Killer Getaway

by Amy Korman

  I noticed Bootsie wasn’t drinking margaritas but instead was sucking down some club soda, having appointed herself the designated driver for tonight’s detecting activities. She had a telltale investigative gleam in her sky-­blue eyes, too. Maybe she’d tired of her tennis obsession and gotten back to the core of her being—­which is information gathering.

  “Let’s do it,” said Joe tipsily. He crunched noisily on his sandwich, then grabbed a slice of pizza. Joe is usually a really healthy eater, but when he’s stressed out or drinking, he throws caution to the wind and really chows down.

  “Trust me, hand this kid a few twenties, and he’ll give us every bit of information we need to know,” Bootsie said. She paused for a moment and stopped chewing, her decisive chin frozen in thought. “You don’t think Barclay’s old mafia connections have tracked him down here to Florida, do you?”

  “I’m pretty sure Barclay’s all good with the mafia,” Sophie told him. “He paid up everything he owes years ago. I mean, I guess ya never know, but I think all of Barclay’s uncles from Jersey don’t want him involved anymore. Ya know what a pain he is! Even the mafia doesn’t want him.”

  While we feasted on junk food on Adelia’s handpainted Herend china, the mood at Adelia’s became quite festive.

  Adelia told us she’d given Slavica d’Aranville a call and informed the unlucky realtor that she was counting on her to be at the Reptile Luncheon at Vicino no matter what. Slavica would have to get over her bad experience and attend, given Adelia’s standing as leading town doyenne.

  “I knew Slavica before she was Slavica,” Adelia told us. “She’s an okay girl, but she needs to stop whining about the other night. I mean, who hasn’t puked in a public restroom? I know I have!”

  By 8:15, we were folding up the empty pizza boxes, getting ready to head out. Except for Holly—­she’d taken out her makeup case and was expertly touching up her lip gloss, having ignored the food fest around her.

  “I’m not coming along to the schoolhouse,” she announced. “I have my own plan. First, I’m going to stop at Vicino and Gianna Mare. I feel like we’re not doing enough to help Channing and Jessica, and I’m pretty sure Gianni’s the one who’s sabotaging them.

  “And then,” Holly added, “I’m going to meet Scooter for a drink.” She began texting as we all began protesting her plan, then she held up a cautionary hand. “I know what I’m doing. Scooter will be all juiced up after his meeting with the engineers, and I’ll be able to find out everything about the project if I get him alone. J. D.’s way too discreet—­I need the four-­one-­one from Scootie.”

  Holly punched at her phone and looked up triumphantly a moment later. “I’m on with The Scoot. Nine-­forty-­five at Tiki Joe’s.”

  “That’s a horrible idea,” Joe told her. “That guy’s going to maul you like a bear in a campground. I mean, he even went after Kristin, so just imagine what he’ll do when he sees you.”

  While I shot Joe a pissy look, I couldn’t help wondering what would happen if Howard were to wander into Tiki Joe’s and discover his wife with yet another man, but I didn’t raise the issue. Holly seemed a bit defensive on the topic.

  “I can handle Scooter no problem, but I’m taking Gerda with me,” Holly told us. “Just in case. She can sit at the bar while Scooter and I take a booth.”

  Having Holly arrive with an Austrian Pilates instructor in tow couldn’t be Scooter’s idea of a fun date, I thought to myself happily.

  “This is good idea,” Gerda added, looking pleased. “This Scooter sounds like a real weasel. Maybe I get to toss him out onto Palm Avenue tonight.”

  TWENTY MINUTES LATER, we parked Bootsie’s SUV on North Ocean Boulevard around the corner from Seabreeze Lane, pulling as far over into a bougainvillea thicket as possible. We’d decided to arrive shortly after Scooter and company’s scheduled meeting and approach in secret. It was close to 8:45 p.m. now, and even in Florida’s mild climate, it was quite dark at this time of night, with only a half-­moon and a streetlight halfway down the block lighting our way. Bootsie, ever prepared, pulled a tiny flashlight the size of a Bic lighter out of her glove compartment.

  The tequila was wearing off, and I felt fear clenching my stomach. It was hard to picture the polo-­wearing Scooter as scary, but then again, he had a lot riding on this project. And he’d probably kidnapped his own brother.

