Killer Punch Page 13

  “Come on in,” he said. “Hey, Waffles!” The dog ran inside ecstatically, which annoyed me. He absolutely loves Mike, which I feel is misplaced, since Mike isn’t boyfriend material.

  As I followed Mike into his kitchen, where he thankfully put on a T-­shirt, I had a sudden horrible thought.

  Had Eula spent the night at Mike’s?

  Was she sneaking off the property so Honey wouldn’t see her leaving? Although who does a walk of shame pushing a wheelbarrow?

  “Are you and Eula, er, friends?” I asked Mike, who handed me a coffee. “Close friends?” I added.

  “We’re acquaintances,” he told me, popping an English muffin into his toaster. “To answer your other question, I didn’t see her this morning, but I’m pretty sure I know what she was doing with the wheelbarrow.”

  “Mikey?” yelled Honey Potts outside his open window. “You got company?”

  Mrs. Potts was the last person I wanted to see! What if Honey thought I had stayed over with Mike? She makes me nervous as it is. I needed to leave.

  “Bye!” I said, racing out of his house with Waffles in tow and Mike following behind us.

  I said a polite but brief hello to Mrs. Potts as I raced up her driveway, while she aimed a suspicious look at me, obviously wondering if I’d just had a racy fling with her hot nephew.

  I get the feeling I’m not Mrs. Potts’s favorite person ever since Lilly’s mom, Mariellen Merriwether, tried to kill me and my neighbors. Mariellen is Mrs. Potts’s BFF, and there might be some lingering resentment over the whole episode.

  “I’ll tell you what Eula had in the wheelbarrow later,” Mike called after me. “Over a drink.”

  FIVE MINUTES LATER I flicked on the lights at The Striped Awning, and blinked at the spectacular scene before me.

  My paint tarps were gone, and the shop had been arranged in chic, symmetrical style, with the large round 1970s table Joe had trucked from one of his storage units anchoring the front of the store. The ceiling and moldings were now glossy deep brown, so dark they were almost black, in a chic punctuation to my Smashing Pink walls. He’d added a huge sisal rug and a Sputnik-­style glass-­and-­bronze light fixture, which looked amazing above the round table. The rear area of the shop had been arranged as a lounge-­y seating area, with the French settee and dining chairs I’d had in stock and under tarps now creating an inviting vibe. More of Joe’s clients’ castoffs—­cool ikat pillows, Foo dogs, modern little lamps—­added a modern touch to the seating area, above which a half-­dozen chandeliers I’d bought at flea markets now cast a cozy glow.

  I called Joe and rattled on for several minutes about how much I loved what he’d done, and how I’d pay him back one day for all the cool accents he’d installed, and how his storage units deserved their own blog and Instagram account, which he seemed to enjoy. Finally, though, he cut me off.

  “It’s true—­your junk store is suddenly as cool as one of those boutique New York hotels where Bowery meets Boho chic,” he agreed. “It’s like One Kings Lane exploded in there. I’ve outdone myself! Anyway, while I was hiding those hideous paintings by Eula in your back room, I had a genius idea to figure out whether Eula took Heifer.

  “I can’t explain right now,” Joe added. “I’m heading to my storage units in Holly’s SUV, with her as designated driver. I plan to combine tranquilizers, Excedrin Migraine, and alcohol today, so I probably shouldn’t take the wheel.”

  “Maybe you should hold off on the prescription medications,” I suggested.

  “Anyway,” he said, “I’m going to need Bootsie to help me pull off my plan. She needs to make herself available from three till five this afternoon.”

  “I don’t think that will be a problem,” I told him. “By the way, I saw Eula sneaking something out of Sanderson today with a wheelbarrow, and I asked Mike Woodford about it, and he said he’ll explain later.”

  “Whatever,” said Joe. “I can only focus on one Eula problem at a time.”

  I was about to hang up when Joe told me that I needed to touch up my paint job on the back wall of the store.

  “It needs to be perfect,” he informed me. “I left a tarp draped over the floor there for you. I lent my peerless talent for design, and you can lend your mediocre skills as painter.”

