Killer WASPs

by Amy Korman

  I felt terrible about all of this, but was happy that Mariellen was getting help, rather than sitting in jail with no toilet seats, polyester jumpsuits, and instant mashed potatoes. That didn’t seem right for her, even though she’d attempted to murder an innocent doggie (and me, and the Bests). I couldn’t believe all this had happened today, and here we were back on Holly’s patio as if it was a typical early-­summer evening. I shivered again despite the warm night.

  “It’s George calling,” said Holly, as her cell phone buzzed. “Uh-­huh,” she said to George. “Um-­hmm. That’s interesting. Very interesting. Wow!”

  Holly hung up and stared at us, her sky-­blue eyes huge. “It turns out that Hugh and Jimmy’s ring is part of a set of diamond-­and-­ruby jewels that was made in London for someone named the Countess of Cascott in 1884.

  “Their jewelry department just got the confirmation from Garrard this afternoon that the ring is part of the Countess of Cascott jewels, and”—­Holly paused dramatically—­“the rest of the Cascott rubies, a necklace and a pair of earrings, sold a ­couple of years ago for almost five million dollars. And the ring has the biggest, rarest ruby of the whole set!”

  As we sat there trying to absorb this information, wheels crunched on the driveway, and Sophie Shields popped around the hedge, waving.

  “Hiya Kristin!” she said. “I heard you almost got killed today. I can’t believe it!”

  “I can’t, either,” I told her. I was glad Sophie wasn’t a wannabe killer, after all, though I didn’t mention that to her.

  “It turns out it was Barclay’s fake cousins from Jersey had come to slap him around a little last Thursday, and followed him over to that Sanderson place.”

  “I heard,” I told her.

  “The Jersey guys said Barclay owed them fifty grand from some construction company they owned together back in the late nineties, and he was cheaping out on paying it. Barclay called and told me he settled up with them this week, so they’re not after him anymore,” Sophie added. “Not that it changes anything between me and him. I’m still getting divorced, I’m still fighting for my shoe closet, and I’m still crazy about that one right there.” She pointed at Joe and winked at him, making “mwah” kissing noises in his direction.

  Just as Sophie wriggled herself into the sofa next to an embarrassed-­looking Joe, John appeared around the hedge of rosebushes. “I went to your house, but your neighbors said you were here,” he said, walking over and sitting down next to me and gently taking my hand. “I’m so sorry about all this. Can I give you a ride home?”

  I DECIDED TO take the next day off work to celebrate not being killed by Mariellen, and because I’d stayed up late the night before with John, who had been very reassuring. Even if his ex-­mother-­in-­law hadn’t tried to kill me, he told me, he was ready to start over, and he was happy that his divorce from Lilly had come through. He felt terrible about Mariellen’s mental breakdown, which obviously wasn’t his fault.

  I spent most of the morning over at the Bests’, where the three of us pored over stories about their mother’s ring in local newspapers. Even the New York Times had a short piece about the amazing discovery of a rare seventeen-­carat Burmese ruby once belonging to the Cascott family of Ackworth, England.

  “We did have a great-­aunt Prunella whose last name was Cascott,” Hugh Best told me, looking dazed as he sat out on the back screened porch, sipping a cup of coffee, his hands shaking.

  “Auntie Pru always loaded a lot of jewelry on,” agreed Jimmy. “Most of it she sold over the years, but she was the one who left the ring to our mother. Guess she forgot to tell Mother that it was good stuff, not just the usual costume junk.”

  George was quoted in the Times as saying that Sotheby’s was rushing the ring into its summer sale as a last-­minute addition on the following Thursday. It was too late for the ring to be included in the catalog, but they were printing a special insert, and he was sure all the media attention would bring in the right buyer. Sotheby’s was indeed publicizing the ring with impressive zeal, calling it a lost treasure of English jewels, found in a “dusty, moldering mansion outside Philadelphia,” which irked Hugh a bit. On a plus note, he and Jimmy were going to be interviewed the following day for the Today Show, and even that bible of excellent news, ­People, had called them.

