Killer Holiday

by Amy Korman

  “I could help Sophie do this for you,” announced Gerda, as we all swiveled toward her in amazement.

  “Huh,” mused Mrs. Potts. “Don’t you work for this one here’s ex-husband, forcing him to exercise and eat right?” She poked her fork toward Sophie.

  “I run a Pilates studio, work part-time at the fancy wine shop owned by Holly, and sometimes help out Mr. Shields, but he’s at a health spa in Nevada right now,” Gerda told her. “Thanksgiving was not a good week for him and he’s on doctor’s orders to hike for at least three hours daily. Anyway, if you would like to come take a Pilates class with me when your sprain is healed, it’s free for you. I have respect for your hard work ethic and quiet strength. You have a European way of dealing with the problems in life. You don’t complain.”

  “Okay.” Honey Potts shrugged. “Um, thanks. And you and Sophie have the town festival job. The decorating committee meets at 10 a.m. tomorrow. The whole committee is basically just the Colketts, so you can work out the details with them—who, by the way, just walked in,” she added, as the handsome designers waved from the front counter, where they were picking up a takeout order.

  “Maybe I take one corner of town square to feature the European holiday legend of Krampus,” mused Gerda. “That could be very educational for the children.”

  “What, that horror movie?” said Bootsie. “That’s some scary shit, Gerda.”

  “They exaggerate in that film,” Gerda told her defensively. “In Bavaria, Krampus is fun Yuletide fable, gives kiddies a thrill.”

  “I saw that movie on cable one night, and I haven’t slept eight hours straight since,” Joe announced. “It’s an evil half man, half goat who steals kids.”

  “Let’s not do the Krampus corner,” said Mrs. Potts. “Creative idea, though,” she told Gerda.

  “Hey, Chan!” called out Sophie, as the movie-star-ish chef joined the crowd in the diner. “And Tim and Tom, over here! We’re planning the town festival with ya. Mrs. Potts here took a tumble and is out of commission for a coupla weeks.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Mrs. P.,” Tom Colkett told the doyenne. “I hope you’ve got a ton of good pain meds.”

  “By the way, Sophie, we can help you out with your new career as cabaret chanteuse!” piped up Tim Colkett enthusiastically, while Tom shot him a look that shouted, No!

  It was too late for Tom to quash the idea of joining in on Sophie’s performance. Tim was already miming playing keyboards. “I’m a talented jazz pianist, and Tom here is excellent on the stand-up bass. We’re practically ready for Radio City, honestly, but we had to choose between our music and our design and landscaping skills, and we went with design as our main gig.”

  “I didn’t know that!” said Sophie, jumping out of the booth to give both guys big hugs. “This is going to be awesome!”

  “Honestly, doll, we’re a little scared to spend time with you, though, after that shooting incident yesterday,” Tom informed Sophie. “What if you had been carrying, say, one of those tiny Dolce & Gabbana lace pouchettes? That wouldn’t have stopped a .38-caliber bullet.”

  “Don’t worry about it!” Sophie told him. “That kind of little drive-by is nothing in Jersey. Barclay’s probably bored out in Nevada, and trying to get one more zinger in before I sign the divorce papers. Plus, that Santa has moved on! He’s now after this one’s brother,” she said, indicating Bootsie.

  “Colketts, you’re the backup musicians,” agreed Channing. “Plus, you can decorate the restaurant for Christmas. Unfortunately, Gianni gave me a limited budget: three thousand bucks.”

  This sounded like a lot to me, but the Colketts started talking about hot glue guns, and what a cheapo Chef Gianni was, and how they were hoping against hope he’d decide to stay in Beverly Hills and ruin everyone on that coast’s Christmas, when Bootsie interrupted.

  “We need to get back to helping Chip,” she announced. “And, and this is much lower down on the list, to Scooter and Eula.” The Colketts, Channing, and Mrs. Potts headed to seats at the counter, while we got down to business.

  “This should be easy,” said Bootsie. “We start tonight by following Eula.”

  “I hope that girl Eula isn’t gonna get, like, thrown off a bridge somewhere,” said Sophie. “She’s real annoying, but I’d hate to see her dead over a bagful of gold bars.”