  “This is a terrible idea,” Joe hissed as he climbed out of the front passenger seat.

  “I know,” I said miserably. “You wanted to do this, not me!”

  “I was drunk then,” Joe told me. “I’m sober now.”

  Beside me, Sophie and Adelia had scrambled out of the car, Adelia’s sunglasses still firmly in place. It was uncanny to see them both standing there in full-­length caftans, both under five feet tall and tiny-­framed. How Adelia could see though the huge dark lenses at 8:45 at night, I wasn’t sure.

  “Why did we let Adelia come?” hissed Joe.

  “She told you she’d cancel the dining hut job if you didn’t,” I reminded him.

  “Now, this is what I call action,” announced Adelia. “Sneaking around in the dark is just plain good times. Reminds me of all the men who tried to take me out to Daddy’s stables back when I was a debutante. You wouldn’t believe what Virginia men will try in a barn!”

  She and Sophie took off behind Bootsie, who’d turned the corner and was scampering down Seabreeze Lane.

  “This freakin’ caftan is slowing me down big-­time!” squeaked Sophie. “I shoulda worn my Versace jeans.”

  As Joe and I followed, a light came on in an upstairs room in a Mediterranean mansion a hundred yards down North Ocean. A window went up, and a head poked out to see what was causing a ruckus on the otherwise tranquil street.

  Joe and I froze. A moment later, the light clicked off again, and no attack dog or spotlight appeared on us. Hopefully, the homeowner had gone back to watching TV or whatever he did at night and hadn’t called 911.

  Scooter’s property was next door, and a tasteful black and white sign proclaimed the driveway as “Magnolia Beach Schoolhouse, Built 1901.” The entranceway wound back toward the ocean, and in the moonlight, I could see that the tiny wood and stone structure was surrounded by at least a dozen acres of slightly overgrown palms, grasses, and dunes. The view of the beach, even in this dim light, was absolutely beautiful.

  To be honest, if I was a developer, I’d love to get my hands on the property and put up some pricey condos, too—­anyone would want to live on this gorgeous parcel of land. Then again, Adelia’s point about the property functioning as a park with birds, frogs, turtles, and other wildlife enjoying an undisturbed beachfront lifestyle made a lot of sense. In fact, I could hear tree frogs having an absolute ball all around us.

  We paused behind a dense grove of hickory trees, the chirping, grunting amphibians creating enough noise to drown out the twigs that crunched under our feet.

  Armed with flashlights, three men were pacing off the property. One—­in profile, given the beaky nose and golf shirt, it had to be Scooter—­was typing notes on a tablet. They spoke in hushed voices. And they were heading our way.

  “The driveway and parking will need to be set back at least sixty-­five feet from Seabreeze Lane,” said a voice, presumably the surveyor’s. We all froze as they continued their approach toward the hickory thicket. Then the three men paused to talk. “You have nearly seven hundred feet of oceanfront here,” said the surveyor, sounding impressed. “I’ll get an exact measurement tonight, but if you can get around the preservationist groups and get zoning pushed through quickly enough, you’re looking at a ­couple of very lucrative options. Land like this just doesn’t become available anymore.”

  “Can there be two separate structures built on a lot this size?” asked the third member of their group in a familiar deep and very masculine voice.

  Guy #3, brief
ly illuminated by Scooter’s flashlight beam as he trained it upward on a grouping of gorgeous old live oak trees, was, of course, J. D. Alvarez. Too bad he was involved, but the schoolhouse project was just business to J. D. Developers, especially ones like Alvarez, who had no emotional ties to the island and tend to look at land and see dollar signs. Birds, turtles, palm trees, and dunes are obstacles just waiting to be bulldozed.

  Scooter, though a native Magnolia Beacher, didn’t seem too attached to the natural beauty of this oasis, either. He peered at some graceful live oaks dripping with Spanish moss and announced that was where he would situate a gatehouse on the newly developed tract.

  “These oaks will have to come down fast,” Scooter hooted. “Once they’re gone, it’s too late for tree-­huggers like my brother to get their knickers in a twist. Preservationists will have a hard time protesting a pile of mulch!” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s pace off the beachfront measurements real fast, and I’ll look at zoning in the morning and give you a call, J. D. I got a little appointment set up in forty-­five minutes.”

