Killer Holiday

by Amy Korman

  It was true that Eula was looking good: This bossy and competitive girl now had kicky blond highlights, wore a cute, belted down jacket, and appeared to have been taking all the Zumba and Pilates classes on her mega-ship, since she looked super-fit underneath her cool skinny corduroys.

  The stylish new version of Eula was kind of a shocker—though in her midthirties, she’s always dressed like she’s about sixty-five years old. Of course, given my Old Navy–Gap Outlet clothing budget, I’m in no place to criticize Eula’s usual lack of style. Anyway, the all-new Eula had the breezy, cute look of one of those girls who’d never worn makeup before but had just gotten one of those Today Show makeovers from Hoda and Kathie Lee.

  “How’s that boat trip going, anyway?” said Joe, looking hopeful that the ship would run into an iceberg soon, and Eula would have to float to shore clinging to a wooden door. For some reason, Joe hates Eula almost as much as Holly does. I’ve never completely understood the depth of his pissiness toward her, but a key stumbling block was our high school prom, which Eula tried to take over with a fifties sock-hop idea. Words like “sock hop” enrage Joe. Also, Eula is an amateur painter of fruits and vegetables in the style of Cezanne, which seems like a pleasant hobby to me, but which makes Joe angry.

  “It’s going amazing!” said Eula. “The crew waits on me hand and foot, and I’ve met everyone from deposed Russian royalty to a musician who models part-time for Armani. I also met an incredibly handsome guy who’s a retired lawyer and who I’ve been exclusively dating for twelve weeks, and there are disco parties every night, and I’ve lost five pounds since I stopped going to every meal except the 11 a.m. smoothie buffet and dinner!”

  “I’ve heard smoothies can turn your skin green over time,” Joe told her. “I think I see a tinge of kale in your complexion already.”

  “What happened that you’re back here—the boat docks for Christmas?” asked Sophie.

  “Yeah, the crew wants to see their families,” Eula said sourly, as if this was totally unreasonable, “so we’re on dry land till December twenty-fifth. Then we take off again and spend New Year’s Eve doing a moonlight limbo in Barbados!”

  A small volt of jealousy surged through me, and Joe looked like he’d just been gripped by a horrible case of acid reflux. I’ve honestly never even considered what it would be like to float around the Caribbean and across the Atlantic toward Venice, or wherever Eula’s next stop was after she’d hit every island south of Cuba, but her trip did sound kind of awesome.

  Probably it was best that Holly wasn’t here to listen to Eula, who was still rattling off enviable details of ports of call from Antigua to Montego Bay, and days spent kayaking around deserted islands, enjoying beach picnics, foot scrubs, and lunches of just-caught crab cocktail. Holly could afford to book herself on a similarly swanky boat trip, but who actually does that? The fact that Eula was actually sailing the seven seas in a luxury cabin with eight-hundred-thread-count sheets and a butler would inevitably be a thorn in Holly’s side.

  “There is one small problem,” Eula said, aiming a sad glance at Bootsie and me and temporarily abandoning her PR campaign about how great every waking moment was on board the Palace of the Seas. “I got home last night, went to dinner at Restaurant Gianni with my wonderful new boyfriend, and when I got home, my suitcase was missing.”

  She paused for a moment, doing an awkward little foot shuffle. “And, um, I know you’ve solved a few little mini-crimes in town, so I thought you could figure out where my luggage has wandered off to!”

  “We’ve got issues here already,” Bootsie told her, “starting with Sophie’s drive-by shooting this morning. And, I mean, you won the Powerball, so can’t you just buy another suitcase? This doesn’t sound like you need to alert the authorities, or our town’s one police officer, the esteemed Walt. Or even his intern, Jared.”

  I refrained from mentioning that Jared only worked three hours a week at the police station these days. This industrious nineteen-year-old actually holds down a number of part-time gigs around town, helping out at the country club, the Pack-N-Ship, and (when he can borrow his parents’ brand-new Yukon), he’s also a newly minted Uber driver.

  “It’s a little more complicated than that,” Eula told her. “And I’m going to need you to agree not to write about this in the Bryn Mawr Gazette, because there’s a slightly sticky issue with the suitcase, which by the way is a Samsonite Black Label. That’s their new upscale line of hard-sided rolling luggage, and is the newest thing in chic yet practical luxury travel,” she bragged.

