by Amy Korman
“Slavica d’Aranville. She’s Magnolia Beach’s top realtor. Well, she and her brother combined are the top realtor. They’re like the Lannisters in Game of Thrones, but without the inbreeding!” said Bootsie. “I read about her in Town & Country. Slavica’s big thing is creating the ultimate move-in-ready lifestyle. She’ll have a full wardrobe from Ralph Lauren and Façonnable installed in closets before clients move in. She pre-hires a chef and housekeeper, and arranges for cheese-and-wine receptions with all the fanciest people in town.” Bootsie paused to sip her drink, then added, “The magazine story said Slavica once stayed up all night single-handedly repainting a twenty-by-twenty-foot dining room in Benjamin Moore’s Really Red satin-gloss paint before an open house when she noticed a chip in the wall that was invisible to the naked eye. The woman is unstoppable.”
Slavica appeared to be in her early fifties. She had a sleek black bob and wore a pink Chanel shift dress. She was exotically beautiful and was seated with a handsome, dark-haired man.
“Is she, uh, Slavic?” asked Joe.
“She’s all American,” Jessica told us with her usual blasé delivery, as she stopped by our table and joined the conversation. “Used to be named Mandy, but in Florida real estate, it helps to be exotic. Plus, she’s obviously stunning, so she gets the best listings. That’s her brother with her, Harry d’Aranville. They specialize in the five-million-and-above house and condo market. They’ve been really good customers since we opened in November, and they pick up takeout a lot, too.”
While I pondered the fact that anyone would pay thirty-eight dollars for a takeout pasta, Channing appeared, his Chiclet smile gleaming in the candlelight. He pulled up a chair next to Sophie and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.
“Channing, I know you’ve gotta be feeling like crap with all of this going on across the street,” Sophie told him. “I mean, that freakin’ Gianni’s got a lot of nerve doing his restaurant right there. He could have at least picked a location down the block or something!”
Channing’s handsome face lost a bit of its hopeful confidence, and he looked across the street, where the hive of activity continued with spotlights trained on guys toting ladders, paint, and furniture in and out of Gianni Mare, followed by cameramen and production types with headsets and clipboards. Luckily, there was no sign of Gianni—which was surprising, since he’s a renowned control freak—but there was no denying that Gianni Mare was going to be competition for Vicino, and the HGTV angle was only adding to the buzz surrounding the new restaurant.
Jessica reached out her bony little hand to clasp Channing’s.
“Once Gianni Mare is open, Gianni will get bored,” she told her boyfriend. “He has the attention span of a hamster. As soon as Gianni gets a few newspaper stories and sees himself on TV, he’ll pack up and move on. Plus, Florida is full of celebrity chefs, and Gianni doesn’t like that kind of competition.”
Channing brightened a bit, while Holly nodded in agreement. She even put down her phone and focused on the conversation.
“Gianni is all about attention!” she said to Channing. “When he catered my almost-divorce party, he had that girlfriend of his, Olivia, secretly taking pictures the whole time. Then he posted pics on his website and released photos to Bootsie’s newspaper. I threatened to never hire him again.”
“Yeah, but after that, you had him cater that all-truffle dinner party in September,” Joe reminded her.
“That’s because you can’t host a dinner in Philly and expect people to show up if Gianni doesn’t cater it,” Holly told him. “I thought the blogging was a little too much, but I’m starting to wonder if maybe I was wrong. Although,” Holly paused, and looked at Channing apologetically, “I might have to hire Gianni again for my next party when I get home, especially now that he’s going to be on TV. Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” said Channing with his usual good humor. “I’d love to get my own cooking show, so I totally get it.”
“Channing, you’d be the next Emeril, but with biceps and a square jaw!” said a charming voice behind us. “Or Alton Brown, but with the body of an Armani model! Or that guy Curtis Stone with . . . well, actually, he’s pretty hot as it is. You’ve got what it takes to be on the Food Network.”
“Nothing against Gianni, of course,” added another voice hastily. “He’s got the muscles and tattoos, which is kind of a cool look, and he’s obviously a superb chef. Not to mention that he put us up at The Breakers.”
