by Amy Korman
Maybe I could hit the bread basket and then get Sophie to take me home, I thought, as a waiter passed by bearing what looked like a lobster spaghetti dish that looked absolutely delicious.
“Who picked this table?” said Bootsie, popping up behind me, and to be honest, scaring me as she suddenly leaned over the table to grab the handwritten list of specials.
“I’ll have a glass of the California pinot noir!” I said to the waiter after I’d checked which was the least expensive vintage sold by the glass. He nodded politely, but his expression read that I was the first customer ever at Ristorante Gianni who’d shown up with a handful of bills dug out from the bottom of an Old Navy tote bag.
“Cancel that and bring us two bottles of the Sangiovese,” Holly told him.
Meanwhile, Sophie was furiously texting her lawyers about the legal papers she’d been served at the club, and venting.
“Just when Joe and I finally have my closet fully customized—and by the way, it’s awesome, with special handbag shelving and cubbies designed for boots, booties, wedges, and stilettos—now Barclay decides it’s joint property?” shrieked Sophie. “He already has our old house. Plus Barclay hates antiques and is afraid of houses built before 1980! I guarantee he’d have an aneurysm if he had to ever set foot in my place, which was built in 1932!”
I nodded sympathetically, taking in the scene around me. I was starving, and couldn’t stop thinking about that lobster dish that had just sailed by.
At least I’m not eating Progresso soup every night anymore, I thought hopefully, since I’ve been dating John. He’s not a great cook, either, but he does have a grill, and we sometimes end up barbecuing a steak or some chicken.
I’m embarrassed to have Holly pay for yet another meal for me, but she reminded me that her husband is one of the silent partners in Gianni’s restaurant, and that it was incumbent upon us to eat and drink heartily here, since Gianni pays back his investors in pasta.
“We have to eat here,” Holly informed me.
“Mr. Jones is awesome!” said the waiter, suddenly coming to life. “Sorry, I’m new here, but I’ve heard all about your husband. He’s the best investor we ever had here at Gianni! He’s got an unlimited tab, and he authorized an automatic thirty percent tip on top of any meal.
“Let me bring you something to snack on. I’m thinking these really teeny-tiny lamb chops we do with rosemary, and the risotto Milanese. Be right back with those and the wine!”
Chapter 5
“SO FAR, YOUR Tomato Party is a disaster,” Bootsie told Holly as she dug into the first appetizers seven minutes later. “You’ve had a painting stolen, Chef Gianni got stabbed, and you’ve spent most of the past few months arguing with Eula Morris.”
“Having a painting stolen is totally fabulous!” Holly told her. “That plus a stabbing makes the party. I mean, I feel badly for Mrs. Potts and everything,” she added, “but trust me, Gianni will be up and cooking Saturday, and the tent will be packed!” She nibbled half an olive thoughtfully. “You have a point about Eula, though.”
“Luckily for you, I’ve already solved the painting problem,” Bootsie informed her. “I’m pretty sure Gianni took it. Before he got stabbed, obviously,” she added.
“Didn’t Gianni say he flew in this afternoon and got stuck at the airport trying to free his unregulated pork?” I asked Bootsie. “How could he have stolen the painting if he wasn’t even in town yet?”
“Gianni’s lying,” she said confidently. “I’m going to make sure Walt checks with the airline and the customs people. Gianni probably flew back here a couple days ago, and made the whole thing up about the prosciutto problem.”
“I love prosciutto!” said Sophie, nibbling risotto. “It reminds me of Joe, too, even though he told me pork makes him bloated. And then he doesn’t want to get any lovin’ because he feels fat!”
“Thanks for sharing that, Sophie,” said Joe, who’d just appeared at the table.
“Honey Bunny!” shrieked Sophie, throwing herself into his arms. “You’re back from Florida just in time for two new crimes!”
WANTING TO SURPRISE Sophie by returning a day early, Joe had texted Holly and learned we were at Gianni’s. He’d come right from the airport, but somehow managed to look unrumpled in khakis, sock-free loafers, and a polo, and listened to a quick download of the day’s events as he simultaneously downed a glass of red wine.
