Killer Getaway

by Amy Korman

  She’d gone on to describe the layout at her rented mega-­house on Bahama Lane in Magnolia Beach, mentioning breakfasts of fresh sliced mangoes every day and dinners of grilled lobster at Vicino every night.

  “So you’re saying I’ll have a guesthouse . . . all to myself?” I’d said, as I’d looked around my chilly shop on the main street of Bryn Mawr, miserably spritzing some Windex at my front window as snow and sleet had gusted by outside. Why bother? There hadn’t been a soul out shopping that day.

  “It’s completely separate from the main house, adjoins the pool, and has its own kitchen, fully stocked wine fridge, and a garden with lemon and avocado trees,” Holly had confirmed. “Also, I’ve been shopping a lot down here, and I’m too busy to return all the stuff I decided I don’t want. I have a ton of Milly dresses and Trina Turk pants in the guesthouse closet that I’m positive will fit you.”

  I’d thrown aside the Windex, startling Waffles, who’d been licking sleet from his paws and looking dispirited. A closet full of designer clothes in Magnolia Beach! Since I rarely cook and usually can only afford to buy Progresso soup, I can somehow wriggle into most of Holly’s fancy dresses.

  Gosh, this was tempting. I mean, business was terrible right now. . . .

  “Give me the phone,” I’d heard Joe demand in the background. “Listen, Kristin,” he’d said. “This isn’t even a question. The contractor’s shutting down the job at Sophie’s house for two weeks anyway—­all the electricians left town for a Game of Thrones theme cruise to Cancun.” He’d paused to suck something on a straw. It had sounded like a frozen drink.

  “You’re going to be the only person left in all of Bryn Mawr,” Joe had told me. “They’ll probably find you and that mutt of yours frozen and dead in your bed when the town thaws out in April.”

  Inwardly, I’d been ninety percent there. Just the name of the street—­Bahama Lane!—­conjured images of frosty rum drinks, coconut palms, steel drum music, and suntans.

  Then I’d remembered—­I wasn’t an heiress or successful decorator or the wealthy almost-­ex of Barclay Shields. I am, to put it bluntly, pretty much penniless. It’s all my friends who have the money. What if The Striped Awning suddenly got a rush of customers who were dying to buy 1940s vanities and crystal chandeliers circa 1920, and I wasn’t there?

  “Er . . . let me think about this for a ­couple of hours,” I’d told Joe. “I’ll call you back.”

  I could close the store for a week, I’d thought hopefully as I’d ended the call. I mean, how much money would I lose during the current dead retail season?

  Since it had already been close to 4:00 p.m. but as dark as midnight outside, I’d decided to lock up for a few minutes and take a walk down the block to the Bryn Mawr Pub. A glass of pinot noir would enable me to make a much better decision. “Come on, Waffles!” I’d sung out at the back door, jingling his leash. “Time for a bathroom break!” Two Beggin’ Strips later, he’d gone out and done what he needed to do, getting sleeted on in the process and giving me an accusatory glance as he’d galloped back inside and made for his dog bed. I’d sighed. I’d been pretty sure Waffles had the winter blues, too.

  “OF COURSE WE’RE going to Magnolia Beach!” said Bootsie. She was the first person I saw when I walked into the pub seven minutes later. As soon as I told her about Holly’s call, somehow the trip now included her, too. And Bootsie’s really fun on a trip. Her margarita gene kicks in and she always finds the bar with the best drinks and most fun crowd, something she has a sixth sense for.

  “Don’t you need to check with Will? And shouldn’t you make sure your nanny can watch the twins?” I hazarded, gulping a bit of pinot noir. I wondered if I needed to text Holly and Joe, since they hadn’t mentioned Bootsie coming along to Florida. Then again, this was the same woman who barged into parties from Center City all the way to Nantucket with a wave of her press pass. And they know Bootsie—­they probably figured she’d show up eventually.

  “They’re fine!” said Bootsie with a dismissive wave of her muscular, tennis-­callused hand. “Will and the sitters have everything under control.”

  I sipped my drink as I considered the most responsible course of action. I had pretty much no income from the shop in January, but my situation wasn’t quite as dire as it had been last spring. Plus, I knew the trip to Florida would cost me nothing more than airfare, because Holly’s incredibly generous.

