad blister, which happens a lot with Holly’s shoes.

  “Kristin?” I heard an elderly voice call from behind me.

  Reluctantly, I turned around. It was my fussy neighbor, Hugh Best, in a pink sport coat. Right behind him was Mike, who was handing a numbered ticket to one of the valets.

  “May I offer you a ride home, my dear?” Hugh Best wheezed gallantly. He gestured toward his ancient dark red Volvo, which was idling in Sophie’s driveway, a cloud of smoke bellowing from its rusty tailpipe.

  “Thank you. That would be great!” I said, ignoring Mike’s raised eyebrows as Hugh scurried over to open the dusty passenger-­side door and push aside a box of Kleenex, a pipe spilling tobacco, and a giant container of Metamucil.

  “My brother is always leaving a mess in here,” he apologized.