Killer WASPs

by Amy Korman

  I threw open the door into the small front hallway, noticing in the dim light from the sconces that directly opposite the powder room door, above a small oil painting of a constipated-­looking old woman in a bonnet, a gun was mounted on the wall.

  It was a glossy, attractive, antique gun made of gleaming wood and elegantly tarnished metal, unmistakably a vintage piece. I don’t know the first thing about firearms, but unless I was very much mistaken, this one was old. Who keeps a gun in their front hallway?

  ­People who go around shooting chefs with antique guns, that’s who! Mike had to be the attacker of both Barclay Shields and Chef Gianni. Why he had gone after the two men, I wasn’t sure, but maybe he was trying to keep Barclay from taking land away from his precious herd of cows. Who knows why he’d target Gianni, but if Mike was a hothead, possibly he just thought the chef, being your basic jackass, was worth shooting.

  Mike had been at Sophie’s Symphony party, too, so he could have been the one to push Gianni. When I thought back, I hadn’t seen him among the crowd who’d immediately gathered around the fallen chef. Had he gone inside and pushed Gianni?

  “Yikes,” I whispered, petrified. I’d been making out with a murderer. Well, attempted murderer. This was a new low.

  I wheeled around to leave the bathroom and went back to the living room to grab Holly and Sophie.

  “Look!” I whispered, dragging them into the hallway and pointing toward the gun.

  “What?” said Sophie, staring at the rendering of the woman in the bonnet. “Not to be negative, but that painting’s ugly as sin. This lady looks like she hasn’t taken a crap for a week. Did I tell you that always happens to Barclay when we travel? One time when we went to Atlantic City—­”

  “No, above the painting,” I squeaked, pointing above the small painting. “The old gun. And in here, in the powder room”—­I threw open the door and gestured wildly—­“the acorn bookend. He’s got all the weapons that have been used over the past week in the attacks on Gianni and Barclay.”

  Sophie’s jaw dropped, and Holly looked stunned. She stared at me with comprehension, then clutched my wrist and Sophie’s, one in each hand. Sophie also appeared to put two and two together, and I was pretty sure I saw a light bulb pop on inside her head.

  “I know what we’d do in Joisey if we thought we were inside the house of a guy who’s probably a wannabe murderer,” she shrieked.

  “What?” asked Holly, looking slightly hysterical.

  “Run!” said Sophie.

  I grabbed Waffles’s leash, and Sophie ran for her convertible, while Waffles and I got into Holly’s car. I could see that John’s SUV was already parked over at the barn, but there was no sign of him, Mike, or Honey, who all seemed to be inside the brightly lit barn. We sped out up the long driveway of Sanderson toward the road.

  “I can’t believe you’ve been kissing a murderer!” Holly said, shooting me a glance as she hit fifty, gravel flying. “Even I have never done that.” She seemed a little envious. “You didn’t have sex with him, did you?”

  “Nope,” I told her, truthfully.

  “Oh well.” She looked disappointed. “Where did you make out? Was it always at his house?” she asked, pulling into my driveway across the street from the Sanderson gates.

  “No, not at all. Once out by my fence, and one other time in the Sanderson barn,” I admitted.

  “Against a fence and in a barn?” Holly breathed. She looked impressed. “That’s so . . . so . . . Kenny Chesney, in a good way.”

  “That was before I knew about Mike’s crazed-­murderer secret,” I explained.

  “I’ll call you in the morning and we’ll talk about everything,” I promised, getting out of the car and running into my house like a spooked rabbit, Waffles following me.

  “Lock yourself in,” Holly called after me. “You never know if he’ll get that acorn bookend out tonight and smash it into your skull—­right after he talks his way into your house and has his way with you on your kitchen floor! Which honestly sounds kind of hot. Except for the skull-­smashing part.”

  Holly backed out of the driveway and I bolted all the doors, latched all the first-­floor windows, and closed the kitchen curtains. Then I ran upstairs, brushed my teeth, and got into bed, frantically clutching the blanket and Waffles, who blew out a sigh and gave me a look that implied I needed to pull myself together—­the equivalent of a dog eye roll—­before he curled up and went to sleep.