We turned to see Tim and Tom Colkett, handsome and stylish in navy blazers and white shirts open at the collars (showing off deep tans that they seemed to have acquired in just twenty-four hours despite putting in a full day of work at Gianni Mare rather than laying out on the beach). They pulled up chairs at our table and gushed for a few minutes in the direction of Holly, then did some “mwah” air kisses with Sophie, who’s also hired them many times, including one time the previous spring for a yard makeover that, Joe told me, cost forty thousand dollars in plants and labor.
“We’re starving,” said Tim Colkett, waving down our waiter and ordering a bottle of pinot noir, two pizzas, and a grilled branzino, as Tom mimed fainting from hunger. “Not to bite the hand that’s paying us, but Gianni’s been at the restaurant cooking all day and hasn’t offered us so much as a Wheat Thin. Finally, the HGTV guys ordered in some takeout from a hoagie place in West Palm, but we thought we saw you guys out here on the patio, so we snuck over here.”
“Actually, we might want to move inside,” Tom told him. “I don’t think it’ll go over so great if Gianni sees us dining here.”
“I’d hurry if I were you,” Holly told them. “I think he is on his way over.”
We all turned to see a tattooed, earring-bedecked man in chef’s whites, parachute pants, and Crocs charging across the street, the willowy Olivia behind him.
“Cancel the branzino,” whispered Tom Colkett. “We’ll get room service.” He grabbed Tim’s arm, then they vaulted a potted hibiscus and disappeared down the alley behind Vicino.
“WE COME TO spend a little money in your fast-food restaurant,” Gianni told Channing and Jessica a moment later. “Olivia and I, we laugh at your orange walls.” He pointed inside to the bar. “I keep thinking I get a Big Mac!”
“Whatever you say, Chef,” Channing said with his usual equanimity. “I’m sure there’s room enough for both of our restaurants, so I’m happy to have you come and dine here anytime.”
“I just drink tonight,” Gianni told him. “Me, I’ve been cooking all day so as to have complete perfection tomorrow at my opening party. I would invite you, but I’m sure you have to be here to oversee this . . . little place.” He waved dismissively at the bustling patio and lively scene inside the restaurant, while Jessica got up, rolled her eyes, and disappeared into the restaurant.
“Sure, boss,” said Channing with a laugh.
I noticed Waffles had woken up and was looking at Gianni, wagging.
“Perfect customer for this place!” Gianni said, taking note of Waffles. “Channing, I see you get dogs as your clientele! This one a big fattie, too.” Channing shrugged good-naturedly, while I struggled not to give Gianni a heated reply to this insult aimed toward my beloved mutt. However, the chef had lost interest in the dog and was now focused on Holly, who’d finally put her phone away.
“Holly Jones, I demand that you attend my party tomorrow night!” the chef told her, leaning over to kiss Holly’s hand in the manner of Cary Grant circa 1938. “Sophie, you come also,” he said. “I know you love to spend the money like crazy, Sophie. I love this about you!”
Olivia, who was clad in a strapless black dress, stood next to him, looking bored, exhausted, and like she could really use a cocktail. I’d never met Olivia, who’d been dating Gianni since the previous summer.
Jessica had mentioned offhandedly that, pre-Gianni, she h
ad once worked at the same downtown Philly restaurant as Olivia, and they’d been on good terms but hadn’t really been friends. Apparently, around the same time Jessica had kicked off her hot-and-heavy affair with Channing, Olivia had started hanging out at the bar of Gianni’s Bryn Mawr trattoria. From what Jessica had heard, as soon as she and Channing had taken off for Florida, Gianni had offered Olivia a job as part-time manager of his Ristorante Gianni and had soon convinced her to date him.
I noticed Olivia and Jessica acknowledge each other with a nod, but it was hardly a warm greeting—understandable, given the awkward circumstances. Olivia had replaced Jessica both professionally and personally.
As per usual with Gianni’s girlfriends, Olivia was fifteen years younger and very attractive, and she seemed to be rapidly losing patience with his tantrums and public outbursts. At the moment, she was both texting and hissing a drink order to a passing waiter while Gianni regaled Holly and Sophie with the details of the opening party he’d planned for the following night, including a shipment of something called gamberetti, which he was having shipped in from Italy.
