Killer Holiday

by Amy Korman

  “That’s pretty much it,” I agreed. “We’re hiding in the sycamore grove, though, not bushes.”

  “I need to hear how this works out,” Mike told me, shaking his head. “Maybe we should have dinner this weekend. I’ll call you.”

  This left me puzzled.

  Call me? Mike almost never called me. I think he had once dialed my number last summer to tell me that his aunt Honey had a bumper zucchini crop, and he was leaving a bag of squash on my doorstep. That was it. Maybe Mike was finally going to be a serious contender as a boyfriend! And if John wasn’t always traveling, this wouldn’t matter, but it did!

  “Eula’s at Table 6! She and Skipper are sharing the beet salad! I hope that crazy bitch eats fast!” Joe said, popping up between me and Mike.

  “And there are the Binghams,” pointed out Bootsie, eyeing these country-club fixtures at a small table for two, where they were happily working on some steak frites and their favorite pink wine. “I need to ask them about the investment they made in Chip’s golf resort. Be right back.”

  “Yoo-hoo,” yelled the Colketts, who were at the large table in the back of the clubby, comfortable bar. “Have a drink with us and we can talk turkey! Or whatever it is we’re serving at the holiday party you’re planning, Holly. Is it gonna be turkey?” All of us except Bootsie squeezed in around the decorators, while Eula aimed a nasty glare our way, then returned to her date with Scooter.

  “Seriously, Holly, the town festival is one thing, but this holiday party you’re planning for the club staff needs to be better than the Cannes Film Festival’s opening night,” Tim told her. “And why again is it staff only?”

  “Club members can come, but I wanted the staff to have fun this year,” Holly told him. “Making food for fifty people at the holidays is stressful for Ronnie, Skipper, Abby, and everyone else who works here. So I told them I was hosting them! But then I forgot that no other restaurants in town are open that day to handle the catering, and I couldn’t get anyone in Philly to commit to a Christmastime catering job except for one pasta joint down by the stadium. They said they’d do trays of ziti, sausage and meatballs, and to be honest, I got nervous, and nauseous, and I panicked. Then when I called back the next day, the pasta place was all booked up. I also don’t have a theme, a waitstaff, or a band.”

  “Meatballs and sausage is what people want to eat,” Bootsie told her, returning from the Binghams’ table. “That’s, like, everyone’s favorite meal. You should have booked the meatballs!”

  “She’s right, hon,” Tim Colkett told Holly, who still looked doubtful. “Call the ziti place back and offer to pay double.”

  “The Trendy Tent is on board, at least, for a heated thirty-by-forty-five-foot pop-up enclosure that will turn my back patio into a party space. And Tim here called me today with a new idea for making the tent look like a Hobbit cave, or something,” said Holly vaguely. “What was that again, guys?”

  “We were going to build long communal tables entirely out of moss and twigs, and do, like, waterfalls of vodka and food served on tree bark,” explained Tim. “The waiters could be dressed up like Orlando Bloom’s character in flowing brown robes.”

  “Not that that isn’t an amazing idea, but I don’t think anyone will like tree bark or robes, plus we don’t have any food,” Holly told him. “The vodka waterfall is cool, though.”

  “How about a vegan party?” suggested Gerda. “That would be fun. People could try new foods, and there would be no alcohol served.”

  “You’re such a kidder!” Tom Colkett told Gerda merrily. “What a hoot.”

  “I was not joking,” Gerda said sourly.

  “I’d go back to the vodka fountain,” Joe announced.

  “How about Lady Gaga as the theme?” Sophie said. “The meat dress alone could inspire a ton of fun stuff!”

  “That reminds me, Tim and I were down in Delaware two weeks ago looking for this greenhouse that supposedly grows groves of ten-foot-tall orange trees all winter, when we stumbled onto this roadside stand selling barbecue, which was the best,” Tom said.

  “I think ‘stumbled’ is the key word,” observed Joe. “Were you guys drinking?”

  “We might have had a small one before we left,” Tim allowed. “But I don’t think we both could have hallucinated a brisket sandwich that was as tender as this one. Plus, there were sweet potato fries, slaw, and some kind of burger you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Are you sure you weren’t watching Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives and got confused that you actually went there?” asked Bootsie. “That happens to me sometimes when I’ve had a couple drinks.”

