by Amy Korman
“A beige dress and a navy blazer—will wonders never cease,” said Joe wearily.
“So we were slow dancing to big-band music, and then the band—the Palace of the Seas has its own orchestra, and there are three formal nights a week, outdoors if weather permits—suddenly started playing disco music, and we boogied to Donna Summer, Kool & the Gang, and the Bee Gees. It was during ‘Hot Stuff’ that Eula and I first kissed,” Scooter told us.
“The next day, we went to breakfast together,” Eula said. “And we shared Brie omelets, and then went to Zumba, and then did some al fresco painting on Grand Turk island, which was amazing. And that was it!”
“I’m going to get better at tennis to try to keep up with this minx!” Scooter said, prompting a groan from Joe. “And she’s going to perfect her golf game, since that’s my passion in life. Other than her, of course,” he added hastily.
“That’s great, but what about your real estate career and your life in Magnolia Beach, Scooter?” demanded Bootsie. “Plus, I thought your stepmom put you on, like, house arrest. How can you afford the hefty ticket to the Palace of the Seas, anyway?”
“And did ya quit drinking, Scooter?” asked Sophie. “Last winter, you were one thirsty guy. But I commend you if you gave up martinis. I think maybe it was the wrong drink for you. You might be allergic to vodka, ’cause you got super-drunk real fast every time I saw ya in Florida.”
“I’ve found my freedom and my purpose in life on the high seas,” Scooter announced. “With Eula by my side, I have a fresh start. And obviously, I’ve accumulated a certain amount of savings, and the staggeringly steep price tag to ascend the gangway of the Palace of the Seas doesn’t represent a financial hardship for me.”
He’d begun to perspire a little, though, and Gerda didn’t help matters when she held up her phone, upon which she’d been Googling fees for the Palace of the Seas and said, “I find this difficult to swallow. Mr., um, Scooter, you would need to be a far more careful person with your finances to afford a trip like this. For instance, this Eula girl bought the two-year ticket to this boat. It says here that the price to ride around on the cruise ship is, like, forty grand a month. Probably whole boat is filled with Powerball winners.”
“Of course, the average American can’t experience this kind of voyage with stops in Africa, Italy, and Fort Lauderdale!” agreed Scooter. “But I’ve been very fortunate with my investments, and I happen to have some new investors in my business operations. Excuse me,” he added, glancing at his phone and rising from the table. “That’s one of my partners calling now, so I’ll just step outside and take this.
“Don’t move a muscle, you precious little piece of heaven,” he told Eula, who gave a modest giggle.
“Gross,” observed Gerda.
After five minutes, Scooter returned to his table, and the two were served Gianni’s famous lobster pasta, while Joe angrily ordered pizzas, salads, and Bolognese pasta for our group. Bootsie added her favorite pappardelle with wild mushrooms, and Holly got her usual: a few spinach leaves topped with a couple of baby carrots.
Despite the fact that I was wearing Sophie’s cute poncho and had benefited from her expert backseat makeup application, I still felt like I had been basted in wing sauce. Plus, I’d seen enough of Eula and her new guy. Also, the restaurant brought back painful memories of my first date with John, since we’d had dinner on the patio when Gianni had first opened eighteen months ago. Finally, I begged Bootsie to drive me home.
“We’re going to follow Scooter home when he drops off Eula!” Bootsie reminded me. “This isn’t about you, Kristin. Or, more accurately, this is about you—and your possible share in the reward of a missing gold brick.”
“Ugh, I’m ready to go,” moaned Joe, waving his hand despondently in the direction of Eula and Scooter, who were sharing a passion fruit sorbet. “I can’t decide which possibility is more depressing: that Eula and Scooter really are in love, or that Scooter’s the suitcase-stealing phony that I’m ninety-nine-point-seven percent sure he is. Plus, I just noticed Eula has on a diamond bracelet that looks like she might have gone on a jewelry-buying spree while floating from island to island.”
We all looked, not very subtly, at the glimmering ornament on Eula’s wrist. I don’t know the first thing about fine jewelry, so it could have been Diamonique, but judging by the reaction Holly and Joe had to the glittery item, it had to be real.
“Maybe it was a gift from Scooter,” I suggested, prompting groans and more irate looks.
