IT TOOK A few moments to absorb the foyer and the various rooms that I could glimpse from where we stood. Jeannie’s bottle on I Dream of Jeannie and the Borgata in Atlantic City sprang to mind as possible design influences. Purple was the dominant color, and crystal, glitter, and gold vermeil seemed to be other key components of the overall look.
This color palette and profusion of shininess definitely wasn’t going to fly with Joe, who stood surrounded by fan decks of paint colors, fabric swatches, and his omnipresent measuring tape, and wore the expression that one imagines the deckhands on the Titanic had as they helped load the lifeboats.
“Joe is gonna work some magic here!” shrieked Sophie, gesturing to him, Vanna White style. “He thinks he can make my house a little more ‘old Philadelphia.’ But it’s still gonna be kinda glitzy and fabulous, right, hon?”
“I don’t think ‘glitzy’ is what we’ll be trying to achieve,” said Joe patiently, but with desperation in his blue eyes. Joe seemed composed, but I could tell that his mind was roiling with an inner debate that went something like, I’m going to make a ton of money from this job, but it might not be worth it if I’m institutionalized with a nervous breakdown.
From what I could see all around me—the giant spangled chandelier, a mauve dining room to my right, and a giant gilded console table with cherub heads and wings sprouting from it over by the stairs—a complete gut job was the only shot at bringing “old Philadelphia” into this house.
I surreptitiously peeked into Sophie’s dining room, which had a smoked purple glass table and chairs upholstered in lavender silk atop gold legs. It was as if a red-carpet outfit worn by Nicki Minaj had somehow multiplied, flown to Bryn Mawr, and become a dining room.
“You know, Joe,” said Sophie, tapping her small, sneakered foot, evidently continuing a debate that had started prior to our arrival, “I hear what you were saying about losing some of the purple. But I gotta tell you that I took Honey Potts and Mariellen Merriwether for a quick tour of the house last night, and they were absolutely speechless!”
“I’m sure they were,” agreed Joe. I wondered why Bootsie was being surprisingly well behaved, merely listening to Joe and Sophie, rather than inspecting each room. Then I remembered she’d already snooped through the house the night before.
“Actually, the only thing those two ladies said the whole time was that they both wanted their drinks topped off,” giggled Sophie. “I’ll tell ya, I thought people drank a lot in Joisey, but that’s nothing compared to you Bryn Mawr people!”
Just then, Channing from Restaurant Gianni emerged from a hallway into the foyer, carrying a giant plastic container filled with spoons and serving utensils, heading toward the front door to take them out to Gianni’s truck. When he saw us he paused, smiled, and stood there for a minute as we took in the display of rippling muscles and movie-star bone structure.
All of our jaws dropped, even Gerda’s. If anything, this guy looked even better than he had the night before.
“Hi there,” he said, in an absurdly deep, testosterone-oozing voice to all of us, white teeth flashing like Chiclets in his tanned face. We all sighed. It was like an Armani model had suddenly jumped off a billboard and mistakenly wandered into Sophie’s crazy purple front hall.
“Everybody, this is Channing,” Sophie said, grabbing one of his glistening biceps. “He’s the—the—some kind of chef—what the hell are you again, Channing?”
“I’m the sous-chef at Restaurant Gianni,” said Channing, flashing us a grin. “Well, nice to meet you all,” he added, climbing into the truck as we all watched his departure appreciatively. He looked almost as good going as he had coming. We all came back to reality, Bootsie almost in a full drool, as Gerda shut the door behind him.
“Isn’t he hawt?” squeaked Sophie. “His tush is like two big round honeydews!”
“Let’s move stuff,” said Gerda, getting back to business.
“Yeah, good idea,” said Joe. “I’ll help.”
“I lead you to basement,” Gerda barked. “Stay only where I tell you.”
“Is Channing a, uh, trusted employee of Chef Gianni?” wondered Bootsie, as she and I each picked up boxes to schlep down to the wine cellar. We followed Gerda’s spandex backside and Sophie’s tiny pink one into a lavender hallway that led toward the kitchen, turned left into a side hallway, and went down a flight of stairs to the basement.
