IF NOTHING ELSE, the Shields house was large. I’m no architect, but anyone could see that the house in front of us was an unholy, turreted disaster. Built of brick and faux-limestone blocks, the layout was mini-Versailles in style, with two wings shooting off from either side of a dumpy middle structure. Terraces perched precariously outside most windows, and the letter S was carved into every ornate door. But its size was its most notable attribute: The imprint of the house had to be twelve thousand square feet. Parked at the far end of the driveway were two catering trucks from Gianni, with kitchen workers scurrying to the house toting cartons of what looked like some excellent hors d’oeuvres and gorgeous platters of shellfish. Remembering the lobster of a few nights before, I had a slightly embarrassing surge of excitement. Gianni might be psychotic, but he had a way with seafood.
“Are those shrimp?” I whispered to Bootsie, who was still transfixed by the house. “Let’s go find the raw bar!”
Bootsie handed her key to a valet just behind Joe and Holly, and we followed them down a grand walkway that led around the right side of the house to the pool. Holly had been invited tonight because her parents’ chicken-nugget money had helped pay for a complete overhaul of the Symphony Hall downtown; Joe, as usual, had decided he’d tag along to reconnoiter Sophie’s house. “Plus I’ve heard a lot about Gerda, the Pilates instructor,” he whispered loudly. “She’s got to be here tonight!”
Holly, of course, resembled a page torn from Vogue. As she says herself, her sense of style is kind of wasted on Philadelphia. She had on a short orange dress with a brown Hermès belt and cool brown sandals with lots of straps, and no jewelry at all. Since she owns a lot of spectacular jewelry, I assumed this was some kind of minimalist style statement.
“Uh-oh, there are statues,” said Joe, shielding his eyes as he gazed down at the pool area, looking upset.
“And there’s Gerda,” pointed out Bootsie. At the bottom of the path down from the driveway was a table skirted in white linen, where a symphony intern sat nervously next to Sophie’s permanent houseguest.
Gerda, manning the guest checklist, didn’t emit a welcoming vibe as she stabbed at our names with a pen, crossing them off with what seemed like more violence than was necessary on such a gorgeous spring evening. Judging by her scowl and somber outfit (black stretch pants and jacket, Nike insignia), Gerda hadn’t gotten into the party spirit.
“Down there by pool!” she thundered at us. “That is where party is.”
We all took off for said pool, a kidney-shaped affair of vast proportions that was indeed surrounded by some goofy-looking sculptures of nude Grecian women. The yard around it, though, was absolutely beautiful. There were cheerful rosebushes in full bloom, emerald-hued laurel hedges, and beds of heavenly peonies. This had to be the insta-yard created by the Colketts, who were extremely talented, I thought. A small crowd was already mingling around the two bars that had been set up for the night at either end of the pool. Suddenly, a tiny figure in purple emerged from the group clustered around the bar at left and started teetering toward us.
“Yoo-hoo, Kristin!” said Sophie. She was hobbling in a pair of glittery heels, and her small frame was barely supporting what appeared to be most of the contents of the Harry Winston flagship store.
“These are my friends, Holly Jones and Joe Delafield,” I said to Sophie. “Sophie Shields,” I added unnecessarily to Holly and Joe. “And you know Bootsie.”
“Good to meet you. And nice to see you, Beebee,” Sophie added to Bootsie, who nodded and then rudely took off, making a beeline for the house with a determined look.
“I think she’s hungry,” I explained, embarrassed. I knew exactly what Bootsie was up to. It had nothing to do with the buffet, and everything to do with rummaging through Sophie’s belongings.
“Your friend with the flowered outfits doesn’t waste any time!” giggled Sophie good-naturedly, watching Bootsie dash past the loaded hors d’oeuvres table and up a flight of stairs into the house. “I guess she must need to use the little girls’ room! ’Cause the party’s outside, not inside. But that’s okay!” The only thing Bootsie was interested by in the bathroom were the contents of Sophie’s medicine chest, and that would be only the first stop on a full forensic snooping tour of the house. Hopefully Sophie didn’t mind Bootsie rifling through her shoe cabinets and flinging open the drawers of her nightstands.