  “I’m pretty sure we were really there. Anyway, all we need to do is find this place again, hire the BBQ guy to cater your party, and you’ve got a theme!” Tim told her.

  “I’m picturing holiday movies playing on a big screen, a keg, a Bloody Mary bar, a man cave with cigars, and Sophie can do some Elvis Christmas songs!” Tom said. “And, um, spruce branches and a giant tree.”

  We all stared at the Colketts.

  “That sounds like a normal, fun Christmas party,” Bootsie finally said, downing some pinot noir”I love this idea.”

  “Howard would probably like that,” admitted Holly. “He loves brisket. And fries.”

  “There’s one small problem,” said Tim. “We can’t remember where the barbecue guy is in Delaware.”

  “So get another brisket person,” Bootsie told them. “Brisket’s always good. People love it.”

  “It has to be this guy!” Tom said, waving down the waiter for another vodka. “Everything depends on his tender, melt-in-your-mouth, marinated, messy masterpiece!”

  “The party won’t work without that guy,” agreed Tim, digging into a filet.

  “I research this for you,” Gerda told them. “What do you remember about this establishment? Which sounds very unhealthy, by the way.”

  “It was a wooden shack kind of thing, and the guy served out of a window,” Tom said vaguely. “And it had a name that sounded Southern.”

  “That sounds like every barbecue joint in the whole world!” screamed Bootsie. “Now you’ve got me into this idea, and you don’t know where the guy is?”

  “We’ll get Jared to Uber you to Delaware this week, you’ll find the guy, and we’ll have a holiday party that Howard will actually want to attend. This sounds like a plan,” said Holly.

  “Good, because Eula and Scooter are sawing into that porterhouse steak, which means they’ll be finished eating in approximately twenty-eight minutes,” said Joe. “Time for us to head for Bootsie’s Range Rover and that grove of sycamores. This stakeout is going down for real!”

  It was crowded in the Range Rover, and there was a lot of arguing about whether the heat was on too high, why it was hot in the front but freezing in the backseat, and how this was boring, and someone should have brought snacks.

  Fifteen minutes in, I was still thinking about Mike Woodford. Maybe he’d changed! The holidays wreaked havoc with most people’s emotions, and maybe Mike had suddenly found himself wishing he wasn’t single this December, and had decided I was the girl for him!

  “Do you think I should go out to dinner with Mike Woodford?” I asked the group while we waited, the SUV concealed by the moonlit patch of trees. “Because he asked me on a date. At least, I think he did. He used the word ‘maybe.’”

  “Where’s your boyfriend?” said Sophie. “You guys have been going out for, like, over a year. In fact, you’ve been dating that guy as long as me and my ex–Honey Bunny up there in the driver’s seat.” She glared at Joe, which he probably couldn’t see in the dark and from her perch on the backseat.

  “Is John the vet as resistant to getting married as certain other men?” added Sophie meaningfully, staring daggers into Joe’s back. “Because if he is, I say go out with the hot, scruffy guy Mike!”

  “I don’t know if John ever wants to get married again,” I admitted. “We never talk about it. I’m not sure I want to, eit
her,” I amended.

  “You should stay with John and get more serious,” Holly told me. “You two are perfect together. You both actually like having tons of dogs around and think things like grilling burgers for dinner is fun.”

  I didn’t think these two line items made me and John much different from most of the world, but since Holly isn’t into dogs or burgers, she thought this made us unusually compatible.

  “You aren’t getting any younger,” Gerda told me. “This means you should stay away from sexy neighbor. Those guys never work out.”

  While I felt enraged by Gerda’s rude observation—and she had to be at least the same age as me, if not older—she had a point.

  “It’s not like Kristin is that old,” said Joe. “Plus, she has her own business, and she has that house she inherited from her grandparents. So she’s independent.”

  “She does not make much money,” Gerda announced. “I mean, she sells old stuff and barely earns enough to buy soup for her dinner. On the other hand, I go into Pilates business just six months ago, and I’m making boatload of cash. This one is not practical.” Here, she indicated me.

