Killer Punch Page 17

  “Where are my paintings?” asked Eula. “ ’Cause I don’t see them hanging anywhere in the shop.”

  “Um—­I’m saving them for when I officially reopen tomorrow!” I improvised. “I know they’re going to sell right away, and I didn’t want to have to stop in the middle of the party to run the credit card machine.”

  We all trooped into the back room, where Eula looked annoyed to see her artwork under a tarp and behind a Swiffer, but George waited patiently while Eula pulled out the three paintings and told him they were inspired by Cezanne, but with more veggies than fruit. George half listened while he examined the third canvas, which had an ornate gold frame complete with baroque carvings of birds, leaves, and trompe l’oeil swags. As Eula rattled on about her brushwork, George inspected the edges of the tiny third painting, and stepped back to stare at the canvas from a distance of several feet, then interrupted her.

  “Eula, do you remember what was underneath your painting?” he asked. “Was it a landscape—­maybe with a river?”

  Eula thought for a moment and nodded.

  “You know what, it was a landscape, but the colors were really dull,” she said. “I got it for fifteen bucks at the flea market, which I thought was worth it since the frame is so nice.”

  “If it’s okay with you, I’m going to borrow this for a few days and take it to New York with me tomorrow,” George told her, carefully tucking the painting under his arm. “I’ll call you in the morning to get you to sign some paperwork, since I’m going to need to remove some paint from the lower right hand corner of the canvas.”

  With that, George told Eula he thought her tomatoes had been painted on top of a small oil study by Honey Potts’s favorite artist, Hasley Huntingdon-­Mews, and that a similar tiny work by the same artist had sold the previous month for sixty thousand dollars.

  GEORGE LEFT BY the back door with Eula’s painting. Stunned, I went back out front and downed some peach punch while Eula wandered out glassy-­eyed with shock.

  When John showed up, I gave him the quick version of Eula’s possible good fortune as Bootsie listened skeptically.

  “George Fogle is wrong a lot,” she told Eula. “I wouldn’t get too excited if I were you.”

  “If you did suddenly get a massive amount of cash, you still want to sail around the world, though, right?” asked Holly hopefully.

  “I guess so,” said Eula. “Although I’m loving my new job at the Gazette! Did you see my story about Gianni’s goat farm today?”

  “Eula, once again, you missed the real story,” Bootsie told her. “Gianni’s goats aren’t producing any goat cheese. He’s been buying up chevre all over town, and repackaging it as his own.”

  “Uh-­huh, sure,” said Eula skeptically. “Bootsie, I know you’re mad that we’re competing for front-­page stories now, but you don’t have to make up lies.”

  “I’m not lying!” screamed Bootsie. “Gianni went behind his mafia investors’ backs to start this goat cheese gig, and he’s one of the secret owners of the Mega Wine Mart. He might be dead by next week if those goats don’t start making some cheese!”

  Eula stared at Bootsie for a minute, then doubled over laughing.

  “You’re hilarious!” Eula told her. “Well, I’ve gotta go. George said he’s heading back to New York tonight, and who knows, maybe he’ll call me with great news about my painting!” With that, she headed to her Miata and drove away.

  “That girl is super annoying,” observed Gerda.

  “That’s it,” said Holly, downing her peach punch and picking up her handbag to leave. “I can’t look at Eula in one more beige outfit. I’m done.”

  “You going to have her kidnapped?” asked Gerda. “I don’t want to do anything too illegal, but maybe I could help.”

  “I’m still counting on the Powerball ticket to permanently remove Eula,” Holly told her. “Right now, I’m calling Saks and having an entire wardrobe sent to her house tomorrow.”

  THE NEXT MORNING, I was just emerging from a ten-­hour sleep of pure bliss when Bootsie called.

  “Didn’t you get my texts last night?” she demanded.

  “I turned off my phone.”

  “There was an incident at Gianni’s, and this time, it’s serious!”

  Bootsie had actually gone out to dinner with her own husband; she and Will had secured Table 11, which, she informed me, is well known among Gianni’s regulars as being perfectly positioned mid-­restaurant, with unobstructed views of both the bar and the dining room. Gianni and Abby hadn’t arrived when she and Will were seated by the hostess, but had shown up several minutes later, with Gianni working the room and greeting customers for a few minutes, then sitting with Abby at a candlelit table back by the patio.

