Killer Getaway Page 7
“Didn’t she and Howard go to California two summers ago?” I asked.
“California’s different. It’s the other states that are an issue,” Joe said.
I rolled my eyes at this.
“So what did she see on Google Images?” I asked.
“She saw the daughter of the garbage guy from Indianapolis,” said Joe simply. He expertly pulled into a metered parking spot outside a row of antiques stores, turned off the Caddy, and, after scrolling through his phone for a second, handed the iPhone to me. “That’s the girl,” he said. “At the barbecue.”
I had to admit, squinting in the sun at Joe’s phone, the girl looked pretty fabulous.
“I was picturing someone different in the garbage heiress role,” I said to Joe. We exchanged concerned glances. “This girl looks like she just left Bergdorf’s. And she’s got, well . . .” With my hands in front of my own sadly underwhelming chest, I made the universal gesture that conveys large boobs.
The photo on Joe’s phone was part of the local paper’s coverage of the society scene in Indianapolis, and it looked like the indoor barbecue after the Habitat for Humanity event had been a major event. The damning photo was captioned, “Howard Jones, who recently acquired Stewart Waste Management, with Marty, Bubba, and Dawnelle Stewart.”
Marty and Bubba looked like your basic good-looking, golf-playing, well-off Midwestern guys in Brooks Brothers dress shirts and khakis. Dawnelle was another matter: She appeared to be in her mid-twenties. She had long and lustrous hair. Her face had adorably large blue eyes, high cheekbones, and a sweet, hopeful expression. She had on what I think was a Dolce & Gabbana bustier dress. And she had a lot of bust to bustier.
“Howard might as well be doing Habitat for Humanity with Kate Upton,” agreed Joe. “It’s horrible for Holly. All her worst fears confirmed. There are more photos here, too, on this Indianapolis society blog.”
“But Dawnelle isn’t even standing next to Howard,” I noted, attempting to find a positive spin on the situation. “She’s over there with her brother, Bubba. She looks a little young for Howard, too.”
Joe just stared at me in disbelief. “Young? Did you actually just say, ‘She looks a little young for Howard’? Like that’s ever stopped anyone,” he said finally. “Sometimes you worry me, honestly. I mean, where do you even come up with this stuff? Look, here’s another photo of Dawnelle from earlier that day, working at the charity project. She’s helping install a sink.”
He scrolled to another image where the beautiful heiress, clad in cute jeans and boots for her Habitat volunteering time, was helping Bubba tighten bolts underneath a bathroom vanity (at least, I think that’s what they were doing, since I don’t know a lot about sinks). Dawnelle looked really good from the side angle, too, given her tight jeans and aforementioned generously apportioned chest. She also upheld the theory that girls look good in tool belts.
Dawnelle appeared to be truly enjoying helping out with the project, too, smiling happily as she worked. “It says on this Indianapolis Style website that Dawnelle personally funded all the bathrooms and kitchens for the project and wrote a check for eighteen thousand dollars,” Joe told me grimly.
We looked at each other, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. Holly’s a truly generous person. She’ll write a check for any good cause, and frequently does. But there’s no way she’s ever going to get anywhere near a plumbing project. Hopefully Howard wasn’t falling for the do-gooding Dawnelle.
GERDA CALLED HOLLY’S phone at six that night, announcing she’d printed a pile of e-mails two inches thick, and that we needed to read them ASAP.
“Where are you, Gerda?” Holly asked her.
“At Barclay’s, and I can’t get out of house tonight,” Gerda said in the manner of a grounded teenager. “Barclay gained seven pounds this week, and we’re doing extra workouts tonight. Tomorrow morning, I can sneak out. Barclay has car service taking him to Miami for meeting at nine a.m.”
Since it turned out Gerda and Barclay were staying on Seagrape Lane just a few houses down from Adelia, we agreed to meet at Adelia’s the next morning at nine-fifteen.
Forty-five minutes later, while I was working on my hair with a flatiron and some de-frizzing spray, Holly came to the guesthouse, trailed by Sophie.
“Ya know what, I’m gettin’ tired of Vicino every night,” Sophie told us. “Let’s stop at Tiki Joe’s on the way over to dinner.”