“I guess so,” said Sophie. “I mean, Channing seems like a nice guy. Then again, who knows? Or cares! He’s so freakin’ handsome that I’ve never really paid attention to his personality.”
“Has he worked for the chef long?” continued Bootsie, as we trudged down the beige-carpeted steps, her head swiveling around as Gerda flicked on some overhead lights.
“You know, Beebee, I’m not sure,” said Sophie, “but Channing seems to be real friendly with the chef’s girlfriend, Jessica. I saw them talking together a lot last night. They were over in a corner of the yard for quite a while. Channing was supposed to be prepping the shellfish buffet. Gianni got really red in the face when he noticed that Channing hadn’t finished setting up that buffet by four-fifteen. I mean, the chef could be next for an angioplasty if he doesn’t watch it!”
The basement was huge, the length of the house, and carpeted in basic beige, with an ugly faux-Irish-pub-style bar directly in front of us, and an equally dumb-looking pool table with lots of ridiculous scrollwork and carving on the legs to its left. There were some light-up beer signs on the walls behind it. Joe followed us down, wincing. I guess he hadn’t seen the basement yet.
The space was mostly open with French doors that led out to the swimming pool, but at each end were two smaller rooms. The door to the one on the left was closed—most likely Gerda’s office, since she was aggressively pointing us to the right, and blocking off the area near the closed door to the left like a bouncer on a busy night at Studio 54 circa 1977. We followed Sophie, avoiding Gerda’s glowering countenance.
“Sounds like Channing and Jessica are close,” Bootsie said unsubtly.
“Yeah, they are! I think Channing drives Jessica home late at night when the chef is stuck at work,” Sophie told us innocently, opening the door to her wine cellar.
I knew Bootsie and I were both thinking more along the lines of Channing and Jessica getting hot and sweaty nowhere near a stove.
“This wine cellar is really nice,” observed Joe, sounding surprised. I looked around at the room, which did have a pleasant, ancient-French-manor vibe, with charming stone floor and wooden wine racks. There was a long wooden table and chairs with a silver tray full of wineglasses and a corkscrew, evoking a dining room somewhere deep in the lavender-covered hills of Provence.
“I thought your husband hated antiques!” I said to Sophie.
“Yeah, he does. All this stuff is brand-new. It just looks old, since he freaks out if stuff is actually antique,” she said. “Barclay paid extra to get new stones, and then had these French guys beat the crap out of the rocks over in France to give them a weathered look.”
We all refrained from pointing that rocks are, by definition, weathered.
“The table’s new, too,” Sophie told us. “Those Frenchies whacked the hell outta that with some tire irons to give it, like, dings and dents!”
“Well, it looks great,” I said.
“It should be great!” Sophie shrieked. “With all the money Barclay spent on it, plus the fifty thousand he spent two years ago on all those cases of stupid French wines! It was my idea to have an Irish pub in the basement, too.”
Joe looked upset at the mention of the bar, but didn’t say anything.
“Where’s all the wine?” asked Bootsie.
“My ex took it with him!” said Sophie. “Truck pulled up when he moved out all his custom suits. All he left me was three bottles of crappy merlot.”
“You know my friend Holly?” I asked Sophie. “She gave away all her ex’s Armani and Brioni suits to charity during their breakup.”
“That’s a good one!” shrieked Sophie admiringly.
“You could still donate his cars,” Bootsie told her. “I’d do it while he’s in the hospital. Holly gave her ex’s car to the Police Athletic League. I can get you in the newspaper for that, if the cars are worth more than a hundred grand. We always do stories with a photo when people donate more than a hundred thousand dollars to charity.”
“Ooh, that might work,” Sophie breathed, taking a minute to roll this over in her mind. “He’s got the new convertible and then there’s the Porsche Cayenne. The Cayenne might be worth a hundred grand just on its own. I can have Gerda research it.”
Gerda nodded, a happy gleam appearing on her face. It was like the sun reappearing on a post-nuclear landscape, and was frankly a little disconcerting.
