Killer Punch Read online

  “Maybe ya should move back!” encouraged Sophie. “At least spend the summers here at the shore?”

  “No way,” said Phil. “Not with Diana-­Maria still living there. Plus I’m Sweet Freddie’s main guy in Vegas now.”

  “Who’s Sweet Freddie?” asked Bootsie.

  “Sweet Fred McDonald is an associate of Gianni and Barclay from when they worked in Jersey,” Sophie told us. “He’s from the non-­Italian part of their, you know, business consortium.” She paused for a moment, seemingly lost in thought.

  “Didn’t you guys do some art sales, too, back in the day, Phil?” she asked her old friend. “I mean, I know Barclay and you did construction and trucking, and a buncha other businesses, but I think I remember my ex telling me that you’re a real art lover! You and Sweet Freddie had, like, a gallery out in Vegas a few years back, didn’t ya?”

  “Just for a few months,” Phil told her smoothly.

  “Why’d ya close it?” persisted Sophie.

  “We had a few visits from Customs and Border Protection,” Phil said, not warming to the subject. “Those guys are real picky about where a painting comes from. I didn’t have time to spend months researching, like, the last twelve owners of every picture we sold, so we closed up shop.”

  “I remember ya had a lot of antique pictures at your place in Jersey!” Sophie said. “Real nice ones, too. Lot of outdoor scenes.”

  Bootsie seemed to be missing the fact that Phil was a fan of the exact kind of painting stolen from Mrs. Potts, and the fact that he’d actually been in the art business until he’d been shut down for not authenticating the provenance of the paintings he sold. She was still stuck on a possible family connection to the aforementioned Sweet Freddie.

  “We have some cousins named McDonald on Mummy’s side. Maybe I’m related to Sweet Freddie,” said Bootsie.

  “I doubt it,” said Sophie, shaking her head. “You don’t resemble Sweet Freddie even a little bit. He’s real short, and real mean. All of the other guys were always gentlemen, except of course my dumb ex Barclay and Sweet Freddie. One time Freddie ripped off a guy’s fingernails and Krazy Glued them to his front door.”

  “I don’t think he’s one of Mummy’s cousins,” agreed Bootsie.

  Just then, Joe walked in, wearing his typical Bryn Mawr–in–July outfit of crisp striped shirt, a preppy green belt, and khaki shorts.

  “Honey Bunny, this is Phil LaMonte from Vegas!” shrieked Sophie. “Phil, this is my almost-­fiancé Joe Delafield, who’s a decorator and is mega-­talented. He even designed a dining room down in Magnolia Beach, Florida, that was featured in Elle Decor!” I couldn’t help noticing that Phil was roughly three times the size of Joe. His hand resembled a baseball mitt when he shook Joe’s much smaller paw.

  “I also do renovations,” said Joe, who stood up straight to his full height, which put him at chest level with Phil.

  Thankfully, since it was nighttime, he wasn’t carrying his usual tote bag of fabric samples and paint chips. I wasn’t sure Phil would be able to understand Joe’s passion for perfectly decorated rooms—­though, who knows, maybe he could? You don’t make it as far as Phil had in the restaurant business without an eye for good design.

  “Joe just ripped out a kitchen in Florida and totally rebuilt it,” I explained to Phil, since I wasn’t sure Sophie had presented her boyfriend in the best possible light. Probably referencing construction rather than Elle Decor was the way to go.

  “It was a complete gut job. Joe’s great on a job site!” I added.

  “That’s real interesting,” Phil said politely. “Well, you’re a lucky guy, Joe. Sophie’s a sweetheart. Nice to meet you.”

  With that, Phil took off for his hotel in A.C., while Joe gingerly seated himself on the bar stool Phil had just vacated. I could see him barely restraining himself from dusting it off with a cocktail napkin.

  “So that guy was one of Barclay’s good friends?” he asked Sophie, striving for a neutral tone as he waved down the bartender for a Stoli. I felt a bit badly for Joe. Between Gerda’s return from Florida and spending weeks on end arguing about potholders with Mrs. Earle, he wasn’t exactly having a fantastic summer. Plus Joe’s secure in who he is, but any one of Sophie’s former Jersey friends could squash him like a bug, which has to be unsettling

  “Lobster Phil’s basically the king of Vegas these days,” Bootsie informed him. “I did a little Googling earlier, and the guy has, like, not only his restaurant, but owns most of the casino it’s in, plus does retail and liquor on the side. I think he’s got a little crush on Sophie, too!”

