Steamed to Death (15 page)

How did Anja know it was an important call? Gigi wondered as she headed down the hall. She supposed all of Winchel’s calls were important.

At first she thought the room was empty, but then she noticed that Vanessa, Felicity’s costar, was behind the open refrigerator door. Her hands were full, and she pushed the door shut with her hip.

“Good heavens,” Gigi exclaimed. “What are you making?”

“A protein shake,” Vanessa answered succinctly. She carried her load to the kitchen island and dropped it somewhat unceremoniously. A bright red Gala apple rolled down the counter and stopped short of the edge.

The top was off the blender, and Vanessa had obviously already added some sort of powder to the container. Gigi assumed it was protein powder.

Gigi hoped Alex was safely out of the house somewhere. She couldn’t imagine why he didn’t go back to New York and his own apartment. Had Mertz forbidden them to leave?

Gigi was at the kitchen table when Don burst into the kitchen.

“I knew you were here!” he exclaimed. “I recognized that little car of yours in the driveway.” Don stood squarely in front of Gigi, his feet slightly apart, arms at his side, fists clenched. He was wearing a pair of gray slacks, a cream-colored turtleneck and a sport coat. The ensemble went a long way toward hiding the spare tire around his middle, and Gigi wondered if he had chosen it for that reason. His rather fleshy face was bright red, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

He was toe-to-toe with Gigi. She backed up, but he took another step forward. The absurd tango continued until her back was against the Aga, which was throwing off an uncomfortable amount of warmth.

“You had to go around asking questions about me, didn’t you?” Don asked, his face inches from Gigi’s.

“What?” She temporized, trying to inch away from Don’s bulk.

“Alex told me,” he sneered. “I’m sure you thought your lover boy wouldn’t rat you out, but he did.” Don wiped a hand across his beet red forehead. “If you want to know the truth, I had nothing,
nothing
, to do with Felicity’s death. Do you read me?”

Gigi nodded her head.

“I have an alibi, do you understand?”

Again, Gigi nodded affirmatively. Obviously Alex had decided to tell Don about Gigi’s questions—probably to get back at her for spurning his advances.

Don backed away slightly and ran his hand through his black hair, leaving tracks through the gel he’d used to plaster it down.

Gigi took a deep breath.
In for a penny, in for a pound
, she recalled her Irish grandmother, Mary Elizabeth, saying to her. She drew herself up to her full five feet, five inches and threw her head back. “An alibi?” She arched an eyebrow challengingly at Don. “And what might your alibi be?”

He looked as if someone had slapped him across the face. He got even redder and sputtered like an old car trying to start up in the cold. “Alibi?” His nostrils flared broadly. “I don’t need to tell you”—he nearly spit the word at Gigi—“what my alibi is.”

And, as they say in the theater, he promptly exited stage left.

Gigi looked at Vanessa, startled.

She shrugged and pressed the button on the blender. “Don’t bother asking me what that was about,” she shouted over the roar of the machine, “because I ain’t telling. Don would kill me.”

Chapter 13

Gigi was still feeling slightly shaken by her encounter with Don when Anja came into the kitchen to announce that Winchel was off the phone and would see her in the library. Gigi gathered up her things and followed Anja down the hall.

Winchel was behind the huge partner’s desk that dominated the book-lined room. The faint aroma of cigar smoke hung in the air and mingled with the scent of leather-bound volumes.

Winchel gave a practiced smile as Gigi entered and took a seat in the club chair opposite his desk.

He leaned forward, his fingers steepled under his chin. “So tell me, what can I do for you?”

Gigi suddenly found that her normal voice had been kidnapped by aliens and all that came out was a pathetic squeak. She tried again. “My bank informed me that the check you gave me . . .” She paused and cleared her throat. “Bounced.”

Winchel’s smile broadened. “I do apologize,” he said, sounding anything but apologetic. “A problem with the checks. We’d switched over to a new account, and my accountant forgot to apprise me of the fact.” He opened a slender drawer in the top right of the desk. “But that’s easily fixed.” He pulled a black leather-covered ledger from the drawer, opened it, and with a brisk flourish, plucked a fountain pen from the holder on his desk. The pen hovered over the open checkbook.

“The name again . . . ?”

“You can make it out to my company. Gigi’s Gourmet De-Lite.”