  “Where is John, anyway?” asked Sophie. “’Cause we haven’t seen him since, like, before Thanksgiving.”

  “Did the veterinarian dump you?” asked Gerda. “Because we all figured he broke up with you and you were too embarrassed to tell us. We all been talking about it for last two weeks.”

  “He’s staying rent-free in a cottage on an estate somewhere in California!” I finally yelled defensively. “He’s there for three weeks to help take care of two fancy poodles that get massages every day! He’s making sure they stay in tiptop shape for the next season of dog shows. Or something like that,” I added. “Also, the poodles have a YouTube channel, and they have a ton of subscribers, and they might be getting their own show on Reelz!”

  I’d been embarrassed to admit that my boyfriend had temporarily become a “concierge vet” to a couple of fancy dogs, but now the truth was out. The pair of poodles were in training for the Westminster show, and John had been offered such a hefty fee to oversee their canine boot camp that he was spending most of December away from me.

  He’d mentioned me flying out for a few days, but I was trying to run a business during the holiday shopping season. Truthfully, though, I realized now that I should have gone to visit him. Here I was, sitting in a grove of sycamores waiting to follow a guy named Scooter, when I could have been with my boyfriend in sunny California. Even John’s pack of beige dogs of various sizes had gone to California with him.

  “And you’re here trying to sell antique plates when you could be drinking white wine in California?” Sophie said, squinching up her face in puzzlement. “Didn’t John ask ya to visit him?”

  “You don’t want to leave Waffles, do you?” said Bootsie. Bootsie knew me too well. Waffles was the biggest reason I hadn’t gone—the dog and I had never spent a Christmas apart!—along with the fact that I really wasn’t sure where my relationship with John was headed.

  “I could watch this dog for you and put him on strict diet,” Gerda told me.

  “No, thanks!” I said hastily, picturing Gerda running a bewildered Waffles on a treadmill.

  “I’ll take care of your dog,” said Holly. “I mean, Martha will do it, she actually loves that mutt,” she said, sounding mystified. “You should leave for California ASAP. And, maybe in the meantime, you should go out to dinner with Mike Woodford!”

  “Where the hell is Scooter?” asked Joe. “My right leg is asleep, and I can’t feel my toes.”

  “You know what’s weird?” said Bootsie. “Scooter wasn’t drunk last night.”

  This was odd, I realized. When we’d seen Simmons in January back in Florida, he’d been completely plastered every night.

  “Speaking of which, can one of you please reach into the back of the car, because I happened to hit Liquor World this week,” Joe said, “and this feels like a chug-from-the-bottle kind of situation.” Bootsie obliged, and handed over the goods.

  “You could get arrested for that,” said Gerda ominously. “Open container in car is illegal.”

  “Oh, okay,” scoffed Joe, upending a bottle of Maker’s Mark into his mouth and gulping down a healthy swig. “Like some policeman’s going to be lurking back in the trees, too. Anyway, guys like Scooter can give up booze for a few weeks at a time when there’s money at stake,” said Joe. “But eventually, dating Eula’s going to send him on a tear of epic proportions.”

  “I’m still wondering about my ex Barclay, speaking of guys who are bonkers,” said Sophie. “What was the point of him having someone shoot my purse? Real hit men don’t miss, and they don’t hit your handbag by mistake. So I’m not scared, but why do that to me? Especially since we’re almost divorced and I’m about to start dating a lot of hot, eligible guys! And ones who don’t drink in the car!” she added pointedly, as Joe swigged angrily at his bottle.

  “Anyway, you want to talk challenging—try getting the Colketts to approve a Swarovski-crystal-encrusted dress for a sultry singing performance!” Sophie announced. “Check these out, girls. I mean, do these little minidresses say Christmas or what? And the Colketts said all of these were ‘too sparkly,’ which I told them isn’t in my dictionary, especially at the holidays!”

  Sophie showed us pics of fourteen possible dresses she’d gone to the mall and bought for her performance, asking if we thought three wardrobe changes for a six-song set was too many.

  “Enough with the dresses. I never thought we’d see Scooter again,” said Joe. “And with Eula Morris, of all people.”