  As the words “chic yet practical” flew forth from Eula’s lips (which, I noticed, wore a very cool shade of glossy lipstick, possibly acquired in a duty-free cosmetics shop), Joe lost his grip on a giant roll of silver ribbon and almost fell off his stepladder, while Bootsie’s eyes blazed angrily at the mention of the local newspaper. Bootsie’s column covers real estate transactions, local charity events, and other gossipy news for the Gazette, and she’s quite skilled at turning even the smallest event in town into a front-page story. This can be really helpful, since she’d probably feature The Striped Awning’s free Bourbon Blitzens as a newsy item this week, I thought gratefully, bringing in at least a few customers who like free drinks (and who doesn’t?).

  But right before Eula’s Powerball windfall, she’d also briefly written for the Gazette, and Bootsie hadn’t been too happy about having her stories stolen from her.

  “Plus,” said Eula, “this isn’t really news—it’s just a teeny-weeny rollerboard suitcase gone missing. And, um, I can’t report it to the police because there’s one slightly illegal part of the situation.”

  “I’m a reporter!” Bootsie told Eula. “I’ve got a professional obligation to share important findings and events. That’s my life! My reason for roaming this planet!”

  “You write about parties and real estate,” Eula told her. “And your reasons for living are drinking and playing tennis.”

  These two things do take up most of Bootsie’s day. She also has Will and her toddlers, plus some cute yellow Labs, but to be honest, I think they see less of Bootsie than the country club, the tennis courts, and the Pub do.

  “I enjoy the occasional foray into alcohol and tennis, and what’s wrong with that? Anyway, I can give you a couple days off from telling my editor about the suitcase theft, but after that, I’m free to report it,” Bootsie said. “That’s the only deal I’m willing to make.”

  “Just so ya know, I want ya to write about Santa shooting at me and the Colketts!” Sophie interrupted, poking Bootsie in the shoulder. “And you,” she said, pointing at Joe, “should feel real bad that first you trampled and stomped my heart into a pulp, and now I’ve got Santa after me with a gun!”

  “I’ll do a story on the handbag incident,” Bootsie agreed. “I think the folks at Ferragamo would love to know that their bags are well-made enough to stop a bullet, and we can Instagram and Snapchat about this with all the appropriate hashtags and emojis. My editor loves that kind of cross-promotion.

  “Anyway, Eula, I can agree to a one-week news embargo, but that’s it. And I’m only saying that because I know this suitcase snatch must be a major fuckup for you to have to come and ask us for help. I need details, pronto!”

  Chapter Three

  Bootsie and Eula negotiated for a few minutes, with Eula finally caving and saying a week would be a sufficient shutdown on a story about her theft, since she’d be back on the Palace of the Seas by Christmas, and people weren’t as gossipy on the boat as they were here, and she had a whole new life and group of friends that were all super-interesting and international.

  “So what’s the big deal with your Samsonite?” demanded Sophie. “Because that’s great about your new life and all, but I joined the Bryn Mawr Singers, and I’ve got practice in five minutes.”

  “Well, what happened was, the ship stopped in Paradise Island and I went a little nuts at the duty-free jewelry shops, and I also felt like I wasn’t diversifying
my investments enough, so I bought a few, um, gold bars. They fit right in my suitcase.”

  “Uh-huh, I hear you,” said Bootsie, nodding as if this sort of purchase was as commonplace as the rest of us heading to Target for a few boxes of Triscuits.

  “How many gold bars?” demanded Gerda.

  “Oh, about eight,” said Eula airily. “And when I got off the boat yesterday, the customs line was really long and I was in a hurry, so I didn’t declare most of what I bought in the Bahamas.

  “I said I got a sarong and a pair of wedge sandals. Which I did!” Eula added hastily. “But I didn’t have time to go through explaining the gold bars, because when you have to fill out the forms for stuff like that, they charge you a bunch of taxes, plus customs takes forever!”

  “Understandable,” said Bootsie, who also likes to skip lines and flout laws, though not usually while carrying a Samsonite full of precious metal.

  “So last night,” continued Eula, “I got home and went out to dinner at Ristorante Gianni with that fantastic guy I met on the ship—he’s such a gentleman—and when I got home, the suitcase was gone!”