“This is so nice,” I said to Sophie, gesturing to the pool, where more guests had arrived, including Honey Potts, in a Bermuda-shorts ensemble, and Mariellen Merriwether, in her usual tasteful linen dress accessorized with opera-length pearls. The Colketts were there, too, futzing around with some potted boxwoods.
“You look amazing!” I added to Sophie, not sure what else to say about her appearance. She looked attractive enough, to be sure, but amazing was the best I could muster up at the moment. Not many people in Philly have the balls to put on a red-carpet-ready lavender silk, gown with a thigh-high slit for an afternoon party.
“It’s Versace!” blinked Sophie. “Elizabeth Hurley has the same dress. And Kelly Ripa got it in gold! You gotta wear some major Spanx under this one, I kid you not. Listen, I gotta go mingle, but I’m so glad you came over to my humble abode!”
“Speaking of which,” said Joe smoothly, “Sophie, who’s your decorator on this, um, fabulous place? Let’s get a drink.” He took her arm and guided her down to the pool as he started his pitch.
“Sophie’s husband has mafia ties!” I hissed to Holly as soon as Sophie was out of earshot. “That is, he probably does.” I gave her a quick update as we made our way along a slate walkway flanked by Colkett-installed peonies.
“I love it,” said Holly happily. “This town is seriously lacking in organized crime. Just think of how great it would be to have an occasional drive-by shooting!” I was about to remind her that we weren’t exactly Drea de Matteo and Edie Falco, but she’d lost interest already.
“Let’s go see what gossip the Colketts have for us,” suggested Holly, who was scanning the crowd in front of her carefully, though she made an effort to look extremely casual.
Howard, I thought. She’s checking to see if Howard is here, which she does so intently at every party she attends that I’m beginning to wonder whether she’s having second thoughts about her legal separation and imminent divorce. I’d have to ask her at a quieter moment if she’d really thought through her decision. Her split from Howard is a long story, but can be summed up in that Holly believes that Howard had a fling with a busty bartender at his favorite steakhouse, the Porterhouse, which Howard denies.
“And we can get away from that annoying music,” Holly added, gesturing dismissively toward a string quartet made up of symphony members who were gamely sawing away at their instruments over by the rosebushes. I thought the quartet sounded pretty good—the symphony’s always playing for the president at the White House, and getting invited to play in China and Russia, so they clearly have some skill—but what do I know about classical music?
I need a drink.
“HELLO, GORGEOUS!” SANG out Tim Colkett at the sight of Holly, who smiled up at him.
“Most beautiful girl in Philadelphia!” Tom Colkett said to Holly, kissing her hand and then greeting me with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.
“What do you think of the new rose garden?” whispered Tim. “This place was a complete dump yesterday morning. It took four truckloads of plants, and thirty yards of mulch. Now, if we can just get Sophie to lose the statues.”
“This is going to be nothing, though, compared to your yard, doll,” Tom assured Holly. “Now, that’s going to be freaky-chic! That Cipriani Hotel theme you’ve dreamed up is totally Sophia Loren.”
Just then, on a patio above us, we heard—and saw—Chef Gianni. With his parachute pants billowing and earrings glinting, he launched into a tirade of abuse at a frightened teenage waiter who was about to descend the stairs down to the pool area holding a large silver tray of Parmesan puffs. At the sound of Gianni’s screaming, the Colketts froze in terror, then blurted, “Excuse me, dolls,” to Holly and me, and bolted toward the far end of the pool and busied themselves rearranging some flowers on the cocktail tables.
“What’s with them?” asked Joe, who’d returned from wooing Sophie as a design client, and was in line to get us drinks from the bar.
“They have post-traumatic chef disorder,” Holly told him.
Who could blame them? I thought, as Joe handed me a glass of champagne. These Gianni tantrums really were too stressful for a Sunday. I’d visit the buffet, which I could see consisted of a Kilimanjaro of jumbo shrimp and stone crab claws, then convince Bootsie to drive me home.
“I’ve got to get to the bottom of this mystery,” said Holly, tapping her toe contemplatively and sipping her own champagne.
“You mean the mystery of who attacked Barclay?” asked Joe.
“No, I don’t care about that,” Holly said. “I mean about whether the Colketts are brothers, or if they’re boyfriend and boyfriend. This landscaping project at my house will be the perfect opportunity to find out.”