“I guess it’s possible someone else at the club could have gone into the Camellia Room and grabbed Heifer in Tomato Patch,” Bootsie said, forking in some agnolotti with morel mushrooms. I’d gotten one bite of this incredible dish before it landed in front of Bootsie, at which point it seemed to have reached its final destination.
We hadn’t actually ordered anything, because once the waiter had made the Howard-Holly connection, he’d started bringing dish after dish. Things like Barolo-marinated short ribs and polenta with pecorino were now deliciously crowding the table.
“Wouldn’t someone notice a painting being walked down the main hallway of the club past the bar and the dining room?” asked Joe. “Didn’t you say the thing has a big gilt frame?”
“It was complete chaos, thanks to Eula,” Holly told him. “The Colketts and I were completely organized and were working with a small group of trusted staff from The Trendy Tent there, but Eula was a disaster. Every time the Colketts had the chandeliers in the perfect spot, she’d ask them some dumb question about fire safety, or demand that we make more space to showcase the tomatoes—like anyone except her and Bootsie’s mom cares about those dumb plants.”
“How did you end up in charge of this party again?” Joe asked. “You don’t garden, and you hate Eula.”
“I care about tradition,” Holly said airily. “I wanted to support an important event honoring heirloom garden techniques.”
“I thought you wanted to stick it to Eula,” Bootsie said, digging into a grilled langoustine.
“That, too. By the way, Eula could have taken the painting,” Holly said. “And in fact, I think she did!”
We all paused to think this over for a moment.
“Also, Eula could have easily stabbed Gianni,” said Holly.
Eula as art thief and knife-wielding attempted murderess? I could see her stealing a cake recipe off the Internet and passing it off as her own, but taking Honey’s painting and then managing to shop it around on the international art market just didn’t seem like Eula.
“Eula’s short and stubby, but she’s a good golfer and tennis player,” mused Joe. “I guess she could schlep a heavy painting out to her Miata—if it fit in the trunk. And she’s got a lot of upper body strength, so stabbing someone would be no big deal.”
“Gianni said a guy in a polo shirt tried to debone him,” I told him, shaking my head. “Eula had on her usual outfit today—beige dress, beige pumps.”
“Everyone knows the staff uniforms are in the break room inside the kitchen,” Joe told me. “It would take Eula two seconds to go in there, borrow a polo shirt and shorts, and stab Gianni. And despite her size, she’s very manly.”
Interestingly, Joe’s one of the few people I know who isn’t afraid of Eula. Since Eula’s quite vindictive, most people won’t stand up to her, but Joe lobs insults at her whenever he gets the chance.
“I guess it’s possible,” I said. “It’s true that Eula was nowhere to be seen after Gianni got nailed in the leg.”
“You know what—I’m going to over to Eula’s tonight!” shouted Bootsie, attracting annoyed glances from neighboring tables. “And I’m going to watch that crazy bitch through her living room windows till I catch her with either Honey’s painting or a bloodstained polo shirt!”
WITH THIS, BOOTSIE downed some more wine and texted her husband, Will, that she had some Gazette reporting to do and would be home late.
“You know, the Col
ketts could have grabbed Honey’s painting, and I peg them as the stabbers—one of them could have been on lookout while the other did the deed with the duck knife,” Bootsie told us.
Honestly, I thought, Bootsie always throws the Colketts into the ring as suspects of every crime in our town. So far they’ve never been the culprits, but they are actually on the spot most of the time whenever anything nefarious goes down. It seems that they’re merely often at the wrong place at the wrong time.
“The Colketts are nice guys, but they have expensive taste, and who knows, maybe they have an obsession with antique paintings!” Bootsie continued. “And if they attacked Gianni, they’d probably get an award and a party thrown for them by anyone who’s ever worked for the guy.”
“Amen to that,” said the waiter, dropping off another bottle of wine.
“How was the kitchen organizing, Honey Bunny?” Sophie asked Joe, still clinging to him with both arms. “Did ya get the Bernardaud plates in the cabinet the way you and Mrs. Earle wanted?”