  “Who’s your appointment with?” asked J. D., shooting Scooter an appraising look. At least, from what I could see in the dim light, it seemed as if J. D. wasn’t thrilled about Scooter’s plans for the evening. I wondered if he’d somehow found out that Scooter was meeting up with Holly—­or maybe he thought Scooter was planning to try to go around him and cut him out of the deal on this land. Clearly, no one—­not even his own business partners—­thought Scooter was all that trustworthy.

  “Oh, just a friend,” Scooter said, sounding pleased with himself as he headed at a trot toward the beach.

  Chapter 17

  SCOOTER LEFT A few minutes later, zooming away in his BMW toward Tiki Joe’s, while J. D. and the engineer finished up a whispered discussion about zoning, given the nesting turtles and protected sand dunes. With Joe lending a supportive arm to Adelia, we crept down Seabreeze Lane and climbed back into the Range Rover, where I implored Bootsie to take me back to Holly’s. Instead, she headed for West Palm Beach, where, she’d decided, we were going to get hand-­churned organic ice cream at a place she’d read about in the Palm Beach Post.

  Sophie and Adelia thought this “sounded like fun!” while Joe and I looked at each other unhappily. I could tell he felt the same as I did: Going home and instantly falling asleep under crisp white cotton sheets “sounded like fun.”

  By 10:00 p.m., we were all digging into some mint chip with hot fudge (except for Adelia, who’d fallen asleep in the front passenger seat). We were parked outside Two Scoops with the Jimmy Buffett on low volume, when Sophie’s phone rang. After a few “Uh-­huh’s” and “You’re kidding’s,” Sophie hung up.

  “We need to go to Jessica and Channing’s house. Jessica’s freaking out,” Sophie said. “She got some kind of package delivered that she’s screaming and crying about.”

  “Where do they live?” said Bootsie, intrigued. She two-­pointed the remains of her ice cream out the driver side window into a trash can, then called up her navigation system, ready to keep the night rolling. While I personally felt bad that Jessica was sobbing at her cottage, I also felt like I’d love to go home.

  Sophie told her the address of Jessica and Channing’s rented cottage, which was the gatehouse of a larger property past Palm Avenue.

  “I couldn’t understand what Jessica was so upset about!” Sophie said. “I think she said this weird package was from Hermès. I mean, how could you get upset about anything from that awesome store? Anyway, she’s got the police there already.”

  Joe’s phone dinged as Bootsie pulled out of the Two Scoops parking lot.

  “We need to stop at Tiki Joe’s and pick up Holly and Gerda,” he said. “Something happened to Holly’s car keys. She said she’d tell us when we get there.”

  “EVERYTHING WAS GOING perfectly,” Holly said. We found her sitting with Gerda at one of the little tables by the bar at Tiki Joe’s. “Scooter was in a talkative mood, while Gerda was sitting over by the piano, looking relatively inconspicuous.”

  “This is a nice place,” Gerda said. “I like the look—­very classic.”

  “Anyway, Scooter and I had some champagne, and he told me he’d just been over to his property on Seabreeze Lane, which is the single most desirable piece of undeveloped land in all of South Florida,” Holly said. “Then he ordered a double Scotch. After that, he started bragging about how he had so many connections around town that he could do anything he wanted with the piece of land. Then he put his sneaky little arm around me.”

  Holly gave herself a little shake, as if to rid herself of the memory of Scooter’s unwarranted groping.

  “Now you know how I felt the other night!” I pointed out to Holly.

  “Scooter looked at Holly like she was lunch,” Gerda offered.

  “So at this point, Scooter was pretty tipsy, but he pulled himself together and told me again that he’d decided to go with a single house on Seabreeze Lane, since that was what his stepmother wanted. He said he loved her and respected her wishes, and that she didn’t want anything more than one beautiful, tasteful house built there,” Holly said. “So then I brought up Bingo, but he got a little annoyed and said he didn’t want to talk about his brother.

  “Luckily, he ordered more drinks, and he kept talking, saying that Gianni’s restaurant was going to put Vicino under by the end of the week,” Holly continued.

