Killer Getaway

by Amy Korman

  But why was I being dragged along to occupy Scooter? I was dating John Hall, and even if I wasn’t, Scooter and I didn’t seem like a match. Me: dog-­obsessed girl from small town outside Philadelphia, barely making a living at a rickety antiques store. Scooter: wealthy Magnolia Beach fixture who, if our suspicions were correct, didn’t mind scooping up an extra hundred thousand bucks every once in a while by helping shady development plans gain zoning approval. And who had probably kidnapped his own half-­brother.

  This all did sound a little risky. And—­was Holly shopping for a new husband? What better revenge could she wreak on Howard than running off with the ridiculously handsome and seemingly very rich J. D.?

  “Please,” said Holly with a nonchalant wave of her thin hand. “I’m not interested in Juan Diego, except in the matter of finding out more about Barclay and Gianni Mare, and investigating the vandalism of Vicino. This is all in the name of business.

  “And, well, justice!” Holly added, a competitive gleam in her sky-­blue, almond-­shaped eyes. “I mean, someone named Scooter can’t be allowed to win out over Adelia.”

  It’s true that Holly can be very competitive, and on the rare occasion when she takes up a cause, she goes all out to see it through. Still, I eyed her warily. I mean, I don’t think she’d see it through with Juan Diego, if you know what I mean, while married to Howard . . . unless she and Howard were actually on the brink of breaking up.

  “Well, I guess it’s true that we can’t let Scooter and Fuckhead—­that’s one of my nicknames for Barclay—­screw over Channing and Jessica. I mean, I got all that cash sunk in Vicino. And I do like Adelia,” said Sophie. “She’s a cool lady.”

  “Obviously, we need to get to the bottom of about four hundred issues concerning Barclay, Gianni, and Scooter,” Holly said airily. “And since J. D. said Scooter’s back in town and wants to have some fun tonight, that’s where you come in,” she told me as the doorbell rang.

  “About that—­I don’t want to have fun with anyone, especially Scooter!” I protested, drumming my fingers nervously on the Lucite coffee table. “How exactly did I become Scooter’s date?”

  Holly opened the front door, where, between two enormous potted jasmine trees, a five-­foot-­ten-­inch blond woman stood, wheeling in a small suitcase and toting a hairdryer and huge make-­up case.

  “Juan Diego asked me to bring a friend along,” Holly said, shrugging. “Bootsie’s married, and Sophie and Joe are in love, so that leaves you.”

  “I have a boyfriend,” I reminded Holly.

  “Well, he isn’t here. And Scooter’s date isn’t going to be you, exactly,” Holly said, inviting the blond hairstylist inside and politely relieving her of some of her hair-­a-­phernalia.

  “That’s her,” Holly told the tall blond hair expert, indicating me with about as much enthusiasm as you’d use when pointing out a shredder at Staples.

  “Svetlana here’s going to transform you into someone with some actual sex appeal!”

  TEN MINUTES LATER, I found myself on an upholstered French bench in Holly’s dressing room/bathroom with the hairstylist, whose name was, obviously, Svetlana. She was Holly’s favorite hair person at The Breakers Salon, and she was eyeing me critically, while Holly, Joe, and Sophie offered not-­very-­uplifting commentary.

  “The idea, Svetlana,” Holly told the hairstylist, “is that Kristin here becomes a bombshell with huge hair and major eyelashes for tonight. I’m thinking of changing her name, too.”

  “Great idea!” Sophie said enthusiastically. “Call Kristin something hot, like Bambi! I can come tonight, too, if ya need backup!”

  “You can’t come along—­Gianni would tell Barclay if you were there,” Holly told her. “Gianni doesn’t know who Kristin is. I know he’s seen her a bunch of times, but since she doesn’t wear much makeup and can’t afford to hire him to cater parties, I don’t think he’s ever noticed her.”

  This was one hundred percent true, so I didn’t bother to correct her.

  “Gianni knows you’re married,” Joe reminded Holly. “Won’t he think it’s weird if you’re on a date with his investor?” Then he paused. “Never mind. That’s dumb to think Gianni would care if a married person’s out with another guy.”

  “Obviously, Gianni doesn’t care about cheating,” Holly said airily. “He’s pro-­cheating. Not that that’s what I’m doing, of course. This is all just so I can interrogate Juan Diego and Scooter.”

