Read Online Killer Getaway by Amy Korman - Free Book Online Page B

’60s-­cool. While we watched the tennis match, I pondered whether I could afford to splurge on one myself, and fifteen minutes later, after the hot Chinese tennis player defeated the cute Australian guy, we waved good-­bye to Bootsie, who headed south in her preppy sandals at a brisk clip down Atlantic Avenue, while we climbed into the convertible.
    Starting up the car, Joe handed me his phone. “See where Holly’s phone is pinging on the map?” he said grimly.
    I peered in the bright sunlight at the tiny screen. “It looks like she’s at the corner of Palm Avenue and Hibiscus Lane,” I told him, worry surging through me. I searched for a positive spin to Holly’s whereabouts. “Maybe she’s returning something she bought last week?” I suggested.
    Joe merely raised a contemptuous eyebrow and steered west toward the on-­ramp to I-­95.
    â€œDo you think she’s at Saks? Or maybe Neiman’s?” I asked, slumping dejectedly in my seat, hoping I had on enough sunscreen.
    â€œWorse,” Joe told me grimly, merging past some 18-­wheelers into the northbound lane of the highway. “I know where she is. But I can’t even bring myself to say the name of the store. It starts with an H and has handbags named for movie stars and royalty.”

 
    Chapter 7
    â€œH OLLY’S MID-­MELTDOWN,” J OE told me as he roared up the entrance ramp to I-­95 and headed back toward Magnolia Beach. “She’s having a Howard episode.”
    I could see true concern in Joe’s expression. It’s true that Holly is much happier and more stable since she married Howard Jones a few years ago. She doesn’t enjoy being alone, and she honestly gets a little manic when Howard isn’t around. She seemed to always feel safe and secure with Howard when they first got together. But on and off for the past year, Holly thought he was going to cheat, and when she got the idea in her mind, she couldn’t be convinced otherwise. I was positive, however, that Howard wasn’t having any flings. He really loved her. And they’d been reunited and doing great since last spring—­or so I thought.
    â€œIs it a bartender?” Last year, Holly was convinced that Howard had embarked on a lusty affair with a bartender at the Porterhouse, his favorite Philly steak house. The girl in question was extremely well endowed, and Howard did go to the Porterhouse a lot, but he finally convinced Holly that he only went there for the steak.
    â€œThis is worse,” Joe told me grimly, Ray-­Ban aviators firmly in place, wind whipping back his longish brown hair. “I’ll show you on my phone as soon we get to another red light.”
    We passed through most of town, until we reached a traffic jam as we approached the corner where Vicino and the incipient Gianni Mare stood across from each other.
    We both forgot about Holly’s marriage woes for a moment, because there was a major scene happening outside Gianni’s new place.
    The action at the new restaurant resembled the amount of rushing around, chaos, and frenzied construction normally associated with the Super Bowl halftime show. Large white tents had been erected around both the front and side entrance of the restaurant formerly known as The Peacock, blocking the view of the insta-­renovations going on within.
    As we parked the Caddy, two workers carried out The Peacock’s ornately painted sign through the tent flaps and unceremoniously flung it into a huge Dumpster parked on the corner. So much for a piece of Magnolia Beach history, I thought, wondering if I could have e-­Bayed the sign to some nostalgic WASP who’d been a devotee of The Peacock’s famous crab soufflé, which, Adelia had told us, had once been the town’s signature dish.
    In front of the Dumpster, a vehicle that resembled a rock band’s tour bus and was stamped with an HGTV logo idled