Killer Getaway Page 4
As per usual, women at every single table in the restaurant were staring at the hunky chef, and anyone who had the bad luck to be seated outside was straining to get him in her sightline. This was impressive, since most of the women were over sixty-five, but the beefcake that is Channing crosses all age lines. Men were staring, too: This wasn’t surprising, since even in Bryn Mawr, where people tend to be pretty restrained, everyone, whether straight or gay, had a crush on Channing. Here in South Florida, with palm trees rustling and fresh-squeezed cocktails on every table, he looked even hotter.
I noticed that Bootsie’s mouth was hanging open as she took in the sight of Channing, who she’s always had the hots for. Sophie, meanwhile, actually caressed the chef’s left bicep as she squeaked, “Hiya, Channing!”
“Hi,” added a second, somewhat bored-sounding girlish voice from behind Channing.
Jessica, the restaurant manager and Channing’s girlfriend, had teetered out to say hello to us, which was about all she usually says. She’s not exactly unfriendly, Jessica, but she’s not the effusive type, either. Her pedicured feet were shod in her ever-present Louboutins, this time a pair of teetery, glossy black patent sandals, and she wore white jeans and a silver tank top on her skinny frame. Her injured wrist had a small bandage wrapped around it, but she appeared the same as usual: beautiful and somewhat sour.
Jessica’s permanent expression is one of mild contempt for all of humanity, unless she’s looking at Channing, who brings out a sunnier side to her personality. She also seems to like Holly and Joe, and from what I’d observed of her design skills and work ethic, Jessica’s actually a pretty determined person.
“I hope you guys are enjoying yourselves,” Channing said. “How’s the pizza? We had the oven specially constructed in Naples and installed by Neapolitan stonemasons. It hits eleven hundred degrees no problem.”
“The pizza looks really good,” Holly told him. “If I ate carbs, I’m sure I’d love it.”
“It is really good,” said Bootsie, back to chewing.
“Everything’s awesome,” Sophie agreed. She adopted a stern, scolding tone, which was at odds with her outfit: a cropped pink silk top and matching miniskirt, plus a large gold Versace necklace. “But Channing, seriously, I got two hundred grand sunk in this place, and I need you out here in the dining room, schmoozing. No one gives a crap about the food! They just want to see your hot bod!
“Sorry, Jessica,” she added to the bored-looking girl, who shrugged, unperturbed. “But we need Channing to get his flirt on with these older gals. And you could be a little friendlier yourself to the husbands, Jessica. I mean, smile once in a while! Maybe you need some Saint-John’s-wort or something! Because people spend more when you butter them up. When I worked in the concrete biz, I used to . . .”
Then, all of a sudden, Sophie paused, clasped her tiny cocktail ringed hand to her mouth, pointed dramatically toward the front doors of the restaurant, and squeaked, “Look!”
“SÍ, I HAVE arrived in Florida!” shouted a tall, thin bald guy in parachute pants, Crocs, and a white chef’s jacket, who’d just entered Vicino and now stood in the foyer. Gold earrings gleamed in each earlobe.
“Gianni has come to show this town what a real restaurant is!” added Chef Gianni Brunello, famed (at least in Philadelphia) Italian restaurateur, and the previous employer of both Channing and Jessica. Holly, Joe, and I exchanged horrified glances.
“Am I hallucinating from the Xanax?” Joe whispered. “Chef Gianni’s in Magnolia Beach?” Next to Gianni stood a tall, slim girl in a clingy black dress, her long dark hair in a perfect ponytail. I assumed this was his new girlfriend, since she rolled her eyes at his pronouncement, opened her small handbag, and began texting.
Gianni has always been able to get beautiful girls—such as Jessica and the willowy, dark-haired model type he’d just arrived with— to go out with him, but they seem to tire quickly of his frequent outbursts and tantrums. On the plus side, Gianni’s always going somewhere like Rome or St. Bart’s to check out hot new restaurants, so there’s some travel involved in dating him.
“I get sick of winter and decide to come see what Channing has done down here,” Gianni continued with typical lack of modesty, shouting over the music as curious heads swiveled at every table to take in his entrance.