He wrote the check quickly, tore it from the book and handed it to Gigi with a smile. “It’s been a pleasure, Miss . . .”

“Fitzgerald.”

“Ah, yes. Fitzgerald. Of course.” He leaned back in his dark green leather executive desk chair. “If I should need your services again . . .”

“I think you have my card, but just in case”—Gigi dug in her purse and pulled out her wallet—“here is another.” She handed it across the vast expanse of desk to Winchel.

He took the card and was starting to rise when the door burst open. Anja rushed into the room, her blond hair coming out of its accustomed ponytail, and her normally pale cheeks flushed pink.

Winchel stared at her with a sharply annoyed look on his face. “What is it?” he demanded.

“It’s Madam’s Emmy! It’s gone. I went to dust it, but it’s gone.” Anja’s words tumbled over each other in her haste to get them out and ended in a long, drawn-out shriek.

Winchel looked bored. “That old thing? Who cares?”

Anja looked so shocked that even Winchel found it necessary to temper his statement.

“It’s really only worth something to Felicity. The statue isn’t made out of precious metal.”

Anja looked ever so slightly mollified but continued to mutter under her breath as Gigi followed her out to the kitchen.

“We should call the police, no?” she said eagerly, turning to Gigi as soon as the swinging door to the kitchen shut.

“I suppose.”

Anja narrowed her eyes. “I am certain it is that wretched boy again. He stole from Madam all the time—money from her purse, little trinkets from her dressing table. But this time he has gone too far.” Anja balled one fist and slammed it into the open palm of the other hand, a very mulelike look of determination settled on her features. “Madam’s Emmy is special. She cherished it. And now it’s . . . gone. And so is Madam!” She dissolved into tears.

Gigi groaned. She knew what she had to do to appease Anja—call the police. Surely they would send a patrolman and not . . . Detective Mertz. More than once she wished that Woodstone was big enough to warrant two detectives, then she’d at least have a fifty-fifty chance of avoiding certain embarrassment.

Gigi was relieved when Alice answered the phone at the station. She hadn’t wanted to call 9-1-1 since the horse, so to speak, had already left the barn, and this was hardly an emergency. Alice promised to send a patrolman out as soon as one of them got back to the station.

Gigi hung up the phone with a feeling of relief. She was anxious to get out of Felicity’s house and back to her cottage, but she agreed to wait with Anja until the police arrived.

Gigi sat in the kitchen and tried to make small talk with Anja. She thought they were both relieved when a knock sounded on the door.

Anja jumped up and headed down the hall.

Gigi heard Anja’s voice and the low murmur of masculine tones, but she couldn’t tell who it was. She didn’t think it was Mertz, and she fervently prayed that it wasn’t.

Anja’s voice became louder as she approached the kitchen. Nonetheless, Gigi jumped when the door to the kitchen swung open.

Her heart sank. Mertz stood there looking more formidable than ever, his shoes polished to a high shine, his hair parted with scientific precision, his posture as unyielding as ever. He smiled when he saw Gigi. Though he looked as if the smile were actually painful. He had his notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other.

“Please tell him about the statue,” Anja pleaded. “Madam’s Emmy.”

“I don’t know anything about it,” Gigi protested.

“Where was it kept?” Mertz held his pencil poised over the pad.

“On the mantel in the formal living room.” Gigi looked to Anja for confirmation.

“And it’s not there now.” Anja abruptly folded her arms over her chest.

Mertz’s head swiveled back toward Gigi, and she shrugged.

“I haven’t been in there recently.”

She wondered if she ought to tell him about Derek and the theft from Felicity’s jewelry box. She didn’t want to go into it with Anja present. She tried to signal to Mertz with her eyes that she had more to tell.

He obviously caught the hint. “I’d like to talk to Miss Fitzgerald alone now.” He nodded dismissal at Anja.

“I got the impression you wanted to tell me something,” Mertz said as soon as Anja was safely out the door.

“It’s about Derek.”

“Derek? Who is Derek?” Mertz began paging through his notes.

“Felicity’s stepson.”

“Ah.” Mertz made a note on his pad.

“I saw him in Felicity’s bedroom one day going through her jewelry box.”

Mertz looked startled. “Was this after she died . . . ?”

Gigi nodded.