  “They ordered Nonna Claudia’s famous spaghetti alla chitarra, so I figured if Gianni was getting it, it must be the best thing on the menu,” Bootsie told me. “I was waving down our waiter to ask for the same thing when I noticed the Binghams were seated up by the front window, and Gianni left Abby to go talk to them, which was weird, because who knew the Binghams were friends with Gianni?”

  “That is odd,” I agreed, heading for the bathroom to brush my teeth.

  ”So then the Binghams got into a testy conversation with Gianni, which isn’t like them at all, and then Mr. Bingham said he was real confused by the papers Gianni sent over earlier that day . . . which apparently mentioned Mega Wine Mart instead of Maison de Booze.”

  “We should have known Gianni was involved.” I sighed.

  “From what I could hear, it sounded like the Binghams really did only agree to allow the Maison de Booze,” Bootsie said. “That’s why they were upset. Things got heated, and Gianni told them they should go outside and have some wine on the patio. So the three of them went out there, still arguing, and then I stopped trying to listen, because my spaghetti had just been served, and fresh pasta can’t wait.”

  “Uh-­huh,” I said, carrying my phone downstairs to fire up the coffeemaker.

  “Apparently, two guys in leather sport coats then showed up and the Binghams and Gianni left with them,” Bootsie said. “In a town car. And they didn’t come back.”

  I digested this for a minute. “Do you mean the two guys kidnapped them?”

  “Um—­probably?” said Bootsie. “I was eating, so I didn’t see the incident.”

  “I thought you said you had Table 11 and that you were facing the whole restaurant and parking area! How did you miss a kidnapping?”

  “You know how I am with pasta,” admitted Bootsie. “I got distracted. But Abby saw the whole thing. She said it was totally peaceful and nonviolent, no guns or anything, so she waited twenty minutes, and finally gave up and went home.

  “But the more I thought about it, there’s no way Gianni would voluntarily leave a date with Abby,” she said. “So maybe he’s been abducted.”

  “You need to call Sophie,” I said.

  “THIS IS CLASSIC Jersey revenge,” Sophie told me, Bootsie, and Gerda forty-­five minutes later. We were in Sophie’s pretty but empty living room. “Also, it sounds like Phil was involved, since he keeps asking about Mega Wine Mart.”

  “I can’t believe Phil would kidnap Gianni and the Binghams,” I said. “He seems so nice. Except for when he talks about Diana-­Maria.”

  “Phil is nice, but you don’t want to screw him over,” Sophie told us. “Let me give him a call and see what’s up.”

  She disappeared outside for a minute, talking animatedly on her cell phone.

  “Phil’s with the Binghams, and he said that now he knows they really are clueless,” Sophie reported when she came back inside. “They told him they signed all the papers thinking it was going to be that Maison de Booze. All of this is some secret deal cooked up Gianni and my ex.

  “The problem is that Phil and Sweet Freddie are supposed to get right of
first refusal on any of Gianni’s business deals, but Gianni and Barclay didn’t tell Freddie about the Wine Mart. And,” Sophie added, looking worried, “Sweet Freddie’s behind the kidnapping.”

  “Sweet Freddie!” I shrieked, worried about the tipsy older ­couple. “The fingernail guy? The Binghams aren’t cut out for dealing with tough guys.”

  “What if that happens to the Binghams!” screamed Bootsie. “There’s not enough white zinfandel in the world to numb that kind of pain!”

  “That was a one-­time deal with the fingernails,” Sophie told us, sitting down on the floor and drumming her manicure on the wood floor. “Once he did that, no one ever messed with Sweet Freddie again.

  “Anyway, the Binghams are fine—­a little confused, but Phil got them a few bottles of wine, and said they’re being well taken care of in an undisclosed location,” Sophie said. “The Binghams think they’re on vacation, and they keep asking if there will be dancing later.”

  “Are they in A.C.?” asked Bootsie hopefully.