  “Kristin can’t be a Bambi,” Joe said as Svetlana lifted a wavy strand of my long brown hair and shook her head, looking hopeless. “She’s too blah to be Bambi.”

  I felt a surge of resentment but then realized Joe was right.

  “We could borrow your name, Svetlana!” Holly told the hairstylist. “I mean, that’s totally sexy.”

  But Svetlana was shaking her head emphatically in the negative.

  “This one”—­she indicated me with a long index finger, as if I was a ten-­year-­old Mitsubishi on a used car lot—­“can’t be Svetlana. But with these”—­she pulled out a long tangle of dark-­brown hair extensions, a container of enormous hot rollers, and packets of lengthy false eyelashes from her giant rolling bag—­“we can make her someone more you, know, attractive.”

  I felt slightly insulted, but also intrigued as I eyed the mountain of hair and eyelashes, while Holly pulled out a glittery pair of strappy sandals and held them up to my feet. I’ve sometimes longed to be an exotic, leather-­legging-­wearing type. It just hasn’t panned out for me, since I’m surrounded by antiques and a basset hound.

  “I have the spray tan equipment and tanning tent in car, too,” noted the beauty expert.

  “Perfect, Svetty!” Holly told her. She gazed at me, my hair still in a ponytail, and eyed my shorts and Old Navy sandals. “It’s going to take a miracle, though.”

  “Kristin should stay silent all night,” Sophie said. “Men think it’s hot when a woman doesn’t talk.”

  “That’s true!” confirmed Joe. “Not that I’ve ever met a woman who doesn’t talk incessantly, but it sounds incredible.”

  “Let’s get her slutted up and then pick the name,” suggested Sophie. “I went to Vegas a million times with my ex. Something will come to me.”

  AN HOUR LATER, Waffles took one look at me and gave a confused bark.

  My skin was a dark, glossy, Kardashian tan. My hair had been extended and teased. I literally didn’t think it was possible to get this much makeup onto my face, but there it was. In a tiny Dolce & Gabbana mini dress and strappy sandals, I looked nothing like myself. All you could see was hair, lashes, and dark lips.

  “I’d go with Alessandra,” Sophie said, proving herself surprisingly adroit at coming up with fake sultry names. “That way, Kristin can pretend she doesn’t speak English, but nobody knows if she’s Brazilian or what.”

  “I thought I was supposed to get info out of Scooter?” I said desperately through my overly glossed lips.

  “Don’t talk!” Holly ordered. “That’s how you get him to start blabbing. I’ll ask a few questions, and then open up the floor for him to tell us everything.”

  “Okay,” I agreed dubiously. I could barely move my head to speak anyway, plus too many facial expressions might dislodge the false eyelashes.

  “Here,” said Svetlana, handing me a tiny bottle of eyelash adhesive remover as we headed toward the door. “You’re going to need this tomorrow. If I were you, I’d leave on fake stuff for a while, though. You say you have boyfriend. He will love it.”

  “He’s a veterinarian,” I told her. “Very into the natural look, so he won’t like all the extensions and lashes.”

  “Oh, yes, he will,” Svetlana informed me.

  “SCOOTER, THIS IS Alessandra,” Holly said as I held out a spray-­tanned hand to greet our dinner companions. I whispered hello, trying for a sexy but unspecific accent a
s Holly and I stood in the entrance of Gianni Mare. It was 7:30, and the restaurant was packed, a happy buzz filling the space and music flowing through speakers out onto the patio.

  “Hellooo,” said Scooter as I lowered my glued-­on lashes demurely. I would have burst out laughing if my face hadn’t been immobilized by makeup. For his part, I noticed J. D. looking at me curiously, as if he thought he recognized me but wasn’t sure. Even though I’d met him before—­and had talked to him in this very restaurant not twenty-­four hours earlier—­Holly had been positive J. D. wouldn’t place me as the ponytail-­wearing, casual girl of the night before.

  I wasn’t so sure. I looked different, but I also had a feeling that J. D. was a very smart guy who didn’t miss much. Then again, he was now focused on Holly, who looked gorgeous in a simple beige dress and no jewelry.

  No jewelry! I looked at her left hand and heard an inner alarm bell: She still hadn’t picked up her wedding rings?