  The real reason I couldn’t go to Magnolia Beach was just down the block: seventy-­five pounds of chubby basset, snoring on an L.L.Bean dog bed. I mean, leave Waffles for a week? He’d be clinically depressed if I stuck him in the kennel.

  “Well, I should probably go see the twins, since we’ll be in Magnolia Beach for at least a few weeks!” said Bootsie, ignoring my reverie and plunking down a ten-­dollar bill as she gathered up her phone and tote bag.

  “I need to think this over, Bootsie,” I told her. “I mean, closing the store is kind of irresponsible. And Magnolia Beach is really expensive. The airfare alone probably costs a fortune.

  “And,” I added miserably, aware that Bootsie, though fond of her yellow Labs, wouldn’t understand how anyone would forgo such a great freebie because of a dog, “I can’t leave Waffles. I mean, I could ask my neighbors to watch him, but the Best brothers are old, and they drink so much they’d probably forget to feed him!”

  “That’s the dumbest argument I’ve ever heard,” Bootsie told me. She drained her drink and zipped up her Lands’ End parka. “I’ll drive us to Magnolia Beach in less than one day. You can bring that mutt, too.

  “I’m going home to pack my Lilly Pulitzer,” she said, her eyes lighting up happily. Bootsie loves nothing more than a flowered frock, or a pair of shorts embroidered with turtles. “And you know Holly didn’t rent some dump. I mean, she even took Martha with her. Just think about the homemade scones and omelets!”

  Fear gripped my gut as I pictured barreling down all of the East Coast with Bootsie in an SUV. I started to argue that I don’t like freeloading from Holly, but Bootsie—­who’s an inveterate house guest, and has no problem accepting gratis accommodations, drinks, and food—­was on the move, flinging the words “Let’s leave tomorrow; I’ll pick you up at three” over her shoulder.

  “I haven’t decided about this trip!” I called, the pub’s front door slamming on my doubts as Bootsie took off to ransack her closets and pack a suitcase full of lime-­green and fuchsia shift dresses.

  I was still staring at the door when someone approached the bar and I felt a warm, strong hand close over my wrist. An involuntary rush of excitement shot up my spine. Even before I looked down and saw a tanned, muscular forearm, I knew who it was.

  “Heading out of town?” asked Mike Woodford.

  I’D MANAGED TO avoid Mike all through the fall and winter. This had taken some effort, since Mike lives right across the street from me. Then again, Mike’s cottage is in the middle of a rambling, historic estate belonging to his aunt, Honey Potts. Mike takes care of the cows that roam the gorgeous property, and I’d briefly—­okay, not that briefly—­had a massive crush on him the previous spring. This was right before I’d met stable, handsome John Hall and switched my crush over to him.

  I’d even pretty much succeeded in a self-­imposed ban on thinking about Mike—­when I didn’t see him, that is. Every time I laid eyes on his dark scruff, torn jeans, and dark eyes, I immediately flashed back to a spectacular barn make out session with Mike the previous May, and had a sudden urge to rip off his shirt. So you can imagine how hard I tried to not bump into him around town.

  “Bootsie and I might be going to Florida,” I told him, feeling nervous. I started rustling in my bag to find a crumpled five-­dollar bill and some ones, which I handed over to the bartender. I needed to get out of the pub, pick up Waffles, and go home, pronto.

  “Well, I’d better go!” I said, making a move toward the door. “It�
�s supposed to start snowing again.”

  “I’ll walk you to The Striped Awning,” offered Mike, seeming not to notice my mad dash away from him. Forty seconds later, I unlocked the back door to the shop and watched Waffles greet Mike.

  Why did Waffles like Mike so much? I mean, Mike was really handsome, smelled great, and had animal magnetism. But I’d dated enough guys like him to know—­he was not relationship material. He was way too independent, and he was a bit of a loner. I was pretty sure he loved cows more than ­people.

  Just then, as I snapped Waffles’s leash on and turned out the store lights, ready to head toward my car, Mike leaned over to where I stood, next to a rack of cleaning supplies, and kissed me. “Still dating your veterinarian?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I assured him. “In fact, everything’s going great with John.”