  “Ya think?” said Sophie, looking excited. “He always did like me! It used to really annoy his girlfriend Diana-­Maria. He once gave me a Gucci suitcase for my birthday. It was real sweet of him. Which, by the way, is coming up in three weeks. My birthday, that is.” Here, she gave Joe a little hug and squeeze, and dangled her ring-­free left hand in front of his tumbler of vodka.

  “We could get Phil to take us up to Trenton to see some of his jeweler buddies,” she told Joe. “Or go to Vegas! He probably knows all the best diamond guys in Vegas, and you know they have huge rocks there! ­People probably have to pawn their wives’ good stuff all the time out there.”

  Joe, who rarely breaks a sweat, stood up, a sheen of perspiration on his tastefully tanned forehead, and Bootsie and I exchanged “uh-­oh” glances. I noticed his hands were trembling and an eyelid was twitching.

  “Sophie, I’ve given in on Versace plates and painting your shoe closet gold,” he said through clenched teeth. “I don’t even care anymore that you force me to watch American Horror Story: Hotel with Lady Gaga even though you know that show terrifies me.

  “But I’m not going to live in the same house as Gerda, and I’m definitely not going to buy a ring from a pawnbroker in a strip mall in Vegas!”

  “Ya don’t have to be so snooty about a preowned rock!” shrieked Sophie. “You’re always blabbing about how great antiques are. What are antiques except a fancier way of saying ‘used,’ anyway? If desks and chandeliers can be used by some old folks in the 1800s, how come a ring from those guys on Pawn Stars isn’t an antique, too?”

  I thought she had a point, but didn’t think it would be wise to voice an opinion. Plus a lot of what I sell at The Striped Awning doesn’t meet Joe’s standards for antiques, either, so it’s a bit of a touchy subject with me.

  “Because it isn’t! A ring once worn by a Real Housewife probably isn’t all that old!” Joe screamed back.

  Clearly, he’d gone too far, because the normally sweet-­tempered Sophie turned pink with rage, grabbed her gold Versace clutch bag, and made for the door. Her exit was quite effective, I thought admiringly.

  Unfortunately, she hadn’t driven to Gianni’s, so she was forced to turn around and come back to the bar, where Joe was gathering up his phone and making for the door, too. “I need a ride home,” she told Bootsie, a huge tear dropping down on her tiny face.

  “Don’t worry, I’m leaving,” said Joe. “And I’m going to stay in Holly’s guest room tonight.”

  “Good!” Sophie told him, looking sadder than I’d ever seen her. I gulped sadly, and followed a tearful Sophie and an uncomfortable Bootsie out to the parking lot.

  Maybe this really was the end of the unlikely Joe-­and-­Sophie pairing. Opposites attract, clearly, but were there differences finally pushing them too far apart?

  Chapter 22

  A GENTLE KNOCK on my back door woke me up at seven-­thirty the next morning. I peeked from my window, and saw John Dogs exploded out of my bedroom, hurtling down the stairs, barking and wagging in a frenzy of joy at reuniting with their owner, and after I showered and got dressed, we all piled into his huge SUV.

  “We’ll ride out to Gianni’s farm, get breakfast, and I’ll drop you back at The Striped Awning before lunch,” John told me. “And even though you have
n’t invited me, I’m coming to your reopening party this afternoon. I’ll bartend!”

  “Great!” I said, instantly forgiving him.

  I mean, how many guys will adopt every stray mutt in town and serve drinks at your antiques store party? He’d picked up Starbucks, too. I needed to forget about Lilly Merriwether. This guy was a keeper.

  AS WE PULLED up to Gianni’s farm, two Amish men in hats and simple clothing were waiting in the driveway, and greeted John with handshakes. Gianni, for his part, emerged from his farmhouse shaking his fist at the pasture.

  “These putana goats still doing nothing for me!” he told John. “We got, like, two drops of milk today. Plus they eating everything!”