  Next, I texted Bootsie that Joe needed her for a special Eula project this afternoon, and would she be done volunteering at her kids’ camp by then? She immediately called back, and when I picked up, I could hear children screaming, playing, crying, and shouting in the background.

  “Pipe down, kids,” she announced. “Go play by the lake.”

  “Shouldn’t you be keeping your attention on the three-­year-­olds?” I asked, alarmed.

  “I’m leaving,” she said. “I did an hour of tennis drills with thirty-­five toddlers, and I need to conserve my strength to kick Eula’s tail this afternoon in the club doubles tourney. The match is at two, then I’ll be free to help Joe.

  “And get this,” she added. “It’s me and Gerda versus Eula and Lilly Merriwether!”

  “Stomp them! Beat Lilly’s skinny ass into the ground!” I found myself shouting. “I mean, I hope you win.”

  “Oh, we’re going to win,” Bootsie assured me. “Listen, don’t forget, Gianni invited us to some top-­secret event tonight for his new business. And don’t even try to weasel out of coming along!”

  I’d actually been planning to do just that, but figured I’d say nothing for now.

  “I’m stopping by your shop to see Joe’s makeover, but first I need to drop in at the Gazette to pitch my story about Gianni’s new venture. See you in fifteen,” Bootsie told me, and disconnected.

  TEN MINUTES LATER, Sophie showed up at the store.

  “Wow! This looks real cute,” she said, sitting down in the cool new seating area in back. “I can tell Joe did one of his mini-­makeovers here.” Her eyes welled up with tears briefly. “He’s soooo good at what he does.”

  Just then, Bootsie stuck her head inside the door. “Eula stole my Gianni story!” she screamed. “That bitch got to the Gazette at eight this morning and grabbed the assignment.” She left, vowing revenge.

  “I keep thinking about Diana-­Maria, Lobster Phil’s ex,” I told Sophie after Bootsie’s exit, hoping to distract my friend from her Joe woes. “Maybe we can look her up on Facebook, or call one of your old friends to ask if she’s okay?”

  “I found her on Facebook last night while I was posting all the feelings I’m having about me and Joe,” Sophie said. “Diana-­Maria hasn’t been on Facebook for, like, six months! It’s kinda weird. She used to put pics up all the time. I knew what she ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, like, every freakin’ day.”

  “That doesn’t sound good,” I said, worried. “Where did she work? Maybe we can try to call her there.”

  “Diana-­Maria had a job selling gorgeous jewelry in the boutique at the Borgata,” Sophie told me, and burst into tears. “She handled mega-­carat rocks that any girl, especially one from Jersey, would love to get as engagement bling. They keep it in a special counter for high rollers in the back, and it’s open 24/7. Picture Mariah Carey’s jewelry box, and you get the picture.”

  It looked like Sophie was again about to start obsessing about when Joe and engagement rings, so I changed the subject.

  “How’s your lawyer doing with Barclay’s legal filing about your new house and the shoes?” I asked her, Windexing the front windows.

  “It’s all BS!” Sophie yelped. “We got the house petition dismissed already. I bought that place with my own money. I had a lot saved up from when I worked in the cement business, plus sometimes Barclay used to give me cash for my birthday, so that’s not community property.”

  “Uh-­huh.” I nodded, half listening. Maybe I should buy some extra cheddar and Triscuits for the party tomorrow, I thought, since Bootsie seemed way mo
re focused on the booze than the food. One we got this reopening party done, I’d probably have tons of new customers who’ll love the hot-­pink walls! And if I didn’t, I’d focus on my eBay sales, and if all else failed, I could probably get more hours at the Pack-­N-­Ship.

  “The judge seemed way more interested in the shoes,” Sophie told me. “He said he needs to get a deposition from Barclay about my size five and a halfs, but of course, my ex is off in Atlantic City and not returning calls. So the shoes are in limbo.”

  I nodded sympathetically, concurrently dreaming of a quiet, tranquil existence, weeding my yard and catching up on all my overdue bills. I’d ask Leena if she could give me another few hours a week as package sorter—­maybe if I worked on, say, Wednesday nights after I closed the shop, her back room wouldn’t be so stuffed with unsent and undistributed boxes every weekend.

