by Amy Korman
Skipper, who’s pretty cute if you’re into sporty, muscly guys who can cook, gave Gianni a friendly hello and handshake.
“Skipper, this is so last minute and I hope you won’t hate me, but I’d forgotten that Gianni offered to do the food for the Tomato Show. That was months ago, before he got his own TV series!” Holly explained.
I remembered Holly telling me that Gianni had sat down at dinner with her and Howard one night at his Bryn Mawr restaurant before he began his California Food Network gig, and that the chef had bragged that he’d show the country club crowd what real Italian food was at her party. Naturally, she’d figured this was bullshit and that Gianni would never show up—but here he was, ready to cook.
Actually, the timing seemed a little strange.
“I not gonna let you down, Holly Jones, you gorgeous girl!” Gianni told her. “Although, to be honest, I’m too famous to be doing this party, but Gianni gets bored if he’s not busy!”
“So, and this will obviously be the newest trend in party planning, we can have you both catering the event,” Holly told Skipper and Gianni.
“Hey, man, welcome,” Skipper said politely to Gianni. “Of course, we’d love to have you help out Saturday night in the kitchen.”
“Gianni is celebrity chef with tons of awards,” said the Italian chef. “Gianni don’t ‘help.’ ”
Skipper’s too polite to complain, but he looked upset as he disappeared through the kitchen’s swinging double doors. It had to be a bitter blow to have been working on the party menu for weeks and have Gianni show up and steal his thunder.
“Obviously, it’s fabulous that you’ll be cooking Saturday,” Holly told Gianni. “But aren’t you supposed to be opening your restaurant in California in, like, four days?”
“It’s gonna be delayed a couple weeks,” Gianni said, waving dismissively. “ ’Cause my camera guys and busboys been complaining they need a day off every three weeks! Those guys all whiners! And someone tip off Department of Labor out in California, so I get some stupida warning letter about employees working too many hours.”
“Uh-huh,” said Holly, nodding, while Bootsie and I exchanged an eye roll. Gianni was widely known as the world’s worst boss. “Well, anyway, poor Mrs. Potts has had a really hard day. She had her favorite painting stolen.”
“She lose a painting—big deal!” opined the chef. “Gianni fly in from California, then I find out some report a suitcase of pancetta and soppressata I checked, and it got seized by the FDA!” Gianni told us, handing off his crate of birds to a passing Trendy Tent employee, who wisely didn’t argue that it wasn’t his job, and headed toward the kitchen.
We all sighed. Gianni’s in negative range on the empathy meter—not that Mrs. Potts cared. I noticed her shrugging and preparing to leave via a side entrance. She doesn’t deal with the Giannis of this world. “I’ll drive you, Aunt Honey,” said Mike Woodford, who’d returned with Jared. He offered the doyenne his arm and they disappeared—but not before I caught a glimpse of his long-lashed brown eyes.
“I had to have big fight with guys at baggage claim over my secret stash of meat!” complained Gianni. “Someone call to complain that it’s not sanitary to bring uncured pork products on a flight. Big deal. Everyone jealous of Gianni, and trying to screw him over!”
This was interesting, I thought. The Colketts came to mind as possible tattletales about Gianni’s skirting California labor laws, though they were said to be earning a hefty fee from Gianni for their design work, plus they were getting paid to be on his Food Network show. And any one of his staff might have made the calls to the FDA, since probably every one of them had some beef with the chef.
“Uh, boss?” Skipper came back from the kitchen, his polo shirt damp around the collar with perspiration and his handsome face registering anger. “Listen, Ronnie, I can’t work like this. This guy”—here, he indicated Gianni—“told my staff to pack up our equipment and take it out to the golf shed. He’s bringing in his own pans and has his staff moving all our meats and vegetables to the back of the walk-in fridge to make room for his ducks.”
Ronnie, the club manager, normally the most unflappable and low-key of men, manages with a seemingly effortless style that keeps everything from the chicken salad to the golf greens in perfect working order. The only time I’ve ever seen him frazzled was when my elderly neighbor Jimmy Best moved into the club for a few days last spring, and drove the staff crazy with constant demands for Scotch and fresh towels.
