Killer Holiday

by Amy Korman

  “You seem real hormonal,” Gerda told Holly. “Maybe you just have bad PMS.”

  “You think that’s a problem?” said Sophie. “The Fancy Feet Square Dancers from out in Chester County just called me. Apparently they’ve performed on the town square every December twentieth since, like, 1940, and they’re determined to square dance at 4 p.m. sharp on Monday.”.

  “I love the Fancy Feet!” said Bootsie. “They’re fantastic. They have these great outfits. Gerda, their look is basically lederhosen. You’ll feel right at home.”

  I knew this troupe of hoofers, actually, since several of the members were regular vendors at Stoltzfus’s Flea Market, one of my favorite spots to pick up silver, paintings, and antique china to sell at The Striped Awning. While they weren’t exactly Baryshnikov, the square dance troupe were a fun holiday tradition—apparently one Sophie hadn’t seen in her few years of living in town.

  “Fancy Feet is a misnomer,” observed Joe. “They’re not that fancy.”

  “What if you got them some new outfits?” asked Holly. “We could get the Colketts to give them some kind of cool rebranding.”

  “What if they were, like, human peppermint martinis for Mistletoe and Martini Night!” shrieked Sophie. “That would be awesome! They could have peppermint-striped scarves and be all glittery and martini-ish.”

  “The Fancy Feet don’t drink,” Bootsie told her. “They won’t be cocktails.”

  “Maybe they could be, um, Abominable Snowmen!” mused Sophie, undeterred.

  “I’d turn it over to the Colketts,” Holly advised. “They’ll have a few drinks and come up with something that will make the square dancers better than the cast of Hamilton.”

  “Look, we need to focus on the place we’re staying tonight and plan accordingly, because a couple of leaves of spinach and cheese made from nuts is about all we’re going to get to eat at this place,” Bootsie said, then bellowed, “Pull over, Joe! Right here, at Liquor Lou’s Wholesale!”

  Joe took a flying right turn, gravel spewing everywhere, and parked in front of the booze warehouse. Bootsie and Joe returned to the minivan five minutes later with two bottles of tequila, thirty Slim Jims, and four bags of Doritos Salsa Verde, which they distributed among our suitcases.

  “The boat for Le Vert Epinard leaves at 1:50 p.m. sharp,” said Holly icily, “and the Beach Meditation is at 2:15. So if we want to find this L’Etoile place and start looking for Chip before then, you’re going to need to get this minivan moving.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “This is the future site of L’Etoile Resort? Where will the condos go? And the docks, the disco, the cabanas, the shops, and the two restaurants?” Bootsie demanded thirty minutes later.

  We’d wound down the highway through the leafy Key Largo, past some funky waterfront restaurants that Joe loudly noted looked like the perfect place for people who actually lived fun lives to stop and get fish tacos, Key lime pie, and piña coladas, but that he was stuck with a group who would soon be eating cashew cheese and that his life was in shreds. After five miles of fishing piers, cool retro motels, and some beautiful expanses of ocean, a small sign proclaimed that we had reached Swan Key.

  “Google Maps says L’Etoile Hotel is right down this lane,” said Gerda dubiously, looking up from her phone at a dirt lane shaded by tall, overgrown trees as birds flew by and lizards hopped past us.

  The temperature was a perfect seventy-five, and avocado and lemon trees dangled fruit all around us as we drove down the leafy driveway. Joe parked the minivan near a low arched stone wall, and we climbed out to peer past the bougainvillea at an adorable old Mediterranean-style hotel.

  It was painted white with a terracotta tiled roof, a large patio, and French doors, and looked like it could accommodate a dozen or so guests.

  If the place had been open for business, that is, which it clearly wasn’t. The foliage was overgrown and weeds had sprouted all around the building; the place had an abandoned air. Still, it had tons of potential. “I don’t get it,” said Bootsie. “You’re sure this is the address, Gerda?”

  “This is definitely it,” Gerda told her. “But this doesn’t look the same as what Chip’s information packet described.”

  “This site is gorgeous!” I said, immediately taken in by the old-world vibe. There was even a tiny putting green.

  “Cute, charming, and island-y is what it definitely is,” said Joe. “What it isn’t is the site of a Dubai-meets-Vegas golf resort. This place might accommodate eight or so guest rooms, and a teeny little bistro.”

