Killer Holiday

by Amy Korman

  Also, I was nervous about the job. While you’d think serving wings would be self-explanatory, the Pub has ten different varieties of deep-fried poultry. Eddie the owner had gone all over the state, plus made some road trips to the Jersey Shore, New York City, and a Wing Convention in Annapolis during the past year, and had added some cool new marinades with international flavors, including Thai-curry and Mexican chili rub. Different dipping sauces went with each of the new flavors, which made things complicated. It wasn’t just blue cheese dressing.

  On the plus side, most of the customers at the Pub drink a ton of beer, and are a kindly group. Eddie himself is pretty easygoing, too, and the job was a distraction from another subject I didn’t really want to think about. Which was that my boyfriend, town vet John Hall, was out of town. Again. And at the holidays!

  Even Eula Morris has a Yuletide romance, I thought in a burst of self-pity as I served baskets of hot wings to a group of guys from the firehouse. Sure, Eula was missing a bunch of gold bars, but I was missing a boyfriend, gone for the Christmas season on a business trip. I’d tried to be upbeat about his temporary absence, but was honestly feeling more miserable than merry this December.

  Just then, Holly showed up at the Pub.

  Maybe Holly had heard that Eula was back in town, I thought. Holly looked as perfect as ever to the casual observer. But I’ve known her since high school, and I could see past the glossy blond hair and the fabulous beige cashmere wrap sweater and the cool ankle boots to notice that her left eyelid was twitching. Also, Holly doesn’t come to Wing Night.

  “I have what I’d call a fairly major Christmas crisis,” she told me and Joe, sliding onto a bar stool. “First of all, you know I gave Gerda a part-time job at Maison de Booze, and she’s being kind of inflexible with shoppers. I mean, if someone wants to guzzle pricey cabernet during our free twice-weekly tastings but only buy a bottle of seven-dollar merlot, she can’t call them ‘cheapos’ and tell them to leave the store. It turns out that customer service isn’t Gerda’s strong suit.”

  Holly had owned Maison de Booze, a cute and tiny garden shop–turned–wine store, since last summer, which was fun for her, since she likes gathering the town for free pinot and cheese and doesn’t take the profit margin too seriously. However, adding Gerda to the staff had made things a lot more strict at the store.

  “Also, someone broke into the Man Shed we were going to surprise Howard with on December twenty-fifth and took the most important item in there,” she informed Joe. “They left the leather couches, the flat-screen TVs, the humidor, and the complete bound sets of Golf Digest and Cigar Aficionado. But they did steal the amazing gift that just got delivered: an amazing home distillery that whips up gallons of homemade grain alcohol in only forty-eight hours!”

  Joe looked alarmed. “The thieves took the moonshine still? The most inspired, cool, manly holiday gift we’ve ever thought up for Howard? And, the one that Jared and I spent seventeen hours assembling?”

  It was loud in the Pub, but had Joe just mentioned a clandestine distillery housed in Holly’s former toolshed? I’d seen this kind of shack-turned-still in the movies, but never once had it turned out well for bootleggers.

  People who made contraband booze always got arrested, killed, or kidnapped in a shack in the Appalachian mountains and held hostage until they turned over their entire operation to gangsters. Bootsie and I had once watched the movie Lawless, where we learned that simmering batches of illegal alcohol can be dangerous both in the making and the selling phases.

  “Moonshiners always blow themselves up!” I warned my friends. “Or get shot about seventy-five times by rival booze makers!”

  “Homemade whiskey is the latest thing in boho chic,” Holly informed me. “Everyone in Brooklyn and downtown L.A. has their own home brew, and Joe and I don’t want Howard to feel like golf is his only hobby. However, it’s true that the apparatus, which we ordered from a Web site operated by some guys in Kentucky, can explode.”

  “I would have thought your real problem would be Eula Morris coming back to town,” Bootsie told Holly as she blew into the bar with Gerda on her heels. Bootsie grabbed a seat, reached for Joe’s chicken wings, and started dunking one in Sriracha mayo.

  I guess Holly hadn’t heard the not-so-jolly news about her nemesis Eula, because she swayed on her stool and grabbed the bar for support.