  As predicted by the Colketts, overnight the goats had chewed through the fencing, mowed down the hydrangeas to stubs, and started in on the cushions for the outdoor sofas on Gianni’s patio.

  “These caprino a real pain in the ass!” Gianni raged. “They defective!”

  “Goats don’t respond well to yelling and stress,” John told the chef. “Which is why I asked the Stoltzfuses here to help you out, Chef.”

  “You guys from that flea market?” Gianni asked the two men suspiciously.

  “We’re cousins of the owners,” one answered.

  “Trust me, Chef, this will work out better for everyone,” John said reassuringly. “You can go back to what you do best—­restaurants—­and your goats will start producing a ton of great cheese.”

  “Okay,” agreed Gianni. “Maybe that work better for Gianni. You’re hired,” he told the two men, who nodded and headed toward the goat pasture, making a gentle clucking noise as they opened the gate.

  The herd ran joyfully toward the farmers, and we were about to leave when a black town car pulled up and a man in a sport coat emerged from the backseat.

  “Lobster Phil!” I said, waving. I paused when I saw the expression on Phil’s face as he walked toward Gianni. He didn’t look like usual charming self.

  “We need to talk,” he told the chef. “I’ve come across some information that gives me a lot of concerns about this goat place, and also another business I think you’re trying to sneak past me and Sweet Freddie.”

  “Uh, now not a good time,” said Gianni nervously, indicating the Stoltzfuses. “These guys my new employees, and I got to meet with them.”

  Phil paused, shading his eyes to observe the gamboling goats and their new management.

  “I see you’re lucky again,” he told Gianni. “I got respect for Amish ­people, so I’m leaving. We’ll talk later,” he added grimly.

  BOOTSIE WAS GLUGGING Paul Masson brandy into her mom’s punch bowl while John added ginger ale, seltzer, and fresh peach slices when Leena arrived at The Striped Awning that afternoon.

  “Hey, there,” Leena said. “Looks like this reopening’s going to be a real blowout!”

  “Any news about that missing package?” asked Bootsie, making a neat free throw with the empties into my recycling bin.

  “Nothing yet,” said Leena, unconcerned. “That’s working in the mail business for you, though! If I lost sleep over every package that got sidetracked, I’d be in the wrong line of work.”

  “Uh-­huh,” I said, thinking that this explained a lot. “Have some peach punch, Leena,” I added. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Sure,” said Leena. “By the way, Kristin, I brought you something.” She whipped a bright red shirt out of her handbag. “It’s a Pack-­N-­Ship polo in your size! I noticed that you took one of my uniforms the other day, and I wanted to tell you it’s okay!” She added an understanding wink. “The shirt you took is probably too big for you. You can bring it back anytime.”

  “Um—­thanks,” I said, glaring at Bootsie. “That’s really nice of you.”

  “I’m out of here,” said Joe, seeing Eula park her Miata across the street, and Honey Potts steering an old station wagon into the no-­parking zone in front of my shop.

  “Don’t leave,” I implored as a group including Skipper, Holly, George Fogle, Officer Walt, and the Colketts arrived, and Eula swung through the front door behind them. “Please help me with Eula and Mrs. Potts. And at least stay long enough to brag to the Colketts that you gave this place its makeover!”

  “Five minutes,” Joe agreed, gulping down some peach punch. He straightened his shoulders and plastered on a charming smile, while I sent thankful glances his way.

  “Mrs. Potts!” he said. “And Eula. Don’t you both look absolutely gorgeous today!”

  “SO ­PEOPLE BUY this kind of old stuff?” asked Mrs. Potts, apparently stymied as she eyed old crystal decanters on trays and embroidered footrests, looking her usual tanned, outdoorsy self in knee-­length green shorts and a crisp shirt. “ ’Cause these are the sort of knickknacks I’m always giving away to the town rummage sale.”

  “Half the store’s probably from your attic!” Joe agreed. “This one”—­here, he indicated me—­“gets all the stuff for this antiques store at flea markets, and out of the back of a van from some hippies out in Lancaster County.”

  “And you can make a living that way?” Honey asked with evident surprise, taking a suspicious sip of punch. She plunked it down on a silver tray and asked for a vodka, which Joe gallantly supplied.