Today, though, Ronnie showed a slight sheen of perspiration around his temples, his hair was slightly ruffled, and there was a wrinkle in his Lands’ End khakis.
“Try to ignore him,” Ronnie said, sotto voce. “I’ll deal with him tomorrow.”
“I am so sorry, Skipper,” Holly told him. “Also, are we suspects, Walt?” she added. “Because I wouldn’t mind being considered a possible criminal mastermind, but if not, I need to get out of here and away from Eula Morris.”
“I doubt you’d steal a painting from a party you’ve been planning for months,” said Walt with a faint smile. “Bootsie already told me she was driving back from Maine and just got back in town an hour ago, so she couldn’t have stolen the thing.”
Just then, the Colketts tiptoed past the slightly open door to the Camellia Room—almost making an escape, but not quite.
“Hey, Colketts! You guys supposed to be in California!” Gianni screamed. “Working on my new place! I give the painters and construction guys the week off, but I never tell you to take vacation.”
“When the painters and stonemasons for the pizza oven said they weren’t coming in this week, Chef, we figured we could take a little time off, too,” Tim told him, looking terrified as he took a tentative step inside the space—which I was personally desperate to flee. “I mean, we worked forty-two days straight.”
“Everyone lazy except Gianni!” said the chef. “But anyway, that’s okay, I can respect you guys do a little sneaking around. Gianni forgive you for lying to him! But now that I know you’re here, I gonna get you guys to help me build a fire pit over by tennis court, with a customized smoker I gonna put the ducks in for eighteen hours before I make my ragout for Saturday night.”
“The club has a gas grill that you’re welcome to use,” Ronnie informed him.
“I don’t use gas grill,” said Gianni. “Which is why Colketts gonna make me a smoker.”
“Um, Chef, we don’t really do things like build fire pits,” Tom said nervously. “Or customize smokers.”
“If Gianni say you make me a smoker, you going to,” said the chef, his face turning purple as he stalked out of the Camellia Room. “And you know what, you guys gonna help me pluck my ducks first! Meet me in the kitchen in two minutes!”
Luckily for the Colketts, at that moment, Gianni got distracted by a passing waitress.
I’d noticed this adorable girl the last few times I’d been at the club—she was a sweet-natured college student on summer break, named Abby, and possessed the upbeat personality and long blond curls that sent men’s necks swiveling in her direction.
Also, Abby has fabulous boobs. She even makes the club’s uniform—a dark green, boxy polo shirt—look sexy, which isn’t all that easy to do.
“Hey, blondie,” shouted Gianni. “You real cute! Maybe you come work for Gianni!” At this, Abby gave a started look over her shoulder, and bolted toward the kitchen doors.
“Don’t ya have a girlfriend-hyphen-assistant right now, Gianni?” asked Sophie. “I know you’re a real ladies’ man!”
This is actually true. When Gianni wants to, he turns on the charm and is actually irresistible to women from ages eighteen to eighty.
There’s something undeniably sexy about him when he’s in his element welcoming guests to his restaurants, presenting some delicious dish, or even when he’s doing unbelievably
over-the-top kissing and inappropriate squeezing of women of a certain age whose husbands don’t mind spending two hundred and fifty dollars on dinner.
“I been too busy,” Gianni told Sophie, “but I gotta find new girlfriend soon. Gianni needs the sex! How about you, Sophie? You still dating that guy who picks out your sofas?”
“Absolutely,” said Sophie proudly. “My Honey Bunny and I are totally in love!”
“That’s too bad. But I date you if you dump him!” Gianni told her, giving Sophie a bunch of hand kisses and a lascivious grope. “Anyway, Gianni got to make a quick phone call.” With that, he disappeared.
A neatly dressed guy popped his head into the room—a new member of club management, I guessed, since he had an official air.
“Is there a Mrs. Sophie Shields here?” he asked politely. “I have a delivery.”
“That’s me!” said Sophie, waving at him excitedly. “Do ya have flowers for me? Maybe it’s a box of long-stemmed roses from Joe!”