  “By the way, I just saw the Binghams at the luncheonette,” Sophie told me. “They were acting real strange, even for them. They were getting takeout and normally they’re so chatty and friendly, but they just waved and left real fast with a bunch of take-­out food.”

  I nodded, thinking maybe Bootsie could go track the Binghams down at their house, which is just a few hundred yards from the club. It was so unlike them to not be out and about, and they always had time to stop for a quick gossip. Maybe one of them hadn’t been feeling well?

  Or maybe they didn’t want to admit they’d knowingly sold the charming old garden shop to Mega Wine Mart—­if they’d known about Maison de Booze being a teardown, that is! I was about to grab my phone to call Bootsie when Sophie piped up, “Oh yeah, and I saw your boyfriend at the luncheonette, too!”

  “You did?” I asked, pausing, surprised that John was home this early. I hadn’t heard from him since early yesterday, when he’d mentioned in a text that he was trying to skip his last meeting and make the drive home later in the day. I’d assumed he’d stayed in West Virginia last night after all, and was en route this morning.

  “He said he got back yesterday afternoon and jumped into a doubles match at the club,” Sophie said. “And he’s gonna be playing today, too, ’cause he and that chiropractor he plays with won! He advanced in the tournament.”

  She noticed my shocked look, and aimed a concerned gaze at me.

  “What—­he didn’t tell you he got back last night?”

  “No, and I have, like, a hundred dogs at my house belonging to him that he could have at least picked up,” I said.

  “He did say his match ran real late last night and he played under the lights!” Sophie said, trying to make me feel better, and failing.

  “And then he said a bunch of the players stayed late for drinks at the club, because there were a bunch of preliminary men’s and women’s doubles matches yesterday. It turned into a party. It probably got too late to call you!”

  “He could have texted me,” I whined miserably.

  Unless he’d been spending time with his flawless ex, Lilly, last night?

  This possibility left me slightly short of breath. John and Lilly had ended their marriage on good terms, and she probably had called to let him know she was in town.

  Why was Lilly staying around town this week, anyway? Had she broken up with the wealthy tennis pro? If Lilly moved back to town, I’d see her everywhere, because our town is too small to not see pretty much every resident about forty times a week.

  I’d have to avoid the club, the Pub, the drugstore, and Gianni’s restaurant (which I don’t go to much anyway, but still). Forget that—­I’d have to move. How dare Lilly drive me from my hometown!

  Self-­pity wasn’t getting my paint job touched up, so I forced myself to toss aside my Lilly mini-­obsession and deal with the can of pink paint before me. With renewed focus, I turned on the country music station and painted at marathon pace, ignoring my screaming shoulders and thinking ahead to possible store promotions. I could offer twenty percent off anything pink in the store for the rest of July, and serve up Bootsie’s specialty cocktails every Friday afternoon.

  “John knows ya usually go to bed real early!” Sophie said kindly. “Anyway, I’d help you finish that, but I can’t get paint on these Stuart Weitzman slingbacks,” Sophie told me, applying some lip gloss as she checked her phone.

  “That’s okay,” I told her, “but thanks. I’m almost done. But Sophie, you know a lot about men and relationships . . . let me ask you something.”

  Sophie had put up with quite a bit of drama during her marriage to Barclay, and had accumulated some wisdom along the way.

  “Do you think John would have a fling with Lilly? I mean, she had to have been at the club last night for that party.”

  “Abso-­freakin’-­lutely he would!” Sophie said, staring at me. “I mean, John Hall’s a nice guy, but that ex of his is stunning.” Noticing my devastation, she tried to bolster me a bit.

  “Listen, hon, I’m a realist. I don’t think John had sex with Lilly last night, but ya might want to load on some makeup today and lose the Old Navy outfits now that he’s back in town.

  “Not that you don’t look cute sometimes, too!” she added, which did little to improve my spirits. “Remember when you had those hair and eyelash extensions down in Florida? That looked good. And when Holly lends you her clothes, ya actually look stylish.

  “One more piece of advice,” she continued. “Ya need to get over to that country club. Your boyfriend just got back in town and he’s probably checking out his gorgeous ex in a tight tennis dress as we speak.”