  “People like Eula don’t die till they’re about one hundred and five,” Bootsie told her. “You can’t get rid of her. I mean, look at her. She’s on a round-the-world cruise, and she’s still back here bothering us. Chip, on the other hand, I’m worried about.”

  “Your brother got problems,” agreed Gerda. “I suggest you head to his golf shop and ransack the place for clues. Like, right now.”

  Chapter Eight

  Chip’s store was really nice, I thought, as Bootsie unlocked the doors and turned on the lights. I’d picked up Waffles at The Striped Awning and met her at Golf Sweet Golf, which I’d never visited before. It was located several blocks from my shop on a charming corner close to Restaurant Gianni, and had a clubby, man-cave-ish decor, with two large-screen TVs, a small complimentary bar with a decanter of Scotch, and a mini-refrigerator full of beer. There was a wall of seasonal golf sweaters, polos, and embroidered corduroy pants for golfers who play all year round.

  There were a half-dozen stations for various types of clubs and golf bags, gloves and visors, golf balls and golf books. All told, though, the store wasn’t all that much bigger than The Striped Awning, maybe one thousand square feet. How exactly had Chip earned enough for that pricey new truck?

  “Chip’s involved in a phony golf resort,” Bootsie announced after five minutes of rifling through her brother’s papers. “Look at this prospectus!”

  I followed her back to a little seating area where a glossy printed booklet titled L’Etoile: A Golf Destination was displayed.

  The first page read, “European luxury and international flair have arrived on the tropical shores of South Florida with L’Etoile, a sexy, five-star hotel and residential haven for the discriminating golfer! Alongside an emerald-hued course designed by preeminent golf star Angus MacFayden, L’Etoile will offer the most luxurious dining, spa treatments, pool area with outdoor day club, meditation cabanas, dock space for yachts, and much more!”

  In teeny print under this description, “L’Etoile, LLP, is a partnership of PPS Investments and Chip Delaney.”

  “This place looks really high-end,” I said, surprised, as I turned the pages and admired computer-rendered images of an imposing hotel entrance, a glossy white marble lobby area, luxurious restaurants, and beachside cabanas complete with imaginary staff delivering cold drinks on silver trays. A dozen pages were devoted to the golf course and clubhouse, and there were more images of a gorgeous spa, condos, several bars, and a disco. There wasn’t a specific address for the hotel, but the prospectus did mention that it was located on glamorous but tranquil Swan Key, Florida.

  Toward the end of the book were some pages titled “Special Opportunities for Initial Buyers,” which listed whopping prices to own small luxury suites at L’Etoile. One-bedroom units started at five hundred thousand dollars, and there was a hefty monthly club fee (which did include a free facial and massage every four months), and the bigger units were priced from seven hundred thousand dollars and up. L’Etoile hotel rooms were also slated to be very posh with prices to match, and the on-site bistro and steakhouse promised all organic ingredients with handmade pastas, hand-rolled sushi, and hand-picked baby veggies.

  “It looks like L’Etoile is offering shares of ownership in the hotel, too, that give you a month or two a year there, as long as you don’t mind being in Florida in July and August,” I said, scanning the papers, puzzled. “Look, it lists initial investors as the Binghams!” The Binghams are town fixtures usually perched on the porch of the country club sharing a bottle of white zinfandel. They’re devoted golfers and gardeners, and a pleasantly boozy couple who’d briefly been kidnapped during the previ
ous summer’s tomato show, but had ended up drinking so much during their abduction that they thought they’d actually been on a fun weekend getaway.

  “I know the Binghams have a lot of money, but I’m surprised they’d want to get involved in a Florida real estate deal. They don’t travel much and this seems kind of glitzy for them.”

  Bootsie was looking angrier and more confused as she leafed through each page, and her sky-blue eyes were popping as she waved the booklet at me. “Does this look like a deal my brother, who repeated Algebra I at Bryn Mawr Prep, could put together?”

  Since I’d also struggled mightily in algebra, I mulled this over for a second, but realized the question was rhetorical.

  “Do the concepts of my brother Chip, who wore flip-flops to my wedding, and a hotel called L’Etoile with a marble lobby, a disco, and meditation cabanas make for a likely combination?” Bootsie demanded, heading to the store’s bar and pouring herself a midmorning shot of Scotch.

