Killer WASPs Read Online Free Page A

Party
     last winter? Their big thing is that they’re incredibly overpriced.”
    “I love the Colketts!” Holly sang out, giving the florists a wave.
    Normally, Holly evokes rapturous greetings in all men, women, and even cats and dogs,
     but the Colketts didn’t seem to notice her. They were cringing nervously next to two
     topiaries the size of Volkswagens made of artichokes, pomegranates, and lemons that
     they’d just wheeled in. Chef Gianni studied their bill, ranting in Italian.
    Bills were a sore point at the moment with Gianni. According to the front-­page stories
     about him in Bootsie’s newspaper, he’d spent months combing the hill towns of Italy
     for antiques for the restaurant with his young decorator-­slash-­girlfriend. This
     had proven to be a very expensive extended vacation/buying trip, which resulted in
     some rather testy meetings with his investors when he’d returned home with that deep
     tan, a lot of Versace luggage, and crates full of overpriced furniture.
    As we watched, transfixed, the chef glared at the bill, tore it in two, stuck both
     halves into a lit votive candle, and threw the flaming paper on the glossy restaurant
     floor, where it ignited a tablecloth and came perilously close to setting aflame a
     very pricey-­looking silk curtain. As the flames leaped higher, a stunned-­looking
     waiter ran over, snatched the burning tablecloth, and ran out the front door to the
     driveway as smoke billowed behind him. We watched the hapless waiter stomp out the
     fire, but then flames began to lick the edges of his long white apron, too, so he
     flung the apron onto a flagstone walkway, where the little bonfire appeared to die
     down.
    Crisis averted. Sort of.
    “Six thousand dollars,” screamed Gianni at the Colketts. “You think it is okay to
     charge Chef Gianni six thousand dollars for flowers?” The florists looked at each
     other and giggled nervously, the kind of laughter that comes from near-­hysterical
     terror. The chef turned purple, tore off his apron, and stomped up and down on it.
     He ripped a piece of round red fruit from a topiary and beaned it at the florists,
     who ducked, but one didn’t duck fast enough and screamed in pain when he took the
     object, which appeared to be a dried pomegranate, in the ear. “Yesterday, I got an
     estimate from florist who says she can do all the flowers for five hundred bucks a
     week. You charge Chef Gianni eight times that!”
    “Actually, six thousand is twelve times that,” pointed out the chef’s girlfriend,
     who’d appeared from the back of the restaurant, and was languidly rearranging her
     long hair and lighting a cigarette. I had met her once before—­she’d gone to design
     school with Joe. I couldn’t understand how this girl put up with the perpetually angry
     chef. His cooking skills seemed to be his main selling point, and she didn’t look
     like a big eater. Maybe she liked the trips to Italy.
    “Not at all, Chef,” ventured one of the flower guys. “These topiaries will last forever.
     They’re really quite a bargain. They’re freeze-­dried .”
    “They are bullshit!” The chef’s face was turning a color that could only mean an imminent
     stroke, but just then, a small horde of guests crowded in through the front door,
     and a waiter started passing glasses of Barolo, which we all grabbed and started gulping
     down. Suddenly, Chef Gianni snapped back to normal, noticing that the party had actually
     commenced, that the candles were lit, and that baby lamb chops, cheeses, and olives
     had been piled upon a lavish buffet. The waiters surreptitiously repositioned the
     topiaries so that the bald spots didn’t show.
    Gianni straightened his cuffs, started breathing again, and spied Holly in her teeny
     black dress. His mood totally changed. Very bipolar.
    “Holly Jones!” said the chef. His face paled to magenta, and he ran over to kiss Holly’s
     hand. “You are gorgeous!”
    In this second, I