Steamed to Death (8 page)

“Speaking of lunch”—Alice stuck her other arm through the corresponding sleeve—“I’m starved. What do you say we get a bite to eat at that new place, Declan’s?”

Gigi wrinkled her nose. “I’ve been dreading going in there since Al Forno closed.”

“I know what you mean. But we can’t avoid it forever.” Alice buttoned her jacket. “Come on. Let’s go see what everyone’s been talking about.”

• • •

Gigi felt her heart thump as they approached the bright red awning announcing Declan’s Grille. It wasn’t going to be the same without Emilio and Carlo there to greet her. Alice went first, pushing open the heavy front door. The interior was dim, and they stopped for a moment to get their bearings. The bar area was paneled, and the bar itself was carved from a massive piece of highly polished wood. High, round tables surrounded the bar. A few scattered people still sat at the white-linen-covered dining tables, finishing up their meal. A blackboard over the bar announced the day’s specials: shepherd’s pie and ploughman’s lunch. Gigi had to admit that the smells coming from the kitchen were tantalizingly delicious, and her mouth was watering already.

A man stood behind the bar. He appeared to be totaling up the day’s receipts. He was tall and slim with broad shoulders and a narrow waist and had dark hair with a bit of a curl. Gigi found herself wondering two things: Was this Declan McQuaid, and was he as good-looking from the front as he was from the back?

He turned around, and she had one of her answers at least. The man had vivid blue eyes, thick, dark brows, even features and a delightful cleft in his chin. He smiled at Gigi and Alice, and Gigi found herself momentarily tongue-tied.

“Welcome to Declan’s.” He stuck out a hand.

“Declan, I presume?” Alice said as she accepted his handshake.

“The one and only.” He smiled. “Would you ladies like a table, or would you care to sit at the bar and keep me company while I polish some glasses?” He glanced pointedly at Gigi.

Gigi cursed the infernal blush that always blossomed at exactly the wrong moments. Hopefully the dim lighting made it less obvious.

“I’d love to sit at the bar. How about you?” Alice nodded encouragingly at Gigi.

Why did everyone in Woodstone want to fix her up, Gigi thought, as she let herself be led, like a doomed sheep, toward an empty bar stool.

“I bet he’s got more than a few notches in his belt,” Alice whispered, tipping her head toward Declan. She perused the menu. “I love the sound of bubble and squeak, but I think I’m going to go with the grilled cheddar cheese sandwich on homemade bread with warm potato salad.” She put the menu down. “How about you?”

Gigi’s hunger had suddenly deserted her. She was hyperaware of Declan’s crooked grin as he watched them from behind the bar where he was polishing glasses that already sparkled with cleanliness. Gigi felt her telltale blush flame her face again, and she buried her head in the menu.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled from her protective cover. “I can’t decide. It all sounds so good.” She read through the options again and glanced up at the blackboard where the specials had been printed out in strong, block letters. “Maybe the ploughman’s lunch.”

“What is that?”

Declan must have heard Alice because he approached them, his cloth slung over his right shoulder. “That’s an old English favorite.” He smiled, his eyes on Gigi’s. “My ancestors may be Irish, but I grew up in England. A ploughman’s lunch centers around a chunk of homemade bread, a wedge of fine cheddar or Stilton, a piece of good ham and, last but not least, Branston pickle. Our very own recipe, of course.”

Gigi fought the urge to fan herself with the menu. “What’s Branston pickle?” she asked in an attempt to divert Declan’s attention from her.

“It’s more
pickled
than
pickle
,” he said, smiling in such a way that the cleft in his chin deepened. “It’s a combination of vegetables and fruits—apples, cauliflower, carrots, onions, garlic, swedes—I think you call those rutabagas—courgettes—” He ducked his head. “I must learn that when in Rome . . . courgettes are what you call zucchini, I believe.” He looked at Alice.

She shrugged. “Ask Gigi, she’s the expert.”

Declan raised his eyebrows, causing Gigi’s blush to intensify. She cursed Alice under her breath.

“I do like to cook.”

“Ha!” Alice guffawed. “That’s an understatement.” She poked an elbow in Gigi’s direction. “She’s really good. Her stuff is delicious.”

“I hope I get to try it sometime.” Declan lowered his voice so that he and Gigi were wrapped in their own bubble.