  “Let me get this straight,” Joe said, after a brief detour to the bottle of Maker’s Mark. “You want us to help you find a missing suitcase full of gold that you didn’t declare at customs. And I would do that why? Because to put this in terms that are easy for you to comprehend, I hate you.”

  “I don’t hate Eula,” pointed out Bootsie. “We share a passion for sports and growing tomatoes.”

  Eula aimed a grateful glance at Bootsie, while I stayed neutral. I don’t loathe Eula, but I don’t exactly love her.

  “You seem real annoying, but you pretty good at tennis,” offered Gerda, who’d competed against Eula in a country club match the previous summer.

  “To get back to my original point, why exactly would I help you?” asked Joe.

  “Because I hear that you’re stuck doing a renovation with an elderly lady in Florida who drives you crazy just to pay the bills, and ’cause your girlfriend dumped you and you have nothing else to do,” said Eula, scoring a couple of valid points at Joe.

  “And, if you get my suitcase back, I’ll give the four of you one of the gold bars, which I paid thirty-nine thousand dollars each for,” Eula told him. “Split that four ways between you, Kristin, Gerda, and Bootsie—I’m leaving you out, Sophie, because you don’t need the money—and that’s a cool nine thousand, seven hundred fifty dollars for each of you.”

  “Well, this has been fun, but I can see the Colketts are outside, too—they’re also in the Bryn Mawr Singers—and they brought Starbucks for everyone to warm up our pipes for rehearsal,” said Sophie. “See you all later,” she added in our direction, pointedly ignoring Joe, who climbed back onto his ladder, sticking with his decorating duties. “Except for you!” she told him. “I don’t want to see you later.”

  As it happened, December 15 is the day that preparations begin each year for the town square’s Christmas festivities. The singers were already lined up over by the old gazebo, having a quick meeting about song selection, with Leena who owns the Pack-N-Ship, Skipper and Abby from the country club, and Bootsie’s mom, Kitty Delaney, among the crooners.

  “We will walk you over to this singing activity,” said Gerda. “Need some fresh air after that girl’s longwinded story,” she stage-whispered, as Eula waved good-bye and climbed into a fancy new car.

  Sophie, Bootsie, and I were halfway across the green that forms the center of the village and heading for where the singers had gathered under a little pergola when all of a sudden, Sophie—who’s been uncharacteristically sad since her breakup with Joe, even with her new orange silk curtains and after her “research” trips to Vegas and Miami for her tree-decorating project in her front yard—did a little scamper-style dance and broke into a jazzy Christmas tune.

  “Sleigh bells bling, are ya glistenin’?” she piped up in a pleasant, on-pitch voice that was surprisingly big and full, considering it was emanating from a tiny girl in five-inch heels.

  “In the lane, something, something . . .” she sang.

  With this, Sophie paused her impromptu rendition of “Winter Wonderland,” and her face fell.

  “This holiday is terrible!” she cried. “I don’t know this song, and I don’t have my Honey Bunny!” she wailed.

  “I am pretty sure you got a lot of lyrics wrong,” Gerda told her unsympathetically.

  “Sophie, you can sing!” Bootsie erupted, stopping short in her Lands’ End boots and voicing what I was thinking. “You actually sound really good!”

  “Thanks!” Sophie said, cheering up slightly. “I used to be pretty good at singing. I was Sandy when we did Grease in high school.”

  “Anyone seen Chip Delaney?” screamed Leena from her post with the singers. “He’s supposed to be here at practice.”

  “We wish ya a Merry Christmas!” belted out Sophie as the chorus behind her hummed a jazzy background tune. “Good tidings for Christmas, and a happy new year!”

  Joe stuck his head out of the front door of The Striped Awning to listen, his expression mingling both surprise and heartbreak. Just then, as Sophie wound up to a big finish and onlookers broke out into cheers and applause, a Jeep pulled up by the luncheonette, and an incredibly handsome guy in his late twenties got out.

  It was Channing, a former sous-chef for Gianni Brunello, our town’s celebrity restaurateur who’d recently gotten his own Food Network gig, The Angry Chef, by way of opening a restaurant out in L.A. Channing has great cheekbones, blue eyes, wavy brown hair, and wore a chef’s jacket and jeans, and had a deep tan that made his muscles look even bulgier.