  Sophie has a way of bluntly but effectively laying out the core of an issue. I considered her words for about three seconds, then realized she was one hundred percent right. If paint touch-­ups were needed, they could be done at 7 a.m. tomorrow before Bootsie arrived with the punch and the snacks for the reopening party.

  Right now, it was time to get to the club.

  “No offense,” Sophie told me, whipping a dress, some sunglasses, and her makeup kit out of her purse, “but here’s that caftan you had on the other day at Midnight Tony’s. Put this on, add my Michael Kors shades, and let me swipe ya with my Benefit mascara and lip gloss. I’d take you to Ursula at Le Spa for the works, but we don’t have time.”

  Chapter 19

  JOE OUTLINED HIS plan while Bootsie and Gerda warmed up before heading out to the main court at the country club.

  Gerda plus Bootsie made quite an intimidating doubles pair, I thought happily, as Gerda did hamstring stretches and Bootsie ran in place and did a ritual warm-­up chant.

  Holly sat next to me, sipping a Perrier. For her part, Sophie had decided to hit Le Spa and skip watching tennis.

  I spied Lilly across the court, giving her an unnoticed evil glare from behind my borrowed fancy sunglasses. But I didn’t see John anywhere at the club. A tiny ray of hope sparked within me—­if John wasn’t here to cheer on Lilly, that had to be a positive sign, didn’t it?

  “Here’s the deal: I’m going to flatter Eula about her paintings, and then tell her I’m between jobs and want to do a two-­hour makeover on her house,” said Joe. “At no cost! Which, by the way, is my new concept for an HGTV show. With all the stuff my clients custom-­order and then change their minds about, I’ve got three more storage units full of great furniture. I have, like thirty-­five throw pillows, six lamps, and two Eames-­style chairs in Holly’s truck right now that are going to make Eula’s place look fabulous!”

  He did a Godfather-­ish kiss of his hand to indicate the awesomeness of the storage locker contents. I gave Joe a closer look—­how tipsy was he, exactly?

  “One-­day makeovers have been done to death,” Bootsie observed, still jogging in place. “And what’s the part of the plan that screws over Eula?”

  “We search her house for that stupid Heifer painting while we do the makeover!” Joe screamed at her. “So shut up and get ready to ransack!”

 
“You and Eula don’t like each other,” I reminded him. “Why would she believe you want to redecorate her house? And maybe slow down on the medication. The tranquilizers seem to be making you less calm.”

  “I haven’t started with the prescription meds yet,” said Joe, a bit defensively. “This is vodka only. And trust me, Eula won’t suspect anything. She’s totally susceptible to flattery.”

  “That’s true,” Bootsie agreed. “I got Eula to help me plant Mummy’s tulip beds last fall by telling her I’ve always admired her eye for spacing bulbs.”

  “Please,” sniffed Joe. “Your mom’s tulips were way too close together this spring. Bulbs need to breathe.”

  “I hate to say it,” Bootsie said, “but I think Eula’s going to take first prize next week with her SuperSauce Hybrids. She put some pics up on Instagram that were pretty impressive.”

  “There’s another tomato contest in this town?” asked Joe in disbelief.

  “All the late-­ripening tomatoes will be judged next week,” Holly explained. “And I can’t believe I just said the words ‘late-­ripening tomatoes,’ ” she added.

  “Some of the later categories are huge!” said Bootsie. “They don’t call ’em Big Boys for nothing.”

  “You know what would be cool?” asked Joe. “If the world’s largest tomato somehow smashed into Eula’s face.”

  He did some quick searching on his phone and pushed his sunglasses up to read the screen. “The record is 8.41 pounds, grown by a guy in Minnesota. I mean, I’d settle for a three-­ or four-­pounder to explode on Eula.”

  Holly’s face brightened. “Can you send me that link?” she asked Joe.

  “Anyway,” I said, sensing that we were getting off topic, “don’t forget that Bootsie needs to stop by the Binghams’ house and find out more about Mega Wine Mart. And say you do get into Eula’s house—­maybe the painting’s not even there! It could be at her office or something.”

  Where was John, anyway? Why hadn’t he called me? I thought, watching Gerda bench-­press a nearby Poland Spring dispenser.