“I’ll have the ploughman’s lunch, then.” Gigi snapped her menu shut.

Declan’s face returned to a neutral expression, and he moved back away from the bar. “I’ll put your order in. It shouldn’t be long.”

“Now why on earth did you go and—”

Gigi cut Alice off. “He was making me uncomfortable.”

“You’re never going to find a man if—”

“I don’t want to find a man,” Gigi all but screamed even though she realized she didn’t mean it even as the words came out of her mouth. What she didn’t want was another Ted. Another heartbreak. Another divorce. And Declan McQuaid had all the hallmarks of the “
love ’em and leave ’em
”
type. This time she wanted something permanent . . . or nothing at all.

• • •

Gigi’s cell phone rang as she was about to pull away from the curb after dropping Alice off at the police station. She didn’t normally work Saturdays but was covering for someone who had a funeral to attend. Gigi answered the call quickly—it seemed that Hector’s Heating and Plumbing had finally secured the correct piece of pipe for the one-hundred-year-old plumbing system under her cottage’s kitchen sink.

Gigi was glad she would soon be able to escape Felicity’s posthumous hospitality. Tension crackled in the air between the guests, and it was hardly a comfortable place to be.

After several days of rain, sunshine finally filtered through the vibrant leaves on the trees and formed dappled patterns on the sidewalk. There was a brisk breeze—it was light coat weather, but still comfortable.

Gigi had half an hour before Jackson was expected at the cottage with the piece of pipe that was going to put everything back in working order.
At least until something else springs a leak
, a small devilish voice whispered in the back of Gigi’s mind. She felt her stomach clench. She had to sign some new clients soon. The deal with Branston Foods looked as if it was going to go through, but she’d learned long ago not to count her chickens before they hatched.

Gigi pulled up in front of Bon Appétit, Woodstone’s cookery store and gourmet shop. Fortunately, there were two spaces in front of the store, so she didn’t have to attempt to parallel park. Gigi’s face reddened annoyingly as she remembered another occasion when she was trying to park and making a complete mess of it. As luck would have it, Mertz had come along in time to witness her humiliation. She’d vowed never to try parallel parking again, even if it meant parking a mile away and walking back.

Evelyn Fishko was behind the counter at Bon Appétit as always, her dark hair in its short bob held back off her face with a bright red headband. If something happened in Woodstone, there was no keeping it from Evelyn.

“Howdy, stranger,” she said as Gigi approached the counter. Gigi did her big shopping trips at the Shop and Save outside of town, but there were certain items like truffle oil and fresh pâté that couldn’t be had anywhere except at Bon Appétit.

Evelyn looked eager to see Gigi, and Gigi thought she knew why. There had been a brief mention of Felicity’s death in the local paper. Evelyn, no doubt, planned to pump her for the in-depth details.

“Hello, yourself.” Gigi smiled as she approached the counter.

“What can I get for you today?” Evelyn leaned her elbows on the counter.

Gigi pulled a short list from her purse and consulted it. “Not much, really. I’m out of pine nuts, and I’m running low on that lovely balsamic vinegar you carry.”

Evelyn glowed at the compliment. She prided herself on the top-notch quality of her selection and did all the buying herself. She fetched the two items and put them down on the counter.

“And?”

“That’s it for now.”

Evelyn thumbed two pieces of tissue from the stack on the counter and carefully wrapped Gigi’s items. She pulled a black and white striped bag with
Bon Appétit
written on it in script from under the counter and placed Gigi’s order inside. But instead of handing over the package, she leaned her elbows on the counter again and got comfortable.

Gigi sighed. She knew what was coming.

“I read about your client, that soap opera star, in the paper. Shame. Awfully young, wasn’t she?”

Gigi smiled and nodded her head.

“And didn’t she take up with that friend of yours’ husband? The one who runs the Book Nook down the street?”

“Sienna?”

“That’s the one. Someone left a copy of the
New York Post
on the bench outside the shop.” Evelyn shook her head. “I don’t understand some people . . . there’s a trash can not five feet away. Anywho, I glanced through it before throwing it away. Do you think it was true? I know a lot of these actress types take up with a boy toy.”