“Good idea. I get the dollar amounts and make the donations today,” Gerda agreed.
“Anyway, girls, I gotta run. Gerda and I are due for Pilates, and then I’ve got my personal shopper from Saks coming to drop off some clothes, and then I have hair at noon,” Sophie rattled on, looking like an expensive pink chipmunk as she marched to the door, jingling her bracelets. “So I’m kinda busy. If you can unpack the smaller stuff and put it on that table, then Joe can do his decorating thing with it later.
“Help yourselves to anything from the kitchen. We got a lot of leftover crab claws up there!” Sophie disappeared, Gerda on her heels.
“Rest of basement is off-limits.” Gerda chewed out the words at us over her shoulder as she left. I guess her good mood about donating Barclay’s cars had disappeared.
“I keep thinking she’s going to come out dressed in lederhosen, and axe-murder us,” Joe whispered to me and Bootsie.
“She could beat up any of us, even me,” Bootsie agreed.
“I’ll help you move a couple of boxes.” Joe sighed. “Then I have to get back upstairs. You have no idea how much work I’ve got ahead of me. That guy who climbed Mount Everest with all his toes frozen off had it easy compared to this decorating gig. Even the books in this place are purple.”
“It’s going to take you all summer,” agreed Bootsie gleefully.
“Sophie told me she’s got Barclay’s crew coming to start painting tomorrow,” Joe added, “so I’ve got to choose paint colors pronto. Normally, I don’t like to rush into color decisions, but Barclay’s whole crew is temporarily out of work due to all the lawsuits against his company right now, and Sophie said we should keep them busy.”
Joe, Bootsie, and I schlepped in the rest of the boxes and furniture from the U-Haul. Then Joe, looking depressed, disappeared with a fan deck of paint colors.
Per Sophie’s instructions, I started carefully unpacking boxes of china and lining everything up on the big table, wondering how these old Philadelphia tchotchkes were ever going to fit into the Vegas decor.
Then again, Joe is really good at what he does. Holly’s place downtown with Howard was amazing, all modern art and antiques with a Parisian–New York flair. Her new Divorce House would no doubt be just as great when Joe was done with it.
Meanwhile, after three minutes, Bootsie lost interest in unpacking. She took a seat at the table and drummed her fingers on the chic, battered oak surface. Honestly, Bootsie’s attention span is even worse than mine, and was never that great, even in high school. Field hockey and gossip were about the only things that kept her interest. Her leg started tapping, too, and her sky-blue eyes took on a telltale nosy gleam.
“The Pilates equipment is up on the third floor, as I learned last night during the party when I just happened to wander up there,” she told me in a loud whisper, jumping up from the table and heading to the wine cellar door back into the basement. “So I’m going to take a little exploratory stroll around down here. Gerda will never hear me from all the way on the top floor.”
“No!” I hissed at her. “I don’t want Sophie to be mad at me. And what if Gerda comes down here and I’m all by myself!”
Too late. Bootsie was gone. I dashed after her, lugging a pair of silver candlesticks, as she headed for Gerda’s bunker—of course.
“She’s probably got the door alarmed!” I told Bootsie in a panic.
Sophie was easygoing, but if she got upset with us for breaking into a locked door in her basement, she could still return my entire inventory to The Striped Awning, and if I had to refund her seven thousand, five hundred, and seventy-dollars, I was ruined. And while I didn’t necessarily buy into Bootsie’s theory that Gerda had attacked both Barclay and the chef . . . it was possible. Bootsie and I could be next on Gerda’s hit list.
“She doesn’t have an alarm,” said Bootsie calmly. “There aren’t any sensors on the door. She might have it booby-trapped, but I can risk that.” She tried the door handle. Locked.
Bootsie pulled a barrette out of her blond bob and poked it into the lock, jiggled it, and the door popped open.
“Where’d you learn to do that?” I said, impressed.
“My parents’ liquor cabinet. They installed a lock when we were in high school, remember? My brothers and I learned how to pick it that same night. It’s been a hobby ever since.”