  As I calmed down, breathed, and began to think more logically, I started to doubt my freak-­out. The bookend wasn’t proof of anything. Walt had said that Bryn Mawr was full of the acorn bookends; lots of ­people had been given them by Bryn Mawr Prep School, and had passed them along to family members or given them away.

  But the acorn and the gun, both within a few feet of each other at Mike’s house, and on the grounds of Sanderson, scene of the acorn crime? It was just too coincidental. I pulled the covers up higher around my ears, retrieved my cell phone from my bedside table, and tucked it under my pillow, wondering if I should call Officer Walt. He struck me as the early-­to-­bed type, though, and Bootsie had tortured him so much the past week that I hesitated to bother him again. It popped into my mind just before I fell into an exhausted sleep that the bonneted woman in the painting at Mike’s house bore a strong resemblance to Honey. It must be a Potts ancestor that Honey couldn’t stand looking at, since it was basically an ominous predictor of exactly how she was going to look in a few years—­it was like the opposite of The Picture of Dorian Gray.

  THE NEXT MORNING in the light of day, my terror had turned into a confused headache. I wasn’t feeling too perky when I got to the shop, despite the fact that I’d spent five extra minutes under the shower, and had loaded up my biggest insulated coffee to-­go cup at home.

  I knew I had to call Officer Walt, but it could wait until after I finished my coffee and dusted.

  Or did I really need to tell Walt about the acorn and gun we’d seen last night at Mike’s? Would I sound like a paranoid nut job? And truthfully, even though I now really liked John, I’d harbored a pretty serious crush on Mike (unless, of course, he was a deranged killer, then my crush would immediately and retroactively become null and void). I didn’t want to think badly of Mike.

  It seemed a little unfair to call Walt and blab about my suspicions about Mike. Or was it insane not to call Walt? This was awful.

  I looked out at the blue skies over Lancaster Avenue in hopes of finding an answer. I considered calling Bootsie and asking her advice, but if I did that, I might as well open a Twitter account, tweet it to CNN, and try to get Anderson Cooper to weigh in. As I ran a dust cloth over some Royal Doulton serving dishes near the front of the store, I realized that the only ­people I could really talk to about this were Holly and Joe. I knew Holly would have already discussed the discoveries of the gun and bookend at length with Joe, and they’d give me sound advice about whether or not to call Walt.

  What I wasn’t sure about was how Joe would react to the news that Sophie Shields was desperately enamored with him. But while this was a major development, it would have to take a backseat to the potentially murderous cowhand.

  ­“People are complicated, Waffles,” I said to the dog, who was happily panting at passersby near the front door. He turned and wagged, his rawhide bone poking sideways out of his mouth in a ridiculous way. I noticed his barrel-­shaped body was indeed turning into a round mound of hound. Gerda was right. I sighed. I’d been so distracted lately that we hadn’t been going on our usual long walks.

  As I straightened up the shop, I vowed to myself that starting today, I was going to get my life back on track. It was officially Time to Get Motivated. I was going to end—­well, severely limit—­my time at the club drinking wine with Holly and Joe, sipping coffee and gossiping with Bootsie, and gulping aspirin and listening to Sophie Shields. I needed to hit the flea markets this weekend, because when the shop’s not fully stocked, it’s not an alluring prospect f
or shoppers. The shop should look full, bursting with adorable accessories and statement-­making furniture, which it most definitely didn’t at the moment. This Saturday I’d go on a buying run to Lancaster County, organize the shop, mow my lawn, weed the perennial beds, and clean the house. I’d book a trip to visit my parents in Winkelman. I might even go jogging.

  “And I won’t be spending the weekend obsessing over anyone, including Mike, who I’m thinking this morning isn’t a crazed killer,” I told Waffles.

  As I was about to dial Holly, I noticed there was a message on my cell phone. I checked the call log and saw that John had been the message leaver; he must have called last night or early this morning, while my phone had been set on silent. I dialed voice mail and listened to John’s message.

  He said that he’d like to take me to dinner that night, maybe somewhere downtown.

  “Or we can go to the club,” he said, sounding happy, “because my divorce came through yesterday. It’s official. And both Lilly and I are happy about it. She’s in love with a guy she met in Connecticut at a tennis tournament last summer, and she’s finally free to move up there, which she’s been hoping to do.”

