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“I have a delivery.”
    â€œThat’s me!” said Sophie, waving at him excitedly. “Do ya have flowers for me? Maybe it’s a box of long-­stemmed roses from Joe!”
    â€œNot exactly,” said the guy, reaching into his pockets and pulling out an envelope, which he handed to a startled Sophie. “This is notice from your estranged husband’s legal representatives. You need to vacate your new home on Begonia Lane, list it for sale immediately, and escrow half the proceeds to be given to Mr. Shields.
    â€œAlso,” said the preppy guy, looking distinctly uncomfortable, “your ex is demanding that you turn over joint property in the form of twenty-­two pairs of Gucci sandals, size five and a half, which he says he bought you on your honeymoon in Venice, Italy. He says you’ll know why he wants them. Um—­have a nice night!” he added, turning on his loafered heel and disappearing.
    For once, Sophie was speechless. Her tiny hand went to her heart—­currently clad in a silk Lilly P. minidress—­and she looked down at her shoes, which were gold four-­inch-­high numbers, and appeared to be one of the twenty-­two pairs of Guccis under subpoena.
    Just then, a crash of glass and heavy furniture erupted in the bar.
    â€œ Merda! ” came a scream.

 
    Chapter 4
    W ALT AND J ARED arrived in the barroom at the same time we did, where Gianni was flat on the ground in front of the darkened mahogany bar, a bottle of Macallan smashed next to him alongside a heavy rocks glass. Gianni was facedown, the back of his be-­earringed bald head looking oddly vulnerable as he lay there moaning. A steely, sharp knife was stuck through his leather pants into the back of his thigh.
    â€œOhmigosh!” screamed Sophie. “Chef, did ya fall on a knife and stab yourself?”
    â€œHow I gonna fall facedown and stab myself in the back of my leg?” Gianni yelled at her, pointing at the blade. “Gianni was attacked from behind by some kind of crazed killer—­probably that sore loser, Skipper!”
    â€œShould we, you know, wiggle the knife out?” asked Bootsie, as Officer Walt turned on the lights and dialed 911 for an ambulance. “Because it looks kind of painful.”
    â€œThose rugs just came in from Savafieh, so I wouldn’t yank on that blade,” Holly said, shrugging. “Howard and I just paid to redecorate this room, since I think the old carpets in here were from 1902. Although, given this incident, we probably should have waited.”
    She bent over to give a sympathetic assessment of Gianni—­who didn’t seem to be oozing all that much blood. His tight leather pants were seemingly acting as a giant tourniquet. “Can I get you anything, Chef? Maybe a nice martini?”
    â€œI’m bleeding to death here!” screamed Gianni, who tried to turn over but then moaned even louder.
    â€œEven more reason to break out the Grey Goose,” Holly told him.
    â€œI took a CPR course in college, and I’m pretty sure leg wounds are rarely fatal,” Bootsie announced.
    â€œFuck you!” responded Gianni.
    â€œJared, please go outside and direct the EMTs when they get here,” Walt said calmly. “Now, Chef Gianni, what happened?”
    â€œHow the hell I know?” shouted the chef. “I come into bar to grab myself a drink. I see the Scotch sitting right at end of counter, so I reach over to pour myself a big one when suddenly Gianni feels the worst pain of his life!
    â€œI fall facedown and so I never get good look at this person, but I get quick glance over my shoulder and I see it was some short guy wearing green polo shirt, like everyone wear at this putana country club. So Gianni is one hundred percent sure it was Skipper!” Just then, Skipper himself poked his head into the bar, his face frozen with apparently genuine shock as he took in the scene before