Killer Punch Page 18

  “But Gianni don’t need this aggravation. I give up on megastore!” he added.

  “It’s not giving up when I told you I’d kill you. And here’s another piece of info: If you go behind my back, I’ll rip off your earlobes and mail them back to you in a birthday card,” Freddie announced.

  “Sure, whatever you say!” said Gianni. He grabbed his leather jacket and took his phone back from Lobster Phil. “I gonna get your organic cheese to you, Freddie, and we gonna make a ton of money from my restaurants. Don’t worry!”

  “The goat farm is under new management—­me,” Freddie returned. “But I want you to make sure the herd starts producing a ton of cheese, pronto.”

  “Sure, okay,” said Gianni. “Then I gotta get back to filming The Angry Chef. I save best table for you, you come visit in California and we have a great time!” Gianni said.

  “I better,” said Freddie.

  “I still can’t figure out who stabbed Gianni last week,” mused Bootsie. “So many ­people want to kill him.”

  “Ya don’t know?” said Lobster Phil. “I bribed a guy from The Trendy Tent. I heard Gianni had a fling with Diana-­Maria, and I was upset.”

  “I never sleep with her!” Gianni yelled. “I try to, but your girlfriend turn me down. You got a guy to stab me for no reason!”

  “Consider it a warning,” Phil told him.

  “I have a question for you, Mr., um, Sweet Freddie,” said Bootsie. “We have a friend, Holly Jones, who’d like to go ahead and open the wine store in the old garden shack. I was thinking of investing in it, too, if that’s okay with you.”

  Sweet Freddie cast an appraising eye at Bootsie.

  “How many square feet?” he asked.

  “About twenty-­five hundred,” she told him. “We’d do mostly wine, and obviously there’d be a cheese section. No hard liquor, and closed Sundays, with free tastings Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  Lobster Phil was nodding. “The area’s real beautiful, Freddie. Shame to see someone else like Sophie’s ex or this guy”—­here, he indicated Gianni, who was texting and shrugged, unabashed—­“ruin the trees and forest there. A small shop would be nice.”

  Freddie nodded, reaching out to shake first Bootsie’s hand.

  “I can see you know how to run a no-­bullshit operation!” he told her approvingly. “I had an aunt reminds me of you. I like tall girls.”

  “This one can eat like a dockhand, too!” Sophie told Freddie. “You should see her around a lasagna.”

  “Good for you,” said Freddie. “Call me if you come to Vegas. I approve of your wine store. Good luck!”

  “I steer paddleboards back across the river,” Gerda said. “Probably better if you meet me at car with these oldies,” she said, indicating the Binghams.

  “We’ll have Junior drive you across the bridge,” Phil agreed.

  “I just need one more quick favor,” Sophie pouted. “My ex and Diana-­Maria are in the Waterside Suite, and I have reason to believe he has seventeen pairs of my Gucci sandals with him. Diana-­Maria also wears a size five and a half, plus Barclay has a weird thing for ladies’ shoes,” she added by way of explanation. “Anyway, could I grab ’em back while he’s still out at dinner?”

  “He stole your shoes? That’s real disturbing,” Freddie said. He walked us down the hallway a few yards, and with a master key opened the door to a lavish suite with river views.

  “My sandals!” screamed Sophie, running toward a display of glittery platforms that had been arranged on a fireplace mantel. “Dang it, I forgot to bring a tote bag, and my Guccis are real delicate.”

  “No problem,” Bootsie told her, and pulled a blue nylon tube out of her pocket. She yanked a strap, and the L.L. Bean packable sink popped into shape. “This sink has twenty-­five-­liter capacity, so seventeen pairs of shoes are gonna be a perfect fit.”

  Chapter 24

  WE WERE IN Bootsie’s SUV on the way home from A.C. when my phone dinged with a text from Holly. “The Colketts are at my house, and they have news. Officer Walt’s coming over, and you need to get here ASAP.”

  “Maybe they did take the painting! Will we ever know where Heifer was for the last week?” Bootsie wondered. “And is it like the proverbial tree that fell in the forest, if that’s the phrase I’m looking for? On a cosmic level, do we need to know where it is?”

  “Maybe there is connection between the painting and the Wine Mart,” offered Gerda.

