Allergic to Death (7 page)

“Is there something in particular…” Gigi paused, trying to think of a way to put it delicately. She didn’t want to ask outright if Sienna had found lipstick on her husband’s collar or another woman’s phone number in his pocket.

“No…” Sienna hesitated. “It’s just a feeling. He’s coming home late more and more often, and when he does, he goes straight to the computer and doesn’t even want to talk. I know he’s been under a lot of stress lately.” Sienna threw her head back and shook out her hair. “Well, I’m probably just imagining it! I always get sort of…weepy…around this time. It’s probably just my imagination.”

Carlo disappeared through the swinging door into the kitchen and returned with a Styrofoam container in his hand. It made Gigi think of the Gourmet De-Lite box she’d given to Martha, and she felt her spirits sink again.

“Here we are,” Carlo said, handing it to Sienna, “one Caprese sandwich to go. Made with toasted flatbread, a walnut-and-basil pesto, tomatoes and of course the freshest mozzarella.” He kissed the tips of his fingers.

The front door opened with a discordant jangle of bells and Alice strode up to the counter. “What the heck was that all about?” Her brows were furrowed in concern as she stared at Gigi. “You blew out of my office so fast I never got to show you that garter I bought Stacy or the cute miniature candy dishes we’ve settled on for the table gifts.”

Gigi sniffled.

“Did something happen with Mertz?”

Gigi nodded. “The lab discovered the food I prepared for Martha was covered in peanut oil. I know I didn’t use
any peanut oil in making Martha’s lunch. Or anybody else’s for that matter.”

“The police aren’t blaming you.” Alice ran a hand through her gray curls. “They think it was an accident.”

“But that would mean I’d been criminally careless in preparing Martha’s food,” Gigi cried. She began to shred the edges of her cocktail napkin.

“That’s obviously not the case, so someone must have gotten to the food and tampered with it.” Sienna pulled her long hair over one shoulder and began to plait it.

Gigi shivered. “But that would mean someone did it on purpose. To try to…harm…Martha.” She couldn’t quite bring herself to use the word
kill
.

“Who would do something like that?” Carlo pulled a large jar of sliced olives from under the counter, emptied the contents into a stainless steel bowl and put it next to similar bowls filled with grated cheese, sliced mushrooms and chopped onions.

“Who knew Martha was allergic?” Alice looked from one to the other of them.

“Obviously, I did,” Gigi began.

“It’s news to me.” Sienna tossed the finished braid over her shoulder.

“Me, too,” Carlo said, and turned around to busy himself with some bottles on the bar.

“Why would anyone want to hurt Martha?”

Alice snorted. “Maybe it was a restaurant owner upset by one of those savage reviews of hers.”

“Which restaurants has she reviewed lately?” Sienna opened her Styrofoam container and picked at the crust of her sandwich.

There was a crash, and everyone looked toward Carlo, who was quickly righting a toppled wine bottle and swabbing
at the spilled liquid with a bar cloth. “Don’t be silly,” he laughed. “No one would kill because of a bad review.” He glanced toward Emilio, who was busy serving a table of six businessmen in dark suits. “Would they?”

“They’d have to get in line,” Alice laughed. “Martha hardly ever liked anything she reviewed.”

“I heard her arguing with someone on the phone at the theater that day,” Gigi said.

“Who was it?” Sienna broke off another piece of her sandwich.

Gigi shook her head. “I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Alice eyed Sienna’s sandwich longingly. “Martha argued with just about everyone at one time or another.”

“Does someone benefit with Martha dead?” Sienna said.

“Everyone?” Alice said, and began to laugh.

“Seriously,” Gigi pleaded. “There must be someone who benefits.”

“Find out who benefits and who hated her, and you’ll probably have your man.”

“Or woman.” Sienna leaned forward with her hands clasped on the bar.

“That’s what I have to do, then,” Gigi declared, slipping off her stool in her excitement. “I have to find out who might have wanted Martha dead, tell the police and let them investigate. Then everyone will know it wasn’t my food that killed the poor woman.”

If only it were that easy, Gigi thought later as she prepared plank-grilled salmon with garlic, ginger, lime and teriyaki glaze. What was she thinking? She didn’t know the first thing about investigating. She could certainly ask a few
questions and keep her ears open, but what good was that going to do? She pulled the strings off snow peas and blanched them briefly in boiling water before plunging them into cold. The couscous was ready—she just had to add the fresh vegetables and pineapple.