“Not exactly,” said the guy, reaching into his pockets and pulling out an envelope, which he handed to a startled Sophie. “This is notice from your estranged husband’s legal representatives. You need to vacate your new home on Begonia Lane, list it for sale immediately, and escrow half the proceeds to be given to Mr. Shields.
“Also,” said the preppy guy, looking distinctly uncomfortable, “your ex is demanding that you turn over joint property in the form of twenty-two pairs of Gucci sandals, size five and a half, which he says he bought you on your honeymoon in Venice, Italy. He says you’ll know why he wants them. Um—have a nice night!” he added, turning on his loafered heel and disappearing.
For once, Sophie was speechless. Her tiny hand went to her heart—currently clad in a silk Lilly P. minidress—and she looked down at her shoes, which were gold four-inch-high numbers, and appeared to be one of the twenty-two pairs of Guccis under subpoena.
Just then, a crash of glass and heavy furniture erupted in the bar.
“Merda!” came a scream.
Chapter 4
WALT AND JARED arrived in the barroom at the same time we did, where Gianni was flat on the ground in front of the darkened mahogany bar, a bottle of Macallan smashed next to him alongside a heavy rocks glass. Gianni was facedown, the back of his be-earringed bald head looking oddly vulnerable as he lay there moaning. A steely, sharp knife was stuck through his leather pants into the back of his thigh.
“Ohmigosh!” screamed Sophie. “Chef, did ya fall on a knife and stab yourself?”
“How I gonna fall facedown and stab myself in the back of my leg?” Gianni yelled at her, pointing at the blade. “Gianni was attacked from behind by some kind of crazed killer—probably that sore loser, Skipper!”
“Should we, you know, wiggle the knife out?” asked Bootsie, as Officer Walt turned on the lights and dialed 911 for an ambulance. “Because it looks kind of painful.”
“Those rugs just came in from Savafieh, so I wouldn’t yank on that blade,” Holly said, shrugging. “Howard and I just paid to redecorate this room, since I think the old carpets in here were from 1902. Although, given this incident, we probably should have waited.”
She bent over to give a sympathetic assessment of Gianni—who didn’t seem to be oozing all that much blood. His tight leather pants were seemingly acting as a giant tourniquet. “Can I get you anything, Chef? Maybe a nice martini?”
“I’m bleeding to death here!” screamed Gianni, who tried to turn over but then moaned even louder.
“Even more reason to break out the Grey Goose,” Holly told him.
“I took a CPR course in college, and I’m pretty sure leg wounds are rarely fatal,” Bootsie announced.
“Fuck you!” responded Gianni.
“Jared, please go outside and direct the EMTs when they get here,” Walt said calmly. “Now, Chef Gianni, what happened?”
“How the hell I know?” shouted the chef. “I come into bar to grab myself a drink. I see the Scotch sitting right at end of counter, so I reach over to pour myself a big one when suddenly Gianni feels the worst pain of his life!
“I fall facedown and so I never get good look at this person, but I get quick glance over my shoulder and I see it was some short guy wearing green polo shirt, like everyone wear at this putana country club. So Gianni is one hundred percent sure it was Skipper!” Just then, Skipper himself poked his head into the bar, his face frozen with apparently genuine shock as he took in the scene before him.
“I was back in the kitchen this whole time!” Skipper protested. “I didn’t do this to you.”
Gianni turned his head to glare at him, which wasn’t all that effective given his prone position. “Skipper, you nothing but a glorified burger flipper. You try to murder me out of insane jealousy, but you never gonna keep Gianni down!”
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Gianni had been rolled out on a gurney (still facedown, since the medics explained that it’s really not a good idea to remove a freshly plunged-in knife). The instrument used appeared to be Gianni’s own deboning blade—which he’d left out in the kitchen, ready to tackle his ducks.
At seven-fifteen, as dusk was falling outside, Officer Walt told us we were free to go. I needed to go to bed early and be up early for a full day of painting my shop.