  Actually, Holly had appeared woozy and nauseous several times since Thanksgiving, I thought, worried. She usually sports a light tan year-round, but had been uncharacteristically pale. Also, I’d seen her order a bagel the other day at the luncheonette. Consuming solid food is out of the ordinary for Holly.

  Joe was giving Holly a concerned and speculative look, too, as he politely helped her onto a bar stool.

  “How about some saltines?” he suggested to Holly, taking a few packets of the deliciously bland crackers from a nearby basket on the bar top, and placing them in front of her. We all stared, openmouthed, as Holly opened one of the packets and started chewing the carb-y crackers.

  Holly immediately looked less shaky, and Bootsie started telling her not only was Eula back, and that she had new blond highlights, a glowy tan, was wearing skinny corduroys, and was missing somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred twelve thousand dollars’ worth of gold bricks, when suddenly Bootsie caught sight of her brother Chip Delaney coming through the Pub’s battered old front door.

  “There you are!” said Bootsie angrily to Chip. “Chip, you missed practice with the singers today,” she began lecturing him.

  “I’ve got a business to run,” Chip told her. “It’s the holidays! People need gifts, and golf equipment is the most-requested Christmas item by men aged eighteen to seventy, and an increasing number of women, too.”

  Shaggy-haired and long-limbed, Chip had recently gone from working as a golf pro to opening a booming local emporium for all things greens-related, including customized clubs, jaunty clothing, and spiked shoes. His small shop had launched in early fall, and though I hadn’t been inside it yet, I’d heard from Bootsie that Golf Sweet Golf was swinging along nicely.

  Chip is a little older than Bootsie, but has always been young for his age, taking a few years off midcollege, and so far still living at home with his parents. Of course, Bootsie’s parents are very easygoing, and their house is rambling, so Chip has his freedom.

  It’s impossible not to like Chip, who’s built along the lines of a human Labradoodle, and is incredibly friendly. “I heard you got a Ford Super-Duty Platinum pickup,” Joe said to Chip, who personally drives an Audi, but inexplicably knows a lot about cars and trucks in addition to his expertise in ikat fabrics.

  “Word on the street is that your golf store is doing well,” he added a bit sourly, since when Joe is miserable it’s hard for him to muster up enthusiasm for other people’s successes.

  “Golf Sweet Golf is doing great!” agreed Chip. “And I’m working on a new business deal, too.” He paused, taking on an uncharacteristically serious expression for a second. “Well, I was in on a possible new venture, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to work out. Anyway, the store is getting a lot of holiday traffic, so that’s something.”

  “I read in a car magazine that the Ford Platinum series is one kickass line of truck!” said Joe. “What kind of mileage do you get on that thing?”

  Chip was about to answer when all of a sudden, a guy in a leather blazer and a Shrek mask threw open the door to the Pub.

  In a deep voice that carried over the Neil Diamond on the sound system, the guy boomed, “Chip Delaney. Get out here, now. Need to talk to ya. Alone.”

  We stared in surprise as Chip walked out of the Pub. For her part, Bootsie’s sky-blue eyes were bulging, and she stood frozen in place, clearly in shock. It was dark out, but Chip and his unfriendly visitor could be seen through the window to the right of the bar, each gesturing angrily as they talked.

  Then, after some yelling, came a deafening bang, and Chip let out a yelp that
was audible inside Wing Night. We all rushed outside to see Shrek leap into the passenger seat of a black SUV. Chip’s new Ford with the Golf Sweet Golf logo had been shot in the left headlight.

  “Are you okay?” screamed Bootsie, grabbing Chip.

  The guy riding shotgun in the SUV tossed something long and metallic out his window into Chip’s truck bed. The SUV then sped away past the luncheonette—and just visible at the wheel was a figure sporting an incongruously jolly Santa visage.

  “What the hell, Chip?” demanded Bootsie. “That guy shot your truck!”

  “Ohmigosh, a mob-style hit!” shrieked Sophie, who had just pulled up behind Chip, with Gerda in tow. She jumped out of her Escalade and stared at the departing vehicle.

  “Hey, that’s the same Evil Santa who shot at me today!” added Sophie. “First he put a hit on my handbag, and now he pulled the trigger on Chip’s truck. I know, ’cause I saw it had Jersey plates! And, the guy who came to my house today’s plate also started with an S.”

