Free Killer Getaway by Amy Korman

noisily. From it emerged cameramen, clipboard-­wielding assistants, and finally a beautiful woman in super-­tight jeans, stiletto heels, and a low-­cut white blouse. Clearly the star of the show, the girl also wore a tool belt and was carrying a fan deck of paint colors.
    â€œSienna Blunt!” Joe said angrily. “I can’t believe Gianni convinced her to do his forty-­eight-­hour makeover. Plus, it’s a travesty that she even has her own show!”
    â€œMaybe it’s because she looks great in the tool belt,” I suggested. Honestly, the dangling wrenches somehow oozed sex.
    â€œAny girl looks good in a tool belt,” said Joe angrily. “That’s Maxim magazine’s go-­to look.”
    â€œFor a pop-­up restaurant, this looks pretty elaborate, doesn’t it?” I said to Joe, trying to end the Sienna rant. The same workmen who’d dumped the Peacock’s venerable placard into the trash emerged from a paneled truck with a replacement sign made of carefully aged French zinc. Hand-­hammered into the zinc were elegant block letters reading “Gianni Mare,” and a charming, antique-­style spotlight was mounted above the large sign. “That sign must have taken weeks to make.”
    â€œChef Gianni isn’t the type to pop up,” Joe said. “He’s more of a plotter and schemer, especially when it comes to taking down Channing and Jessica. Plus, this is a major installation. Pop-­ups are supposed to be done quick and on the cheap.”
    â€œWould HGTV pay for all of this?” I asked as we watched workmen emerge from the ramp of a truck carrying an enormous, pricey-­looking, twelve-­arm silver chandelier. They took it in through the tent flaps, followed by additional guys toting matching silver sconces.
    â€œAbsolutely not! I priced that chandelier recently for Sophie’s house, and it was sixteen thousand dollars. That’s close to the whole budget for a TV show makeover,” Joe said, looking annoyed. “I mean, even Sophie didn’t want to spend that on a light fixture.”
    â€œThis place is looking very 1997,” he added dismissively, as Sienna Blunt directed a group of landscapers carrying lush jasmine bushes in zinc planters inside the white tented entrance. “Brasserie decor is all wrong for Florida.”
    Personally, I loved the zinc sign, and the planters looked beautiful, but then again, Joe has a habit of dissing any design job he hasn’t overseen. He spends most of his weekends, in fact, visiting shops, bistros, showrooms, and hotels around Philly just so he can weigh in on his competitors. A designer show house can enrage him for weeks.
    â€œLet’s blow this clusterfuck,” he added grumpily as he headed back to the car, stepping aside to make way for a girl carrying a rack of wineglasses.
    As I was trying to imagine how hot the beige leather seats that had been baking in subtropical sun would feel through my Gap sundress (twenty-­two dollars, end-­of-­season sale), I heard a familiar friendly voice hailing me from across Ocean Boulevard.
    â€œDoll! Is that you? What are you doing down here?”
    T WO BEAUTIFULLY DRESSED men crossed the street. Each wore a crisp white shirt and had a golden tan that spoke of afternoons on the tennis court and lunches by a shimmering pool. They toted neat leather bags from which poked iPad minis. On their leather bags and iPad cases, “Colkett” was stamped in distinctive, tasteful script.
    â€œKristin Clark and Joe Delafield! We couldn’t be happier to see you!” Tim Colkett said, looking genuinely surprised and pleased. The Colketts were Bryn Mawr’s preeminent landscape and floral designers, who were known for creating spectacular yards and party settings. They are exceptionally good at what they do, and the two are also extremely nice guys. Holly counts them as good friends.
    â€œDon’t you