Gigi fluffed the couscous with a fork. It wouldn’t hurt to find out if anyone had been seen loitering around her or Martha’s cars that afternoon. Maybe someone had seen something and just didn’t realize its importance. Because someone had to have gotten into her car to doctor Martha’s meal, and the theater was the only place they could have done it.

Tonight, though, she wasn’t going to think about Martha, peanuts, Detective Mertz, Gourmet De-Lite, Branston Foods or much of anything at all. Tonight she was going to enjoy herself. As soon as she’d delivered her meals, she was heading to the Silver Lining. The owner, Yvette Mathieu, was having an opening for a young silversmith she’d recently discovered in Soho, and Gigi was invited. Sienna and Oliver were going to be there, too, and she’d heard that Adora had been invited, as well as Barbie and Winston Bernhardt. If she kept her ears open, she might learn something of interest. And if not, at least it would be an evening out.

When Gigi arrived downtown, all the parking spaces along High Street were taken, and she had to circle the block twice before she found a spot for the MINI. The front door to the Silver Lining was propped open with a rock, and the sounds of a string quartet, combined with the low murmur of voices, drifted out to her as she made her way toward the brick-fronted building. She’d dressed up in an ice blue silk sheath and strappy, high-heeled
silver sandals that made negotiating the uneven sidewalk a challenge.

In front of the shop, tethered to a parking meter, was a rakish-looking West Highland white terrier. He tilted his head to one side and watched as Gigi approached. He looked so earnest, she had to stop to say hello. She stooped down, as carefully as she could in her tight skirt and unaccustomed footgear, and gave his head a scratch. He licked her face, and Gigi giggled. She would love to have a dog. It got lonely at times in her little cottage, and it would be wonderful to have a companion. She gave the Westie a final scratch. She wondered whose dog he was—perhaps his owner was inside the Silver Lining.

The store was packed with people standing shoulder-to-shoulder in the small space. Gigi hesitated on the doorstep, craning her neck to see if she spotted anyone she knew.

“Excuse me.” A man brushed past her and leaned out the open door.

It was Winston Bernhardt, rather formally dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and striped silk tie. “I just need to see what that beastly cur is up to.” He gestured toward the dog Gigi had been petting.

“That’s your dog?” Gigi looked out the window to where the little Westie was lying, his head resting dejectedly on his front paws. She didn’t think he looked beastly.

Winston grunted. “He’s my penance, you might say,” he sighed, “for being far too easygoing. The beast belonged to Martha, my ex. There was no one else to take him on, so I offered. Otherwise he would have been put down. Still might do it in the end,” he muttered half under his breath.

“Oh no!” Gigi exclaimed. “He’s such a sweet little guy. What’s his name?”

“Reg. Stupid name for a dog, if you ask me.”

“You wouldn’t really put him down, would you?” Gigi glanced out the window again to where the Westie, seemingly aware of the sudden attention, cocked his head to one side, looking bright and alert.

“Just might,” Winston grunted.

“I’ll take him,” Gigi blurted out, surprising herself.

“Really?” Winston had stepped just outside the door and was lighting a cigarette, his hand cupped around the match. He looked from Gigi to the dog and back again.

“I won’t take him back, you know”—he drew on the cigarette hungrily—“if you change your mind.”

Gigi shook her head. “I won’t change my mind.”

“He’s all yours, then.” Winston took a few more puffs on the cigarette, dropped it to the sidewalk and ground it out with his heel before elbowing his way back into the crowd massed inside the Silver Lining.

Well, it looked as if she had a dog, Gigi thought. She went back to the curb, gave little Reg a pat and told him not to worry, she wouldn’t be all that long.

Inside, the Silver Lining was hot and crowded with bodies pressing against the glass display cases, drinks in hand. Gigi inched her way toward the bar and accepted a glass of tepid chardonnay from the white-jacketed bartender. Waiters circulated with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres. She spotted a platter of bacon-wrapped water chestnuts, did some mental math and realized she was looking at over one hundred calories per mouthful. She hoped none of her clients would go near that particular appetizer.

