Killer WASPs Read Online Free Page B

suddenly understood Gianni’s charisma. His shaved head and tattoos
     took on a sexy, bad-­boy quality. He began lavishly greeting women ranging in age
     from their thirties into their eighties with an athletic swagger. When smiling attentively
     and doling out triple kisses, he made each woman feel like he’d love to rip off her
     clothes, if only they were alone together. So that’s what his girlfriend saw in him!
    Dozens of ­people were crowding in behind us, and a minute later, I lost Holly and
     Joe in the haze of Chanel No. 5 and knots of well-­dressed men bragging about their
     golf handicaps, so I made my way to the bar, hoping that the contraband lobster tails
     would appear soon.
    “Two vodkas,” I heard a voice growl behind me. I peeked around and found that this
     was the not-­very-­feminine intonation of my neighbor, Honey Potts of Sanderson, a
     seventyish woman dressed in a blazer, white shirt, and khakis, her skin the leathery
     texture of George Hamilton’s after a month in Mexico. Everyone on the Main Line knows
     who Honey Potts is—­she’s a grande dame in the old tradition, and she’s always front-­page
     in the Bryn Mawr Gazette , judging a local dog show or leading a garden tour. Honey, her nickname since childhood
     (real name: Henrietta), didn’t really fit her anymore, since she’s more intimidating
     than sweet, but then, these WASPy names never make any sense. I mean, who would name
     a girl Bootsie?
    Next to Honey was her best friend since childhood, Mariellen Merriwether. Mariellen
     was slimmer, taller, blonder, and wearing a pink dress and beige heels. And pearls—­always
     pearls. There was something about Mariellen that made you feel instantly inferior,
     which it seemed was the point of her existence. She lived on a smaller property than
     the adjoining Sanderson, but it was still huge by any standard, consisting of fifteen
     acres with a charming old farmhouse and a horse barn, where her prizewinning gelding
     Norman lived in Ritz-­Carlton-­like conditions. According to Bootsie, who’d attended
     charity functions chez Merriwether, the entire house was covered in toile, and what
     wasn’t toile was monogrammed, including her toilet paper and ice cubes. Norman’s barn
     was almost as cozily fitted out, and Norman himself dined on organic hay and carrots
     from Mariellen’s personal gardens.
    “Well, they’ve ruined the firehouse, but at least there’s free-­flowing Stoli,” Honey
     groused to Mariellen as she flagged down a waiter in the candlelight, waving her already
     empty glass. Just then, the minuscule Maine lobsters made their appearance on the
     buffet on massive platters, and a small stampede ensued. It seemed that even the wealthiest
     Philadelphians can get themselves into a lather over free lobster.
    “Look at all these vulgar trays of lobster they’re serving—­so Caligula,” sniffed Mariellen to her friend, as I finally
     got to the front of the line and tonged three of the tiny crustacean tails onto a
     small cocktail plate.
    “Let me finish my drink, then I’m ready to hit it. I’ve got to get home for Dancing with the Stars ,” growled Honey, who snagged her cocktail from the returning waiter, forked in a
     quick plate of lobster, and then headed for the door, Mariellen on her heels.
    As for the Colketts, they were out on the patio, shakily clutching drinks and sharing
     a Marlboro Light before coming back into the bar for a refill. Now that the party
     was under way, music was pumping, and cocktails were being lavished on guests by the
     apron-­wearing waiters; all in all, it was a pretty spectacular scene. Chef Gianni,
     who had clearly entered the “up” phase of his rapid-­cycle manic episode, schmoozed
     euphorically with his guests, his bald head gleaming and earrings jingling as he did
     a little shimmy dance around the room. The room was so crowded that I still couldn’t
     locate Holly and Joe in the crowd. The Colketts