  “I thought so at first, too,” Sophie said, “but then I remembered Phil’s favorite place to take ­people he kidnaps: Midnight Tony’s Frog Creek Inn. It’s real secluded.

  “I know the security guy there, and I heard him greet Phil just now when we were talking on the phone,” she added. “We need to head down there right now, because not only should we spring the Binghams, I heard another real familiar voice in the background—­my ex, Barclay!”

  Chapter 23

  “IS SWEET FREDDIE at this Frog Creek place, too?” I asked once we had piled into Bootsie’s car, which I assumed would be heading to the Bryn Mawr Police Station.

  Now that I thought about it, I was pretty sure I’d once read a story about Sweet Freddie in Time magazine at the dentist’s office, and it had not been a glowing portrayal. Sure, the guy was an avid consumer of candy, but his nickname was one meant ironically, since fingernails weren’t the only thing Freddie was known to rip from victims when he was in a bad mood.

  “I wouldn’t worry too much. He barely ever kills anyone,” Sophie reassured us.

  “I’m not sure we’re the best ones to solve a kidnapping!” I told her and Bootsie, noticing Bootsie had turned left toward the highway when she should have turned right toward town. “I mean, isn’t this a problem for Walt? Or, you know, the FBI?”

  “I promised Phil I wouldn’t call anyone in law enforcement,” Sophie said. “He thinks he can get this whole thing straightened out by 10 p.m.”

  “Great—­we should probably stay home then!”

  “Well.” Sophie hesitated. “Sometimes Freddie doesn’t make good on his word. But he loves me, so we should be fine if I’m there to smooth things over. Probably,” she added.

  “Walt’s a police officer!” I protested. “Sophie, you’ve been away from dealing with guys like Phil and Freddie for a few years now. You’re out of practice. And Bootsie’s terrible in this kind of situation. She always goes off script. We’ll all end somewhere deep in a defunct quarry!”

  “Trust me,” Sophie said confidently. “You can take the girl out of Jersey, but you can’t take the Jersey out of the girl! I’ll have the Binghams sprung by midnight.”

  “Count me in,” said Bootsie.

  “I help, too,” said Gerda.

  “Don’t count me in!” I said, but Bootsie was already zooming up the on-­ramp toward Jersey.

  “If I was Gianni, though, I’d have headed back to L.A. before I got kidnapped,” Sophie added thoughtfully. “Phil and Freddie really hate him.”

  MIDNIGHT TONY’S FROG Creek Inn was down a secluded road just past Midnight Tony’s restaurant. The setting would have been adorable, if we hadn’t been dealing with a kidnapping. There was a boathouse and a pretty little wooden bridge over what I guessed was the eponymous creek, which indeed was filled with the loud croaking of five-­pound bullfrogs in an amorous summer mood.

  The building was a two-­story mansion evoking Charleston or Savannah, with waterfront terraces and wide glass doors that afforded a view of a swanky, glitzy lobby.

  Purple spotlights framed the front portico, and electronic music pulsated, which added to the party vibe . . . crystal and gold chandeliers sparkled inside the front doors, and the concierge desk was made of purple quilted leather . . . it all looked oddly familiar to me.

  Then it clicked.

  “Sophie, this place looks like a giant version of your old house when you were married to Barclay!” I whispered.

  “We had the same designer come out to Pennsylvania and go crazy with crystals and the purple marble. Which Joe then ripped out.” She paused, looking sad for a minute. “To be honest, it was a little too much purple for Pennsylvania, but that doesn’t mean I won’t do something similar just to spite Joe if I have to.”

  “Well, anyway, the vibe is really fun,” I said.

  “I would not call it fun, having to dust of all those lights, and replace the bulbs probably every day, creating a ton of discarded landfill light bulbs,” Gerda said, casting a critical eye skyward. “Ton of work and waste of not only energy, but think of the Windex they gotta use. This place make no sense.”

  “I can’t let you in,” said Junior, Sophie’s security guard/doorman buddy when we got to the little bridge. He pulled a regretful face. “Boss’s orders.” He leaned in to whisper. “But I can tell you that your ex-­husband’s here.”

  “Barclay?” said Sophie. “We’re still married, by the way! What’s he doing here?”

