Killer WASPs

by Amy Korman

  Actually, moving to Palm Beach sounded like a good idea for him and Jessica. She’d need to get as far away as possible from the chef when he found out about her fling with Channing.

  “By the way, not to gossip, but we just had to make a quick stop at the club, and guess who’s here having drinks right now,” added Tim.

  “Honey Potts and Holly Jones?” I ventured.

  “How did you know that!” screamed Tim.

  “Just a lucky guess,” I said.

  “Well, you’re right, and what’s more, Honey is wearing a dress,” he said. “A white linen number from Talbots that Holly told us she helped pick out.” Wonders never cease, we agreed, and we ended the call and hung up.

  Leaving the shop an hour later, I realized I was ecstatic at the prospect of a night at home with Waffles. There was a light breeze, the sun hadn’t yet started to set, and I rolled down the car windows so Waffles could stick his head out, foot-­long ears flying in the breeze, sniffing the yards full of blooming peonies and daylilies as we drove home. Lawnmowers, that classic summer soundtrack, buzzed outside the car, and when I got home and went into the gate, I could smell cigar smoke wafting over the holly bushes from Jimmy’s porch, and the faint sound of what I think was a Dean Martin record.

  This was pure bliss, I thought, taking off my shoes to feel the lush grass (which actually needed cutting again), cool and cushiony under my toes. I fed Waffles, got a glass of water, and sat on the back steps with my eyes closed, listening to the birds, who were singing even more loudly than Jimmy’s record, and the wind whooshing through the tall maples up and down Dark Hollow Road. I heard Waffles’s tail thumping, but he wags whenever the black cat who belongs to the neighbors on the other side of Jimmy and Hugh walks by the fence. Then I realized that mingling with the good scents of the early evening—­flowers, grass, cigar smoke, warm dog—­there was the scent of soap. Masculine, unfancy soap. I looked up into the black-­lashed brown eyes and beard-­stubbled face of Mike Woodford.

  Mike had just showered with his signature Irish Spring. He was wearing faded jeans and a white button-­down shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  As Mike looked down at me, petting Waffles, I remembered John Hall’s fantastic soap smell, which I’d been bowled over by just last night. What kind of person is unable to focus on one great-­smelling man for more than twenty-­four hours? And John has sincere blue eyes, great arms, makes great salads, and, I’m ninety-­nine-­percent sure, is getting divorced from his beautiful wife.

  Plus I’d sworn off Mike a few days before. Watching him stroll into the pub on his own during Gerda’s bender had just cemented the fact that Mike’s definitely the kind of guy who likes to go out to a bar solo, on the spur of the moment, and not have to answer to some whiny girl about what time he’ll be home. He could never commit to anyone other than a cow. I instinctively knew—­from years of dating men who seem perfectly normal at first, and then one day show up in a hand-­knit poncho they bartered for in Oaxaca—­that Mike was poncho material. I’d bet everything I own that Mike already had a route mapped out for camping along the Andes this summer.

  “I thought you might want to come over for some . . . lemonade,” Mike said, reaching out his hand to help me up.

  “Okay,” I said, surprising myself. I found myself unable to look away from his stubble and brown eyes. “I guess I could go for some . . . lemonade.”

  TEN MINUTES LATER, I blinked in the subtle light from two brass sconces in the entryway of the Mike’s Sanderson cottage. Waffles and I followed him inside, in a mild state of shock. There was a beautiful old hall table to my right—­was that Biedermeier?—­and just past it was the door to a small library-­style living room. There were two large chocolate-­brown sofas, a comfy upholstered chair, and a low table piled with books. Things were arranged in English country-­house style, with botanical prints on the walls, big comfortable furniture, and an air of age and good style. This place was totally charming!

  No Mexican blankets or camping gear were visible. Also, the house smelled really good. There was the scent of lemon oil used to polish the furniture and that faint, smoky smell that lingers into the summer after you’ve burned logs in your fireplace all winter. I couldn’t even smell the farm through the open window. Not a whiff of cow shit anywhere.

  “Have a seat,” said Mike, gesturing to one of the giant puffy sofas.