  “Someone could build a high-rise here,” intoned Gerda. “Which would be a crime against nature, but Americans often do not take into account the appropriate scale of buildings, or things like frogs, turtles, and big fat native seals that live in Florida.”

  “Manatees?” said Sophie. “They’re real cute! I’ve always wanted to hug one of them!”

  “I believe most of Florida outside of downtown Miami and Orlando has height restrictions that are seriously enforced,” said Joe. “Working for Adelia Earle has forced me to become far more familiar with building codes than I’d ever dreamed of. Every time we install a faucet at her place, it requires about fourteen town permits.”

  “Where’s the golf course?” asked Bootsie. “This whole island looks smaller than your average golf club.”

  “It is a fact that the golf course mentioned in Chip’s prospectus is bullshit,” Gerda told her. “But this is interesting. I been researching all during ride down about this old hotel, and the HGTV star Sienna Blunt has listed on her design blog under ‘Upcoming Projects’ that she is working on this exact place. Also, she has a vacation cottage in Swan Island, which I discovered while Googling local real estate transactions.”

  “We need to get in touch with Sienna Blunt,” said Joe. “The Colketts know her pretty well, and I hung out with her a little last January in Magnolia Beach.” While Joe did some texting, we wandered around to see a large pool, currently empty of water, and a stretch of pretty beachfront.

  “And look at this great old dock!” I said, admiring the weathered gray boards and a cute little skiff boat, herons and gulls flying around, and views of pristine water.

  Then we both noticed a familiar-looking tanned, blond guy in a T-shirt and shorts casting a fishing rod about forty feet down the dock. An older man with dark hair was sitting next to him, talking on his cell phone.

  “Is that Chip?” screamed Bootsie. “I’m going to kill him!”

  The older man elbowed Chip, and the two jumped into a little outboard motorboat, sped away around the inlet, and disappeared.

  “Chip is in big trouble! I’m texting Mummy right now!” said Bootsie. “She’ll probably think I’m joking again, though,” she realized, giving up.

  “Maybe he’s staying at the spinach place, too,” offered Sophie. “We might run into him there! Because we only got twenty minutes to catch that ferry.” Back in the minivan, we followed Google Maps, found the dock, unloaded the bags, and scrambled onto a beautifully maintained boat painted white and green for the three-minute ride to the hotel.

  “I don’t think Chip would stay at a vegan spa, even if he has been kidnapped,” mused Bootsie.

  “I got Sienna on the phone and invited her to meet us for drinks at Le Vert Epinard later,” said Joe. “But Sienna burst into laughter and said there are no drinks at Le Vert, and to call her in the morning.”

  Joe kept talking on the quick boat ride as we passed gorgeous island homes and sped across the clearest water I’ve ever seen.

  “According to Sienna’s blog, she has a fabulous cottage right in Swan Island Village,” he was saying, and was about to show us the pictures of said beach house, when suddenly a man dressed in all-white leaned down from the dock that the boat’s captain was currently tying up to.

  “Welcome to Le Vert Epinard! I’m Hans, the spa director. Please place your phones into this organic, nontoxic basket,” he said. “Welcome to island bliss and complete i
mmersion into a world where breathing, boot-camp-style workouts, and excessive perspiring of toxins is a way of life!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “They confiscated the snacks, and the tequila, too,” said Joe five minutes later, looking as upset as I’ve ever seen him. “You know that show Naked and Afraid? This is way worse.”

  Le Vert Epinard looked like something you’d see in Town & Country’s travel section, with gorgeous white cottages, tall palms, bougainvillea in bright purple bloom, and ocean views everywhere you looked.

  While it was true that a margarita would have added to the joys of the island hotel, I was still thrilled to be in such a gorgeous spot, since it’s not like pricey hotels are in my Progresso soup budget.

  “It’s just for a night,” Holly told Joe. “I’ve been wanting to come to this place since it opened two years ago, but for some reason, Howard refused.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” grumbled Joe.

  “Anyway, get over yourself! We’re on the Total Deprivation Plan, which includes three hours of meditation on the beach interspersed with intensive interval workouts!” Holly said happily. “They measure out the snacks of celery sticks and spinach leaves at 3 p.m. and 7 p.m., but there’s unlimited lemon water all day.”