  I could see Mike smiling in the dark. “Well, call me if you decide not to go to Florida.”

  “I’m going to Florida!” I grabbed Waffles’s leash and my keys and bag, and unceremoniously ushered us all out the back door, whereupon I locked up. “See you in the spring!” I told Mike, jumping in the car after loading Waffles in and speeding away. Well, as much as it was possible to speed, given that it was snowing like a scene from Frozen and I could barely see through the slapping windshield wipers.

  Five minutes later, I was home in my drafty but charming house, angry at myself for picturing Mike in his masculine cottage, which I happen to know has a massive stone fireplace. I could be in front of said fireplace with Mike, putting my January soggy blues behind me.

  Then again, John had been an incredible boyfriend for the past seven months! What kind of person was I, anyway?

  I had a feeling I was the kind of person who would be over at Mike Woodford’s within twenty-­four hours if I didn’t take immediate preventive measures. Just then, fresh sleet started hammering the windows of my house. “Don’t worry, this is going to be great!” I told Waffles, who wagged his tail from his end of the sofa as I dialed Bootsie.

  “I’m in,” I told her.

  “Great!” she said. I could hear a suitcase being snapped open and garments whooshing into it as we spoke. “See you at three tomorrow! In fact, let’s make it two-­thirty.”

  “Isn’t that a little late to leave?” I asked, starting to formulate a list of everything I needed to do between now and then. “Maybe we should leave in the morning.”

  “We are leaving in the morning. That’s 2:30 a.m., not p.m.,” Bootsie informed me airily.

  My next call was to Holly.

  “You arrive when?” she answered. I heard a tropical bird chirp in the background, and I think I heard the sound of a gorgeous pink sun setting.

  “Tomorrow around seven p.m.,” I confirmed, having calculated the distance on Google Maps and subtracting an hour and a half from its ETA, given the fact that Bootsie speeds like a NASCAR driver. “I have a ­couple of, um, extra items coming with me, if that’s okay?”

  “Let me guess,” she sighed. “Is one of them short, overweight, and sheds all over everything?”

  “That’s the first one,” I confirmed. “The other one is six feet tall and obsessed with tennis.”

  Chapter 3

  SO HERE WE were, fourteen hundred miles away from the cold and sleet, and a safe distance from Mike Woodford. Who needed Mike and his muscular arms and sexy beard scruff, anyway? Waffles and I were officially commencing our first full day in Paradise, and thanks to Holly—­and thanks to Bootsie’s insane end run down I-­95—­we were now residents of Bahama Lane! At least, we were for the next six days.

  I did a few more seconds of my Happy Dance, made even happier by the fact that Bootsie was staying in the guest room of Holly’s main house, not out here with me and Waffles. I threw open the French doors, blinking in the bright sunlight, and stifled a small shriek of delight at the sight of swaying palm trees and gorgeous white chaise lounges surrounding the fantastic pool, which was set in a flower-­filled courtyard between the main house and the guesthouse.

  After I jumped in the shower and got dressed (Gap Outlet dress, $24.99 from last summer), I sent John Hall a quick e-­mail, giving him the highlights of the ride down with Bootsie and Waffles. While I waited for Waffles to wake up—­he logs about twelve hours of sleep per night, plus an additional eight hours a day of naptime—­I aimed a blow-­dryer at my wavy hair and took a good look around the guesthouse in the sunny light of day. It was even better than I’d thought the previous night: The walls, chairs, and sofa were bright white, softened with pink pillows, a Lucite coffee table, modern glass lamps, and a sisal carpet. There was a tiny kitchenette and fully boozed-­up bar at one end of the living room, where coffee was currently brewing and the cabinets and mini fridge had been thoughtfully filled with all my favorite snacks, fresh fruit, kibbles and Beggin’ Strips—­Waffles’s all-­time favorite snack—­and Havarti cheese. The bedroom was similarly all white, but with huge European pillows on the bed, embroidered with a sunny yellow Greek key pattern, and a huge mirror with an intricate yellow-­and-­white inlaid frame. There was also a large closet—­stocked with Holly’s never-­worn impulse buys!—­and the white marble bathroom, in which I’d just enjoyed a steam shower, that was glossier than any hotel bathroom I’d ever seen in a magazine or on the Travel Channel. I almost cried with joy when I noticed a fluffy white terry-­cloth robe hanging on the back of the door, which I’d missed earlier. I mean, what screams relaxation more than a white terry robe?