Mertz slapped his notebook shut. “There’s not too much we can do, but I’ll alert the local pawnshops and if anyone tries to sell it, we’ll get wind of it.” He pursed his lips. “It’s an odd choice for something to steal. I doubt a fence would touch it. Besides, who knows if it’s even worth anything.”

Gigi had a thought. “Maybe the person who stole it took it because it was something very important to Felicity. As a sort of revenge.”

“It’s possible. What was the relationship like between the stepson and Miss Davenport?”

“Felicity complained about Derek’s stealing cash from her purse, but she liked him enough to leave him a substantial chunk of her estate.”

Mertz’s eyebrows shot up like rockets being launched. “What do you mean?”

Gigi felt a blast of heat that she knew was turning her face roughly the same shade as a persimmon. She tried to ignore the sensation as she answered. “I happened to hear . . .”

Mertz’s eyebrows lowered abruptly. “You happened to hear?”

Gigi fiddled with the buttons on her sweater. “One of my clients works for Simpson and West,” she said as if that explained everything.

Apparently it was enough because Mertz nodded, then shook his head in disbelief. “So you’re still meddling—”

“I am not.” Now Gigi was really steamed. Especially since she knew Mertz was right.

Mertz smiled. A real smile this time. “I stopped by your house last night to ask you something. But you were obviously busy.”

Gigi opened her mouth in a rush to explain.

“I gather that poor Mr. Goulet’s advances weren’t particularly welcome. At least judging by the look on your face.” Mertz actually laughed.

Gigi’s shoulders inched back down, and she unclenched her fists. Then she, too, laughed. “Was it that obvious?”

“Absolutely. I assume you were planning on pumping him for information, but he had other ideas.”

Gigi hung her head.

“I would have stuck around to make sure he didn’t cause you any further trouble, but I heard the radio in the car squawk, and it turned out to be important. Besides, it sounded as if Reg had things under control.”

“How is Whiskers doing? Is he settling in okay?”

Mertz smiled. “Whiskers is doing great. But he’s a she. I took her to the vet to make sure everything was okay, and apparently it’s a her not a him.” He shook his head. “I can’t believe how much time I can waste just playing with her. I picked up a bunch of toys for her. She especially loves the stuffed mice.” Mertz looked down at his spit-shined black shoes. “You must think me a complete idiot going on and on about a kitten.”

“Not at all.”

Mertz smiled. “Before I forget, there’s something I want to ask you. Will you have dinner with me?” He spread his hands out. “No interruptions this time. I promise.”

Gigi was flummoxed. It was the last thing she’d expected.

Mertz looked away. “It’s okay if you don’t want to, I’ll—”

“No,” Gigi burst out. “I mean yes, I’d love to have dinner with you.”

Gigi noticed, much to her satisfaction, that this time it was Mertz’s face that got all red.

• • •

Gigi was slipping on her coat when Winchel came into the kitchen looking as if he were entering some remote, foreign territory.

“Look, Miss . . .”

“Fitzgerald.” Once again Gigi filled in the blank for him.

“Sorry, Fitzgerald, that’s right,” he said, failing to look even remotely apologetic. “Look, I have some very important people coming for dinner tonight, and I’d appreciate it if you could stay on and prepare the meal. It seems Anja has taken to her bed over this whole affair . . .” He glanced at his watch and scowled. “As a matter of fact, if you wouldn’t mind stepping in for the rest of the week, that would prove very helpful.”

Gigi hesitated. Winchel had already handed her one bad check. Did she want to risk putting in more time and possibly not getting paid? But his explanation for the bounced check made sense. There was no reason to think he wouldn’t make good on it, no matter what Oliver had discovered. Those people on Wall Street had a very different idea of what “having no money” actually meant. He probably still had millions and millions.

Gigi decided she had nothing to lose. Before she could actually say yes, Winchel was headed out of the room, obviously having taken her silence for assent.

Vanessa breezed into the kitchen in his wake bringing with her the heavy scents of perfume and makeup. She was obviously headed out, dressed in the kind of jeans that fit to perfection and cost hundreds of dollars, a cashmere V-neck sweater that almost matched her eyes, a long scarf around her neck and a butter-soft black leather jacket. She had on long leather gloves, and it was impossible to miss the stunning diamond tennis bracelet she had fastened over one of them.