“It was a huge battle that took a lot of margaritas to get Mrs. E. to agree to my plate placement,” Joe complained. Mrs. Earle, a sweet-tempered but boozy tobacco heiress, has a beautiful old Florida home that Joe was helping to update. Luckily, he had the assistance of her butler, who had tired of a kitchen dating back to 1967.
Joe whipped out his iPad from his ever-present tote bag, and showed us pictures of his kitchen update. The look was indeed fantastic, with glossy white cabinets, gorgeous crystal hardware, and a fabulous chandelier over a modern table.
“Uh-huh,” said Sophie. “So, are ya done down in Florida?”
“There’s a possibility I’ll need to go back down and work on an installation of forks and napkins next week,” said Joe.
Holly and I rolled our eyes at this. Even Holly doesn’t hire Joe for tasks this minor.
“Anyway, I have some info, too,” Joe told us, not looking too happy. “Someone we all know and don’t love was on my flight up from West Palm Beach. Let me give you a hint: She was wearing a tracksuit.”
Just then, over the jaunty Ella Fitzgerald tunes being piped through the sound system and the buzz of happy diners, another familiar voice made its way through the old firehouse and made landfall at our table.
“I don’t care what Mr. Shields said on phone! Cancel the pappardelle. Barclay, he only supposed to eat steamed fish and veggies.” All heads swiveled to regard a tall, muscular woman in a black Nike outfit at the bar, opening a huge bag of take-out food and removing plastic containers of delicious pastas and risottos.
There was some polite arguing from the bartender, who was trying to hand over four additional bags of takeout.
“Barclay, who pays me to keep him healthy, is gonna die from the cholesterol if you give him this food! Meat and pasta, all poison!” said the woman, whose back was to us.
Joe froze, half a grilled langoustine on his fork and midway to his mouth.
“That’s who was sitting behind me on the plane,” he moaned.
Only one person we knew would make a stand against pasta in the middle of Bryn Mawr’s best Italian restaurant.
Gerda.
It was Sophie’s former live-in Pilates pro, and Joe’s worst nightmare.
Chapter 6
“GERDA!” SHRIEKED SOPHIE happily. She jumped up and ran to the bar, where she reached up on her tiny stilettoed tiptoes to hug her friend and erstwhile personal trainer.
“Come over to our table!” she urged Gerda, who shrugged and followed Sophie to where we all sat, trailed by a sous-chef and the bartender, who was nervously toting the unwanted dishes.
“Listen, lady, we don’t like to upset Mr. Shields,” he told Gerda nervously. “Chef Gianni told us when we opened this place last summer that whatever Barclay Shields wants is an automatic yes. I guess they’re old friends. Plus the chef seems a little afraid of Mr. Shields,” he added, sotto voce.
“Lot of people scared of Barclay.” Gerda nodded, handing back containers of ravioli and tagliatelle. “Luckily, I’m not one of them.” The guy looked uncertain, but reluctantly disappeared through the crowd with the rejected pastas.
“Hi, Gerda,” said Holly with a little wave.
Gerda is one of the more unlikely residents of our town: An Austrian-born fitness expert, she’d met Sophie and Barclay several years back when the Shieldses were honeymooning in Venice. Distracted by the sight of a Versace boutique, Sophie had almost slipped into a canal, and Gerda had saved her from a foot-first plunge into the murky depths. They’d exchanged e-mail addresses and thanked Gerda profusely, then continued on their tour of Italy.
But to the Shieldses’ surprise, Gerda had showed up unannounced in Bryn Mawr and moved into their guest room, where she’d remained for two years. After Sophie split from Barclay, a fortuitous health crisis had forced Barclay—a lover of all things meat—to hire Gerda as live-in trainer and nutritionist, since doctors had ordered him to lose thirty percent of his body weight.
Gerda’s new job had paved the way for Sophie and Joe to have an actual romance, since there was no way Joe could amorously interact with his girlfriend with Gerda in the same house. Joe’s greatest fear, though, was the return of Gerda—if Barclay ever got svelte enough to ditch her. Luckily, so far, Barclay had apparently kept her on as his personal food police, and none of us had seen her since January—until now.