  “This hotel and resort really don’t seem like a place Chip would dream up,” I agreed. “He’s more of a beer and burgers guy. Isn’t his favorite hotel Crane’s in Delray Beach?”

  “Of course it is. He was conceived at Crane’s, and none of the Delaneys or McElvoys stay at hotels that don’t offer kitchenettes or have tiki bars,” said Bootsie. She’d shown me Crane’s last winter; it was a beautiful, shady oasis in the cool and funky town of Delray, with brightly painted cottages and hotel rooms with a totally charming look. It was the opposite of the glossy plans for L’Etoile, which also looked amazing, in a completely different way.

  I looked at the price tag on a Titleist Hybrid in the display next to where we sat, which read two hundred and forty-nine dollars. Maybe the markup on these items was such that Chip could have bought that pricey car, I thought to myself. Although this small store, with what had to be a hefty rent given its proximity to the town’s best restaurant, couldn’t have earned enough for Chip to become a key investor in an upscale resort—could it?

  “Hellooo,” said a chirpy, upbeat voice a moment later, which turned out to be emanating from Bootsie’s and Chip’s mom, Kitty Delaney, who bustled in wearing a cheery, bright red Lands’ End jacket. “I got your message. What’s this about Chip?” she asked Bootsie, who was back behind the counter, upending Chip’s trash can. “Oh, and Kristin and your doggie, how cute,” she added, patting Waffles on his head as he wagged up at her.

  “Your son—my brother, the golf and tennis club champion who you once told me you and Dad conceived after one too many margaritas in Delray Beach, Florida—is on the lam!” Bootsie informed her mom.

  Kitty, who’s an adorable, gossipy, and preppy woman who wears coral lipstick and likes to imbibe Bloody Marys and garden, looked dubious, then broke into a laugh. “Chip left me a message that he’s going to be out of town for a few days. He’s fine.”

  “Mummy, Chip is not fine,” Bootsie told her. “Someone left him a threatening note saying he owes them fifty thousand dollars, and then Chip suddenly looked really scared, but then told me the same BS story he told you and took off. That’s weird!”

  “Did Chip put you up to this?” Kitty hooted, plunking herself down on a bench. “You and your brother are terrible! This reminds me of the time Chip told me he needed one hundred and fifty dollars for college textbooks, but actually spent it on hosting a keg party. I’m on to you two and your funny business!”

  “This isn’t a joke, Mummy!”

  “Is Chip hiding out at your house, Bootsie?” hooted Kitty. “Because I’m making lasagna tonight, so you might want to tell him to come home.”

  “He’s missing and probably being held at gunpoint by crazed golf-resort gangsters!” screamed Bootsie.

  “Kristin, will you tell her to stop with the jokes,” said Kitty, gathering up her handbag and telling Bootsie she had a lot of holiday shopping to do, that Dad wanted gloves for Christmas, and if Bootsie, Will, and the kids wanted to come over tonight, too, Kitty could make an extra lasagna. “Bye, girls.” Kitty waved, and headed toward the door.

  Bootsie sighed and held up a bunch of envelopes. “Chip hasn’t even opened his mail in weeks, and there are no holiday decorations up in the store, and, look—here’s a memo in which he told all the employees to take the month off.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Mother of Bootsie,” said Gerda politely, entering the store as Kitty was leaving.

  “Did your mother give any clues to the location of your brother?” Gerda added to Bootsie.

  “She doesn’t even think Chip is missing,” Bootsie told her dispiritedly. “I need you to hack into his laptop, Gerda. It’s right here, behind the counter.”

  “Sure, I do that, no problem,” Gerda agreed, cracking her knuckles and looking happy. Gerda loves nothing more than reading people’s e-mail and reviewing their bank balances online. I’m not sure exactly how she finds out passwords and usernames, but she’s excellent at snooping through personal information.

  “If it’s okay, I take computer with me, because I am about to head to Le Spa to teach a class. Then, I will dig into Chip’s computer,” Gerda told Bootsie. “I fast-walk to spa now.”