  The wind was knocked out of me, honestly. I put my cell phone down on my desk, sat down, and took a sip of coffee.

  A moment later, belching clouds of smoke in front of the shop announced the arrival of Jimmy and Hugh Best. They clambered in the front door accompanied by the scent of cigars and Old Spice.

  “Good news!” said Hugh, who was looking dapper today in a faded Nantucket-­red sport coat. “Your friend from New York called us this morning to tell us that the Frenchwoman appraising the ring has ascertained it is a Garrard design.” He beamed, and Jimmy cracked a smile.

  “George tells us that this Frenchie has a theory about the ring,” Jimmy added, plunking himself down on the deco bench, while Hugh took Bootsie’s customary Queen Anne chair and petted Waffles. “It could be part of a set of what he calls ‘important jewels.’ Which means—­ka-­ching!” he said with devilish glee. “Bring on the twenty-­five-­year-­old Macallan and illegally imported Cohibas. Out with the cheap shit, and in with the good stuff!”

  “George said there’s a small chance that it’s a significant piece of jewelry,” pointed out Hugh, “and not to expect much.” Hugh clearly was steeling himself against disappointment, and I didn’t blame him.

  “That’s wonderful,” I told them happily. “You deserve all the good fortune in the world.”

  “Well, we’re very grateful to you and your friend Holly for putting us in touch with Sotheby’s,” said Hugh, sweetly. “This could be our ticket to a comfortable old age.”

  “I’m even starting to think we should sell our decrepit old house,” agreed Jimmy, surprising me. “Hugh’s got me half convinced to give in to Barclay Shields; get some fast cash for the old place, and start over. Get a condo where the oven works, there’s no mold in the basement, and the heat doesn’t thump and ping all night.”

  “I don’t think that sounds like a very good idea at all,” said a frosty feminine voice from the front of the store.

  We all swiveled toward the coolly elegant voice; the sleigh bells I keep on the door handle jingled as the door closed behind Mariellen Merriwether, who stood there in a tasteful pale green linen frock, a beige handbag, and beige low-­heeled pumps, her right hand caressing her ever-­present pearls.

  “I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to find you alone,” Mariellen said to me in a low tone that threatened me more than an out-­and-­out hissy fit would have. Her Caribbean-­blue eyes flashed demonically, and I had a sudden vision of her in a coat made of sewn-­together Dalmatian puppy hides.

  “Er—­you have?” I said nervously.

  “Well, she ain’t alone, Mariellen,” offered Jimmy jocularly. “Obviously. May I say, that dress makes you look positively fetching. Reminds me of our old school dances back in the sixties when I was dating Honey and you were going steady with Martin.”

  “This young woman never seems to be without one of her drunken cronies during the day, or at night,” Mariellen observed, ignoring him. “Too busy trying to sleep with all the men in this town.”

  “I haven’t slept with any of the men!” I protested, shocked. “At least, not lately. If you mean your daughter’s ex-­husband, I’ve barely even kissed him.”

  “Husband,” she corrected me. “Her current husband. They are still married.”

  I didn’t think this was the appropriate time to tell her that this was no longer the case, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “Mariellen, be reasonable,” said Jimmy, who was twirling an unlit cigar in his left hand. “You’re being a bit rude, my dear. From what I hear at the club, your daughter dumped her hubby more than a year ago for some Andre Agassi type in Connecticut. You can’t expect the fellow she’s divorcing to stay single forever.”

  “I’m being rude?” sniffed Mariellen, still standing in the front of the store like a statue while Waffles sniffed her ankles happily, perhaps catching a whiff of Norman. “I don’t think so at all.

  “I’m merely being direct, and unlike everyone else in this town, I’m disciplined, and focused on getting things done,” Mariellen continued, using her beige pump to give Waffles a swift kick in the neck. Shocked, he whimpered and ran over to his dog bed.

  Nothing like that has ever happened to Waffles before. I was aghast, but I was so stunned that I didn’t say anything for fear of setting her off even more.

  “For instance,” she went on, “I am determined to halt the awful, hideous, destructive spread of tacky new houses all over this town, and so I took a stand against that Shields person.

