Killer WASPs Read Online Free

early 1900s, with eaves and a slate roof. Bryn Mawr’s
     volunteer fire company had just moved to a new, state-­of-­the-­art building over
     by the post office, and now, thanks to some artful masonry restoration and the addition
     of new dark green shutters flanking floor-­to-­ceiling windows, the old firehouse
     resembled an Umbrian villa. The level of manicured, obsessive-­compulsive perfection
     in evidence was truly impressive: The circular driveway of tiny stones looked as if
     someone raked it every five minutes, whether it needed it or not.
    “I would have gone with a cerulean blue for the front door,” said Joe, gesturing dismissively
     at the spectacular scene before us while the ridiculously delicious scent of grilling
     shellfish wafted our way. Clearly, since he hadn’t been awarded the job of designing
     Gianni’s restaurant, Joe had come to the party only to catalog the nonexistent flaws
     in its decor. “And they should have added about seven hundred more of those dinky
     lemon trees and a vintage Etruscan trellis to form an arbor . . . what is that racket ?”
    Blood-­chilling, horrific screams had erupted from the restaurant. The teenage valet
     parkers looked scared.
    “That’s the chef, having one of his tantrums,” said Holly, tipping a valet ten bucks
     as she dashed up the smooth stone steps to the front door of the restaurant. “Hurry,
     we don’t want to miss it.”
    We all rushed into a beautiful terra-­cotta colored room lit by a huge old wooden
     chandelier, with a long mahogany bar and lots of white-­cloth tables in a roomy dining
     area. Over by the bar stood the eponymous Chef Gianni, who had arrived five years
     ago from a verdant corner of Tuscany to conquer the Philadelphia dining scene. A slim,
     muscular man dressed in chef’s whites above the waist and MC Hammer–style parachute
     pants below, he had a glistening bald dome and spoke with an accent as thick as a
     Parma ham.
    “What the fuck is this?” screamed the chef, his crimson face nose-­to-­nose with two
     cowering, well-­dressed young men, waving what appeared to be an invoice at them.
     As usual, Gianni wore orange Crocs in the manner of Mario Batali, his culinary idol,
     and had his sleeves rolled up to reveal intricate tattoos including the Italian flag,
     the distinctive boot-­shaped map of Italy, and a lavishly rendered façade of St. Peter’s
     Basilica along his forearms.
    I’d never actually met Chef Gianni, but he’d been anointed one of America’s rising-­star
     chefs by a top food magazine just a month ago. Deeply tanned, he wears several gold
     earrings in each lobe, and at thirty-­eight, has a proclivity for dating women in
     their twenties. His downtown Philadelphia restaurant, Palazzo, occupies the penthouse
     of a luxurious hotel in Society Hill, decorated with lacquered black walls and bright
     red banquettes upon which patrons enjoy forty-­eight-­dollar pastas. Gianni, who has
     the touchy temperament of a star TV chef in the making, likes to threaten to dangle
     the busboys over the edge of Palazzo’s balcony while techno music pulsates in the
     dining room, which customers absolutely love. “He’s so mercurial !” they invariably giggle.
    Given that Holly happens to the only daughter of a billionaire—­seriously, her father
     is in the chicken business, and recently out-­Perdued the Perdues—­she visits Palazzo
     frequently. Joe does a fair bit of business with clients over dinner at Palazzo, too.
     They were definitely on the list for tonight’s party, while I filled the “And Guest”
     slot on their invitations.
    “You know those guys he’s screaming at, right?” Joe whispered to me. “They’re the
     hot florists of the moment, Colkett and Colkett. No one knows if they’re brothers,
     cousins, or if they’re a ­couple. Very talented. They use lots of fruits and vegetables
     in their work. Remember when Holly used them for her Non-­Valentine Valentine’s