I had to laugh as I thought of anyone being tired of Vicino, where each dish was more delicious than the next and waiters were always bringing things like chilled Pellegrino, fresh bottles of pinot noir, and grilled scallops to the table. “Sophie, you co-own the place,” I told her. “You can’t be tired of it.”
“I mean, I love Channing and all,” Sophie shrugged. “But I’ve been there twenty-three nights in a row! Plus, I feel awful that my ex might be the one trying to kill Holly, and I want to take her out for a drink to apologize.”
“It’s not your fault that Barclay’s probably trying to flatten me like a veal paillard,” Holly told Sophie. “Anyway, I’m totally up for Tiki Joe’s.”
“By the way, Kristin, ya need to lose the Old Navy outfits,” Sophie told me helpfully, eyeing what I’d thought was a cute sundress. She popped some gum into her mouth, a habit Joe banned when he was present but which Sophie snuck when she could. “Old Navy ain’t gonna fly at Tiki Joe’s,” she informed me, chewing noisily on her Bubblicious.
Holly, who had already gone into the closet, emerged holding a white Milly mini dress with a pretty square neckline and a pair of Prada wedges, both still in the bags they’d been toted home in from the Bal Harbour shopping center. “Listen to Sophie!” Holly told me.
“I feel weird wearing your clothes,” I protested to Holly. “I mean, the tags are still on these, and look how expensive they are!”
“I feel weird when you wear Old Navy to chic restaurants,” Holly told me, turning on her Giuseppe Zanotti heel, Sophie scampering after her like a well-groomed Chihuahua.
“Hurry up. We leave in five minutes for Tiki Joe’s.”
TIKI JOE’S WAS pretty awesome. It combined the fun, honky-tonk vibe of the Florida Keys with the glossy swankiness of Magnolia Beach, and it had a ’60s, retro vibe. The bar and restaurant were dark and noisy, filled with older men and their younger wives and, in one case, I was pleased to notice, an older woman and her younger guy. Steel drum music was pumping, festive lanterns dangled from the ceiling, and the vibe was totally cool.
Ninety seconds after we sat down, our waiter showed up with two bottles of Laurent-Perrier champagne.
“From the gentleman at the bar,” he said, addressing Holly, “for the lady in the black dress.”
Men sending Holly drinks was nothing new: This happens pretty much anytime you go anywhere with Holly. As much as she spends on clothing, furniture, artwork, and travel, I don’t think she’s ever paid for a drink in her whole perfect blond life.
We all peeked to see who the champagne-sender was, though, since he’d been nice enough to buy free bubbly for our whole group. The waiter discreetly indicated a dark-haired guy at the end of the bar closest to the front door.
“Who’s that hottie?” shrieked Sophie, voicing my own thoughts.
The man was indeed gorgeous. Not in the hunky manner of Channing, or the preppy handsome John Hall type. This guy was more mature, with cheekbones you could hang your dry cleaning from.
Put together Antonio Sabato Jr., any member of the Iglesias singing family, and throw in Robb Stark from Game of Thrones, and you get the general idea of the genetically blessed guy with sculpted cheekbones and dark eyes who’d sent the drinks. I tried not to stare as openly as Bootsie was currently doing.
“I’d like to check into a motel with that guy for about four hours,” Bootsie announced. “Maybe I got married too young.�
�� She seemed like she was about to expand on her thoughts concerning what she’d do once she got into the motel room with the guy, but just then he started walking toward our table.
“Hello,” said the Cheekbones politely with an elegant nod of his head to us all. He had your basic American accent but possessed a European vibe in his perfectly tailored sport coat. He also wore some kind of scent that brought to mind new leather, freshly mown grass, cigars, and good red wine. “I’m J. D. Alvarez. Enjoy the champagne.”
He gave Holly a polite nod but didn’t invite himself to sit at our table—not that we would have minded.
Another head poked around from behind Alvarez. It belonged to a slightly sunburned guy in a golf shirt, khakis, and a belt embroidered with jaunty anchors. His vibe was “Golfed all day, gonna do it again tomorrow!” He was about forty, and attractive, but he looked as though he might be slightly too fond of vodka tonics and porterhouse steaks.