  Holly was definitely taking her “I’m not really married” scenario too far, but there was nothing I could do about it now. The hostess was leading us to a table along the banquette, where Holly and J. D. slid in and sat next to each other.

  “Why don’t you sit next to me, Miss Alessandra?” Scooter said, politely pulling out a chair for me. We sat, me in my borrowed black dress, and Scooter in a pink checked sport coat, khakis, Ferragamo loafers, and a matching pink oxford.

  “Are you a Floridian, Alessandra?” Scooter persisted, while I gave a vague shrug and sipped desperately at a glass of water, hoping my lipstick would stay put. “Wherever did you meet this exotic creature, Ms. Jones?” he asked Holly.

  I choked a little on the water, and I noticed Holly couldn’t hold back a small giggle. Never in my life have I been anywhere in the exotic spectrum.

  “Alessandra goes to my workout class at The Breakers. She doesn’t talk much,” Holly told him with a merry expression. I nodded mysteriously and looked around the room, desperately hoping Gianni and Olivia were back in the kitchen, and not working the room. I was pretty sure Gianni would have no idea who I was, but Olivia had bitchy-­female radar that could definitely see behind all the big hair and fake tan. She’d know exactly who I was and wonder what I was up to.

  Juan Diego, meanwhile, had lost interest in Alessandra. He was totally focused on Holly. I got the feeling that in Miami and the other glamorous places in which he spent time, girls like Alessandra were like telephone poles—­there was one on every corner. It seemed I didn’t need to worry about him placing me as the somewhat drab friend of Holly’s he’d previously met.

  What was worrying me, though, was Juan Diego’s deliciously scented and elegant arm, clad in a stylish pale-­gray tropical wool sport coat and crisp white dress shirt. He had immediately draped it over Holly’s bare shoulder while he’d ordered wine and a round of oysters.

  I had to admit, Holly and Juan Diego looked incredible together. It was like Wealthy Tasteful American Barbie and Gorgeous International Businessman Ken were sitting across from me on the blue banquette. I felt a rising sense of concern as the champagne was poured—­waiters were hovering and rushing, given that our table held two of the restaurant’s investors. Holly leaned in to listen to something J. D. murmured in her ear, and the sexual tension was such that I was tempted to grab a menu and fan myself with it. Holly was going way too far with this fake flirting!

  Howard and Holly had always made a nice-­looking ­couple, but Juan Diego was along the lines of Michael Fassbender, with the square jaw and soulful expression of Hugh Jackman thrown in. And now he was actually stroking Holly’s shoulder!

  “Cheers to your incredible success with this restaurant,” said Holly to J. D. and Scooter as we all toasted each other. “I’d love to hear about your next business venture, too,” she added, including both men in her wide-­eyed interest.

  “YOU OWN PART of Bal Harbour—­that’s so glamorous!” Holly told J. D. smoothly. “I love Bal Harbour.”

  It was twenty-­five minutes later, and another bottle of champagne was already being poured as Euro-­music thumped throughout the dining room, where every table was now filled. J. D. drank at a measured, moderate pace, I noticed, while Scooter was knocking back champagne like it was Gatorade. He’d also ordered a three-­olive martini, which he’d quickly drained. “I know J. D. has some banking interests and real estate, but what about you, Scootie?”

  Scooter looked flattered to already have a nickname from Holly, and he smiled proudly as he munched an olive. “My family’s been down here in Magnolia Beach for decades,” he told us, his hand grazing Alessandra’s (mine, that is) on the tabletop as he buttered a hunk of ciabatta bread. “We have a lot of property and, of course, invest in real estate all around South Florida. You name it, we own a piece of it!”

  “You have a brother, don’t you, Scootie?” Holly asked.

  “Half-­brother,” muttered Scooter.

  “And he lives here in Magnolia Beach? I’d love to meet him!”

  “He’s out of town. Went to Maine for a ­couple of weeks,” said Scooter. A server brought him a fresh martini, which he downed by two inches with one large sip. He spoke curtly and changed the subject, asking how long Holly was planning to stay in town.