“Plus, I want to see what my backstabbing bitch ex-girlfriend’s up to!” He aimed this last comment at Jessica, who had frozen like a Popsicle at the sight of her ex.
“Hey, Chef, take it easy,” said Channing politely, attempting to defuse the situation, since Gianni’s face was turning purple with rage. “Can I get you a drink?”
Jessica, for her part, came back to life and disappeared through swinging doors into the kitchen.
“No, I just look around,” Gianni responded, appearing to calm down a little as he eyed the convivial long bar, the mosaic floors, the warm orange walls and comfortable upholstered banquettes. He looked up at the charming antique chandeliers and out at the lantern-lit patio. Every table and bar stool was filled, and waiters were buzzing by with plates of grilled meats and seafood and inviting cocktails. The scent of jasmine votive candles and huge arrangements of orange blossoms added to the exotic appeal. To me, the place emanated fun, glamour, and Florida chic.
Apparently, Gianni didn’t agree.
“Poof!” said Gianni finally, kissing his fingers in what I took to be a dismissive gesture. “Channing, your place looks like something for the fast food! I mean, you got orange walls like a hamburger joint!”
Just then, Chef Gianni noticed Holly. He loves Holly: Not only is she gorgeous but she always hires him to cater her parties at home, since Gianni is undeniably a fantastic talent in the kitchen. His mood improved immediately.
“Holleeee Jones!” he screamed. “And Sophie Shields! Two of my favorite ladies!” Gianni paused to do some dramatic fawning over Sophie and Holly, while his dark-haired new girlfriend found a seat at the bar and ordered what appeared to be a shot of Jägermeister. I felt for her—it had to be embarrassing and uncomfortable to see her boyfriend scream at Jessica, whose exit to South Florida he clearly hadn’t gotten over.
“And is perfect timing I see you two girls,” he told Holly and Sophie, rudely ignoring the rest of our table. “Because I got big news. Look through the window, right over there!”
Gianni, heedless of the fact that he was impeding passing waiters, stood in the middle of the dining room and pointed dramatically through the open French doors toward a building situated directly across Ocean Boulevard.
In the large front window, a huge white banner had been hung, with a spotlight illuminating words that proclaimed in navy script “Opening this Sunday: Ristorante Gianni Mare!”
Chapter 5
AT 8:30 A.M. the next morning, we convened a poolside meeting at the house on Bahama Lane to download and dissect the appearance of Chef Gianni in Magnolia Beach.
The reaction among our group wasn’t too positive. Gianni’s a genius with seafood and pasta, but he wouldn’t receive four stars on a Yelp review as someone you wanted to spend your vacation with.
“When did Gianni get here?” Bootsie asked, buttering a homemade carrot muffin. “Because if he’s been down for a few days, it was probably him behind the wheel of the Death Chevy the other night. He definitely hates Jessica enough to run her down in an alley.”
“Gianni loves me!” protested Holly, who was wearing yoga pants and a tank top, stretching in anticipation of a 10:00 a.m. workout class. “I spent seventeen thousand dollars on one dinner he catered last summer. He wouldn’t run me over with a Chevy.”
She paused for a second. “Well, maybe he would.”
“He’d kill you in five seconds if you were standing in the way when he was going after Jessica,” Joe told her, forking into a fluffy spinach and Manchego omelette that Martha had customized for him.
He’d arrived with Sophie ten minutes before, dressed in impeccable khakis and a crisp lavender shirt, but with slightly bloodshot eyes, courtesy of his Scotch-and-Xanax hangover. The omelette seemed to be having an invigorating effect, though, and his hands were no longer trembling as he forked in the awesome egg dish.
“Gianni told me last night that he only got to Magnolia Beach yesterday,” Holly shrugged. “So he couldn’t have been the one who almost ran us over. Though, obviously, he could be lying.”
Holly took one for the team the night before when she invited Gianni and his dark-haired companion to go out for drinks at Tiki Joe’s while the rest of us finished dinner at Vicino. This gave Holly time to pump the Italian chef for information about his new restaurant, and it also got Gianni out of Vicino before he caused even more of a scene.