  “You’re supposed to be getting the dirt on Scooter’s partner Pete Penworthy!” screamed Joe. “How do beach meditation and leafy greens get you closer to finding Chip? And what about your future baby? It’s going to need sustenance, and a nap!”

  Holly gave Joe a concerned, pitying look, which made Joe angrier.

  “I’m skipping the intense intervals because of my possible pregnancy, and Hans agreed I can have some organic rice crackers with my snack since I told him there’s a seventeen percent chance I might have conceived on Thanksgiving night.

  “Anyway, Mrs. Pete Penworthy said in the Miami newspaper story that Le Vert Epinard changed her life, and that her thighs are now as smooth as Rosie Huntington-Whitely’s. She’ll be here today,” Holly told Joe, “and then I’ll bond with her over a frond of chard and find out where Chip is.”

  “This is good plan,” said Gerda approvingly. “I see on schedule it’s time for me to attend Extreme Ab Explosion. Let’s go.”

  “Amanda Penworthy didn’t seem to know anything about Chip, but she did mention a cottage she and Pete own on Swan Key,” Holly whispered to us two hours later as we all desperately sipped at lemon water. “She said her husband Pete and Scooter are there doing some fishing with a friend from Pennsylvania. And some business, but Amanda doesn’t pay too much attention to anything Pete says.”

  “Chip!” screamed Bootsie into the balmy breeze to her absent brother, forgetting that we were supposed to be whispering. “He’s definitely being held hostage at this secret fishing cottage. We’re coming to save you!” she added, aiming this statement toward the mainland.

  “Calm down,” said Joe. “We need an exit strategy for Chip.”

  “My strategy is, we find Chip tomorrow, then beat the crap out of Scooter and Pete and take Chip with us,” Bootsie told him.

  “This could be dangerous,” Gerda told her. “Scooter might look fancy with blue blazer and expensive shirts, but he has a gun and a Krampus mask, plus he could have scary friends.”

  “You know what we need?” said Sophie, motioning us toward a quiet grove of mangroves twenty feet from where Hans was looking suspiciously at us.

  “We need to get the heck outta here!” finished Sophie. “Usually I’m all for a spa and I don’t mind eating healthy, but we gotta get our phones back and rescue Chip. Then I need to get home, ’cause we got the town festival coming up, plus my cabaret was so awesome that I might want to do another one on New Year’s Eve, which would take my mind off the fact that I was hoping to get married the next day, and I’m going to need a whole new song list and some new outfits.”

  “Good plan,” said Joe, which was the first time he and Sophie had seen eye to eye in weeks. “Let’s go.”

  “I asked one of the bellboys if there’s a fun hotel nearby,” Sophie added. “He gave me the 411 on a cool place called the Sugar Lime Inn which is right across the inlet. I paid the guy twenty dollars to use his phone and booked us six rooms at the Sugar Lime Inn, which has its own reggae band, a tiki bar, and a menu that includes everything this place doesn’t! Think burgers, mahi-mahi tacos, and fried shrimp, clams, conch, and anything else that swims and can be breaded, fried, and dolloped with tartar sauce, lemon juice, and ketchup!”

  Elation surged through me, and Joe and Bootsie’s faces lit up. Le Vert Epinard was really nice, but not having my phone prevented me from checking on Waffles, and I don’t have the stamina to make it through an interval workout session.

  “Also, I paid the meditation therapist a hundred bucks to pick us up in her fishing boat in fifteen minutes,” Sophie told us. “Because she said Hans is not happy when people leave early, and they tell you there are no more boats going to the mainland if you try to bolt.

  “Gerda, you distract Hans, who’s got the hots for ya, and Joe and Dave, you get the phones and the luggage.”

  “Where are the phones?” said Dave nervously. “Because I’m scared of Hans, who could definitely beat me up. And so could his wife, that co–spa director Martina, who’s in better shape than Rhonda Rousey.”

  “That’s true, and Hans and Martina are always lurking around the concierge hut where we checked in!” I agreed. “But on the plus side, Martina seems to have a thing for Joe. I noticed she told you that she liked your Lacoste workout shorts.”