I rolled my eyes and veered off from Holly and Joe toward the smaller, second bar to the right of the pool, near where the Colketts were hiding out. There were only a handful of guests over here, sitting at white-clothed little tables decorated with potted orchids.
“Could I please have a little more champagne?” I asked the bartender, a pretty, dark-haired girl who I remembered from Gianni’s restaurant opening. Since I was hoping to leave shortly, I figured I’d better drink up and make my move on the shrimp. I felt like a freeloader, but I was starving after my day of household chores, and is there anything better than cold shrimp and champagne? I’m pretty sure there isn’t.
I put three shrimp on a little plate, then reached for the tongs again and added another, ladled a large dollop of cocktail sauce next to them, dipped a shrimp, and stuffed it into my mouth. “Yummmm,” I said to myself happily, making sure I wasn’t getting sauce on Holly’s yellow dress.
“The shrimp are great,” said a tall man next to me, who was wielding the silver serving pieces to score himself some crab claws. “Little high in cholesterol, though.”
I looked up, disconcerted at being caught mid-gulp, and annoyed by the anti-shellfish stance this guy was taking. But then I noticed that he had nice blue eyes, brown hair with some gray in it, and was smiling down at me in a friendly way. I instantly revised my position. The guy was in his late thirties, I guessed, and actually was incredibly good-looking. Plus, while he was way more well-groomed than my usual scruffy type, there was an appealing hint of five-o’clock shadow forming on his handsome jaw. This man was obviously just concerned with my health.
He squeezed half a lemon on his crab, and in a gentlemanly way offered to squeeze some on my shrimp.
“Thanks,” I said, proffering my plate for the lemon spritz. “Honestly, these shrimp are so good, they’re worth it.”
“You’re right,” he said, popping some crab in his mouth. “I have a theory about buffets. You need to skip all the extraneous stuff—like bread, salad, anything that’s just filler—and focus on the key items. Any kind of fish or filet mignon comes first. If it’s brunch, then I do the omelet bar, the cheeses, the roast turkey, and then I go right to dessert. You can’t waste stomach space on things like donuts.” I had to agree, this made a lot of sense.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that about the shrimp,” he added apologetically. He really had nice eyes with some great crinkly lines around them, which made him all the more appealing. “I just read a story in a medical journal about some of the health risks of shellfish, but it’s not good cocktail conversation.”
Was he a doctor? I love doctors. As Holly would say, they’re so medical.
“You’re a doctor?” I asked hopefully.
“I’m a vet,” he said. “Large animals, mostly. But I read the AMA journal, too. Sometimes research on people can have implications for how we treat our animal patients. Not that the animals I treat are eating a lot of shrimp.” I tried to follow along with the conversation, but was preoccupied by taking in his deep tan and the sexy lines around his blue eyes.
He also had this kind of incredibly honest look to him. That isn’t my usual type, but then again, my type wasn’t exactly working for me. And there was absolutely nothing about the vet that said Going to Thailand. If anything, his vibe was more: Going to gas up my station wagon, then take a jog around Bryn Mawr, grill a steak, and go to sleep. In other words, he seemed really normal.
“I have a dog,” I told him. “He’s a really sweet basset hound. He’s a little stubborn, but he’s so lovable . . .” My voice trailed off for a second as I was momentarily distracted by the sight of Honey and Mariellen lurking near the house. “It’s too bad that Lilly isn’t here tonight,” I heard Honey growl. “Where is she, again?”
“Tennis tournament,” Mariellen drawled. “Up in Greenwich. You know my daughter, she won’t miss a tennis match.” I did a mental eye roll. How could anyone get excited enough to drive four hours to Connecticut to swat a tennis ball?
And then I noticed that standing next to Honey was a man in a navy blazer, khakis, and what appeared to be Gucci loafers. He was youngish, handsome, and not too tall. He looked perfectly at ease among the symphony crowd. And then I almost dropped my drink, because the man was grinning at me, and the man was Mike Woodford.
His hair had been combed, his stubble had been shorn, and he looked positively symphony-ready. You could have popped him into a box at the opera hall downtown, stuck a program for Mozart’s Requiem in his hand, and no one would have blinked an eye.
