Page 117 of Summers at the Saint
“Uh-huhhh,” Felice said, leaning forward. “You’re saying—maybe it wasn’t just mattresses? Maybe there was other stuff going on?”
“Yeah. He could be skimming all kinds of ways. Kickbacks for vendors, bribes, embezzlement. Maybe he’s cooking the books, ordering mattresses and TVs and stuff—there’s a note in the bitchbook about TVs, with just a question mark,” Livvy said. “And submitting fake invoices or something? I don’t know, I got a D in my only accounting class in college.”
“But how do we connect all this to Parrish? Burroughs wasn’t at the afterparty, right?”
“Maybe he had an accomplice,” Livvy said.
“Or two?” Felice gestured toward the doorway.
“Remember, those guys were the ones who volunteered to go out looking for Parrish the morning after the party. And then they decided to clean up the mess. When have you ever known those two slackers to clean up after themselves?”
Livvy sank down onto the floor. “But why? Parrish was their friend. I know Garrett tried hitting on her, but he tried hitting on every woman with a pulse.”
“Except me,” Felice said drily. “Guess I give off a certain vibe to a certain type guy.”
“And KJ? He’s so sweet. I just can’t picture him doing something like that.”
“What if he didn’t have a choice?” Felice asked. “What if Burroughs put him up to it? Like, maybe he threatened to fire KJ if he didn’t play along.”
“But KJ’s family is loaded. His granddad’s house is that gigantic white one with the columns on Ocean Drive. He doesn’t really need to work here. It’s just a summer job for him.”
“I know that house,” Felice said. “It looks just like the plantation house fromGone with the Wind.And not in a good way. What if Burroughs threatened to out KJ?”
Livvy stared, with her mouth open. “You really think he’s gay?”
“Girl, my gaydar started blipping the minute he moved in here. But he’s so deep in the closet, he probably found his grandma’s Christmas presents.”
Livvy shook her head slowly. “I still can’t believe it.”
“Does he ever leer at you when you’re running around here in your little booty shorts and crop top with your titties hanging out?”
“Well… no…”
Livvy went to her room and came back with her phone. “Let’s check KJ’s social media.”
She went to Instagram and typed in his name. “It’s private,” she reported.
“Uh-huh. Now check Garrett’s,” Felice said.
Garrett’s account was public. He had 364 followers and it seemed that most of them were attractive women in their late teens through midthirties. His feed was a kaleidoscope of images of Garrett, surrounded with girls on the beach, surrounded with girls at a bar, at parties in the middle of a knot of girls.
“God, he’s a total man-whore,” Felice said.
Livvy was studying the photos. She enlarged one of Garrett, soul-kissing a girl with long, dark hair wearing a Saint T-shirt, ripped and altered to display a generous amount of cleavage.
“Hey, this is Chelsea. We worked together. She’s a server at the Verandah.”
“Not anymore,” Felice said. “She’s gone. As of last week.”
“Did she quit, or get fired?”
“Fired, with a capital F. After lunch service, Garrett called security and they came and walked her ass off the property.”
“Huh. Do you know Chelsea’s last name?”
Felice scrunched up her face as she tried to recall the server’s name. “Something with an S-H. Or maybe an S-C-H. Or S-W?”
Livvy was typing in the Instagram search bar. “Here we go. Chelsea Shalanian?”