  “Women love me.” Joe shrugged. “What can I say? I keep getting better-looking every year. With the tan I’ve acquired spending so much time working for Mrs. Earle, I’m irresistible.”

  “Gerda and Joe could tell Hans and Martina to meet them in the Sweat Lodge,” I suggested. “Just the name Sweat Lodge, sounds, well, you know.” I made a vague gesture.

  “They’ll totally go for that,” screamed Bootsie, who made a more specific gesture to indicate what Hans would be doing with Gerda, given the opportunity—which, by the way, I didn’t think was about to happen. I’m not sure Gerda believes in any kind of romantic exchanges, and she’s definitely not one to engage in quickie make-out sessions.

  “Dave, you be the messenger and set this all up. Then, you’re going to move all the luggage down to the dock.”

  “Is there a worse word in the English language than ‘sweat’?” pondered Joe. “It’s so gross. Couldn’t they call it the Perspiration Pavilion?”

  “Sweat is sexy,” Bootsie informed him. “That’s why people go to gyms, and, I don’t know, music festivals and food trucks and stadium concerts.”

  “None of which I go to,” Joe told her.

  “I’m on the luggage, but I don’t want to be in charge of the phones,” said Dave. “I could probably seduce someone!” he added hopefully. “Maybe Martina will like me, too.”

  “She is not interested in you, given that you are still in puberty,” Gerda told him.

  “Hurry up,” Bootsie ordered Dave. “We’re gonna need to make this getaway fast after you seize back the phones.”

  Holly sighed and agreed to leave, since she wasn’t sure the rice crackers were going to be enough to quell her nausea.

  “I feel kind of bad for Martina and Hans,” I said. “It’s really hot in the Sweat Lodge.”

  Bootsie fixed me with a stern eye.

  “Kristin, do you or do you not want to get back to that dog of yours?” Bootsie said. ” And do you or do you not want a frozen rum drink in approximately forty-five minutes, plus the use of your phone at an adorable, fun Florida Keys hotel with a gorgeous pool shaded by bougainvillea and that has a reggae band playing tonight at seven, and is offering every conceivable type of chilled seafood on ice in the Friday Night Raw Bar?”

  “Um, I guess I want the frozen drink,” I admitted.

  “Dock in fifteen minutes!” said Sophie.

  Fourteen minutes later, we were all at
the dock, where the meditation teacher—who looked a lot less serene when she wasn’t in her meditation caftan, and more like a regular Florida Keys gal in shorts and a tank top—was at the helm of a fishing boat. She welcomed us onto her boat with a cheery wave, and Gerda and Dave started piling the various items of baggage into the boat, with Dave assuring Holly he’d be extra careful with her stuff.

  “Maybe I should stay till tomorrow,” said Holly regretfully. “Because there’s moonlight Tai Chi tonight and a special class on how to use turmeric in a facial that would give me the dewy skin of a Hadid sister.”

  “That can’t be good for someone who’s possibly pregnant,” Joe informed her. “You need to eat, like, fried grouper or a turkey burger. Swiss chard isn’t enough for someone in a delicate condition. Let’s go. I got mildly groped by Martina, and I need alcohol.”

  “This spa was a wrong turn. We’re supposed to be rescuing Chip!” Bootsie yelled at Holly.

  “I, too, would like to stay here,” Gerda said, “but better to focus on rescuing Chip.”

  “Sorry for the detour,” said Holly, shrugging and reaching into the large basket of phones Dave had brought onto the boat. “I thought Amanda Penworthy would have all the answers. I’m sorry. Anyway, it’s good to be all phoned up again. Maybe the Colketts found the barbecue person for the party, plus I need to check on the Trendy Tent’s setup, too.” With that, the meditation instructor started up her motor and neatly aimed her little fishing boat toward Swan Key.

  “Hey, look at this gorgeous monogrammed iPhone cover!” said Sophie, who was rooting through the assemblage of phones next to Holly. “Is this, like Chanel?”

  “Let me see that,” said Bootsie. “The monogram says ‘A.P.’ Dave, you grabbed the wrong phone, but in this case, your fuckup has an upside. This is Amanda Penworthy’s phone!” She immediately started punching at the phone and reading Mrs. Penworthy’s texts and e-mails.