She disappeared inside Gerda’s office. I stood outside, adrenaline pumping, clutching the candlesticks and keeping watch for Gerda. Luckily, Bootsie returned in less than three minutes.
“Everything is spic-and-span in there,” she said dejectedly. “And there’s a desk with a padlock that I don’t know how to pick on the file drawer. Naturally, the computer’s password-protected.”
To my relief, she shut the door. “I’ll have to research that lock and get back in there another time.”
Euphoric at the prospect of getting out of here before Gerda returned, I quickly finished the unpacking while Bootsie sent some text messages to her coworkers at the paper describing Sophie’s purple house, and snapped a few pics of the bar and its neon Bud Light signs to share on every social media site she could think of.
“I’m heading up to check out the kitchen,” Bootsie said.
“Don’t touch anything!” I told her, knowing full well she’d likely post photos of the contents of Sophie’s refrigerator and cabinets on Twitter.
Five minutes later, I brought the empty boxes out to the U-Haul, then went back in the house to grab Bootsie and say good-bye to Joe. I was surprised to see Gerda in the front hallway, since I figured she’d be forcing Sophie to labor through at least an hour of Pilates. She gave me a wary glare as she bounded athletically toward the basement stairs.
Uh-oh, I thought, petrified that Gerda would be able to tell that Bootsie had infiltrated her cave.
Bootsie had chattily shared with me—while I’d finished unpacking and she texted her friends at the newspaper—that her parents had never once guessed that she and her brothers had consistently raided the locked liquor cabinet. This wasn’t a reassuring piece of information, because I’ve known Bootsie’s parents my whole life, and while they’re very nice people, I’d bet that Gerda could outsmart them when it came to security any day of the week. The Delaneys, Bootsie’s mom and dad, are great for knowing things like when sales are coming up at L.L. Bean, or the right amount of Tabasco to perk up a Bloody Mary, but they aren’t people that, say, the CIA would hire.
Apparently, Sophie was done early today with her Pilates because she and Joe were now embroiled in a decorating discussion, and it wasn’t going well. They were in Sophie’s mauve dining room. Sophie was pouting, while Joe was perspiring under his crisp white shirt.
“I think a more neutral color palette will lend some, uh, gravitas to the house,” Joe was explaining in strained but patient tones. He rummaged in his briefcase for some fabric swatches and opened the paint fan deck to the beige paint chips.
“What do you mean neutral?” Sophie was asking. She looked a little winded from the Pilates, but still perky. She bounced up and down energetically on the balls of her feet. “Make sure it isn’t green. Especially army green. Not that I don’t support the army, I do. Those people are heroes. I love soldiers. And they’re usually hot young guys, let’s be honest! But I don’t want to feel like I’m in the army.”
“I was thinking of more of an oyster color,” explained Joe in the tone you use with a two-year-old who’s is about to have a candy-aisle meltdown, flipping to the pale beige section of his paint chips. Bootsie appeared next to Joe, and showed no sign of leaving him and Sophie to hash out their paint differences.
“No way!” shrieked Sophie. “I hate oysters! They’re disgusting, and slimy. Barclay likes oysters, he said they make him horny, which—believe you me—is not a good memory for me. One time we were in Miami, and he ordered oysters at the Fontainebleau, we had all these huge platters of them sent up to our suite, and then he wanted me to tie him to this chair on the balcony and—”
“Okay, forget oyster!” interjected Joe. “Let’s go with this color, a beautiful beige. And for your bedroom, a cool ice blue.” He hastily shoved some paint samples toward her.
“Isn’t beige kinda boring?” whined Sophie.
“Can we get back to what happened when you tied Barclay up?” Bootsie asked.
“Beige is restful,” said Joe, looking at me desperately for backup.
“Definitely,” I agreed quickly. “A lot of people in Bryn Mawr love that shade of beige, and I know Eula Morris would really like it. You could probably host a dinner here in the fall for the symphony once you’ve redecorated.”
“Really?” squeaked Sophie, interested. “You’re saying beige is big around here?”