  “I’m thinking of buying a place!” she told him. “Do you have any new properties coming up I should know about?” J. D. solicitously passed her the three-­tiered platter of oysters resting on ice and a bed of seaweed. Holly took one, but I knew she’d never eat it. Solid food seldom passes her lips, and when it does, it isn’t oysters.

  “Actually, yes!” said Scooter, inhaling one of the chilled shellfish, which the waiter had explained were a variety called Apalachicola from the Gulf Coast. I gazed at the fancy seafood staring back at me from my plate, feeling uneasy as I gazed down at the squishy bivalves.

  Given my peanut-­butter budget, I’m thrilled to eat anything that isn’t being served out of a can or a jar, but I honestly didn’t think I could down one of these suckers. I mean, I know raw oysters are a delicacy, but all I could think about was Slavica’s dead run to the Vicino bathroom after the clams.

  “We’ve got an amazing historic property right here in town that we’re developing,” Scooter rattled on. “It’s something I’ve been working on for years. It’s a piece of land that’s been in my family for almost a century, and we’re going to build a magnificent custom home on it that will be in the $25 million range,” Scooter told us. J. D. shot him a warning look, which Scooter ignored.

  “J. D. and I have a partnership with, uh, another investor from out of town,” he added tipsily. “And that tree-­hugging brother of mine. But I can get anything past him!” he bragged. All of a sudden, though, he noticed J. D.’s frown and began dialing back on his information sharing.

  “So we’re exploring a lot of different options,” Scooter finished vaguely, then stopped talking and started eating, while J. D. changed the subject, asking Holly whether she’d ever been to the polo matches that were held in nearby Wellington, Florida, where he owned a few horses.

  As Alessandra, I merely sipped my drink silently, while as myself, information was zinging around my brain. Scooter had seemingly been about to spill plans for a property that could only be the schoolhouse. I mean, the island we were sitting on wasn’t all that large. How many historic family properties could he have?

  My fingers inched toward my phone to text Joe. I was also starving. I took a small piece of delicious ciabbata bread, tore off a corner, and quickly buttered it, ignoring Holly’s disapproval. Alessandra might not eat, but I needed to.

  I realized chewing had possibly de-­glossed a corner of my lower lip—­and was one of the individually glued-­on lashes becoming dislodged? Maybe I needed to go in and yank off said fake lash.

  I’d gulp down some more champagne, then make a run to the ladies’ room. I was just gulping down a large sip when I froze, swall
owed wrong, and choked.

  Chef Gianni!

  “Holleee Jones!” said the tattooed Gianni, who’d bee-­lined out of the kitchen straight for our table, while also managing to triple-­kiss several other female diners en route. “You got more gorgeous overnight! How you do it?”

  “Excuse me,” I whispered to Scooter, getting up and moving toward the restrooms, which were down a little corridor just past the crowded bar. Gianni hadn’t even noticed me, or if he had, all he’d seen was the back of a huge head of hair.

  It was time to wind up this dinner, I thought.

  Holly had basically gotten the information we’d been after—­or at least, we now knew that he and J. D., plus a third partner who had to be Barclay, were up to something. We could figure out our next move vis-­à-­vis the Barclay/schoolhouse plan tomorrow.

  As for tonight, I’d be back in the guesthouse soon, away from all this craziness, back in my Old Navy pajamas and watching E! News with Waffles by 10:00 p.m. Maybe Alessandra could develop a migraine or something and I could ask Bootsie to come pick me up? That might work, I thought—­then suddenly froze.

  Mike Woodford was standing at the bar, staring at me. Or rather, at Alessandra.

  “NICE DRESS,” SAID Mike, eyebrows raised.

  “Thanks,” I said bitterly. “It’s Holly’s,” I told him. He was in jeans and a white shirt, a fresh vodka tonic in front of him. “A girl named Svetlana who works at The Breakers Salon provided the tan, the hair, and the eyelashes.”

  “And the reason for this new look?” asked Mike.

  I peeked past Mike, around a giant arrangement of flowering tree branches on the bar, to see if Alessandra’s absence was causing any disruption of our meal. Apparently not, because Gianni had actually sat down at our table, which both J. D. and Holly herself didn’t look too thrilled about. Scooter looked well and truly drunk, supporting himself with both elbows on the table (which I doubted his stepmother would approve of) and appeared to be one vodka away from toppling into the truffled risotto that had just arrived in front of him.