“Scott Simmons,” he said, sticking out his hand and shaking all of ours. “Magnolia Beach attorney, businessman, and”—here, he gave a wink of a blue and slightly bloodshot eye—“willing tour guide! You girls should call me anytime!” Simmons realized that he was leaving out Joe while flirting with the rest of the table, so he gave Joe a friendly slap on the back.
“And you, too, buddy. If you need any tee times or have any deals down here you need any legal advice on!” He handed around some business cards and addressed this last to Joe, who barely controlled an eye roll.
“My Honey Bunny doesn’t golf—he’s a decorator!” Sophie told the Simmons guy.
As Sophie chatted away, the handsome J. D. Alvarez retreated politely back to his bar stool, taking an occasional glance at Holly—who pretended she didn’t notice.
I tuned all of this out as I stared down at the business card Scott Simmons had handed over.
It read, “Scott ‘Scooter’ Simmons, Attorney at Law,” and listed an office on Royal Palm Way. This had to be Adelia’s neighbor—the guy whose happy hour she liked to liven up with her afternoon target practice. There couldn’t be more than one Scooter in Magnolia Beach.
Well, maybe there could be two Scooters—you never know. But I felt sure that this had to be Adelia’s neighbor. I could see bells of recognition going off for Bootsie and Joe, too, while they examined Scooter’s card. Meanwhile, with Simmons nodding along, Sophie rattled on about how Joe could eat anything he wanted and not gain weight, but he never exercised, let alone swung a golf club.
For her part, Holly had checked out of the conversation. She fixed her lip gloss, glanced at her phone, and gave a couple of quick looks in the direction of the gorgeous J. D. This surprised me a little, because Holly isn’t the type to flirt unless it’s for a specific reason, like getting a better deal on a car or something like that. She’s really devoted to Howard, and she respects their relationship.
After a few minutes, Scooter wandered back to his drink and his bar stool, and Bootsie announced she was starving and it was time to head to Vicino.
Holly was still looking at her phone for a text from Howard—which I hoped would be full of reassurance and erase all vestiges of doubt about the gorgeous Dawnelle Stewart. As we piled into Bootsie’s car, though, where I got stuck in the middle backseat, Holly turned her iPhone off, inserted it into her clutch, then closed the tiny purse, but not before I noticed a card inside.
The name on the simple, embossed business card read, “J. D. Alvarez” and was followed only by a cell phone number.
How Alvarez had slipped her the card without any of us noticing, I couldn’t tell. My emotions ran toward worry about this handsome guy making a play for my married friend—and a grudging respect for a guy who could sneak his card into a girl’s YSL clutch without any one of her four nosy friends noticing.
I felt a quick bolt of worry as I sneaked a quick look at Holly’s perfect profile. With Holly in mid-Howard meltdown, one J. D. Alvarez—handsome, cool, who looked like money and smelled like an intoxicating blend of freshly mown grass with a whiff of ridiculously overpriced cologne splashed into the mix—was way too enticing.
I sighed as Bootsie zoomed around the corner toward Vicino. Luckily, Holly doesn’t have a business card, because other than being a (mostly) silent partner in Vicino, she doesn’t really have a business.
Then things got worse. “Where’s your wedding ring?” Sophie said, checking out Holly’s bare left hand. “And your engagement band?”
“I’m having them cleaned,” said Holly in a carefree tone.
Just then, my phone started ringing with incoming texts.
“It’s Martha,” I told everyone. “Waffles is having a dog-trum. He’s howling at Holly’s front door, and angry Bahama Lane neighbors are calling Martha. Can you please drop me off back at Holly’s? I’ll skip dinner.”
The looks that came my way from the front seat called to mind a horror movie I saw recently on Cinemax, in which a single glare melted off the recipient’s face. Bootsie didn’t even need to tell me that this would never happen with her Labs—I already knew from her expression. Joe started muttering things like “freaking hound” and “who the hell brings their dog to Florida.”