  “Thanks!” I said, squooshing into the cushions. I’ve never been one for huge furniture, but for some reason, it really worked in this small room, making it seem incredibly cozy in a man cave–ish way. Had he hired a decorator? Whatever the case, it was such a relaxing space that if I wasn’t being kept awake by the sexual tension in the room—­at least I thought there was sexual tension—­I’d have immediately taken a nap. Mike pushed the two window sashes higher to let in the early-­evening breeze, while I surreptitiously checked out his forearms. (Okay, a hint of cow blew in along with the fresh air, but mostly it was all lemon oil and Irish Spring in here.)

  “Did you decorate this place yourself?” I asked him.

  “Honey lent me most of the furniture and a lot of prints and paintings,” he told me. “She has so many antiques handed down over the years, she was happy to move some stuff out here to the cottage. I’ll get the drinks,” he added, and disappeared.

  I watched him leave and wondered: Is it possible to have a relationship that’s based entirely on someone’s muscular arms? I think it is. I mean, Holly’s marriage to Howard only came about because of her fabulous legs in a tennis skirt.

  Waffles launched himself off his back legs and landed beside me on the giant couch. I tried to shove him over, but he lay there like a sunbathing manatee. This wasn’t too romantic.

  Actually, though, Waffles looked really good in this old-­English, clubby setting. It was very basset-­friendly, perfect for a portly brown and white dog with floppy ears. The room was a little masculine for my taste, but if I wasn’t possessed of the knowledge that Mike had a predilection for exotic camping trips, I could see myself living here. And if ­people asked where I lived, I could answer airily: “Sanderson.”

  And they’d say, “You do? What’s it like with the ballroom and the greenhouse and the fourteen bedrooms and the dining room that’s hosted several presidents at the Regency dining table that seats twenty-­four?”

  That’s when I’d have to admit that I lived in a cottage down by the cow barn, but that’s still pretty good. And so was this cottage, which spoke of stability and comfort. Questions were whizzing around in my head, and chief among them was the worry: Was I wrong about Mike? Was he really a guy who couldn’t be counted on for more than sexy groping in a barn?

  Maybe it was just Honey’s heirlooms and antiques that were making that statement, but was it possible there was a more permanent side to Mike? Since I’d never really spent much time talking to him, it was possible I was selling him short.

  We’d met under such strange circumstances, and given all the crimes around Bryn Mawr lately and my precarious financial situation—­not to mention meeting John Hall—­I’d really never spent more than an hour at a time with him, had a meal with him, gone for a walk with him that didn’t end up with a crime scene.

  “Lemonade, as promised,” Mike said, returning with two glasses and some hastily folded up paper towels as coasters.

  Well, Mike definitely wasn’t gay. Only a straight guy would have no napkins. “Want some vodka in that?” He held up a bottle with some Russian lettering and a red label on it.

  “Sure!” I said. Phew—­for a minute there, I’d been afraid Mike was actually going to serve plain old lemonade. He glugged some vodka into our glasses, sat down next to me in the overstuffed chair, and kissed me. This went on for a few amazing minutes, with me telling myself that this was the last time I’d be doing this, so I might as well get as much of those muscular arms as I could. Come to think of it, his thigh muscles, pressed up against my legs, were pretty fantastic, too . . . the low li
ghting in this room was really very romantic . . . I liked his sunburned nose and dark brown eyes . . .

  In a pleasant fog of vodka and pheromones, I was considering ripping off Mike’s white shirt when I suddenly noticed Waffles had gotten up and was standing a few feet away in front of a door that led from Mike’s living room out into his small backyard. He was wagging and giving me his I-­gotta-­go look.

  “He’s got to go out,” I told Mike.

  “I’ll take him,” said Mike.

  “Thanks!” I said gratefully, smoothing down my hair.

  “C’mon, Waffles,” he said, leading the dog outside into the dark under the trees. “Be right back,” he said.

  While they contemplated some azalea bushes, I got up to look at the bookshelves the flanked the fireplace, which held a mix of old classics, books on cows and horses, and a few coffee-­table tomes about Ireland and England. WASP classics, courtesy of Honey. Then I spied it, between the Field Guide to Cattle and a collected works of P.G. Wodehouse.

  Mike owned The Lonely Planet Guide to Thailand!