“Eula’s buying her own bling,” Sophie informed me. “I know men, and Scooter ain’t the type to pull out his credit card in a jewelry shop—just like someone else I know,” she said, pointing at Joe.
“Do you think it’s possible that Eula is getting her Versace and Gucci sent right from Milan?” asked Holly, looking agitated as she sipped some water. “Is it, like, being sent to Eula care of exotic ports and then loaded onto the Palace of the Seas?”
“I was wondering the same thing!” shrieked Sophie. “How is she getting these items we don’t know about? Because you know Holly and I don’t skimp when it comes to spending on stuff designed by the amazing craftspeople of Italy. Eula must be on some special list!”
Within moments, Scooter had thrown down some cash on his table, Holly signed our bill, and we followed Eula and Scooter Simmons out to the parking lot, where the tanned lawyer made a showy big deal of helping Eula into the passenger seat of a sleek BMW sedan with rental plates Seconds later, as we all headed to our cars, the pair whooshed off into the crisp December night.
That’s when we noticed that Jared had moved the Gianni catering truck to a perpendicular angle in front of both Sophie and Holly’s cars.
“Jared!” screamed Bootsie. “What the fuck? You parked us in. We need to follow that guy!”
The teenager sheepishly emerged from the front doors of the restaurant and headed toward the white truck with the fancy green Gianni logo, keys at the ready, but by this time, Eula and her new boyfriend were long gone.
“Sorry,” said Jared. “That tan guy gave me a hundred dollars to park you guys in while he stepped out here to take a phone call. I feel real bad, but what with the holidays, I need the money.”
Bootsie advanced on the hapless kid, who looked terrified, until Holly intervened.
“Jared,” she said patiently, “we have a few issues to settle. First of all, weren’t you just over at the town square helping Walt?”
“Yeah, I was on duty with Walt till 8, and now I’m on the clock here at Gianni’s from 8:30 till 11,” Jared told her. “Then I get on Uber from 11 p.m. till 1 a.m., even though I’ve never actually had anyone request a ride that late. You know this town goes to bed early.”
“Whatever,” Holly told him. “Now listen up. One, anything Eula and her creepy new friend do, we need to know about. From now on in, I want you to call me or Bootsie, day or night, and I’ll pay you for this important information.” Cash emerged from Holly’s tiny handbag, and Jared nodded happily as he pocketed it. “Secondly, anything they try to bribe you to do, ignore it, and I’ll double the going rate.”
“Sure!” said Jared. “I’m really sorry!”
“And third, I’m opening Uber accounts for all of us, because Gerda here still doesn’t have a license, and we’re all planning to drink a lot during the holidays, so we’ll need you to drive us around,” Holly continued. “Now, what did you hear Scooter—Eula’s date—say on that phone call?”
“He said, ‘Pete, the package is heading your way,’” Jared reported. “Which I thought was weird, because if it’s a FedEx, he could have just texted a tracking number.”
“He’s probably talking about the Samsonite—or maybe the package is my brother Chip!” said Bootsie, as upset as I’ve ever seen her. “And we don’t know anyone named Pete! Is Chip, like, laid out on ice and being cold-shipped somewhere?”
She texted Chip for about the fortieth time.
“You just saw Chip a few hou
rs ago, and he said he’d be back by Monday. Even if he wasdead in a ditch somewhere right now, or being shipped to an undisclosed location where punishment awaits him, he would not be ice-cold yet,” Gerda pointed out logically.
“Gerda, you’re too much!” said Sophie hastily, making the “zip it” signal to the Pilates pro and giving Bootsie an encouraging arm pat. “Your brother’s probably home and fast asleep in his twin bed up in your mom’s attic. Like Chip himself said, don’t worry!”
We all headed home, definitely worried. Chip had gone silent.
Chapter Seven
The next morning, we met at the luncheonette to get Joe’s Ocean’s 11–style plan formulated for finding Eula’s gold bricks—and hopefully to figure out how to help Chip and find out who shot Sophie’s purse.
As I hung up my Old Navy parka on a nearby hook, I noticed that everyone looked a bit worse for wear after sitting in on Eula and Scooter’s date night. We all had dark circles under our eyes, and while Joe was his usual flawlessly unwrinkled self, wearing a natty tweed blazer and scarf in lieu of outerwear, and Holly had on one of her flowing sweaters that wrap around her about twenty times, the mood was flustered.