Additionally, I’m currently dog-sitting four motley mutts belonging to my boyfriend of one year, John Hall. And Waffles, my adored hound, likes to eat at 6 p.m. sharp, so he was going to be miffed. I started explaining all this, but Sophie turned sad brown eyes on me, tears welling up, and told me she needed all her friends around her after her the process server incident.
“I need pasta,” Sophie wailed. “I eat when I’m stressed.”
“This is the perfect night to go to Gianni’s restaurant for dinner, since he’ll be stuck in the ER for hours,” Holly said, turning on her elegant Prada heel. “We can discuss Sophie’s divorce problems and solve the mystery of who stabbed Gianni.”
“Okay,” I relented. “I’ve got to go get Waffles and then feed the herd of dogs at my house. See you there in twenty minutes.”
RISTORANTE GIANNI, IN the charming old Bryn Mawr Firehouse, was in lively full swing tonight, even on a Thursday. It’s a stylish bistro the temperamental chef opened last year before fame had beckoned him to California, and is the most sought-after reservation in town. The old stone firehouse was always an appealing building, but after its restaurant redo, the place is absolutely gorgeous, with French doors that are thrown open on warm nights, a long glossy bar, and an antique wooden chandelier brought back from Italy.
There’s a pretty stone patio and lots of potted trees and plants, votive candles everywhere, and the whole place is scented with heavenly rosemary, tomatoes bubbling on the stove, grilling meats, and other fragrances designed to compel the moneyed crowd who dines here into splurging on things like forty-two-dollar veal chops and five-hundred-dollar bottles of wine.
And believe me, it works. Gianni brags that he earns suitcases full of cash every night here—which kind of makes you wonder about how much he’s declaring in taxes.
Anyway, I’d stopped back at The Striped Awning, picked up Waffles, and taken him home to my tiny cottage, which happens to be right across the street from Sanderson.
All four of John’s dogs were on my living room couch, wagging and drooling, when I got in, and I sighed as they burst out into the backyard with Waffles. I dished up five servings of kibbles, refilled the water bowls, and gave everyone some petting and belly rubs. I threw on a new coat of lip gloss, grabbed my keys, and locked the back door as the dogs headed back for the couch, fur flying everywhere.
Now, it was 8 p.m., which is around the time I like to jump into bed. I’d stay for one glass of wine and head home pronto.
“Your usual table, Ms. Jones?” asked a teenage hostess in a black Gap dress�
�which I realized with some devastation that I had in my own closet. I’m not sure an antiques dealer in her thirties, even one who’s as broke as I am, should have the same dress as a girl who looked like she was about seventeen years old.
“Did you hear about what happened to our boss, by the way?” she added. “He got stabbed! In the leg, which sounds really painful!”
Behind her, the bartenders grinned happily, and some of the busboys gave a happy fist pump.
“Absolutely,” said Holly airily. “We were in the next room when it happened, but unfortunately we missed the actual attack. Anyway, my favorite table is the one over near the French doors, but anywhere Gianni can’t see us in the unlikely event he gets sprung quickly from the hospital is perfect.”
The hostess giggled and led us through the already crowded dining area to a white-clothed table to the right of the bar area. I liked this table, too, because between the dogs and my paint job, I honestly looked pretty terrible. I sighed—Ristorante Gianni isn’t the kind of place where you want to show up ponytailed and with pink paint in your hair.
The two times I’ve eaten here, I’ve seen about forty-five people I know, including Bootsie’s parents, Eula Morris, Mike Woodford, and even Leena, the woman who runs the Pack-N-Ship.
“Isn’t this kinda boring back here?” Sophie pouted. “I like it up front, right where you can see when everyone walks in!” I knew Bootsie would agree with Sophie, but luckily she’d actually decided to stop home, see her children and Will, and offload her L.L. Bean haul, and wasn’t here yet.
I’d resolved to stay for one drink, since I currently had eleven dollars in crumpled ones in my wallet. I really don’t want Holly and Sophie pay my bar tabs and meals anymore. It was one thing when we were in Florida and my two moneybags friends owned the restaurant we ate in most nights, but I’d vowed to myself this summer that I’d pay my own way.