During the two-block stroll to Tiki Joe’s, and, subsequently, over a couple of rums at its convivial bar, Gianni told Holly that he and his new girlfriend, whose name was Olivia and who was an aspiring model/actress/singer, were staying at The Breakers, along with a small entourage of staff and decorators who were installing the interior of his new Magnolia Beach restaurant.
“It’s going to be mostly seafood—that’s the mare part—and some pastas and grilled meats. The space was the old Peacock restaurant, which closed a couple months ago, so it has a full kitchen already, and should be easy to get up and running quickly.
“And of course, Gianni’s a hundred percent sure he can charm the Lilly Pulitzer pants off the Magnolia Beach crowd,” Holly told us, sipping black coffee.
We all nodded, knowing that Gianni can in fact be incredibly charismatic.
It’s hard to explain, but his muscles, tattoos, and trademark gold earrings somehow take on a sexy bad-boy vibe when Gianni turns his attention on women and gushes over them. At age thirty-nine, with a bunch of “Best New Chef” honors in the world of foodie magazines, the guy has star quality.
“The crazy part is,” Holly added, “Gianni’s calling his new place a pop-up restaurant, since that guarantees a lot of media coverage. And he’s got a deal with HGTV to feature Gianni Mare on Restaurant in a Weekend!”
AT THIS NEWS, Joe choked on a bit of spinach, Sophie pounded his back with tiny be-ringed fists to try to dislodge the offending veggie, and we handed him glasses of water. We all avoided eye contact with Joe, who—once he finally gulped down the wayward bite of omelet—looked like he’d be reaching for the anxiety meds again any minute.
Restaurant in a Weekend is a show in which a team completely overhauls, remodels, and installs a new eatery in about twenty-two minutes. At least, that’s how it looks when you watch the show, and it seemed—given the fact that Gianni’s sign had announced he was opening his new place tomorrow night—that the turnaround really was incredibly quick.
I mean, there had been a restaurant on the site of Gianni Mare before, so it wasn’t a total makeover, but this was still a bold move and a PR coup for Gianni.
HGTV’s a subject no one brings up around Joe, because a couple of years ago, he’d submitted a casting tape to the network and had been told that unless he was a super-hunky contractor in a tight T-shirt and ripped jeans (preferably with an identical twin or equally hot brother), or a gorgeous girl who had a working knowledge of carpentry, he could forget about getting a decorating show. Joe doesn’t really work out, is an only child, and he would never wear ripped jeans, so that had been the end of his HGTV dreams.
Clearly, though, some bitterness lingered.
“That’s the tackiest thing I’ve ever heard!” Joe said, pushing aside his breakfast. “Cheap publicity stunt.”
“I’ve gotta call my editor,” Bootsie said, standing up and punching at her iPhone. “Gianni’s pop-up thingy sounds like a Page One story for the Bryn Mawr Gazette.”
Her eyes took on a happy gleam. “I’m going to get him to reimburse me for the four tanks of gas I used getting down here—just as soon as I get some more eggs!” She got up and made for the kitchen.
“What’s really important, though, is if Gianni’s the one who tried to run over Jessica and Holly the other night,” I pointed out as Bootsie reemerged from the house and sat down again.
“You know, at first, I figured that Chevy had to have been after Jessica, since she’s not that likable,” Bootsie told us. “But a theory came to me while I watched Martha dish out these eggs. The death car could have been actually going after Holly,” she pointed out, loading a piece of toast with butter.
From her spot on a yoga mat, Holly’s eyes widened, taking on the expression of a frightened fawn.
“I don’t have any enemies!” she told Bootsie. “One lady at the Glutenator class got mad when I tried to pay her to give me her spot near the instructor the other day, but usually people like me. Especially salespeople. I mean, I’ve tipped everyone in town! The people at both Hermès and Lanvin are my new best friends!”
“That’s true,” Joe nodded. “And you’ve been spending a lot lately.” He gave me a significant glance indicating that we needed to talk over the Holly spending situation, which worried me.
“Yeah, Holly’s a walking ATM—no one’s gonna want her dead,” Sophie added. “I’m thinking it probably was some drunk in that car. Magnolia Beach just isn’t the kind of place where people flatten people in alleys. Maybe it was just a fluke!”