Two minutes later, Waffles erupted out of Holly’s front door, aiming for me as I climbed out of the car. Then he saw Sophie. He’s always had a soft spot for Sophie, who’s tiny and easily knocked over, which Waffles does with a certain joie de basset every time he gets the chance.
“Hiya, doggie,” Sophie said, reaching out of the open door to pat him on the head. He whined soulfully, turned, and gave me the droopiest, most guilt-inducing Sad Eyes I’ve ever seen. With Waffles, that’s saying a lot, because his patented Sad Eyes look is honestly really sad. My heart sank. I’d dragged him to Florida, which was obviously a lot better than staying in Bryn Mawr, where he’d be freezing and have to stay with my neighbors the Bests. But then I’d left him pretty much all day.
“I can’t go to dinner and leave him like this. Look at him!” I said, love welling up inside my slightly sunburned self.
We all gazed at Waffles, who realized he was the topic of our conversation and suddenly perked up.
“You’re staying home with that?” said Bootsie. “When you could be sitting at Vicino, listening to bossa nova, looking at Channing in a tight T-shirt, drinking Prosecco?”
“And after you spent thirty minutes flat-ironing that mop of hair?” added Joe from the car.
“I know what to do!” shrieked Sophie. “Bring him! I mean, what the hell, I own the friggin’ restaurant. Well, Holly and I do, mostly. We can sit on the terrace. The doggie and I can split a petite filet!”
Waffles started wagging and suddenly looked as happy as Adelia Earle when presented with a fresh margarita. He knew he’d won.
Chapter 9
“IS IT NORMAL for him to look like that?” asked Sophie, gazing down at Waffles.
As soon as we’d parked at Vicino, the dog had rocketed out of Bootsie’s car, going temporarily nuts as he’d headed toward the delicious smell of meats being grilled and pastas being served to diners seated on the outdoor patio.
Before I could catch him, Waffles tangled up his leash in a potted night-blooming jasmine tree and tackled a waiter carrying a twenty-eight-dollar cheese plate, gobbling down the little slices of cheese and fig jam in about four seconds.
Once we were seated on the patio, he finally calmed down as he sat at my feet, panting and drooling happily. Remnants of Brie speckled his ears, and fellow diners looked appalled but soon returned to their conversation.
“I never saw anyone eat cheese that fast!” Sophie said. “Is that why there’s so much drool? Doesn’t his belly look kinda swollen, too?”
I looked down at Waffles, who lay gazing happily at the buzz of well-dressed people at the tables all around us. The patio at Vicino was subtly lit by lanterns and
votive candles, and upbeat Latin music emanated from hidden speakers. The outdoor temperature was perfection now that the sun had set, and it was a balmy seventy-four degrees, with a crescent moon above the palm trees. Waffles sighed happily, rolled onto his side, and fell asleep on my foot.
“He’s fine,” I told Sophie. “He was probably just hungry.” Bootsie rolled her eyes, while Holly, who’d chosen to disregard the entire incident, checked her phone—probably hoping for a text message from Howard. I thought about asking her how Howard was doing but decided against it, in case she was still obsessing about Dawnelle Stewart.
“What’s up with Howard?” asked Joe, who’s not always known for his tact and timing.
To be honest, Joe can be a little too blunt at times. For instance, he doesn’t hold back on telling me when my hair looks terrible, or that the “natural look” I strive for with makeup in fact looks more like I just rolled out of bed.
Joe also isn’t shy about saying he doesn’t like style that’s too done, either. He’s gone up against Sophie countless times over her proclivity for glittery clothing, shoes, and even furniture, and told her that they would have to break up if she bought a single statue to display at her new house. (Sophie has a love of classical statuary and was hoping to surround her pool with half-nude figures a la the Parthenon.) Then again, Joe’s never tactless when he’s schmoozing his other decorating clients—he’s a model of diplomacy.
“I really haven’t talked to Howard,” said Holly coolly. “But who’s that interesting woman there in the head-to-toe Chanel?” She indicated a sleek-looking woman in pink two tables away. Bootsie, thanks to her avid reading of gossip columns, had already studied most of the local boldface names and had a full resume for the woman, who not only had a long necklace of Chanel charms but was also currently depositing her phone back into a gorgeous quilted handbag.