  The younger chef had carried on a steamy affair with Gianni’s then-girlfriend Jessica a little over a year ago, and the two had fled to Florida to open their own restaurant, a cool Italian spot named Vicino.

  Vicino had been such a success that Channing and Jessica had recently sold it to a group of Miami investors, and agreed to run Restaurant Gianni again for the winter while they figured out their next move. I’d been surprised that Gianni, a certified rage-aholic, had offered his ex and her boyfriend jobs, but then again, Gianni loves money more than anything else, and “Chessica” knows how to run a successful eatery. Somewhat annoyingly, the duo were even better-looking since they’d returned from living in beachy splendor down south, and retained a bronzed glow even in forty-degree weather.

  “Sophie, I heard the end of your song. You sound great!” said Channing.

  “Thanks, you gorgeous hunk of man!” said Sophie. “The chorus here has been real nice letting me do a couple of numbers with them. It’s always been a dream of mine to be a professional singer!”

  “Channing, has anyone ever told you that you look like a long-lost member of the Hemsworth family of hot Australian actors?” interrupted Bootsie, who frequently mentions the genetically blessed pasta genius as someone she’d like to jump into a hot tub with. Actually, everyone in town feels the same way, but Bootsie’s not that good at subtlety.

  “You’re better than a Hemsworth!” added Sophie. “They wish they had your pecs and biceps!”

  “Thanks!” said Channing, looking embarrassed. “You know what, Sophie? You should do some holiday songs at Ristorante Gianni. We could have a cabaret in the bar and call it, I don’t know, ‘One Very Merry Night Starring Sophie Shields!’”

  “This sounds awesome!” shrieked Sophie. “I’m picturing Gaga-meets-Mariah as my style inspo, which means glitter and sheer gowns with strategically placed beading. How’s Friday for my big opening night?”

  “Perfect,” Channing told her. “Probably we should get you a backup band, too.”

  “Huh,” mused Sophie. “I don’t know a band! I could ask around, or put an ad in the paper.”

  “I will put out a message asking for musicians on Twitter,” announced Gerda. “I just joined this form of instant worldwide communication.” She tapped on her phone for a second. “Tweet is sent! Now the world can twe
et me auditions for Sophie’s musicians.”

  Sophie and the Colketts started doing throaty octave warm-ups with the other dozen town singers, and I reluctantly turned around to the store. Stars were popping out in the sky above, and a big full moon had risen in the now navy-blue sky.

  It was already after 5 p.m., and I had to feed Waffles, change, and be at my new part-time job at the Bryn Mawr Pub in less than twenty minutes. Waffles and I did a quick stroll in the backyard when we got home after he hoovered up his nightly kibbles, and I turned on some Christmas music as he jumped onto the couch for his after-dinner nap. I threw on my new Pub uniform—jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt featuring an image of the bar’s neon sign—and sighed as I layered on some mascara, finally giving up amid a small surge of self-pity at having to work on a Wednesday night during the holidays. Still, though, I told myself, I was lucky to have the opportunity to make the extra cash. January was fast approaching, and is the absolute slowest month of the year at The Striped Awning.

  Eddie from the Pub had promised me I’d clear over seventy-five dollars a night at the Pub as a bartending assistant, and last week, I had indeed left with almost that many crumpled ones and fives at the end of my shift. And first thing in the new year, I decided, I’d finally sell all my leftover inventory on eBay! I’d make more money this January than ever before!

  With that happy thought, I gave Waffles a hug and headed out to the Pub.

  Chapter Four

  Wing Night is one of those local institutions that draws a crowd in summer, winter, and basically any night there’s sports on TV or people want to drink beer.

  Joe, for one, was perched gloomily on a bar stool digging into an order of salt and vinegar-soaked drumettes, while around him other patrons were munching on Caribbean jerk, teriyaki, and habanero-infused poultry.

  Unfortunately, every wing variety stung the eyes, and was nearly impossible to shower off a spicy, chicken-y aroma after a shift behind the bar. Last week, Toby, a sheepdog belonging to my neighbors the Binghams, had showed up at my back door, whining and scratching for wings, even after I’d washed my hair and jumped into the tub.