  “We got the Binghams back, and it looks like the Wine Mart is kaput, so maybe we should leave well enough alone,” I suggested.

  “Do you think, um, Louis Pasteur left well enough alone? Or George Washington or FDR or for that matter, L.L. Bean?” Bootsie demanded.

  “I hear you,” Sophie piped up. “I mean, think of Lady Gaga. Who else would have worn a dress entirely constructed of meat? Some ­people were born to push the envelope!”

  “How is meat dress pertinent to finding a painting?” asked Gerda.

  “It’s a metaphor,” said Bootsie. “Anyway, I predict within a week, my investigative skills will uncover the exact movements of Heifer in Tomato Patch.”

  AFTER WE DROPPED the Binghams at their house, we headed to Holly’s patio, lit by lanterns and with Brazilian music emanating from hidden speakers. The Colketts faced Officer Walt with tipsy but determined forthrightness.

  “We wanted to come clean before we head back to Beverly Hills,” said Tom. “I don’t think we did anything that’s too illegal,” he added hopefully.

  “It was all kind of a joke,” said Tim, “brought on by too much time with Eula bossing us around at that Tomato Party. And maybe one too many Bloody Marys. But just to be clear, we didn’t steal Heifer in Tomato Patch. However, we did see it after it was pilfered.”

  “This was all on the same night it went missing—­the night Gianni showed up at the club and got stabbed,” his business partner explained. “We were totally flustered, and went into the men’s locker room to sneak a cigarette when I happened to look up and notice Heifer hanging over the laundry bin. We knew it was the original, because for a cow painting, it was really special. I mean, the thing glowed.

  “We didn’t say anything,” Tom continued apologetically, “figuring it was right there for everyone to see, and you’d find it in, like, fifteen minutes. But the next morning, Heifer was still missing, and we were going to tell you it was in the locker room. But when we got to the country club, it was gone and replaced by a portrait of one of the past club presidents from, like, 1920, so we kept our mouths shut.”

  “Then a ­couple days ago, we were at the storage locker we rent out by the highway, because we remembered we had some amazing chairs that once might have belonged to Bette Davis and are super-­sexy, clubby numbers in black lacquer that would be perfect for the foyer at Gianni’s place in L.A.,” Tim said.

  “And while we were at our storage space, we found a ­couple of kitschy paintings we bought from the guy who sells corndogs out at Stoltzfus’s Flea Market,” he continued. “We thought they’d be perfect for a client with a sense of humor who wanted, like, a tavern in their paneled basement or something. Anyway, one of them was an identical copy of Heifer in Tomato Patch. We snuck over to the country club and hung it up in the Camellia Room. It was a hoot!”

  “We also found a fake Picasso that we boxed up and dropped at the Pack-­N-­Ship to be delivered to Gianni at the Beverly Hills restaurant,” Tom said. “We mail him stuff anonymously all the time.”

  “Last month we sent him a leather toilet seat and a case of Spam,” Tim said. “Seeing him get mad helps when you’re working twenty-­two-­hour days. Anyway, then I realized I always kind of liked that Picasso fake. So on Monday morning, we stopped back at the Pack-­N-­Ship, and while Tom distracted Leena at the front counter, I went around back and stole our painting back from her storeroom. Which probably isn’t a crime—�
�right?”

  “Uh-­huh,” said Walt, who’d given up on taking notes. His face registered surprise and consternation. “So you saw the real Heifer painting at the club on the night it went missing. But then it was gone the next morning, and you never saw it again.”

  “Exactly,” said Tom, jumping up. “And if it’s okay, we’ve got Uber waiting again outside and heading right to the airport. We need to be back at Gianni’s new restaurant at eight tomorrow morning. This has been fun!”

  Chapter 25

  GERDA’S PILATES STUDIO launched the following Monday, and classes immediately sold out for the next two months. Part two of the Tomato Show opened the same afternoon, and Mrs. Potts gave her lecture about tomatoes, pastoral art, and Hasley Huntingdon-­Mews. Unfortunately, her prized painting was still missing, since no one had been able to trace its movements after the Colketts had seen it in the men’s locker room. As for Eula Morris, all week she’d been avoiding Bootsie, who’d wanted to grill Eula about the copy of Heifer the Colketts had bought at Stoltzfus’s.

