Free Killer Punch by Amy Korman Page B

bullshit—­Bootsie’s not that good at cards. She’s decent at bluffing, but that’s about it. I gave her a nervous elbow in the side, mouthing Be quiet! at her.
    â€œPoker is for members only,” Tony told her smoothly. “Probably it’s better if you eat and drink only. Enjoy yourself! I’m going to send out my famous fourteen-­layer lasagna!” With that, Tony excused himself.
    â€œBest lasagna on the East Coast!” Lobster Phil promised. “So, Sophie, I heard you moved to a quiet little village somewhere and dumped that deadweight, Barclay. And I hear my old friend Gianni Brunello has a fancy restaurant over in the same town. Whaddaya doing over here in Farmville?” he added.
    â€œWe were following someone,” Sophie told him. “A pricey painting was stolen from a lady we know, and Bootsie here thinks it was stolen by this girl Eula, who, incidentally, is a real pain in the ass.”
    â€œUh-­huh.” Phil nodded, as if this all made sense to him. “Is this painting a Monet? A Manet? Some other famous artist?”
    â€œIt’s by a guy named Hasley Huntingdon-­Mews,” Bootsie told him. “And it’s worth somewhere between one hundred and two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, according to a friend of ours who works at Sotheby’s.”
    Phil’s eyebrows shot north. “And this disappeared when?” he asked.
    â€œYesterday!” Sophie said. “And the police—­well, it’s a police in Bryn Mawr, ’cause there’s only one guy in the whole department, unless you count his teenage intern—­think maybe someone took this artwork not knowing that the thing’s worth a ton of money!”
    â€œI might just look into this a little,” Phil told us. “Just in case the painting wasn’t stolen by the pain-­in-­the-­ass girl, but by someone more professional. I could maybe help out a little.”
    â€œOh yeah, Phil, you always did like art!” Sophie said, glugging some wine. “If you hear anything that would be a big help to our friend Mrs. Potts.”
    â€œI’ll send a ­couple texts,” said Phil, then proceeded to tap at his phone while I experienced mild alarm bells. Why would a guy named Lobster Phil care about an old British painting?
    Did Vegas crime ties extend into international art theft . . . that had somehow found its way to tiny Bryn Mawr? When he said “help out,” did he mean he’d return Heifer to Mrs. Potts—­or grab it for himself, unload it in Europe or Canada, and pocket two hundred and fifty grand?
    â€œAnyway, we followed Eula over here, but then it turned out she was just picking up tomatoes,” Sophie told him. She didn’t seem to think Phil’s interest in Heifer was out of the ordinary. “Turns out she’s cheating in a tomato-­growing contest.”
    â€œEarly Girls,” Bootsie informed him, as a waiter brought a bowl of chilled water for Waffles, which he happily slurped.
    â€œI hear you,” nodded Phil. “There’s a lot of tomato fraud in this part of Jersey. Farmville’s known for its Sweet 100s and Supersteaks, but the quick-­growing varieties are real good around here, too. Midnight Tony uses them in his famous sauce. Wait till you taste it!” he told Bootsie, with an admiring look as she polished off the figs.
    â€œI like your style,” he told her. “My ex-­girlfriend Diana-­Maria could eat like a champ, too. Unfortunately, the girl had no brains! Which is why she’s not around anymore,” he added bitterly, his genial vibe suddenly gone.
    Not around anymore? What did that mean?
    With that, Phil got up, excusing himself to go greet a federal judge who’d just walked in, and promising he’d be back in a few minutes.
    â€œBootsie, eat up and let’s go!” I whispered. “Stop asking if you can get in on