“Beige is huge,” nodded Bootsie, who’d moved on from the Fontainebleau-bondage scenario. “Eula loves beige.”
Just then the doorbell rang, and the front door swung open. The Colketts were on the stoop, and smiled in their charming manner to everyone.
“Choosing new paint?” said Tim Colkett cheerfully.
“Hiya, guys. Come on in,” said Sophie, beckoning the Colketts inside, her small face scrunched into a frown of concentration. “Well, I guess this color’s okay, because I really like that symphony crowd. And Eula, she knows a lot of people. But I’m not sure I want to get rid of all the color,” she said, turning back to Joe. “What about keeping my bedroom pink?”
“That’s not going to work,” said Joe firmly. He seemed a lot more confident now that he had the specter of Eula Morris as his ally.
“Definitely, darling, you don’t want pink,” echoed a Colkett. “Only peonies should be pink.”
I gazed at the Colketts, who were taking in the situation, amused. They couldn’t have been the ones who’d pushed Gianni down the stairs last night, I was positive. Or almost positive. Even though they had reason to hate the chef, and had been uncomfortably close to him at the very moment he’d taken his tumble, the Colketts just didn’t seem to have a mean bone anywhere inside their well-dressed bodies.
“There’s also my bathroom, or wait, even better, my closet!” Sophie cried. “My closet could be pink!”
“The closet will be in a color related to the blue of your bedroom,” said Joe, “but we could go with a slightly deeper blue, or maybe wallpaper it in a Chinese floral pattern. I’ll think it over.”
“What about something brighter for just one part of the shoe room?” Sophie asked hopefully. “We could do the Gucci section in a separate color—like maybe gold?”
“No gold,” Joe informed her.
Sophie sulked for a moment, but appeared to be digesting Joe’s insistent stance against bright colors. Then she looked at me and piped up, “Hey Kristin, who was that tall guy you were talking to at the party last night? The one you introduced me to, the guy named John? Did he ask ya out or anything?”
Bootsie’s nose twitched at this question, and Joe looked up from his briefcase with interest. Just then, though, I heard a loud stomping noise coming up the basement stairs. Gerda.
I grabbed Bootsie’s hand and yanked her toward the front door.
“Thank you, Sophie!” I called over my shoulder, and ran. Thankfully the Colketts hadn’t blocked in the U-Haul with their truck, and for once, Bootsie didn’t dawdle.
“WHO’S JOHN?” ASKED Bootsie as I sped toward my house.
“He’s a guy I met over by the shrimp last night at Sophie’s,” I told her. “John Hall. He’s a veterinarian.”
“And?” Bootsie prompted.
“And, nothing. He didn’t ask me out, if that’s what you want to know,” I told her.
“Was he cute?”
“Yup, he was cute,” I confirmed. “If you like tall, handsome men, he was cute.” Bootsie rolled her eyes at me.
“Married?”
“He didn’t seem married, but I’m not sure,” I told her. Actually . . . was he married? That hadn’t occurred to me. He’d been alone at the party and had projected a distinctly single vibe, but then again, married guys have been known to do that. Maybe his wife had been over at the cheese and fruit table.
Luckily, we were pulling into my driveway, so this conversation’s sell-by date was coming fast. I’d pick up Waffles and then drop Bootsie at her office, which was less than a five-minute drive away, then go to the store and get on with my life.
“You’ve got to work on finding out more about the men you meet,” Bootsie lectured me as I parked. “You see a tall, good-looking guy, you need to find out everything about him immediately. Where he lives, if he plays tennis, where he went to college, how he likes his steak cooked, and definitely whether or not he’s married. Or if you can’t do it yourself, you can wave me over, and I’ll do it for you.”
“Kristin?” I heard an old and wavering voice emanating from the holly bushes next door. “Excuse me, dear, do you have a moment?” Hugh Best popped into view, a vision of skinny legs and rumpled gray hair framing a concerned expression. “My brother stormed out this morning over a small tiff we had, and he still isn’t back. And, well, I’m getting a bit worried.”
I glanced at my watch—eleven-thirty in the morning. Hardly cause for alarm, I thought.
