Killer Getaway Read Online Free Page A

plus an additional eight hours a day of naptime—­I aimed a blow-­dryer at my wavy hair and took a good look around the guesthouse in the sunny light of day. It was even better than I’d thought the previous night: The walls, chairs, and sofa were bright white, softened with pink pillows, a Lucite coffee table, modern glass lamps, and a sisal carpet. There was a tiny kitchenette and fully boozed-­up bar at one end of the living room, where coffee was currently brewing and the cabinets and mini fridge had been thoughtfully filled with all my favorite snacks, fresh fruit, kibbles and Beggin’ Strips—­Waffles’s all-­time favorite snack—­and Havarti cheese. The bedroom was similarly all white, but with huge European pillows on the bed, embroidered with a sunny yellow Greek key pattern, and a huge mirror with an intricate yellow-­and-­white inlaid frame. There was also a large closet—­ stocked with Holly’s never-­worn impulse buys! —­and the white marble bathroom, in which I’d just enjoyed a steam shower, that was glossier than any hotel bathroom I’d ever seen in a magazine or on the Travel Channel. I almost cried with joy when I noticed a fluffy white terry-­cloth robe hanging on the back of the door, which I’d missed earlier. I mean, what screams relaxation more than a white terry robe?
    â€œThat mutt doesn’t look right down here,” Joe said three minutes later, when Waffles and I wandered outside and found Joe sucking down coffee at a long, island-­style wooden dining table and inhaling a plate of scrambled eggs. He gave my dog a critical once-­over as Waffles wagged at him, then headed toward a small group of hibiscus bushes at the side of the yard to conduct his morning business.
    â€œHe’s too fat for Florida,” pronounced Joe. “He looks more like he belongs in a ski lodge. He’s not the tropical type.”
    â€œWaffles loves sunbathing,” I told him, trying not to be insulted. “He’s all about warm weather. Trust me, he’s ready for Florida.”
    â€œMaybe he’d be okay in Key West,” Joe said dubiously. “Magnolia Beach, definitely not. They don’t do drool here.”
    â€œI’m not so sure about that,” Holly said, emerging from the main house in a white caftan over a beige Chanel bikini and towering Prada wedges, enormous sunglasses pushed atop her blond hair. “There’s a ­couple that’s been coming into Vicino every night this week. He’s about a hundred and ten years old, and she’s thirty-­five. He drools, but then again, I’m not sure he’s actually awake during dinner.”
    Waffles came back from the hibiscus hedge looking relieved, and he sat, wagging, next to Holly, who ignored him.
    â€œSo, what’s everyone doing this morning?” I asked, wondering if I’d have time to jump in the pool at some point. Not surprisingly, the pool had the look of one that’s never actually seen any swimming. Crisp blue-­and-­white towels were rolled in perfect hotel-­like conformity on the shelves of a British Colonial–style dark wood cabinet, on top of which was arranged the aforementioned coffee ser­vice, a pitcher of juice, a bowl of sliced papaya and mango, and a full bar.
    â€œI’m going to my workout class at The Breakers,” Holly said, glancing at her watch. The Breakers, just across the bridge in Palm Beach, is South Florida’s most imposing, grand place to stay, and it’s an absolutely beautiful 1930s structure that houses magnificent public spaces, restaurants, and a beach club, along with several hundred luxury suites. Holly had decided to make the place her personal hangout for the duration of the winter, and she was already on intimate terms with the concierges, the salon staff, the personal trainers, and the staff who served food and drinks at the beach and