Holly and Gerda had struck up an improbable alliance over the winter in Florida, where we’d gotten caught up in a swirl of events including trying to save a historic old schoolhouse that was almost torn down for condos. The erstwhile developer, one Scooter Simmons, had developed a crush on Holly, who’d met him for drinks one night to, well, pump him for information, and Gerda had served as her bodyguard, in case Scooter got too hands-y with Holly.
“I didn’t know ya were coming back to Bryn Mawr!” Sophie said happily. “Come have a drink with us. Or a club soda, if you’re still anti-booze.”
“Okay,” said Gerda. What I think was a smile appeared on her tanned and makeup-free face. “Got to be real quick, though. Barclay waiting for food, and he get really pissy when he don’t get it fast enough.
“I notice though that Barclay in an excellent mood,” Gerda added. “He decide to fly back up from Miami yesterday, and he real happy. You know what that means.”
“It means he’s about to screw someone over in a business deal, and make a ton of money!” yelled Sophie.
“Uh-huh. That’s what I think, too.” Gerda nodded. “And I think one of those people he about to double-cross is you, Sophie.”
SOPHIE FUMED FOR a few minutes while Gerda explained that Barclay had been locked in the office of the fortieth-floor Miami condo he’d rented since January, whispering about a mysterious deal at all hours of the day and night. Luckily, he’d been eating at a pricey steakhouse called The Forge a few times a week, so Gerda had been able to regularly hack into and browse through his e-mail correspondence at will.
“I think Barclay suspected I was looking at his e-mail, so he was being careful what he write,” Gerda said. “What I can see is he got money in a few deals in Florida, and one new condo deal over in Vegas. But there’s one thing I see a few e-mails about that’s up here in Pennsylvania—something about a farm. I don’t get it, ’cause Barclay don’t like to go outside, so there’s no way he gonna grow, like, squash and broccoli.
“Anyway, a coupla weeks ago, he put new password on his computer, so I don’t know the latest,” Gerda finished.
Vowing that she’d get half of whatever new venture her soon-to-be-ex was cooking up, Sophie jumped up and disappeared on her teetery sandals into to the ladies’ room to call her lawyer.
“Did you finally get your driver’s license?” Bootsie asked, with her usual lack of tact, while Joe got up and politely pulled over a chair from a neighborin
g table for Gerda. Joe has excellent manners, even though he’d rather be anywhere else than at dinner with Gerda. I also noticed him gulping down a Xanax that Holly had handed over immediately upon Gerda’s arrival.
“I fail driving test down in Miami,” Gerda said grimly. “Barclay was supposed to give me driving lessons, but he too busy with work. Then he had dental surgery and took so many painkillers he couldn’t do nothing. I still got no license, but I got Uber waiting outside.”
“Barclay always did have impacted teeth!” said Sophie with evident satisfaction as she returned to the table. “My lawyer didn’t pick up,” she added, “but I’m going to his office first thing tomorrow. Barclay isn’t going to get away with cheating me out of one more dime in this divorce.”
“I help you, Sophie,” said Gerda, a small smile creasing her dry lips. “Barclay a real jerk lately, so I’m in the mood to make problems for him. I can go through his e-mail once I figure out his new password.
“Plus that dentist nailed Barclay pretty good. His face swollen for two weeks, and he lose fifteen pounds. Anyway, tomorrow Barclay leaves for a week in Atlantic City for some secret business meetings, so I got plenty of free time coming up.
“Who knows, maybe he don’t need me anymore,” announced Gerda. “I could quit my job and move back in with you, Sophie!”
THINGS SPIRALED FOR Joe after Gerda made this announcement.
Sophie made some noncommittal but positive noises about Gerda staying with her “for a few days, that would be fun!” while giving Joe nervous glances.
“Gerda, I don’t think you should leave your job with Barclay,” Holly told the Pilates pro. “But since he’s going out of town, I’m going to hire you for the next few days to help me with a party at the country club. You have the perfect personality to deal with Chef Gianni and the Colketts.”