I’d resolved to spend fifteen minutes, tops, in the luncheonette, knowing from past experience that once Joe starts hatching plans, it can take up weeks of time that I should be spending on selling antiques. Plus, I’d arrived home from Gianni’s last night hours past my usual bedtime, and had been welcomed with a pair of soulful sad eyes from Waffles, who doesn’t like to watch HGTV all by himself. I’d just dropped him off at The Striped Awning with a rawhide chew, but that wouldn’t make up for Waffles’s injured feelings.
Truthfully, though, I was quite worried about Chip, and hoping Joe or Bootsie would propose a reasonable plan for figuring out what, exactly, was going on with the amiable golf-equipment mogul. Calling the police to report the threatening note seemed like a good idea, but Chip himself had asked Bootsie to let him resolve things on his own.
And maybe the incident wasn’t such a big deal! Maybe, say, Chip had ordered a bunch of inventory for his golf store for the holidays, and been unable to pay his suppliers to the tune of fifty grand?
“In my opinion, all of yesterday’s misdemeanors, especially the missing gold bricks, are somehow linked to Scooter,” said Bootsie, sucking down some cranberry juice.
“Ya think Scooter shot my purse? The Santa guy looked younger and skinnier. My Santa wasn’t Scooter,” Sophie told her.
“Sure, but once we get the goods on Scooter and the gold, I have a feeling the whole Christmas crime wave is going to unravel,” Bootsie told her. “Who knows? Maybe Scooter’s involved in the moonshine heist, too, although it’s hard to picture Scooter fitting an entire five-gallon still complete with a wort mixer and heating device in a rented BMW. And by the way, can we order some food, please? I’m having the huevos rancheros and a side of Gruyère grits.”
While Bootsie asked our waiter for this cheesy breakfast, I reflected on how much the little eatery has expanded its breakfast offerings since the Bryn Mawr Country Club’s chef revamped the menu last summer. While the place looks the same, with reassuring linoleum floors, a long counter, and Formica booths, you can now get short-rib hash, a cheddar waffle with Amish-style bacon, and asparagus and chèvre quiche.
The rest of us chose more modest dishes: Gerda got egg whites and a kale smoothie. Holly got a thimble-size ramekin of berries, and Sophie ordered a donut, while Joe and I went for classic scrambled eggs. We all stared as Holly pushed aside the fruit, then asked for a side of white toast with butter, and actually ate it.
“You know there is gluten in that, right?” Gerda asked Holly. “I thought you did not consume this harmful wheat product.”
“I can’t seem to eat anything except toast and crackers lately,” said Holly. “I’ve been a little nauseous.”
“Maybe you are expecting a baby,” Gerda informed her.
We all stared at Gerda, shocked by her wild conjecture, and then at Holly’s midsection. Her belly was partly blocked by the Formica diner table and swathed in layers of fancy sweater, but appeared to be as flat as ever. For her part, Holly froze in place, half a piece of toast falling to her plate.
I thought to myself that this would be great news! Holly was a loyal and devoted person who’d make a fantastic mom, and Howard would no doubt love to be a dad. It just seemed unlikely for some reason—I mean, Bootsie had always wanted kids, and had immediately produced two within a few years of getting married in her midtwenties. But Holly had helmed so many town events lately and Howard traveled so much for work that bringingforth human life hadn’t been mentioned, at least to the rest of us.
“When was the last time ya, you know, got some lovin’ with Howard?” Bootsie asked.
“Maybe your hubby knocked ya up at Thanksgiving,” offered Sophie, adding, “Why don’t you just take one of those drugstore tests? This could be real cute for the holidays!”
“I’m too busy to be pregnant right now,” Holly told her. “And I’m not going to have time before the twenty-fifth to pee on a stick. Let’s get back to the Ocean’s 11 plans.”
“That movie is based on the same idea as Robin Hood,” Bootsie said. “Steal from the rich. Or in this case, steal from Scooter, the guy who already stole from the rich.”
“I thought Andy Garcia was the hottest guy in Ocean’s 11!” announced Sophie. “He’s so handsome.”
“But all the people in the movie had special talents, like safecracking and dealing cards and temporarily disabling giant casino security systems,” I said. “We don’t have, well, any useful skills.”