  Regret coursed through my veins, mingling with the vodka to make for a depressing cocktail of despair. What was I doing here, anyway? Muscular arms or not, I was done with Mike, I thought, furious with myself. As he and Waffles came back through the back door, I glared at Mike and grabbed the dog’s leash, but neither one of them noticed my irked mood.

  “More vodka?” asked Mike, in a friendly manner.

  “No, thanks,” I said frostily. “I’m—­”

  “Did someone say vodka?” boomed a voice through the open window next to the front door. “You home, Mikey?”

  Honey Potts! I’d know her Charlton-­Heston-­meets-­Kathleen-­Turner intonation anywhere.

  Mike uttered something under his breath and went to the front door, Waffles got up and ran happily out to the front hallway, and I frantically plumped up the rumpled couch cushions.

  “Hi, Honey,” I heard Mike say to his boss.

  “Is that Waffles?” said a shocked, more feminine voice. I knew the voice: It went with tanned legs, long blond hair, blue eyes, and overpriced YSL caftans. It was a voice that had been expensively educated and had traveled the world, thanks to tons of chicken nuggets being eaten all around our great country. A voice that was music to the ears of sales­people at Saks, Neiman’s, and Chanel boutiques around the globe . . .

  “Do you know Holly Jones?” growled Honey to Mike in the foyer. “She’s a new friend of mine. Holly, meet Mike Woodford.” I could hear Waffles’s tail thumping against the wood floor.

  Holly! I was in complete shock. Not only was Holly about to catch me in flagrante make out with Mike, I was struggling to absorb the fact that she actually knew Waffles’s name. I would’ve bet ten bucks that Holly had no idea what the dog was called.

  I busied myself getting more glasses from the shelves while the three of them and Waffles came into the living room. “Kristin, our neighbor across the street, and I were just having drinks,” explained Mike, while Honey gave me a suspicious look. For her part, Holly appeared to be semi-­angry with me for never having told her I knew Mike, but she also looked like she was struggling not to giggle.

  If I hadn’t been so mad about the Lonely Planet Guide, I would have laughed, too. Holly clearly had taken in the whole situation, and raised her eyebrows at me while Mike handed around drinks. Holly understands make-­out interruptus, having been involved in quite a few such sessions herself in her pre-­Howard days.

  Holly perched on a small chair by the window, crossed her elegant legs, sipped her drink, and said, “Guess what, Kristin? One of Mrs. Potts’s cows, Blossom, is giving birth tonight.” Holly was winking at me and raising her eyebrows in a significant manner. “So she just called her veterinarian.”

  Uh-­oh.

  “I called John Hall and he’s meeting us at the barn in twenty minutes,” Honey told Mike, settling herself into one of the sofas and sipping her drink. Time to go home! blinked like neon in my mind while Holly’s cell phone began to vibrate.

  “Oh boy,” Holly said, eyeing her caller ID. “Sophie Shields.”

  She answered and listened for a minute. “Okay, hold on.” Holly paused for a second and looked at Mike. “Is it okay if our friend Sophie comes over? She has something important to tell me, and she insists she needs to do it in person.”

  “Why not?” Mike said, looking defeated. “Invite anyone you want.”

  “Sophie, turn into the driveway at Sanderson. Yes, the place your ex got whacked. Go straight past the barn to the little stone house. You’ll see my car parked right out front,” Holly told her, and hung up.

  “Actually, knowing Sophie, she might miss it,” Holly added to the three of us, while checking her manicure.

  “Why’s that dingbat coming over?” growled Honey, who, I noted, really did look nice in her white linen Talbots dress. Was that lipstick I noticed on her sun-­baked lips, too?

  “She has something urgent to tell me. Actually, she’s not that bad,” said Holly. “She’s trying to reinvent herself.”

  A car squealed into the gravel road outside, heels rat-­a-­tatted up the steps, and Waffles and Mike went to the door. Sophie clacked in and Holly made the necessary introductions. That done, Sophie greeted us all amiably, and plopped her small Cavalli-­clad frame into a chair, while Honey stared at her, perplexed.

  “Nice piece a property you got here!” Sophie said to Honey Potts. “I can see why my ex tried to buy it off you. Not that I think you should sell to him, because I don’t!”