“The gamberetti is the juiciest, most delicious, most incredible shrimp in the world!” Gianni proclaimed.
I perked up a bit at this, since I have an embarrassing but unbridled obsession with shrimp. Shrimp from the Mediterranean? This honestly sounded pretty awesome. I’d wanted to skip Gianni’s party, if indeed I could even wangle an invitation, but after all the Progresso soup and peanut butter I’d been eating at home this winter, the prospect of gamberetti was intriguing.
“Olivia, she have to haul ass down to Miami International on Sunday to pick up six crates of shrimp!” Gianni told us, giving Olivia a condescending pat on the tush. “She do the schlepping for Gianni!” The chef gave his girlfriend a little squeeze while she sipped at her vodka with what I considered to be remarkable self-control.
I felt for Olivia. It couldn’t feel good to run Gianni’s errands. Plus, I’d forgotten his habit of referring to himself in the third person. That had to be painful to listen to on a regular basis, too.
Gianni had (thankfully) turned to head inside to the bar, taking Olivia’s elbow to steer her in that direction, when all of a sudden, a commotion broke out at the table of Slavica and Harry d’Aranville. The elegant Slavica had turned green under her deftly applied makeup, and she was trying to rise, balancing unsteadily on her beige quilted pumps. Harry, who looked a little woozy himself, had one of Slavica’s elbows, while a nervous-looking waiter supported her gently.
“Bathroom!” Slavica moaned.
They rushed her indoors toward the restroom, Channing looking alarmed as he followed Slavica, while the happy buzz on the patio came to a crashing silence.
Where most people would keep out of the way of such a debacle, politeness demanding that someone who appeared as ill as Slavica be given some space and privacy, Bootsie isn’t most people. She was out of her seat and at a dead run, her tall, flowered back disappearing inside the restaurant within seconds of Slavica’s restroom run.
A few minutes later, Bootsie returned, the excitement of fresh news written all over her face.
“This isn’t good,” she told us. “Slavica’s puking in the ladies’ room. Jessica’s in there with her, while the brother is hovering outside. He said it had to be the clams. And Channing is freaking out, because bad shellfish can ruin a restaurant in this town, especially when it was consumed by the top realtor in Palm Beach County.”
Chef Gianni and Olivia appeared on the patio behind Bootsie, pausing for a moment at our table.
“Too bad for Channing. He serve this lady the bad Florida littlenecks,” said Gianni happily. “And I’m sorry for you, Sophie, I hear you got a lotta money sunk in this Ronald McDonald restaurant.”
“Everything will be okay!” Sophie squeaked. “Slavica’s probably got a stomach virus.”
“No, is from old clams,” Gianni said positively. “I seen this before. The projectile vomiting is always from the bad fish.”
“Look,” Sophie said, as we passed the table Slavica had vacated in such a hurry. “That’s so weird!”
The waiters had immediately removed all traces of Slavica and her brother’s meals, but on the otherwise bare table sat a package of Imodium.
“That’s good stuff!” Sophie told us. “Barclay lives on it, since he’s got major Irritable Bowel Syndrome. And who wouldn’t, the way he eats!”
Joe and I exchanged glances. The Imodium was clearly a nasty little joke and confirmed what Gianni was saying. Someone knew Slavica was going to get sick. And Gianni was in prime position to have deposited it on the table.
Gianni rudely grabbed Olivia’s arm and headed toward the street.
“Looks like I open my new place just in time,” he called over his shoulder. “This place gonna be out of business in a week!”
Chapter 10
THINGS SPIRALED DOWNWARD quickly that night after Slavica lost her clams in the ladies’ room at Vicino.
The town’s top realtor emerged from the chic white restroom after twenty-two minutes of solid (well, uninterrupted) barfing, supported by Bootsie, who wasn’t about to miss such a gossip-worthy event no matter how messy, and Jessica, to whom Slavica muttered dire threats.
While diners and Vicino’s bar crowd watched, agape at the sight of the Chanel-clad Slavica stumbling toward the front doors, the realtor’s brother implored her to let him drive her to the ER, but Slavica merely whispered that she needed to get home—to her own bathroom—ASAP.