“Gerda hacks computers, and I’m great at picking locks with a safety pin, as long as they’re not too secure and were made before, say, 1978, which most locks in this town were,” Bootsie informed me. “What else could we possibly need?”
“Can someone track down all the black SUVs with Jersey plates that start with an S? That’s a big clue from the purse shooting and outside the Pub with Chip. And if I get the list of Jersey SUV owners, I might know the owner as one of Barclay’s old cronies, and Gerda could go rough the guy up and we’d also probably find your brother,” Sophie told Bootsie. “I hate to say it, but it sounds like Chip fucked up and got himself knee-deep in the linguini, if ya know what I mean.”
“What does this mean? He ate too much pasta?” asked Gerda.
“She means he messed with the wrong guys. And Sophie, there are probably like two hundred thousand SUVs in Jersey with license plates starting with S,” Bootsie told her.
“Yeah, but how many of them are being around driven by Santa with a gun?” Sophie replied, almost making a logical point.
“Let me see that note again,” Sophie added to Bootsie, who handed over the missive Chip had received the night before. “When Barclay would try to scare people, there was usually another message hidden inside threatening notes. See how this piece of paper is double-folded? It’s a little mobster trick.”
She unfolded the paper, and read, “To Chip’s family: Don’t contact the police or we’ll chop off Chip’s eyelashes, including most of the eyelid, and send it to you baked into a flatbread pizza. Merry Christmas.”
We all stopped eating, and Bootsie looked pale. “That’s it,” she announced. “If I don’t hear from Chip by tomorrow, I’m calling the police.”
“Do you think Chip got in over his head with some golf-equipment suppliers and couldn’t pay up when they delivered the putters and drivers?” I asked hopefully. Honestly, even to myself, this theory didn’t sound all that likely.
“It sounds more like he borrowed money from someone who isn’t too flexible with their payment plan!” Sophie told me.
“Isn’t that Mrs. Potts getting out of her station wagon?” interrupted Joe. “Looks like she’s got her arm in a sling.”
Honey Potts, the town’s sixtysomething doyenne and owner of its largest and most venerated estate, parked her car and emerged with one arm trusse
d up in a large silk scarf-turned-sling, and a glass of what appeared to be vodka in the other. Limping slightly, she made her way across the short expanse near the town’s pergola and came into the luncheonette.
“Mrs. P., I didn’t know ya were injured!” said Sophie. “What happened?”
“Ironically, it’s holiday-related,” Mrs. Potts told us. “I was on my stepladder and arranging garlands on top of my grandmother’s Georgian mirror over the fireplace, and the ladder malfunctioned. Whole thing collapsed,” she said, adding that she’d landed next to the liquor cabinet.
Luckily, she explained, she hadn’t hit her head as she’d fallen from her perch above an eight-foot-high mantel, but had landed on her shoulder. Her nephew Mike Woodford, who lives in a cottage on her estate and runs the place for her, had been due to help her hang further greenery above the massive front doors of Sanderson, so she’d merely sipped a drink and waited till he arrived. At that point, Mike (full disclosure: I’ve shared several steamy kissing sessions in the past with this guy) had taken her to the ER, where she’d been diagnosed with a bad sprain.
“Anyhow, I won’t be able to run the town holiday festival this year,” she added, looking as disappointed as she ever does—which isn’t all that devastated. Pottses don’t believe in showing emotion. Also, maybe the grande dame felt a sense of relief at skipping the festival gig, which looks like a ton of work. There are square dancers, elves, the singers, a photo area, and food trucks to organize, and it’s usually freezing.
“I feel so bad for ya!” said Sophie. “I hate to think of ya splat on the floor, facedown by the booze. Hey, guess what!” Sophie added. “Since Joe and I split up, and my heart was shattered, stomped on, and smothered by him, I’ll do the holiday festival this year!
“I’m thinking, um, a Martinis and Mistletoe theme. Or a Winter Wonderland with Hot Whiskey. Or Christmas in the Islands, with blender drinks!”
“Okay,” said Mrs. Potts, who seemed to approve of the all-alcohol-related inspirations Sophie was dreaming up. “Consider yourself in charge. Also, I’m supposed to start decorating the whole town tomorrow, which I do every December.”