  “That speech was real boring,” Sophie announced after Mrs. Potts wound up her forty-­five-­minute monologue. “But I’m happy for Mrs. Potts. Let’s go check out these veggies!”

  Rows of white tables groaned under robust, carefully manicured plants from which dangled every size, shape, and color of tomato. I looked at Beefsteaks, Mortgage Lifters, Mr. Stripeys, and Yellow Pears, which all looked delicious, but left me wondering—­were they worth making secret trips to a Jersey greenhouse?

  Just then, I saw Lilly Merriwether give Bootsie a hug, then head in the direction of the parking lot.

  “Lilly’s gone again!” Bootsie told me four seconds later. “Heading back to Connecticut. She and her boyfriend are back together.”

  “Great!” I said, barely restraining a fist pump and a jig. I could breathe again, safe in the knowledge that Lilly and her Lacoste tennis outfits would be ruining the days of other women farther up the East Coast, and that I could go to the Pub and the grocery store without bracing myself for sightings of her willowy blond form.

  I paused to look at a blue ribbon placed on a plant bursting with neat orange tomatoes. “First Prize for Sun Golds: Eula Morris.”

  “Guess what!” shrieked Eula, arriving at the table and apparently out of hiding. “That painting George saw at your shop, Kristin, is a small Huntingdon-­Mews. And it’s worth, like, fifty thousand dollars! George just called me. They had to ship it to England to some expert there, and they just got word!”

  I was floored. I’d almost forgotten about Eula’s possible windfall from the canvas upon which she’d painted her own tomato still life. Bootsie’s mouth fell open, and Holly did an eye roll and left to go talk to the Binghams about their Sweet 100s, which had come in second place.

  “I’m rich!” said Eula, then picked up her tiny feet and did a happy dance.

  “Not so fast—­you should split that money with Kristin,” Bootsie told Eula. “You never would have found out the painting was worth anything if she hadn’t offered to sell it at The Striped Awning. You would have sold your crappy tomato painting at Stoltzfus’s for seventy-­five dollars if Kristin hadn’t been willing to take it on in her store.”

  “No, it’s fine,” I said, embarrassed. “The painting belongs to Eula. I was only going to take ten percent commission if it sold at the shop.”

  “You could give her ten percent, Eula,” Sophie suggested. “That would be the least ya can do for Kristin, and what’s a measly five grand when you’ll still be getting, like, forty-­five thousand dollars?”

  I could see Eula wrestling in her mind about the ten percent. She’s not all that good at hiding her emotions, and her face registered dismay, confusion, a twinge of guilt, and greed.

  “Also, Eula, if you don’t hand over Kristin’s ten percent, I’ll tell the tomato committee you grew your Early Girls in New Jersey, and they’ll strip you of your first place ribbon,” Bootsie said, making a bomb-­detonating hand gesture. “Boom! Does that help you make up your mind?”

  Eula’s expression changed instantly, adopting instant regret.

  “That sounds fair,” she said. “It’s gonna take a month to get the canvas restored, and then George said he’ll put it in an auction in early September. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Thank you so much!” I told her, genuinely elated. Five grand would enable me to pay off almost all my bills, catch up on rent on The Striped Awning, and hopefully cut back my hours at the Pack-­N-­Ship to every other weekend.

  “By the way,” said Eula with a shrug, “now that I’m getting this huge windfall of cash, and we’re being all honest here, you know that fake Heifer in Tomato Patch that was returned to the club last week? I did paint it.”

  “I knew it!” yelled Bootsie.

  “I was scared to admit it to Walt,” Eula told us. “I didn’t want him to think I’d stolen the original. And I honestly don’t know how my copy got to the club. I sold it at Stoltzfus’s last summer, and I painted it more than a year ago after I took a garden club tour at Mrs. Potts’s place and was able to sneak a few pics of it.

  “Well, I better go get on my computer and start planning how to spend all this cash!” Eula added, picking up a ­couple of tomato plants and the accompanying blue ribbons. Just as she tripped happily up the porch steps, a giant vegetable flew down from the top floor of the club and squashed onto Eula’s head.