  “Scooter is married,” said Gerda disapprovingly. “Remember, his wife show up when he was on a date with Holly at Tiki Joe’s, and the wife threw Holly’s car keys on roof of the store across the street?”

  “I always liked his wife after that,” Holly reflected. “I didn’t have time to explain to her that I was merely pumping her hubby for information. Which maybe wouldn’t have made her feel all that much better about him being out at a bar with another woman,” she added.

  “Does anyone else think it’s strange that suddenly Eula wins Powerball, gets on this fancy boat, and within days, her new boyfriend is Scooter?” I asked. I felt bad for Eula, who’s certainly attractive enough, but hasn’t been all that lucky in love—something I can relate to.

  “A scam artist like Scooter probably sets sail a couple times a year,” said Bootsie. “What I need to know is if Scooter ever got divorced, or if he’s going to break Eula’s heart.”

  “I’ll text Adelia Earle’s butler Ozzy,” offered Joe. “He’ll have the scoop on Scooter and Mary Simmons, and whether they’re still legally man and wife.” Joe tapped at his phone until a pair of approaching headlights gave him pause.

  “It’s Scooter’s BMW! Take this bottle, somebody, I’m driving!”

  We followed a quarter mile behind his car, keeping Scooter within sight as he dropped off Eula at her small house on Rosebud Lane. After walking her in and giving her a modest kiss good night, he climbed back into his BMW, then turned left, followed Main Street for a mile, and went down Camellia Lane and turned into the driveway of a house I knew all too well, and never wanted to set foot in again. I froze in terror. To be honest, I make it a point not to go anywhere near Camellia Lane, and try to take alternate routes so as not to pass it.

  “Scooter’s staying at Mariellen Merriwether’s house!” screamed Bootsie. “Do you think he’s a golf-playing, blue-blazer-wearing con artist who breaks into unused houses and drinks all the booze?”

  “Con artist and booze thief, yes,” said Joe, parking on Camellia Lane and then reading a text on his iPhone. “But I just heard back from Adelia’s butler, and he says Scooter and Mary did get divorced over the summer.” Joe’s fingers flew over the phone with more questions in text form, and he paused for a second to read Ozzy’s instant response.

  “Okay, I just texted him about Scooter staying at the Merriwether house, and
he replied that the Merriwethers are longtime friends of both Mrs. Earle and the Simmons family, and that Scooter probably has an open invitation to stay at their house.”

  Indeed, as we watched from our spot behind some spruce trees, Scooter used his flashlight app on his phone to light his way to the front door, where he jauntily inserted a key and went inside. Within seconds, we could see a large TV come on. Through a linen curtain, we could see the unmistakable form of Scooter pouring himself a large Scotch.

  “I knew Scooter was just pretending to be a one-glass-of-wine guy!” Bootsie announced from the backseat. “Look, he’s going back for a refill already.”

  “Good thing Scotch doesn’t go bad,” observed Joe. “That house has been empty for, like, a year and a half. Probably pretty dusty in there, too.”

  “Leena from the Pack-N-Ship has a job checking the house and dusting once a week,” Bootsie informed us. How Bootsie knows this kind of info is a mystery, but she always does.

  “Scooter is draining Mariellen’s bar,” said Holly, as the blazer-clad form went back for another large glug of whiskey.

  “I have to go peepee,” said Gerda. “Sorry if that is too much information.”

  “Me too!” echoed Sophie.

  “You need to hold it,” Joe told them. “And hand me that bottle again. Yeah, I know, these woods are probably filled with police who are about to bust me for car drinking.”

  At that moment, a loud rap came on the driver’s window, and we all froze, Joe with bottle upside down and aiming into his throat.

  “Hi there,” said Officer Walt. “I see that the driver of this SUV isn’t making great decisions about mixing alcohol and driving tonight. What are you doing parked back here, anyway?”

  Chapter Ten

  “Joe, you need Uber account,” Gerda said darkly. “I might have failed my permit test three times, but you would not pass sobriety exam.”

  “What are you doing here, Walt?” countered Bootsie a minute later, after Joe had stowed the booze back in its carton. “Are you watching Scooter Simmons, too? Because he’s a total crook, if that’s what you’ve heard.”