Somehow Gigi had never pictured Oliver as a “boy toy,” and she had to suppress a giggle. “No, it wasn’t true at all. Just a publicity stunt. Sienna says it happens all the time.”

“That’s what I thought. Hey, weren’t you catering that big shindig Miss Davenport had?”

Gigi reluctantly acknowledged that she had.

“I suppose you know all about what happened that night,” Evelyn hinted.

“Not really,” Gigi murmured.

“Real shame for the Woodstone Players. They were counting on her to bring in the crowds. And the—” She rubbed two fingers together. “Of course, I heard that her manager covered his own you-know-what by taking out some kind of policy on her.”

“Really?” Now Gigi was listening in earnest, her own elbows resting comfortably on the counter, her groceries forgotten.

Evelyn nodded vigorously, causing her bob to swing to and fro. “Yes. I guess it’s
S
-
O
-
P
—standard operating procedure—in that business. If for some reason Miss Davenport doesn’t show up, takes ill, walks off, whatever—you know how temperamental those actor types can be—then he gets the money from the insurance policy.”

What she wanted to say was
How on earth did you hear about that?
but she settled for, “How interesting. I suppose you’re sure . . .”

Evelyn nodded her head vigorously. “Hunter Pierce was just in buying some herbes de Provence. I overheard him talking to his companion—some young man I didn’t recognize—I suppose he came out from the city.”

Evelyn said
city
as if it were a four-letter word.

“He was complaining about it,” she continued, leaning closer toward Gigi. “About how Felicity’s manager was going to get all this money, and once again the Woodstone Players were going to be left in the hole.”

Well, she was certainly leaving with more than just her groceries, Gigi thought, as she exited Bon Appétit and headed toward her car. She sat in the MINI for a minute contemplating what Evelyn had told her. If, and it was a big
if
, what Evelyn told her was true, then Don Bartholomew, Felicity’s manager, had a very good reason for wanting his client out of the way. Felicity had been Don’s golden goose for many, many years, but she was getting too old now to lay any more golden eggs. Parts for middle-aged women were notoriously few and far between. Don’s prize client had become more of a liability than an asset.

Gigi glanced at her watch and realized she needed to hurry, or she might miss Jackson and his arrival with the life-saving pipe. She put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

She was passing the Woodstone Police Station when something caught her eye. She slowed and looked again and realized it was Alice, standing on the sidewalk, her rather unruly hair blowing every which way. She waved crazily at Gigi.

Gigi slowed and pulled over to the curb, double-parking next to a red Honda. She buzzed down her window.

Alice was nearly gasping by the time she reached Gigi’s car. “I’m so glad I caught you!” She gripped the edge of the window, attempting to catch her breath.

“What’s wrong?” Gigi felt herself catching some of Alice’s anxiety even though she had no idea what was going on.

“It’s Sienna.”

Gigi’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no. Has something happened to the baby?” Her hand inched toward the ignition. If something was wrong with Sienna, she had to get to her right away.

Alice shook her head, her blues eyes nearly bulging in excitement. “No, no, the baby’s fine. It’s Detective Mertz.” She paused to catch her breath.

Now Gigi was more confused than ever. Detective Mertz?

“He’s . . . he’s . . .” Alice said, trying to get the words out. “He’s on his way to arrest Sienna for Felicity’s murder.”

Chapter 7

By the time she pulled into Sienna’s driveway, Gigi’s heart was clamoring in her chest, and she knew her face was as red as her scarlet MINI Cooper. Her Irish was rising, and her Italian was right on board. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see steam spewing out of her nostrils.

Mertz’s Crown Vic was already in the drive, pulled up to the front door of Sienna and Oliver’s renovated carriage house. Everything was quiet except for the rustling of the wind in the leaves and the
rat-a-tat-tat
of a woodpecker hammering at a tree.

Gigi stormed up the front steps of the fieldstone and half-timber house and slammed the pineapple-shaped knocker against the bright red door.

When Sienna yanked it open, Gigi was shocked to see how white-faced she was. Her first thought was for the baby and what this might be doing to it. She felt her anger rise another notch.

“What’s going on?” Gigi asked in alarm. “Alice told me—”

“Detective Mertz is just here to ask a few questions.” Sienna put her hand on Gigi’s arm reassuringly. “I’m sure it will all be straightened out in no time.”