“Well, Jimmy’s only been gone a couple of hours,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “He’s probably just out doing some errands, or, um, hitting some golf balls with a friend? I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”
“But he never shops. And he doesn’t have any friends! Jimmy sometimes goes to the liquor store and the cigar store, but that’s it. He refuses to even go to the Buy-Right and do the food shopping, which is a good thing, because if it was up to him we’d be eating nothing but ham loaf and Fritos!” Hugh’s anger at his brother seemed intact, even if he was worried that Jimmy was missing.
“Does he have a cell phone?” I asked, feeling fairly certain I knew the answer already.
“Heavens, no,” said Hugh, horrified.
“Er, well, maybe you could call the liquor store and see if he’s been there?” I suggested. Bootsie had cranked down her window and was listening with mild curiosity. This wasn’t gossip at the level she really appreciates, but if Jimmy Best was doing something dangerous or had gone off on a Scotch bender at the Bryn Mawr Pub, she’d at least need to know about it.
“Maybe he’s in that back room at the cigar store,” Bootsie suggested to Hugh. “The room with the leather couches and ESPN on around the clock. My dad goes there a lot. You could give them a ring.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Hugh, brightening.
“By the way, Hugh, where were you and Jimmy last Thursday when Barclay was getting whacked in the head?” Bootsie asked bluntly.
Hugh looked startled. “Thursday?” He thought for a minute. “We went to Prime Rib Night at the club,” he said. “Were there all night, from six on, actually, since Jimmy got snockered and wouldn’t leave till after eleven.” He looked worried. “You can ask Ronnie the bartender, or anyone at the club. We weren’t anywhere near Sanderson!”
“Great!” I said, relieved. I’d hate to think of the Bests spending the rest of their days in prison, which had to be worse than the conditions in their moldering old house. “Well, I’ll see you later, and I’m sure I’ll see Jimmy too, back home safe and sound.” Bootsie and I waved good-bye as Hugh headed back inside. I retrieved Waffles, and the three of us peeled off toward town.
“Looks like you’ve got a new best friend next door,” observed Bootsie as we drove back to her office. “Well, anyway, I’ll confirm the Bests’ alibis for Thursday during the time Barclay was attacked, but I believe Hugh. And I’ll look into that vet. I know I’ve heard of him,” she said slowly, taking on the faraway look she gets when her mind is whirring with her built-in database of names and faces.
“By the way, Bootsie,” I said, “you know that the Colketts popped out on the landing right after the chef was pushed—or fell—last night, don’t you?”
“I didn’t know that,” she said, coming back briefly from her internal Google search. “Did you see them?”
“Yup.” I nodded, feeling guilty about tattling on the Colketts, but not wanting to rule them out if they were cold-hearted killers just because they were charming. It was bothering me that the Colketts, who obviously hated Gianni, had gone inside Sophie’s house moments before the chef’s tumble, and that they’d been so close to him when he fell. “But that doesn’t mean they pushed him,” I added hopefully. I’d much rather Gerda turn out to be the guilty party, given her critical temperament and lack of personal skills.
“Hmm,” said Bootsie, unbuckling her seat belt determinedly as we pulled up at the newspaper’s yellow door. “And I was so sure it was Gerda. But I’ll keep the Colketts on my mental back burner. Plus Channing coming back to Sophie’s this morning is interesting,” she noted. “Returning to the scene of the crime. Just like the Colketts!”
“Well, Channing had to come back to Sophie’s to pick up Gianni’s equipment, and the Colketts are still working on Sophie’s yard, but maybe they were also able to hide evidence or something,” I said doubtfully, adding, “Thanks for the help this morning. I really appreciate it.” Actually, Bootsie hadn’t been all that much help, but at least she’d done some of the heavy lifting at the store.
“I’ll be in touch!” Bootsie promised. “I’m getting on my computer right now. As soon as find out all about that vet you met, I’ll see what I can dig up on Channing and the Colketts. And we’ll have to find a way back into Sophie’s house. I haven’t given up on snooping through Gerda’s desk!”