Channing, pale beneath his tan, gallantly assisted Bootsie and Jessica in helping Slavica down Vicino’s front steps while Harry brought the car around. But even Channing’s charm and genuinely kind nature failed to smooth over the society broker’s rage and embarrassment over having a puke-a-thon in a public setting.
“This is the last you’ll see of me at your restaurant,” Slavica hissed to Jessica and Channing as Harry assisted her into the backseat of his Porsche Cayenne. “But not the last you’ve heard of me.”
HOLLY GOT A call from Channing at 8:45 the next morning, asking her to stop over at Vicino, where he thought he’d made some discoveries that explained the Slavica situation. She promised him we’d be over ASAP but that we had a previous appointment with a computer hacker friend.
“GERDA!” SHRIEKED SOPHIE as the Pilates pro walked into Adelia’s living room thirty minutes later. She popped up from her seat to give Gerda a huge hug, while Gerda gave her an awkward shoulder pat. I could tell that Gerda was touched, though, since she looked simultaneously pleased and uncomfortable with Sophie’s display of affection.
I couldn’t really understand Sophie’s devotion to Gerda, who’s not exactly warm and fuzzy, and also has told me repeatedly that Waffles is, well, portly. I never asked her for this input, either. (Her exact words were “He is fat load.”) But then again, Gerda and Sophie have been through a lot together, and Gerda lived with Sophie when she and Barclay first split up. I guess they’d formed their own weird bond.
“Mrs. Earle, may I present our, uh, acquaintance, Gerda,” Joe told Mrs. Earle. “Gerda . . . what’s your last name again, Gerda?”
“I don’t use a last name,” Gerda told him.
“Anyway, Gerda works for Mr. Shields, and she has some information we need about that new restaurant I was telling you about, Gianni Mare. At least, we think she does,” Joe said.
“Wonderful! I love gossip, especially if I can get it right in my own living room. Sit down and have a margarita, dear,” Adelia told Gerda, gesturing to a green and white chintz armchair.
Gerda gingerly took a seat, taking in the charming surroundings and the gorgeous pool just outside the French doors, as well as the little china bowl of Stokes cigarettes. She’d arrived in her usual track suit with the jacket off in deference to the warm weather and a Lycra workout top underneath. Gerda is usual
ly stridently anti-alcohol, anti-smoking, and anti-junk food—basically, she’s against anything fun— and I feared she would blast Adelia about the evils of drinking, especially at this hour of the morning, but she didn’t. Gerda was in an oddly pleasant mood. Something close to a smile actually seemed to be fighting for space on her face. Well, not a smile, but she didn’t seem quite as pissy as usual.
“I don’t drink,” she told Adelia. “But thanks.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing, dear!” hooted Adelia. “Have some lemonade then. Ozzy will bring it.” Her assistant disappeared toward the kitchen, while Gerda nodded approvingly toward the pool.
“This is nice place,” Gerda said. “Lot of nature and plants.”
“Thank you,” Adelia said. “I understand you’re from Austria? Beautiful country. I had my second face-lift done there.”
“From the Alps,” nodded Gerda. “Lot of top plastic surgeons near my hometown. In the clinics. Also, the spas where one gets the colon cleaned out with the hose. Very healthy.”
“I’ve done it all, darling!” Adelia hooted. “Left me as empty as this tequila bottle,” she added, indicating a drained flacon of Patrón Silver, “and limp as a stale Triscuit.”
“Gerda was telling us about some e-mails she happened to see on Barclay’s computer,” I said, hoping to avoid the finer details of colonic procedures. “Were you able to bring them, Gerda? Thank you, by the way.”
“I have,” Gerda confirmed, opening her black nylon knapsack and pulling out a slim sheaf of papers. Joe, Holly, and I all sat on the sofa and passed them back and forth, scanning them quickly for mentions of Channing, Jessica, Vicino, or Sophie’s investment therein. Meanwhile, Gerda and Sophie caught up a little.
“Are you drinking the kale smoothies?” Gerda was asking Sophie disapprovingly. “I can see in your skin, you been eating a lot of meat, and not exercising.”