Read Online Killer Punch by Amy Korman - Free Book Online

paint tray. “Eula comes from the kind of family that probably has tons of paintings in gilt frames.”
    â€œThat’s true,” agreed Bootsie. “But I think Eula’s playing a diabolical mind game. She figured Honey would be so devastated by the theft that she’d quit the tomato contest,” said Bootsie. “Eula would do anything to win this Early Girl competition tomorrow.”
    â€œI guess,” I said doubtfully. While Bootsie dialed up George, putting him on speakerphone so she could type copious notes into her phone about the works of Hasley Huntingdon-­Mews, I painted and mused on the fact that Bootsie had decided this year to enter the early-­tomato game herself.
    She’d admitted to me after a few beers at the Pub last week that while she’d planted the actual seeds, she’d then turned over the care and nurturing of her tomato plants to her mom, Kitty Delaney, who’s an excellent gardener. Bootsie hadn’t seen her own tomato plants since April—­but had texted, tweeted, and Instagrammed pics as she’d dropped them off at the country club this morning, since today was the deadline to enter Early Girls in the competition.
    Suddenly, George’s painting monologue, still emanating from Bootsie’s phone’s speaker, caught my attention.
    â€œSo let me get this straight—­Huntingdon-­Mews is suddenly hot in the art world?” Bootsie said, still taking notes.
    â€œYup,” George confirmed. “Another of his pastoral scenes, Ewe in Sunlit Meadow , sold last month at auction for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That’s an all-­time high for his work, and represents a hundred and fifty percent increase in value over the past ten years.”
    Just then, the country club’s booziest members, Mr. and Mrs. Bingham, opened the screen door to the shop.
    â€œThat old oil painting might be worth three quarters of a million dollars?” Mr. Bingham said, emitting a slightly boozy whistle of admiration at the hefty price tag and adjusting his striped bow tie.
    â€œThat kind of money could stock us with white zinfandel for life!” said Mrs. Bingham, looking her usual colorful, cheery self in a coral shift dress, with lipstick to match.
    The Binghams, passionate consumers of chilled wine, are a kindly if tipsy pair invariably found eating lunch at the club. I have a soft spot for the Binghams, who smell faintly of soap and mothballs. Mr. Bingham is a retired banker and genial fellow in his late sixties, one of those golf-­tanned gents who seemingly never ages, and is in a perpetual good mood. He and his wife have always been around town, seeming completely happy with their gardening and an occasional nine holes of golf for Mr. B.
    Because they drink from about 9 a.m. on, they don’t make a ton of sense, but they’re a likable pair. Unfortunately, they like to repeat newsy items heard around town, but their retelling is invariably full of errors. By the time they got through with George’s Heifer info, Honey’s painting would have been bought by a Russian billionaire or headed for the Louvre to hang next to the Mona Lisa .
    â€œCould be!” said Bootsie, adding fuel to the fire. “Check out my front-­page story tomorrow for details.”
    â€œSpeaking of which, there’s a Gazette story appearing this week in which we play a prominent role,” Mrs. Bingham whispered loudly to us with a little wink. “Stay tuned, because you’re going to love it.
    â€œWe wanted you to write it,” she added to Bootsie, “but that little Eula was persistent as the dickens. She’s a born reporter. Anyway, love the pink paint!”
    A S THE B IN GHAMS left, Sophie burst through the shop’s doors, huge sunglasses obscuring most of her small face, and an uncharacteristically dejected slump to her tiny shoulders. She wore a pink Lilly minidress that looked adorable,