  She looked at Mike, and recognition dawned in her Bambi eyes.

  “Hey, I remember you,” Sophie said to him. “You came with Honey to my symphony party. Anyway, do you have any champagne?” she asked as Mike poured her a vodka lemonade. “ ’Cause vodka and I don’t get along, if you know what I mean. And also, I have an announcement to make. Champagne would help.”

  “I’ll check,” said Mike heading to the kitchen. He returned with a bottle of sparkling wine, popped the cork, and passed us all some wineglasses. We all waited to take a sip while Sophie got to her feet, put her hands on her narrow hips, and told us dramatically:

  “Well, girls, and, um, you, the hot guy with the cute scruff and the champagne, I’m in love. I’m in love with a man who wants to paint my whole house beige. I’m in love with Joe!”

  My jaw dropped, Holly’s eyes widened in shock, Mike looked confused, and Honey asked, “Who the hell is Joe?”

  “He’s my decorator!” Sophie replied. “Holly and Kristin’s friend. Incredibly handsome and I’m nuts about him!”

  “Is he straight?” asked Mike.

  “Yup,” said Sophie proudly. “I checked.”

  For the next five minutes, I had an out-­of-­body experience listening to Sophie tell us all about how she’d finally realized her true feelings for Joe at the Benjamin Moore paint store the day before. Anyone who cared that much about her house, she reasoned, and was willing to stand up to her preference for purple and gold, was a man she could count on. And she knew that he would never treat her with the callousness that Barclay had. There would be no need to hire PIs to follow Joe around.

  I wondered distractedly if Joe could possibly have feelings for Sophie. She was pretty and sweet enough, but she and Joe were as different as Chippendale and Ikea, as diametrically opposed as Campari and Coors. They had absolutely nothing in common. Then again, who knows? Maybe it was time for Joe to move out of Holly’s guest room and get on with his life.

  “Listen, girl,” said Honey to Sophie. “I don’t know you. You don’t seem all that smart. And you married Barclay Shields, so your judgment can’t be all that great. But most of us marry a horse’s ass at some point.”

  “I did,” agreed Holly.

  “I did, too,” said Honey. “And I spent a lot of time being miserable about it. I should’ve picked myself up and gone on with my life, and married someone else. And that’s what you should do, too, Sophie. Go tell this Joe that
you love him. Maybe it will all work out.” We all looked at Honey in surprise, but just then a cow bellowed from the barn.

  “Blossom!” barked Honey, worriedly. She and Mike got up and zoomed out the front door toward the barn, leaving me, Holly, and Sophie with our cocktails. It seemed Blossom was now in full-­on labor, and while I felt badly for the poor cow, it didn’t make me any less sure that Mike was definitely not a potential long-­term relationship prospect.

  “Let’s go, Holly,” I said. She yawned and agreed.

  “I better get going, too,” Sophie piped up.

  “I’m exhausted,” Holly moaned. “Just getting Honey to try on clothes at Talbots was a huge ordeal. But I’ve made a lot of headway in our new friendship, and I’m eighty-­seven-­percent sure she didn’t try to kill Barclay or the chef.”

  “I just need to excuse myself for a second, and then I’m ready,” I told her and Sophie. “Be right back.”

  Mike’s powder room was snazzy, in an English country house kind of way. The walls were painted a pretty dark red, and there was an old white porcelain sink and a Venetian mirror that was blurry with age. There was a print of a handsome cow on the wall opposite the door, and some books on a shelf above the commode. It was a very cute bathroom. Whatever—­so Mike had good taste. As soon as I washed my hands, which were covered with dog hair, I was out of here, and I never wanted to see Mike or his Lonely Planet Guide again.

  Then I froze.

  At one end of the little bookshelf above the toilet was a silver acorn bookend.

  Only one acorn bookend.

  I knew this didn’t necessarily implicate Mike, since Walt had told me there were any number of the acorn figurines floating around Bryn Mawr, but, still—­one of the acorns? Right here, on the grounds of Sanderson, where a heavy, sharp, bloodied acorn bookend had been found just days before? I felt a shiver of fear run down my spine. Why did I always find myself in these situations lately?