Killer Getaway Read Online Free Page B

pool. She’d been tipping them like crazy, which seems to work well for her. “The class is amazing: It’s called the Glutenator. It’s for ­people who are gluten-­free, which obviously everyone is in Florida, and who want to have amazing glutes. You should see these women. Not one is under seventy, and they have the thighs of Cameron Diaz!”
    â€œAnd after that?” asked Joe, an unusually stern note in his voice as he pushed away his empty plate and stared meaningfully at Holly. “You won’t be going anywhere near Palm Avenue, right?”
    â€œOf course not!” Holly said, her almond-­shaped blue eyes darting around a bit. She rose and headed toward the house.
    â€œYou won’t be going into Gucci? Or Hermès? Or stopping at that antiques place with the forty-­seven-­thousand-­dollar Chippendale sideboards?” Joe barked at her.
    â€œI’m going to be late for class,” Holly said, ignoring him and heading into the house. “The Glutenator fills up in the first twenty seconds after they open the door. After that, I’m going to Vicino to help Jessica meet with a landscaper. We’ve decided to add a grove of orange trees out on the patio, and Jessica isn’t sure if we should do these two-­thousand-­dollar French planters, or some cheapo four-­hundred-­dollar ones she saw at Restoration Hardware, which obviously is a terrible idea. I’ll probably be gone all day.” With that, the French doors into the living room of the main house slammed shut, and she was gone, while I pondered the fact that anyone could consider four-­hundred-­dollar planters “cheapos.”
    Clearly, Holly was mid manic shopping episode, since Joe would never have questioned her normal spending, which is obscene by most ­people’s standards. I’d find out more from Joe as soon as I could. I quickly fed Waffles, who inhaled his kibbles, downed a bowl of water, and returned to the air-­conditioned guesthouse. Through the French doors, I could see that he’d hurtled himself back onto the vast white expanse of bed in the yellow and white bedroom and was asleep again, snoring.
    â€œWhere’s Bootsie?” I asked Joe. It’s not like Bootsie to miss a gathering, especially if there’s potential information being downloaded, not to mention food being served.
    â€œShe left twenty minutes ago,” Joe said. “She took off for some tennis tournament down in Delray Beach. And Sophie’s got conference calls and Skype sessions all morning with her divorce lawyers.
    â€œWhich leaves you free to come along and help me with my new client!” Joe told me. “Let’s go.”
    â€œS O, WHO IS this mysterious new client?” I asked Joe as he steered his rented beige Cadillac convertible down South Ocean Boulevard. Joe had informed me that the Caddy embodied “retro cool.” Plus, it had a ding in the door, so the rental agent had given it to him for a hundred bucks a week.
    â€œAdelia Earle,” Joe told me, a jaunty straw hat tipped back off his forehead. “She’s absolutely adorable! Dresses impeccably. Lots of hats and jewels. You know the type, somewhere between sixty-­five and eighty-­five, but with a youthful spirit. She has this old gazebo thing in her backyard that she wants to turn into an outdoor dining room.”
    â€œShe sounds like fun,” I said. “Is she a native Magnolia Beacher?”
    â€œVirginia tobacco money,” Joe told me. “Look, there’s the old Woolworth estate,” he added, pointing to a low, elegant old house that sat right on the ocean. “Anyway, Adelia’s a Stokes by birth. You know the old cigarette ads: ‘Stokes Makes the Best Smokes’? Adelia even appeared in some of their ad campaigns when she was Debutante of the Year. She’s a little vague about her age, so I’m not clear on when she was this