What was Mike doing here? And more importantly, what was he doing in Gucci loafers?
“You have a basset hound?” asked the vet. I tore myself away from staring at the cowherd.
“Great dogs,” said the hot vet, leaning down to grab a few carrot sticks from the buffet. “Prone to obesity and back problems, but really great breed.”
I nodded, but I had the uncomfortable sense that Mike was watching me, and I’d lost my appetite for my shrimp. Well, almost. I ate another one, gulped my champagne, and put my plate down on one of the little tables.
As I did so, I suddenly felt Mariellen’s icy blue gaze fixed on me. Surprised, I looked away, then looked back, and saw La Merriwether stub out her cigarette in a glass ashtray in a positively sinister, Joan-Crawford-in-Mommie-Dearest way, still eyeing me with evident disdain. What had I done to upset her? Was there cocktail sauce on my face? Or did she know that I was the trespasser who’d helped make an unfortunate discovery at her best friend’s estate three nights before? Then I looked back, and noticed that her malevolent glare had been transferred to the good-looking veterinarian.
It was probably time to head home.
“Oh, hiya, Kristin, ya having fun?” squeaked Sophie suddenly, appearing at my elbow. “Like the shrimp? They’re from Palm Beach! Gianni had ’em flown in!”
“They’re fantastic,” I told her. “Thank you so much, they’re really incredible, and so, uh, big! Sophie Shields, this is . . .” I gestured toward the vet, realizing I didn’t know his name.
“John Hall,” he said, shaking Sophie’s teeny hand, which was obscured by two giant cocktail rings. “Thank you for having me.”
“Think nothing of it!” she said, looking over her shoulder nervously. “Eek, Gerda looks a little mad.” She giggled. “She’s my Pilates instructor,” she whispered to John Hall. “The one over there with the clipboard.”
Gerda glared at Sophie from her check-in station, and crunched angrily on a stalk of raw broccoli. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Mariellen and Honey walking swiftly toward Sophie’s house. Either they needed a bathroom break, or they were succumbing to the same impulse to snoop that Bootsie had given in to.
Gerda got up from her table, and hotfooted it after Mariellen and Honey, perhaps sensing an imminent ransacking of her and Sophie’s desks and closets. She pointed at Sophie’s glass of champagne, shaking her head in disapproval as she disappeared inside the house.
“Gerda banned me from drinking anything alcoholic or carbonated. Champagne’s a double no-no, so I gotta sneak it,” Sophie told me and John, turning her back on Gerda to chug a flute of Mumm. “She won’t even drink beer, which is like her national beverage. Plus she and the chef already had a big fight when he brought in a tub of veal shanks for the next course. He’s making osso buco to serve after the seafood tonight, but Gerda claims to be a vegan! But I happen to know that one time last year she scarfed a whole plate of leftover sausage before my ex moved out, and boy, was he pissed!”
“That’s unfortunate,” said John politely. He looked confused by Sophie’s monologue, and he was starting to sweat a little. He signaled to the girl at the bar for a glass of water.
“Oh fuck!” shrieked Sophie, glancing up at the house, where Gianni stood on a little patio outside the kitchen. “There’s the chef, flagging me down with that goddamn dish towel again. I gotta go.”
“Sophie!” yelled the chef from his terrace, his tall form bent over the railing to shout across the pool to Sophie. “There is big problem with your stove!”
Sophie hustled toward him as quickly as her tiny frame and giant heels would take her toward the house, but just as she neared the edge of the pool near the house, Gianni erupted in Italian.
We all looked up, including Sophie, whose mouth formed an O of horror.
The chef had somehow lost his balance: He tumbled off the balcony, Crocs flying, arms flailing, and did a mid-air somersault as he thumped heavily into a bank of rosebushes below. He also managed to topple onto the quartet’s cello player. His colleagues crashed to a halt in their song, while Sophie, just inches away, was unhurt. She seemed frozen on the spot, and indeed for a moment, no one spoke, or even breathed.
“Merda!” screamed the chef, finally breaking the silence.
“Ouch,” moaned the cellist.
“Ohmigod!” exploded Sophie. “Chef Gianni’s dead!”