  “It is wrong to dress up like Santa and Shrek and then commit crimes,” said Gerda, following Sophie. “By the way, Chip, that Shrek guy threw a golf club into your truck and there is a note tied to it.”

  “Watch out!” screamed Sophie. “It could be ticking!”

  “Sophie, it’s a Big Bertha golf club, not a bomb,” Bootsie told her, and reached into the truck bed to grab the item.

  She paused to read the message, which was handwritten on plain white paper, folded up, and tethered to the golf club with some striped holiday ribbon.

  “Sophie’s right, Chip, this is some kind of mafia-style warning. It says, ‘You owe us fifty grand by Monday,’” she read aloud, as Chip looked away, gulped nervously, and then started to examine the screen of his phone.

  “What the hell is this about?” demanded Bootsie, grabbing Chip’s elbow and giving him a noogie. I instantly flashed back to when we were fourteen and Chip had stolen Bootsie’s diary, whereupon she’d tortured him for weeks with this very punishment.

  “It’s no big deal,” hedged Chip.

  “A note that says ‘You owe us fifty grand’ is no big deal?” said Sophie. “Not in Jersey, it isn’t.”

  “Maybe they have the wrong guy,” said Chip. “Those two probably meant to leave the note for someone else.”

  “It specifies you by name,” Gerda told him, reaching for the golf club and reading the message for herself. “It says, ‘Chip, you owe us fifty grand by Monday.’”

  Chip was reading a text on his phone, and suddenly stood up straighter, threw back his shoulders, and pulled out his car keys. He looked less Labradoodle and more determined as he got into his damaged truck and looked Bootsie squarely in the eye.

  “I’ll take care of this,” he told his sister. “Just let me handle it.”

  “Wait! I’ll go get Walt,” said Bootsie. “I see him just across the square at the Christmas tree. The town band was rehearsing “Little Drummer Boy,” which gets really loud, and Walt must not have heard the gunshot.”

  “Great, ’cause I need to show Walt my purse!” seconded Sophie. “Which I’m hoping my homeowners’ insurance will reimburse me for, since Ferragamo ain’t cheap.”

  A few curious faces had appeared at the Pub’s window, but it seemed no one on the town square had noticed a thing: The Bryn Mawr Band was dispersing, and the town’s single police officer and his intern, Jared, were completely engrossed in anchoring a ten-foot-tall blue spruce over by the pergola.

  “Forget it, Bootsie. I mean it—I don’t want Walt involved,” said Chip.

  “Why not?” demanded Bootsie, staring at Chip. “A guy shoots your truck and sends you a threatening note, and you’re not going to report it?”

  “Look, he could be a disgruntled shopper,” Chip told her, “and you know, sometimes we say we have the lowest prices, but to be honest, you could get the same club for like, twenty dollars less at Modell’s.”

  “That didn’t look like a pissed-off golfer,” offered Sophie. “It was more like a guy from Jersey who you might’ve screwed over in a business deal.”

  “Look—it’s fine. I’m going to be away on business for a few days, and I don’t want you freaking out or bothering me, or texting me every five seconds,” Chip told Bootsie, looking her in the eye as he climbed into his damaged truck. “I’ll be back by Monday after I straighten out this misunderstanding. In the meantime, leave this situation alone. See ya.”

  Chapter Five

  “I’ll take a dozen more wings,” Joe told me back inside the Pub later. “And a pitcher of pilsner. Luckily, even when I’m depressed I have a great metabolism,” he added dispiritedly. “Despite my breakup with Sophie, I’m still rocking a thirty-one-inch waistline.”

  Sophie herself had left with Gerda in tow after the Big Bertha incident, saying she needed to head home and drink a special ginger tea to coat her vocal cords, and start searching her large closet for a dress for her cabaret performance. If anything happened with Eula or Chip, we had to text her immediately, and she’d come right back to the Pub.

  “How can you eat at a time like this!” Bootsie screamed at Joe, then sat down and moodily eyeballed the list of new wing flavors. “Actually, I need to keep up my strength. Let’s do a couple dozen of the Thai chili ones, too.”