Yvette Mathieu, the owner of the Silver Lining, stood in the middle of the room, arm-in-arm with a young man in a nineteenth century–looking
frock coat, his black hair pulled into a tail at his nape and tied with a velvet ribbon. Yvette, appropriately enough, had prematurely silver hair cut in an asymmetrical bob. She wore a simple black dress accessorized with an elaborate silver necklace and had a burnt velvet shawl over her bare shoulders. Guests swirled around them, shaking the young man’s hand and air-kissing Yvette.

Gigi looked around. The room swarmed with the sort of people who lived in the enormous houses that were springing up around the town—Wall Street types who spent their days in the city and only came home to Woodstone to sleep. They bought up older homes, tore them down and replaced them with “McMansions.” On weekends they roared up and down High Street in their fancy cars, spending money in the shops long-time residents couldn’t begin to afford.

Gigi clutched her drink, feeling slightly ill at ease in the midst of such an upscale crowd. Her dress, which had seemed perfectly appropriate in the sanctuary of her bedroom, suddenly felt common and uninteresting. She sighed with relief when she spotted Sienna in front of one of the display cases, her elbows on the glass. She was wearing a floaty pair of
I Dream of Jeannie
pants and a gold silk Indian blouse with a tiny, raspberry red handbag with silk tassels hanging from her shoulder.

“Where’s Oliver?”

Sienna whirled around. “I wish I knew.” Her shoulders sagged dejectedly. “He was supposed to meet me here”—she consulted her watch—“over an hour ago. There’s no answer at his office, and his cell phone is turned off.”

“Maybe his train is late?”

Sienna gave a small smile and patted Gigi’s arm. “I’ve run through every excuse I could think of already.” She shook her
head. “Something is going on. I’m afraid I put too much stress on him with this whole baby thing.”

Personally, Gigi thought Sienna was being too kind. If Oliver was really all that stressed out, he needed to talk to his wife, not pull disappearing acts.

“I don’t think he’s as invested in our life here in Woodstone as I am.” Sienna swirled the swizzle stick around and around in her drink.

Gigi raised her eyebrows questioningly.

“He’s staying in the city later and later. I suspect he misses our life there—the openings, parties, first nights. It
was
fun.” Sienna smiled sadly at Gigi. “I guess I’m ready to move on to the next step, but he isn’t. I shouldn’t have talked him into moving to Woodstone so we could have a baby.”

Gigi opened her mouth, but then closed it. She didn’t know what to say to comfort her friend.

“Can you see the price tag on that bracelet?” Sienna said, changing the subject. She pointed to the display case.

Gigi stood next to her and peered through the glass. She squinted at the tiny square that hung from the silver bracelet by a white silk thread. She shook her head. “It looks like the tag has been turned over. It’s probably expensive. Everything in here is.” She gave a last look at the hammered silver cuff. “It’s beautiful, though.”

Gigi felt an arm slip around her waist.

“
Cara
, you look lovely tonight.” Emilio kissed both her cheeks heartily. His whiskers felt scratchy against her skin, and he smelled of garlic and herbs. Gigi found it oddly comforting.

He motioned impatiently at Carlo, who stood nearby, his hands hanging at his sides. “Come say hello to our beautiful Gigi.”

Carlo kissed her shyly on the cheek. Gigi felt equally shy. The spot where he kissed her tingled, and she had to stop herself from putting her hand to her cheek.

Carlo looked at her nearly empty glass. “You need a refill,” he declared, and bolted for the bar.

Emilio rolled his eyes. “
Dio mio
, that nephew of mine!” He slapped his thigh as he glared at Carlo’s retreating back.

Gigi wanted to laugh. Half the town was intent on fixing up her and Carlo. She felt a warm rush at the prospect. She liked Carlo, and she certainly found him attractive. Very attractive, she thought, as she watched him maneuver his way through the crowd toward the bar. But he was a little young for her, and besides, she didn’t want to get involved. She’d created a good life for herself; why ruin it? The thought that it might already be ruined made her breath catch in her throat.

“What is it,
cara
?” Emilio put a hand on her shoulder gently.

Gigi shook her head. “Nothing. It’s just a little warm in here,” she lied, not meeting Emilio’s eye.

“These are delicious!” A brash voice cut across her thoughts.

Georgia Branston elbowed her way through the crowd and came to stand next to Gigi. “I’m not losing anything on that diet plan of yours,” she brayed in her horsey voice. Several people turned and glanced in their direction. She was roughly the size and shape of the Liberty Bell.
And just as cracked
, Gigi thought. She was wearing a plaid taffeta dress that was as far from slimming as it could get.