  “Not really,” Joe told her. “I mean, Kristin’s working part-­time at the Pack-­N-­Ship, too, so that pretty much says it all.”

  “I give ya credit for trying.” Mrs. P. shrugged. “I’ll call Holly next time I’m doing a clean-­out, and you can have first pick.”

  “Thank you!” I told her gratefully as the Honey picked up a monogrammed serving spoon, inspected it, shook her head doubtfully, and made for the door—­but not before Bootsie aimed a question at her.

  “Any word on your painting?” Bootsie asked. “Heifer’s still missing, right, Mrs. P.?”

  Bootsie must have had a few servings of peach punch already, I realized, since this wasn’t a question most ­people would lob at the town’s preeminent doyenne. Honey’s expression turned more sour than usual, and she shook her head as she exchanged good-­byes with George and Holly.

  “Walt’s been doing his best, and George here has called everyone and their uncle in art circles from New York to Paris, so I still believe Heifer will be back,” she said, making a dignified exit.

  “That makes one of us,” said Joe. “Hey, guys,” he added to Tim and Tom, who were eyeing the pink, brown, and modern-­meets-­antique decor of my store. “Just to give you some background, I took a store full of crapola antiques and a single can of paint and gave this place its Palm Springs–meets–Provence cool factor. In one day,” he added smugly.

  “Cute,” said Tim dismissively. “It’s really got that roadside-­shack-­turned-­convenience-­store vibe.”

  “Remember that time we were coming back from an antiques show in Massachusetts and our car broke down, and the guy who towed us out of the ditch sold both antiques and homemade beef jerky out of his garage?” Tom asked him. “This kind of reminds me of that place.”

  Joe’s eyes bulged angrily, but before he had a chance to formulate a Colkett-­aimed insult, Holly gently steered him to the back seating area, grabbing George and me on the way.

  “I have a plan that will keep Sophie happy and buy you some time while you work on your commitment issues,” Holly informed Joe. “George has a connection for a ring that would be perfect for Sophie as preengagement bling. Something that’s flashy enough for Sophie, but doesn’t weigh more than she does.”

  “I’m nodding.” Joe nodded.

  “I got a call from some guy who says he was a driver on the Lady Gaga–Tony Bennett Cheek to Cheek Tour,” George told us. “He has an amethyst ring that Lady Gaga wore one night onstage, and he sent me a picture. Let me find it in my phone,” he added, scrolling through e-­mails.

  “Is it stolen?” asked Joe, al
armed.

  “No, it’s not stolen,” George informed him. “Well, it probably isn’t. This driver guy claims a lot of items from the tour were sold to benefit charity, and he got a good deal on it.”

  “Anyway, the guy’s girlfriend broke up with him, so he’s selling it for five hundred dollars, since it’s impossible to prove that Lady Gaga actually ever wore it,” Holly told Joe. “But if you mention the Gaga connection to Sophie, she’ll stop bothering you about those rings she saw in Town & Country.”

  Joe eyed George’s phone skeptically, and I took a look over his shoulder. The ring featured an oval-­shaped lavender stone framed by tiny diamonds in a simple, elegant setting.

  “It’s nice,” said Joe grudgingly.

  “It comes with a signed Lady Gaga photo,” Holly told him. “This is your best shot at getting Sophie to be almost-­engaged.”

  I knew Holly was right. When it comes to celebrities, the ring’s possible previous owner is Sophie’s hands-­down favorite, especially since the glamorous singer posed for Versace ads.

  This plan was a guaranteed win—­if Joe was willing to almost-­commit to Sophie.

  “I’m thinking,” said Joe.

  “While you think, you might want to head out the back if you want to avoid your possible fiancée right now,” Holly told him. “She and Gerda just parked in the loading zone in front.”

  “SO, EULA, I hear you’re doing some painting these days,” said George forty-­five minutes and two peach punches later. George isn’t much of a drinker, and he seemed a little sauced.

  “Eula did some nice still-­life paintings for the Tomato Show,” I told George. “I have a few of them here to sell,” I added, then wished I hadn’t as I remembered Joe telling me he’d shoved them in my storage room. It’s rare that I feel badly for Eula, but there was so much hate in the room for her that I had to say something positive.