Killer Getaway by Amy Korman Page B

where do you even come up with this stuff? Look, here’s another photo of Dawnelle from earlier that day, working at the charity project. She’s helping install a sink.”
    He scrolled to another image where the beautiful heiress, clad in cute jeans and boots for her Habitat volunteering time, was helping Bubba tighten bolts underneath a bathroom vanity (at least, I think that’s what they were doing, since I don’t know a lot about sinks). Dawnelle looked really good from the side angle, too, given her tight jeans and aforementioned generously apportioned chest. She also upheld the theory that girls look good in tool belts.
    Dawnelle appeared to be truly enjoying helping out with the project, too, smiling happily as she worked. “It says on this Indianapolis Style website that Dawnelle personally funded all the bathrooms and kitchens for the project and wrote a check for eighteen thousand dollars,” Joe told me grimly.
    We looked at each other, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. Holly’s a truly generous person. She’ll write a check for any good cause, and frequently does. But there’s no way she’s ever going to get anywhere near a plumbing project. Hopefully Howard wasn’t falling for the do-­gooding Dawnelle.
    G ERDA CALLED H OLLY’S phone at six that night, announcing she’d printed a pile of e-­mails two inches thick, and that we needed to read them ASAP.
    â€œWhere are you, Gerda?” Holly asked her.
    â€œAt Barclay’s, and I can’t get out of house tonight,” Gerda said in the manner of a grounded teenager. “Barclay gained seven pounds this week, and we’re doing extra workouts tonight. Tomorrow morning, I can sneak out. Barclay has car ser­vice taking him to Miami for meeting at nine a.m.”
    Since it turned out Gerda and Barclay were staying on Seagrape Lane just a few houses down from Adelia, we agreed to meet at Adelia’s the next morning at nine-­fifteen.
    Forty-­five minutes later, while I was working on my hair with a flatiron and some de-­frizzing spray, Holly came to the guesthouse, trailed by Sophie.
    â€œYa know what, I’m gettin’ tired of Vicino every night,” Sophie told us. “Let’s stop at Tiki Joe’s on the way over to dinner.”
    I had to laugh as I thought of anyone being tired of Vicino, where each dish was more delicious than the next and waiters were always bringing things like chilled Pellegrino, fresh bottles of pinot noir, and grilled scallops to the table. “Sophie, you co-­own the place,” I told her. “You can’t be tired of it.”
    â€œI mean, I love Channing and all,” Sophie shrugged. “But I’ve been there twenty-­three nights in a row! Plus, I feel awful that my ex might be the one trying to kill Holly, and I want to take her out for a drink to apologize.”
    â€œIt’s not your fault that Barclay’s probably trying to flatten me like a veal paillard,” Holly told Sophie. “Anyway, I’m totally up for Tiki Joe’s.”
    â€œBy the way, Kristin, ya need to lose the Old Navy outfits,” Sophie told me helpfully, eyeing what I’d thought was a cute sundress. She popped some gum into her mouth, a habit Joe banned when he was present but which Sophie snuck when she could. “Old Navy ain’t gonna fly at Tiki Joe’s,” she informed me, chewing noisily on her Bubblicious.
    Holly, who had already gone into the closet, emerged holding a white Milly mini dress with a pretty square neckline and a pair of Prada wedges, both still in the bags they’d been toted home in from the Bal Harbour shopping center. “Listen to Sophie!” Holly told me.
    â€œI feel weird wearing your clothes,” I protested to Holly. “I mean, the tags are still on these, and look how expensive they are!”
    â€œ I feel weird when you wear Old Navy to chic