  At noon, Holly, Joe, and I met outside on the patio at Gianni’s, where Holly shocked me by ordering the Bolognese pasta.

  “I’m eating carbs today,” she said, crossing her perfectly tanned legs. “You almost getting killed made me realize that I should eat carbs at least once a week. Plus I need to keep up my strength to follow all the news with the Bests’ ring, and this budding romance between Sophie and Joe, and whatever’s going on with you and that vet. Not to mention Mike Woodford.”

  “It’s a lot of information,” I agreed. “But I’m done with Mike. I really like John.”

  “I think Mike is really cute,” Holly told us. “And, there’s something that makes him even cuter. I had coffee with Honey this morning, who’s obviously devastated that her best friend is a homicidal maniac.”

  Holly paused for effect. “Honey told me that Mike is actually her nephew, which is why he lives in that cottage at Sanderson. And when Honey dies, Mike inherits Sanderson, all three hundred acres and the huge house.”

  I WOULDN’T GO so far as to say I actually fainted when Holly told me this, but my vision got blurry and I teetered on the edge of consciousness. Holly didn’t seem to notice, but rattled on about Honey and Mike for a few minutes, while I recovered myself and Joe and I listened raptly to these nuggets of Potts family lore.

  It seemed Honey had a younger sister who’d gone away to college in the sixties to Johns Hopkins in Baltimore, married her geology professor, an older man named Roger Woodford, and never came back to Sanderson, except for the occasional visit at Thanksgiving, when Honey’s parents would first berate her for marrying an academic, and then for not moving back to the family compound. The sister had one son, Mike, who Honey had always had a soft spot for.

  “Honey says that Mike always had the Potts passion for cows,” Holly told me, sipping a frosty glass of wine. “So Honey got him to move up here last year, and she’s grooming him to take over Sanderson one day. Actually, I was thinking of asking Honey if she’d fix me up with Mike,” added Holly casually.

  What? I thought my brain would rocket straight out of the top of my head. I’m usually never jealous of Holly, but I’m only human. If she took her closets brimming with Chanel and her Ellsworth Kelly paintings and her piles of jewelry and moved to Sanderson with Mike, this would be truly unfair. She already had a gorgeous house and nice husband. I liked John more than Mike—­I was pretty sure—­but this was going too far.

  “But then I realized that Mike’s more your type,” Holly added serenely to me, twirling her pasta on a silver fork. “He’s got that burly carpenter look you always go for. And he’s kind of hairy. Plus I’m getting back together with Howard. He convinced me that he didn’t have an affair. He took a lie detector test in my lawyer’s office yesterday about whether he slept with that bartender, and he passed.”

  My brain unswelled. I felt really happy for Holly, and not just because I didn’t want her to have barn sex with Mike, or marry him and move into Sanderson.

  “That’s great!” I told her sincerely. “I’m really happy for you and Howard.”

  “Finally!” said Joe, looking relieved. “Howard can move out of the city and in with you. I’m starting to feel like a surly teenager living in your guest room. I’m going back to my own apartment.” He blushed. “At least until I figure out what’s happening with me and Sophie.”

  “So are you going to keep making out with Mike, or go for the veterinarian?” Holly asked me. “Mike would be perfect for you. He’s even been to Thailand. Honey told me he loves to travel and has been all over the world. All the guys you date love Thailand.”

  “It’s funny you should mention that,” I s
aid, “because I don’t want to date guys who backpack through Thailand anymore, and I think that rules out Mike.”

  “Maybe he’s done with his Thai beach fantasy,” Joe said. ­“People change. Look at me. If you told me a month ago that I’d be interested in the ex-­wife of a Mafia guy, I’d have laughed my head off. Truth is, I kind of like Sophie.”

  I was happy for Joe, but was feeling more confused than ever. John was so handsome, kind, and reliable that he was doing a great job of making me forget—­almost—­about Mike’s amazingly good soap smell and great arms. I sighed, and tried to enjoy the great lunch and the pretty patio setting at Gianni’s. I didn’t need to figure this out today. I was just happy to be alive, and nowhere near a koi pond.