“Not to change the subject from Holly being about to get killed, but I’m heading to the tennis tournament down in Delray Beach,” Bootsie told us, forgetting her theory about Holly’s would-be killer and grabbing her tote and keys. As usual, her attention span rivaled that of a gnat. “There are some hot guys playing today.”
“I’ll meet you down there,” Holly told her, “if I’m still alive by lunchtime.” She paused for a minute as she scrambled up from her yoga mat. “Maybe I should hire a bodyguard! Everyone in Miami has one.”
“That reminds me,” piped up Sophie, slurping foam from her cappuccino, “did I ever tell ya about the time in South Beach when my ex invited a whole bunch of girls he met at the pool at the Fontainebleau back to our suite at the Setai? I came back from shopping at Saks, and one of them had gotten a bellboy naked, and was about to—”
“See you this afternoon!” Holly said, thankfully interrupting Sophie’s reminiscences. “Also, I’ll ask around at The Breakers and find out when Gianni checked in. Maybe he got down here by Tuesday, and he was the hit-and-run driver!”
“I need to skip the tennis til later. I gotta go home and do more lawyer stuff,” Sophie told us sadly, forgetting her story about the bellboy as she gathered up a giant Gucci handbag. “This frickin’ divorce is more work than my old job selling concrete.”
“I’ll drop you back at your place, Sophie,” Bootsie announced.
As Joe and I climbed into the Caddy, I heard Bootsie ask her passenger, “Whatever happened to that bellboy at the Setai?”
Chapter 6
“IS SHE THE one from the Spice Girls?” asked Adelia a bit tipsily. She was in a pink caftan today and an equally large pair of sunglasses. It was 10:00 a.m. chez Earle, where we sat at an outdoor table shaded by an umbrella and a ficus hedge. Ozzy the butler was holding Adelia’s drink on a little silver tray as she looked over Joe’s sketches and magazine tear sheets, one featuring a party hosted by David and Victoria Beckham and held under a vast and very opulent canopy lit by about seven thousand dangling lanterns.
The magazine clippings were supposed to help Joe sell Mrs. Earle on his idea for a custom tented ceiling design for her pool hut, which he’d seen in Coastal Living. This was the specialty of a West Palm Beach design house called, naturally, La Tente.
“Absolutely!” Joe assured his client. “This Beckham party? Tented by La Tente. That royal wedding a couple of years ago in Monaco? They tented it. The firm is owned by a French couple who can tent the crap out
of anything,” he told Adelia. “Tenting is huge right now.”
I’d have suggested he use slightly older celebrities to convince Adelia, more along the lines of classic Hollywood stars like Sophia Loren, who’d probably tented something at one point in her fabulous life, but Joe hadn’t asked for my input. Instead, he peremptorily ordered me to go through his tote bag and find La Tente’s estimate, which he’d printed out but hadn’t had a chance to review yet.
I’d somehow been dragooned into a job as Joe’s temporary Florida assistant, which I wasn’t sure I’d agreed to, and felt a bit grumpy about. But I had to hand it to Joe: Galvanized by his nine-day design deadline (now down to eight days), he arrived at Adelia’s with a tote bag of fabric samples, magazine tear sheets, and sketches at the ready.
It was Saturday, but Frank, a carpenter Channing and Jessica had recommended after working with him on Vicino, was already at the gazebo, measuring to replace the exterior woodwork and install bench seating within the structure.
“The tenting sounds nice,” Adelia said, gazing with mild interest at the photos Joe had placed in front of her. “What do you think, Ozzy?”
“Beautiful,” replied her houseman patiently. Mr. Osbourne seemed to be an especially sweet-tempered guy. Adelia was a genial lady, but the constant margaritas and the guns had to be a bit wearing on a day-to-day basis.
I found the paperwork from La Tente, glanced at the total, and my vision got blurry and I had to sit down. The tenting, including fabric and labor, would cost thirty-six thousand dollars.
“For the pavilion, I’m thinking we’ll go with a blue and white theme, and do the ceiling in a gorgeous blue and white stripe,” Joe told her. “Think Grace Kelly at the beach club in To Catch a Thief.”