  “How are your classes going?” Bootsie said. “Are you still minting money over there, with a waiting list and lines out the door?”

  “Bust Your Ass Pilates classes are doing awesome,” Gerda told us proudly. “All my group sessions are selling out like crazy. Plus, I still on payroll of Sophie’s ex, because when he comes back from Nevada, I need to be ready to start his workouts again. So, basically, I am getting rich.”

  I sighed, feeling a surge of jealousy. It was true—Gerda’s classes were really popular, and Ursula, who owns Le Spa, lets Gerda use a large space in her beauty emporium rent-free. It makes sense, since some of the Pilates clients then stay for a manicure or to get their hair done, and Ursula wasn’t using the room, anyway. Still, Gerda lives with Sophie, doesn’t own a car, and was still getting paid by Barclay. What was I doing wrong?

  “I can give you a ride to Le Spa,” I told her, since it was in the forties outside and my store is right across the street from her studio.

  “Thank you, no,” Gerda told me. “If everyone in this country walked more, there would be far fewer health problems. I come from mountainous area where people live to be, like, one hundred and ten years old due to steep hilly climb to pick up fresh food.”

  I could tell that Gerda was about to criticize me, Waffles, and our Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through habit, so I made a hasty exit.

  “Gerda’s having trouble infiltrating Chip’s laptop,” Bootsie told me when she stopped by my store at 5 p.m. “On the plus side, I opened up the store and sold three clubs, a cardigan sweater, and some golf gloves today. Anyway, Gerda promised to get into Chip’s e-mail by breakfast time tomorrow.

  “And, since it’s Steak Night at the country club, I called over there on a hunch and asked what time Eula’s dinner reservation was for tonight. Ronnie said Eula preordered a porterhouse steak for two at 7 p.m. and a special chocolate dessert that’s supposedly delicious and only forty calories.

  “Anyway, this time Scooter isn’t going to get away from us! We’re going to hide in that grove of sycamores by the entrance and follow him after dinner to his secret lair.”

  Chapter Nine

  I don’t go often to Steak Night, since the giant hunks of meat served at the club are quite pricey.

  And speaking of hunks, the first person I saw when we walked in was Mike Woodford, who was sitting in the bar—in the exact seat where I’d first met my boyfriend John a year and a half ago.

  “How’s John the vet?” asked Mike.

  Maybe I should go ahead and tell Mike, on whom I’ve long had a crush, that my boyfriend John was MIA. I never would have guessed that a veterinarian would be out of town every other month. There were conferences on bovine medicine and on ruminant breeding that lured John to points far-flung all summer, and now, in the middle of winter, he was away on another job out of town. Since I
wasn’t all that happy about it, feeling abandoned and then feeling angry at myself for feeling that way, I hadn’t told anyone that he was away, and was hoping none of my friends would notice.

  So far, no one except Mike had asked where John was, but I knew this couldn’t last. Christmas is prime dating season! If your boyfriend is missing, people take note. Since I had gotten a text from John earlier in which he claimed to miss me, I decided not to share my woes with Mike.

  “John’s doing great!” I said quickly.

  “It seems like he’s been out of town a lot this year,” Mike observed. “What’s going on with you two?”

  My heart did two flips and I gulped. Now Mike was asking me this? At Christmastime, the most pressure-filled month of the year, when people who are dating for any length of time start to think about commitment—or in my case, start to wonder why their boyfriend is a no-show for the entire month? Plus, Mike’s scruffy hot-guy persona has always been just that—he’s the hot guy across the street who jokes around with me at the Pub or at occasional parties which he attends with his aunt, Honey Potts.

  “I have to go!” I told him. “There’s a Eula Morris situation. But, um, I’ll get back to you!”

  “What’s the situation?” Mike asked.

  “Eula’s missing eight gold bricks worth approximately three hundred twelve thousand dollars,” I told him. “Which Eula’s new boyfriend might have stolen from her. You’ve met him,” I added to Mike. “She’s dating Scooter Simmons from Magnolia Beach, Florida.” I briefly outlined the events of the past two days.

  “So you’re here to get liquored up, and then park Bootsie’s car in the bushes and wait for Eula and her date to come out so you can follow them and look for the suitcase?” guessed Mike.