  Chapter 22

  ON THE MORNING of Holly’s housewarming—­which was also Holly and Howard’s Getting-­Back-­Together Party—­my cell phone rang as Waffles and I were finishing up with some customers. It was the Thursday after Mariellen had tried to kill me and the Bests, and in the interim, I’d finally had a chance to go to the antiques markets and restock the store with some pretty new chairs, tables, silver, and framed prints. It was almost lunchtime now, and I’d been waiting for this call all morning: It was George, who was with the Bests at the jewelry auction in New York.

  “We’re all done here,” he said in a jaunty, triumphant tone. “I just stepped outside with the Bests to call you. They wanted you to be the first to know that the ring sold to an anonymous buyer.” I could hear car horns honking, bus gears crashing, and other New York City ambient noise around him.

  “And I’m bringing the Bests home now,” George continued. “With their check for $2.8 million.”

  WHEN JOHN, THE Bests, and I got to Holly’s house that night at seven-­thirty, a reggae band was playing over by the pool, delicious Italian aromas were wafting from several catering trucks parked behind her garage, and as soon as we rounded the corner, it was apparent that the Colketts had gone absolutely nuts with roses, hydrangeas, and ranunculus, all in varying shades of pink, and had set up about a thousand votive candles along the pool. Flowers floated on the pool’s surface, and the Colketts had brought in dozens of pink cotton embroidered pillows, which covered every available lounge chair and chaise. There were Indian-­print pink tablecloths thrown over cocktail tables, and a candlelit bar at the side of the pool, and a buffet of crusty bread, cheeses, olives, and—­my stomach leaped with joy—­shrimp! The food, of course, was catered by Gianni.

  “What a spread!” said Jimmy admiringly. “Now that we’re rich, we should throw a shindig like this.”

  “We aren’t rich,” said Hugh admonishingly. “We have to pay a percentage to Sotheby’s, and the house is going to need a ton of repairs, and then there are taxes—­”

  “Can’t you enjoy one fucking thing in life?” shouted Jimmy. “I told you, go ahead and get the condo in Florida! Now leave me alone. I’m getting a drink.”

  “You two are so cute,” Holly said, floating over in a white silk minidress. “Still bickering. It’s like me and Howard. We fight, but we adore each other.”

  “I don’t think it’s the same kind of relationship,” Jimmy informed her grumpily, heading for the bar.

  I looked around but didn’t see Howard anywhere. In the week since Howard and Holly had reconciled, Joe had taken his former guest room and swiftly turned it into a specially vented, cigar lounge/media center for Howard. It was now painted a glossy dark grey and held leather furniture, carved bookcases, and a massive flat-­screen TV. Holly and Joe hated the room, obviously, but Howard liked it.

  “Where’s Howard?” I asked Holly.

  “He’s in his cave,” said Holly, with an airy wave of her hand. “Don’t worry, he’ll be out once the steak and personally-­handmade-­by-­Gianni gnocchi are served.” In the candlelight, something flashed on her right hand. It was large but delicate, intricately made, and looked familiar.

  “Is that the Bests’ ring?” I asked her.

  She nodded in a blasé way.

  “Howard was the silent bidder at the auction. He got it to celebrate our not getting divorced,” she said. “Plus he thought it would be nice for the Bests if it stayed close to home, so he had it picked up and driven down here this afternoon. You can borrow it anytime. It’s insured!”

  “That’s amazing. I’d love to borrow it,” I told her, though honestly, I don’t think I’d really want the responsibility of wearing that ring again. George is right. My house and my store have flimsy locks.

  “I’ll go say hi to Howard,” John told me. “He’s beaten me three times in the club tennis tournament, but since I won this year, I’m ready to be friends with the guy.”

  As John disappeared inside, Holly told me that she and Howard were heading down for an off-­season trip to Palm Beach the following week. “We’re going to meet up with Channing and Jessica about their new restaurant. We might want to become investors,” she said.

  “Palm Beach?” shrieked a shrill, small voice behind me. “I love Palm Beach!”