  “He laughed about Slavica getting sick, and then he said he knew for a fact that Vicino’s air-­conditioning wasn’t going to get fixed anytime soon—­he didn’t elaborate on how he knew that, but he seemed positive about it. He mentioned that he knows all the right ­people in Licenses and Inspections, and could get the place shut down anytime he feels like it. But he said Vicino will probably just go out of business on its own.

  “I was just getting him back on the topic of the schoolhouse, since I know he’s lying to us about that, when a little problem happened.”

  “Not so little,” Gerda put in. “Holly’s husband walked in. Took one look at Scooter with his arm around Holly, and left.”

  Howard had caught Holly again on a date?

  “It probably looked bad to Howard,” Holly admitted. “And then about two minutes after that,” she summed up, “things got worse when Scooter’s wife showed up.”

  “Scooter has a wife?” I was horrified. I would never have agreed to pose as Alessandra if I’d known that.

  “I didn’t know about the wife,” Holly admitted. “She wasn’t all that happy to meet me. And she didn’t seem to believe Scooter when he told her I was just a business contact, and a potential investor in his Seabreeze Lane project.”

  “I forgot about her!” Adelia said vaguely. “Mary Simmons. I’m not sure if they’re still married or not,” Adelia added. “She took off for Sanibel Island a while back. I guess she got tired of Scooter’s lying and cheating.”

  “When she came in and grabbed Scooter, she announced herself as ‘wife,’ ” Gerda told us grimly. “I told Holly it’s not good to date married man. Plus, Holly herself has a husband.”

  Holly laughed merrily. “Gerda, you’re too literal,” she told the fitness instructor. “What you just witnessed between me and Scooter was nothing like a date. That was merely information-­gathering.” Holly indicated me with a wave of her tanned hand.

  “Now, what Kristin had last night with Scooter was an actual date!” she said airily.

  “That’s completely untrue!” I shrieked. “First of all, no one ever said anything about him having a wife. And second, I went against my will!”

  “Whatever you say,” Holly told me soothingly. “Plus with Mike Woodford in town, you’re at risk for cheating on John Hall pretty much every time you walk out the door. I just hope that amazing boyfriend of yours doesn’t find out.”

  “I haven’t been anywhere close to cheating, and I won’
t be!” I protested, then paused to consider Holly’s assessment of the situation. There had been that kiss with Mike by the Windex and mops in the back room of The Striped Awning in Bryn Mawr last week, but that had been a surprise, and I’d cut it off as soon as I’d realized it was happening.

  Plus, John and I weren’t married or engaged or anything. But I still wouldn’t treat John that way. I was probably in love with John, and I was ninety-­eight percent over Mike.

  I was exhausted from the day, the schoolhouse sleuthing, the trip for ice cream, and the incessant chatter from Sophie and Adelia (when Adelia was awake). But I forced myself to think for a second: How would I feel if John Hall was having drinks with another girl while he was out of town? I’d feel terrible. I squared my shoulders, resolved to avoid Mike at all costs.

  “Hi, Mrs. Earle!” said the bartender, not looking all that surprised to see the tobacco heiress arriving at 11:00 p.m. for a cocktail. I felt like yelling at Holly about her Scooter comment, but that would draw even more attention to our already odd group, including Sophie and Adelia in their caftans and Gerda in her workout garb.

  “The usual, Mrs. E.?” asked the bartender, who was already pouring Patrón Silver into a shaker.

  “Just a quick one!” Adelia said, seating herself on a zebra-­print bar stool. “We’ll need seven margaritas, actually, Henry,” she told the aproned barman, making a quick and surprisingly accurate head count of our group.

  “Er, we should probably head to Channing’s place!” Joe told her, aiming for a breezy tone. “It sounds like they have a situation over there.”

  “Put these on my tab,” Adelia told the bartender, ignoring Joe.

  “So what happened to your car keys?” Bootsie asked, cutting to the chase.

  “Scooter’s wife saw Holly’s keys on top of her handbag here,” Gerda told us, indicating a small tortoise-­shell clutch in front of Holly. “She was pissed. She take keys, walked outside, and threw them up on roof there.”