  “He showed up about thirty minutes ago, with Mr. LaMonte’s girlfriend Diana-­Maria,” Junior told her. “And Mr. LaMonte is real mad!”

  Sophie’s face froze.

  “Were my ex and Diana-­Maria, like, together romantically?” she said.

  “Looked like it,” Junior said regretfully. “I’m real sorry.”

  “Not as sorry as he’s gonna be,” shouted Sophie, who, though she’s been dating Joe for more than a year, has always maintained that Barclay shouldn’t be allowed to see other women—­to make up for all the ones he saw during their marriage.

  “Anyway,” said Junior, looking uncomfortable, “I’m not allowed to let anyone into the hotel today. There’s some kind of big meeting going on, and it’s private.”

  He indicated the closed gate. “Sorry, Mrs. Shields,” he said as Sophie waved a handful of twenties at him. “I’d let ya in, but my wife had a baby last month, and if I get fired, or if Phil kills me, I’ll feel real guilty about letting my family down.”

  BOOTSIE DROVE BACK down the lane, now shrouded in darkness, took a left into a grove of pine trees, then turned off the engine.

  “Lucky for us, I’ve been too busy to unpack the car since I got back from Maine,” she said. “I only wish Will hadn’t gotten the kayaks off the roof, but I might have something even better.” She popped open the trunk and grabbed two bundles of yellow nylon and various gadgets including foot pumps, bungee cords, and paddles.

  “You got two of the twelve-­foot Adventurer Inflatable paddleboards?” asked Gerda, impressed. “I help you inflate.”

  In four minutes flat, Bootsie and Gerda had inflated and were paddling the yellow nylon boards across Frog Creek, while Sophie and I perched precariously on the watercraft.

  “You think there are snakes in this river?” asked Gerda. “Sophie, if I were you, I’d keep your feet out of water. Looks snakey to me.”

  Once across the creek, it was easy to find the Binghams, since their hotel suite was right on the water, and they were waving from their terrace. They greeted us enthusiastically, and we trooped inside a large, tasteful suite, where Lobster Phil, Gianni, and a turtlelike man who could only be Sweet Freddie awaited.

  “Freddie, hiya!” said Sophie, and the little man broke a smile.

  “Sophie, you got gumption. You take up rafting or something since I last saw ya?”

 
“I really wanted to see you and tell you in person that these two”—­here, she pointed at the Binghams—­“are innocent. Ya can let them go,” she added in a whisper, “and they probably won’t remember this happened by tomorrow.”

  “These gentlemen have been so nice,” said Mrs. Bingham. “I mean, they went out last night and got us a case of our favorite white zinfandel, and just look at this Brie and cracker tray.” She smiled at Lobster Phil. “I’m still not sure which one of you is Barry Tutto, but this has been a real hoot.”

  “It’s probably a fake name! And there might not even be a Maison de Booze,” Bootsie told her. “There’s been a lot of double-­dealing, Mrs. Bingham.”

  The Binghams looked at Gianni with an expression in which tipsiness and hurt were commingled.

  “You said the town would love Maison de Booze,” Mr. Bingham said.

  “They would,” Bootsie said, “except that it’ll be torn down in eight weeks for a superstore.”

  “So you weren’t joking?” said Mr. Bingham. “And who’s Barry Tutto? Is it you?” he asked Sweet Freddie.

  Sweet Freddie gave a death glare to Gianni. “You explain,” he ordered the chef.

  “A little joke,” said Gianni. “Bere tutto means drink up in Italian. Cute little name for a development partnership that Barclay and I put together!”

  Sweet Freddie looked annoyed. “I told you I’d kill you if you tried to open a liquor business without giving me a cut,” he informed Gianni. “And I didn’t get a phone call about either a Maison de Whatever, or a Mega Wine Mart.”

  “This was naughty of you,” Mrs. Bingham said to Gianni, looking disappointed.

  “Hey, I tried, not everything always work out, even for Gianni!” said Gianni, shrugging. “I know ­people like to get drunk, I figure we open the little wine store and Sweet Freddie here never know about it. Then I was gonna ask you about the megastore!” he told the imposing little man in front of him.