  Sophie and Joe stood there, holding hands, while Bootsie brought up the rear. I saw Bootsie’s husband Will veer off to the house, doubtless headed for the man-­room.

  “We should go to Palm Beach, too, honey bunny,” Sophie said to Joe.

  “Er, that might be fun.” Joe hesitated. “Let’s go get some cheese,” he said, steering Sophie, in a dark purple floor-­length gown that could only have been designed by Donatella Versace, over to the food. I guess he hadn’t purged all the purple from Sophie just yet.

  “I need more information on the ring for a story in the paper,” Bootsie said to Holly, whipping out a notepad. “In fact, I should probably wear it tonight, just so I can write about it authoritatively.”

  “Okay,” said Holly cheerfully, sliding the bauble off her right ring finger and handing it over to Bootsie. “I need to go tell the Colketts to move the candles, because I think Sophie’s dress just caught on fire. Joe threw his drink on it, though, so she’s fine. Plus I just saw Honey Potts arrive.

  “Oh, look, Kristin,” added Holly, as she waved to Mrs. Potts. “Mike’s here, too.”

  “HOW ARE YOU?” said Mike, handing me a glass of wine. Since everyone else was either inside in the cigar lounge, or helping Sophie pluck pieces of burnt hem from her dress, we were alone by the bar.

  I gulped. Mike had on a blue shirt tonight, sleeves rolled up, and looked even more tanned and scruffed than he had when I’d last seen him at his cottage.

  “I heard you had a rough time with Mrs. Merriwether,” he added. I looked at him thoughtfully. I guess I could picture him living in the manor house at Sanderson, though he really seemed more the cottage type.

  “I’m doing great,” I said, truthfully. “Everything’s good at the store, and I think it’s going to be a quiet summer. How are you?”

  “I’m going away for a ­couple of months,” Mike told me, leaning against a pillar on Holly’s patio. “You should think about visiting me. I’ll be in T—­”

  My ears went numb, and I stopped listening. I knew it!

  I knew he’d go back to Thailand. The Lonely Planet Guide flashed in my mind, and I silently thanked the stars that I’d met John. Mike might be secretly rich and smell good, but this was too much. I recovered myself, and answered Mike.

  “Thanks,” I said, “but I won’t have time to fly to Thailand this summer. Have a great time, though.”

  “No, I’m not going to Thailand,” said Mike patiently. “I’m going to Tuscany. For two months. Meeting with some Italian bovine breeders, and drinking some wine. I rented a farmhouse.”

  “A farmhouse in Italy?” said John, appearing at my elbow. “Hey, Mike, how’s it going?” he said, shaking Mike’s hand. “Tuscany sounds like a great place to spend the summer,” he added. “Maybe Kristin and I can come visit you there. I was planning to ask her if she’d like to go Italy with me in August.”

  I looked at John, surprised and pleased. I would love to go to
Tuscany with John. Then again, I wouldn’t mind going with Mike, either.

  “Toscana?” said Chef Gianni, who’d fled the sweltering food trucks, and was out in his chef whites, mingling with guests, leaning on a cane and limping along with support from the Olivia Munn girl from his restaurant. Apparently, he was getting over Jessica’s departure to Palm Beach. “I too will be in Toscana this summer,” said the chef.

  “Me too!” said Sophie, whose dress had been extinguished, and who looked none the worse for wear. “I need a Versace fix. Joe and I are gonna make it over, for sure!”

  “Then that’s that,” said Holly, who had appeared with Howard in tow. “Tuscany in August. It’s the perfect place to wear my new ring. Howard and I will meet you all there.”

  Stay tuned for the next installment of

  the Killer WASPs Mysteries

  On sale March 2015 from Witness Impulse!

  About the Author

  AMY KORMAN is a former senior editor and staff writer for Philadelphia Magazine, and author of Frommer’s Philadelphia and the Amish Country. She has written for Town & Country, House Beautiful, Men’s Health, and Cosmopolitan. She lives in Pennsylvania with her family and their basset hound, Murphy. Killer WASPs is her first novel.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  Copyright

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  KILLER WASPS. Copyright © 2014 by Amy Korman. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.