  “It was only a four-­pounder,” said Holly. “We got it overnighted from a farmer in Wisconsin who won the state fair this year. That was still pretty awesome though.”

  “THAT PAINTING CASH is enough to get rid of Eula for a few months,” said Holly five minutes later, after Eula had stormed out, covered in tomato. “She’ll go on a great vacation somewhere, but it’s not enough for that cruise.” She sighed tragically. “If I know Eula, she’ll rent a house in Hilton Head or Barbados, blow through the money, and be back in three months.”

  “At least we’ll be Eula-­free for most of the fall,” I said, looking around the tomato exhibits, which had a festive air. I couldn’t help noticing that the event was your basic country-­club festivity—­very pretty, with white tablecloths and a few bunches of hydrangeas on the tables, and Abby the waitress passing around pigs in a blanket.

  The club was back to normal!

  “Where are Gianni’s sous-­chefs?” I asked Holly. “And why isn’t the customized smoker turning out short ribs that have been marinated for forty-­eight hours and gently massaged?”

  “Gianni flew back to Los Angeles last night, and he told his staff to go back to his restaurant,” Holly said. “Skipper is back in the kitchen. The Colketts left, too.”

  “Are you going to tell the committee about Eula’s secret greenhouse?” I asked Bootsie.

  “I decided to keep that piece of information, and the photos, which are date-­ and time-­stamped, to myself—­for now,” Bootsie said, with a slightly evil smile. “You never know when we’re going to need a favor from Eula.”

  “Speaking of Eula,” said Holly, “that Powerball drawing is tonight, and I have a very strong feeling we’re going to win. Does anyone know how much the jackpot’s up to this week? Is it enough to get rid of Eula permanently?”

  “Are you gonna try to win Powerball and then hire someone to take out Eula?” breathed Sophie. “Because that can backfire. Barclay told me that professional hit men always come back for more money!”

  At this, Holly went to the bar, got some water, and popped three aspirin, while I explained quickly to Sophie that the plan was to make Eula’s dream vacation happen—­not have her killed.

  “The mega-­jackpot’s up to $256 million, because no one’s won for like two months,” Bootsie told me, after doing some quick iPhone Googling. “They keep putting all the cash back into the award pool, so it’s huge for tomorrow’s drawing.”

  “Two hundred
fifty-­six million,” echoed Sophie, elated. “That would be so awesome! If I won Powerball, I’d tell Barclay to go screw himself and buy those poor goats from Gianni and Sweet Freddie! I’m gonna stop at the deli after this and get, like, five tickets for myself!”

  “Uh-­huh,” said Bootsie skeptically. “So if you win, you’re going to spend a quarter of a billion dollars on goat cheese?”

  “What else?” asked Sophie. “I mean, I’d give some to charity, too, and take care of my relatives in Jersey, plus I’d probably hit Neiman’s, but mostly I keep thinking about those little goats.”

  “Sounds like work,” said Bootsie. “Plus wouldn’t you have to make good on Gianni’s deal to provide organic goat cheese to a bunch of restaurants in Las Vegas?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” said Sophie. “Those Amish guys, the Stoltzfuses, we met out at Gianni’s place are super-­nice. I think they could do their own deal with Sweet Freddie and Lobster Phil, and make it a real legit business. It would be good for everyone! The farmers would make beaucoup cash, and Phil and Freddie might learn a few lessons about respectable business­people who will never let them down, overcharge them, or dump them feet-­first in Absecon Bay!”

  “I guess,” said Bootsie doubtfully.

  “See you gals later!” Sophie sang out, grabbing her handbag and heading for the club parking lot. “It’s Powerball time and I gotta pick all my lucky numbers!”

  BY EIGHT THAT night, we were all at the Bryn Mawr Pub, where we ordered the one-­hundred-­wing bucket and pitchers of beer. John had joined us, and we were catching him up on Eula’s fifty-­thousand-­dollar pentimento painting, plus the well-­aimed giant tomato that Joe had neatly dropped from a third-­floor window.

  “Hey, isn’t that Abby from the club?” Bootsie asked, pointing a half-­eaten wing in the direction of the dartboard in the back room. “Hey, Abby, over here!” she shouted, and Abby waved and walked to the front of the bar to squeeze into our booth next to Bootsie.