  “Have you been hitting the anxiety meds?” I asked Joe as I typed their order into the computer screen. I was concerned, since his pupils looked roughly twice their normal size. “You need to save those for later in December, when things really get stressful.”

  “Give me anything you have in pill form!” Bootsie demanded. “You don’t know what stress is. I just watched my brother become part of a Francis Ford Coppola movie!”

  “Xanax is the only way I can continue working for Adelia Earle,” Joe told me, rummaging in his tote bag, emerging with a bottle of pills, and handing a tiny tablet to Bootsie, who—probably against all medical advice—downed it with her beer. “Luckily, now that Jared’s an Uber driver, I can boost my booze and meds intake accordingly.”

  Holly gave an eye roll and ordered a plate of celery sticks, which along with the occasional grape makes up most of her daily food intake.

  “How’s the holiday party planning coming?” I asked Holly as I handed her the crisp green veggie and placed a wineglass in front of her. I reached under the bar for a hidden bottle of pricey cabernet, hoping to distract her from Howard’s stolen gift by pouring her a glass of bordeaux from the special bottle of a fancy French vintage Eddie keeps for her and Howard at the Pub, since most wine here comes in a gallon jug. “And why aren’t you in charge of the party?” I added to Joe. “I thought Holly’s Christmas blowout was the highlight of your Yuletide season.”

  “Usually it is, and back in August I had a bunch of ideas,” he agreed, “but now I’m too depressed for my best idea, which was a disco night. I told Holly to hire the Colketts to take over.”

  I considered this for a minute while I Windexed the bar top. Joe must really be down in the dumps to let the Colketts horn in on this project. Joe is über-competitive, and usually spends a fair amount of time hobnobbing at fancy events around town to land new clients.

  The Pub, for instance, isn’t a place Joe normally drinks away an evening, yet here he was. And allowing his best friend Holly to hire his rivals to plan a party? This was serious—Joe was in a Sophie-induced slump, which Holly was clearly worried about, too.

  “You’ve lost your will to live, Joe. Why can’t you give Sophie back her amethyst Lady Gaga ring?” Holly wondered. “Wasn’t that a pre-engagement ring?”

  “I tried. She keeps FedExing it back,” admitted Joe.

  The bauble in question was a beautiful and bling-y item that had supposedly once been worn by Sophie’s favorite singer, Lady Gaga, and had mysteriously come up for sale (probably having been stolen by one of the road crew—actually the whole story sounded somewhat murky, but Joe hadn’t asked too many questions of said lighting technician).

  Anyway, t
he ring had been a big step forward for the unlikely duo.

  “The amethyst bought me about four months,” Joe explained, “but then Sophie told me that it was nonnegotiable that I come up with an actual engagement ring containing at least six diamonds, which could be in the form of baguettes. The bottom line is, she said if I don’t propose, she’s breaking things off with me for good.

  “I don’t like ultimatums! So that’s why I’m living at your house, Holly, and even worse, that’s why Gerda’s back in Sophie’s guest room, and I’m decorating a cottage in Florida in pink chintz and neon orange,” he offered gloomily. “I should probably sign on as one of the waiters on Eula’s cruise ship. At least that way I’d catch a glimpse of St. Lucia and Puerto Rico when we float by it.”

  “You could take the existing ring and get the Lemieuxs to replace the amethyst with a nice diamond,” Holly informed him. Here, she was referencing a shop in the next town over called Lemieux the Jeweler, known for high-end items, which is why I’ve never been there. It’s a small, exclusive-looking spot whose exterior proclaims a quiet beauty that is quite intimidating.

  “Put a rush on that rock,” Holly added. “Meanwhile, the Colketts and I are way behind schedule when it comes to planning my Christmas party,” Holly said, with a tragic sigh as she pushed aside her still-full glass of wine.

  Holly had decided she’d host the country club’s staff holiday party this year (widely known as being one of the most fun events of the year in our village, since the club’s kitchen guys and waiters love to drink). As usual, planning a one-night shindig had taken up months of Holly’s life.

  She’d informed the club staff that she’d banned mistletoe and spruce from the party theme and was cooking up something cool and innovative, ignoring the fact that they had looked crestfallen at this bit of information.