  “That mutt doesn’t look right down here,” Joe said three minutes later, when Waffles and I wandered outside and found Joe sucking down coffee at a long, island-­style wooden dining table and inhaling a plate of scrambled eggs. He gave my dog a critical once-­over as Waffles wagged at him, then headed toward a small group of hibiscus bushes at the side of the yard to conduct his morning business.

  “He’s too fat for Florida,” pronounced Joe. “He looks more like he belongs in a ski lodge. He’s not the tropical type.”

  “Waffles loves sunbathing,” I told him, trying not to be insulted. “He’s all about warm weather. Trust me, he’s ready for Florida.”

  “Maybe he’d be okay in Key West,” Joe said dubiously. “Magnolia Beach, definitely not. They don’t do drool here.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Holly said, emerging from the main house in a white caftan over a beige Chanel bikini and towering Prada wedges, enormous sunglasses pushed atop her blond hair. “There’s a ­couple that’s been coming into Vicino every night this week. He’s about a hundred and ten years old, and she’s thirty-­five. He drools, but then again, I’m not sure he’s actually awake during dinner.”

  Waffles came back from the hibiscus hedge looking relieved, and he sat, wagging, next to Holly, who ignored him.

  “So, what’s everyone doing this morning?” I asked, wondering if I’d have time to jump in the pool at some point. Not surprisingly, the pool had the look of one that’s never actually seen any swimming. Crisp blue-­and-­white towels were rolled in perfect hotel-­like conformity on the shelves of a British Colonial–style dark wood cabinet, on top of which was arranged the aforementioned coffee ser­vice, a pitcher of juice, a bowl of sliced papaya and mango, and a full bar.

  “I’m going to my workout class at The Breakers,” Holly said, glancing at her watch. The Breakers, just across the bridge in Palm Beach, is South Florida’s most imposing, grand place to stay, and it’s an absolutely beautiful 1930s structure that houses magnificent public spaces, restaurants, and a beach club, along with several hundred luxury suites. Holly had decided to make the place her personal hangout for the duration of the winter, and she was already on intimate terms with the concierges, the salon staff, the personal trainers, and the staff who served food and drinks at the beach and pool. She’d been tipping them like crazy, which seems to work well for her. “The class is amazing: It’s called the Glutenator
. It’s for ­people who are gluten-­free, which obviously everyone is in Florida, and who want to have amazing glutes. You should see these women. Not one is under seventy, and they have the thighs of Cameron Diaz!”

  “And after that?” asked Joe, an unusually stern note in his voice as he pushed away his empty plate and stared meaningfully at Holly. “You won’t be going anywhere near Palm Avenue, right?”

  “Of course not!” Holly said, her almond-­shaped blue eyes darting around a bit. She rose and headed toward the house.

  “You won’t be going into Gucci? Or Hermès? Or stopping at that antiques place with the forty-­seven-­thousand-­dollar Chippendale sideboards?” Joe barked at her.

  “I’m going to be late for class,” Holly said, ignoring him and heading into the house. “The Glutenator fills up in the first twenty seconds after they open the door. After that, I’m going to Vicino to help Jessica meet with a landscaper. We’ve decided to add a grove of orange trees out on the patio, and Jessica isn’t sure if we should do these two-­thousand-­dollar French planters, or some cheapo four-­hundred-­dollar ones she saw at Restoration Hardware, which obviously is a terrible idea. I’ll probably be gone all day.” With that, the French doors into the living room of the main house slammed shut, and she was gone, while I pondered the fact that anyone could consider four-­hundred-­dollar planters “cheapos.”

  Clearly, Holly was mid manic shopping episode, since Joe would never have questioned her normal spending, which is obscene by most ­people’s standards. I’d find out more from Joe as soon as I could. I quickly fed Waffles, who inhaled his kibbles, downed a bowl of water, and returned to the air-­conditioned guesthouse. Through the French doors, I could see that he’d hurtled himself back onto the vast white expanse of bed in the yellow and white bedroom and was asleep again, snoring.