Killer Punch by Amy Korman Page B

a mini-­taco.
    Plus George can be a bit competitive, plus I had a feeling he and Lobster Phil moved in very different circles. And who knows? Let each of them do their own thing, and maybe somewhere between Vegas, Jersey, and the fancy New York art world, one of the two might actually find the wayward canvas.
    â€œNow that I’m done with this party project and I don’t have to deal with that hideous Eula Morris,” said Holly, “I’m going to devote ninety-­three percent of my time to taking you out for cocktails and tracking down your painting, Mrs. P.”
    Mrs. Potts gave Holly a smile, cheering up a little. Holly’s the only person who ever convinced the elderly heiress to wear lip gloss and occasionally put on a tasteful sheath dress instead of her usual Bermuda shorts, and they have an unlikely but firm friendship.
    â€œWhat are you going to do with the other seven percent of your waking hours?” George asked Holly.
    â€œFirst, I’m going to get Eula Morris to stop wearing beige, and then I’ll come up with a plan to get her to move at least three states away from here!”
    T WENTY MINUTES LATER, I wondered if Holly would mind if I took off from the tomato fest. Then again, the ticket she’d generously bought me had been close to one hundred dollars, there was an open bar, and I had on the borrowed Trina Turk dress. But the conversations at this soiree were honestly a little strange.
    â€œI talk to my tomato seeds during the winter,” Mrs. Bingham was telling me and Sophie, as her husband gallantly handed her a fresh white zinfandel. I noticed his striped bow tie had slipped to a jaunty angle, and Toby the dog had joined them at the party, still wagging politely at passing guests.
    â€œUh-­huh,” said Sophie. “What kind of stuff do ya tell them?”
    â€œI tell them they’re destined for greatness!” Mrs. Bingham said with a giggle.
    â€œThat, or to be sliced up and served with mozzarella and basil,” whispered Tim Colkett.
    â€œKeep talking,” said Jimmy Best, my grouchy next-­door neighbor, to Mrs. Bingham. “You drink enough, your plants might start answering you.”
    â€œI think I have a real shot this year at getting first place in the Mighty Sweets,” Mrs. Bingham replied. “I did some new composting, and my babies are the best they’ve ever been!”
    â€œMummy gave me some great tips,” Bootsie said. “For one, she spritzes everything with vodka. Keeps away the beetles. That, and she uses a ton of Miracle-­Gro.”
    â€œYou ain’t allowed to use Miracle-­Gro on competition veggies,” Jimmy informed her. “No chemicals. I guess vodka’s okay, though.”
    â€œHey, isn’t that the cute guy you make out with sometimes over there?” Sophie added, giving me a little elbow nudge and nodding in the direction of the tomato display.
    Mike Woodford was sipping a vodka drink and inspecting the Early Girl plants alongside his aunt Honey Potts.
    â€œThat’s him,” I confirmed, noting that Mike was in his standard party attire of navy blazer and khakis, along with some brown Gucci loafers. To be honest, Mike looks better when he’s in jeans and a T-­shirt, but he still looked very cute.
    â€œHe’s a hot guy!” Sophie said, giving me a little wink.
    â€œBut just look at him with those tomatoes—­he’s more interested in them than he is in talking to me,” I told her. Mike was currently bent over what a placard indicated was Eula Morris’s plant, looking absolutely fascinated by the glossy red veggies that hung from the slender green stalks. He and Honey were engaged in whispered conversation over the plant with the intensity most ­people reserve for juicy gossip, not juicy produce.
    I tried not to notice the dark beard scruff I found so irresistible on Mike, as he talked animatedly with his aunt. Also, I