  “And I’m equally against our town becoming the sort of glitzed-­up, celebrity-­chef-­worshipping, restaurant-­obsessed place where ­people blab on about rare taleggio cheeses and which pig in Parma their prosciutto came from!” she ranted furiously. ­“People like Mr. Shields and that hideous chef are ruining Bryn Mawr!”

  What exactly was Mariellen saying?

  “Uh, Mariellen, are you angry about cheese?” said Hugh, confused and astonished at this geyser of rage.

  “She’s angry that Bryn Mawr is changing, and that she can’t stop change,” said Jimmy simply. “And so she tried to kill Mr. Shields and the Italian chef to send a message.”

  Mariellen nodded. “This is a cheddar and Triscuits town, not some fancy Neiman Marcus place with frou-­frou pastas and overpriced wine. I get my chardonnay at the Wine Stop for six dollars a bottle, and that’s good enough for me.” She seemed to calm down for second while talking about her bargain wine, but then dialed up her nutty-­rage factor again as she turned on the Bests.

  “And you two, letting go of a house that’s been in your family for two centuries. The idea of selling out to Barclay Shields!” she yelled at Hugh and Jimmy, incensed.

  “The heat doesn’t work,” Jimmy told her. “Freeze my tuchus off all winter, Mariellen. We don’t all have the millions of dollars in a trust fund that you enjoy. But we haven’t sold the house. You’re misinformed.”

  “I don’t have time for this pointless debate,” she said, more calmly, striding toward us. That’s when I saw she was holding a small, but nonetheless very scary, antique gun.

  She had a firm grip on the gun, which was tarnished with age, but clearly a finely made handgun from decades back. If I had to make a guess, I realized, this gun was the same vintage as the one used to shoot the chef.

  Mariellen’s spine was straight as a NASA laser as she held the gun with a practiced hand.

  “I thought I saw a gun in your handbag when you pulled out your cigarettes the other day,” Jimmy told her. “Was up in the attic at the club, and had some old binoculars out. Told myself my eyes were playing tricks on me. Something glinted in your handbag, and it looked the right shape, but I didn’t want to believe it of you.”

  Mariellen ignored him.

  “If you try to scream or run, I’ll shoot your dog,” she tol
d me. My heart plummeted, and I felt nauseated and numb. Why hadn’t I grabbed my cell phone from my desk when she’d first walked in?

  “Out the door, all of you, and get into my car. Anyone have a cell phone?” she asked.

  I pointed sadly toward mine, sitting uselessly on the desk, while Jimmy and Hugh explained they didn’t believe in cell phones, and in addition, why would they pay forty dollars a month for such an unnecessary device.

  “I hope you know what you’re doing with that gun, Mariellen,” Jimmy barked at her.

  “Of course I know what I’m doing,” she retorted. “I’ve been around guns my whole life, rode in all the hunts at Sanderson in the old days, and had target practice with Papa every Saturday. How else do you think I shot that Italian chef from two hundred yards away with Papa’s old shotgun? Not this gun, of course,” she said, waving her pistol. “The shotgun has a much longer range. I could have killed him, but I was fairly sure that another warning note combined with shooting him in the foot would convince him to close the old firehouse and go back to the city. I left the note for him today, warning him that next time I won’t aim low.”

  Jimmy, Hugh, and I exchanged glances, with Hugh looking as shaky as I felt, and Jimmy wearing an expression of true surprise. Well, it was official. Mariellen had shot the chef, and now she was prepared to shoot the three of us. I could feel my bones turning to mayonnaise as we all marched toward the door.

  Including Waffles, who’d forgotten about getting kicked in the neck and was now galloping happily after the four of us, thinking we were going somewhere fun—­maybe on a walk!—­and he’d be missing out.

  “Lie down, Waffles,” I told the dog shakily, shooing him back toward his bed. “Go play with your bone,” I told him desperately, while he ignored me.

  “Bring him,” Mariellen told me flatly. She looped the handles of her purse over her arm, so that her right hand was free to keep a grip on the weapon, and jingled her car keys with her left hand. Waffles trotted even faster after us. He loves the jingle of keys.