Steamed to Death (9 page)

“Is Oliver here?”

Sienna nodded. “He’s in the kitchen with Mertz.”

They heard male voices approaching the door and turned toward the hallway that led to the kitchen. Mertz came around the corner and froze when he saw Gigi. His posture was as ramrod straight as ever, but his light blue eyes had an apologetic look in them.

Part of Gigi’s brain recognized how attractive Mertz was, but the other part ordered her to stiffen her back and greet him with an icy glare.

Gigi and Sienna stood aside and watched silently as Oliver followed Mertz to the door and ushered him outside, then closed the door and leaned against it, his hands hanging limply at his sides, his eyes closed.

“Let’s go make some tea.” Sienna took Gigi by the arm.

The kitchen was bright and airy, dominated by a limestone-topped island over which hung a pot rack filled with shiny copper pots. Gigi pulled out one of the stools and sank down onto it. She’d been in such a state since Alice pulled her over on High Street that she was now exhausted.

Some color had returned to Sienna’s cheeks. Gigi watched as she held a brass teakettle under the tall, curving faucet and set it to boil on the stove. Sienna kept her back to Gigi as she fussed with cups and saucers, tea bags and cream and sugar, and Gigi had the impression that she was using the time to compose herself. When Sienna turned around with the tray set with tea things, she looked almost normal. Gigi bit her tongue and waited as Sienna poured tea, offered cream and sugar and had her first sip. Finally, Sienna set her teacup down. It rattled slightly in the saucer. She pushed a hand through her mass of golden hair and sighed heavily.

“Your Detective Mertz seems to think I had something to do with Felicity Davenport’s death.”

“He’s not
my
Detective Mertz,” Gigi sputtered. “Why on earth would Mertz think you had anything to do with what happened to Felicity?”

Sienna looked away and kept her head averted as she spoke. “Well, that article in the
New York Post
for starters.”

“True.”

Sienna turned around, and her face definitely had color now. “I can’t imagine what Felicity thought she was doing with that outrageous scheme of hers. Unfortunately”—she smiled sadly at Gigi—“Mertz seems to think it gives me a motive for murder.”

“He can’t be serious!” Gigi exploded. “No one in their right mind—”

“Unfortunately, there’s more.” She stared into her cup of tea as if trying to read her future in it. “There was evidence that someone came up the back stairs that afternoon—some wet leaves stuck to the steps and some small puddles of water.”

“But anyone could have left those!” Gigi protested.

Sienna shrugged. “It seems that everyone else has some sort of alibi, while I . . .”

“You don’t?”

Sienna shook her head. “It’s not that.” She looked up at Gigi, and Gigi was shocked to see the tears in her eyes. “I can’t tell anyone where I was that afternoon. I just can’t.”

• • •

Gigi left Sienna’s house more perplexed than when she had arrived. What on earth had Sienna been up to that she couldn’t tell Gigi, one of her oldest friends? Gigi shivered, and it wasn’t from the sudden icy edge to the breeze nor from the line of clouds that suddenly masked the sun.

Gigi was putting her key in the car door when she remembered Hector’s Plumbing and Heating and her date with the laconical Jackson. She glanced at her watch. She was twenty minutes late. Hopefully Jackson had waited.

Gigi was relieved to see Jackson’s truck in her driveway when she pulled in. Jackson himself was asleep in the driver’s seat—head tipped back, mouth open slightly.

Gigi knocked on the window of the truck and watched as Jackson slowly came awake. He rubbed the back of his neck and reached for his tool box.

“Sorry,” Gigi said as soon as his door was open. “I was held up.”

“S’all right.” Jackson reached into the back of the truck and pulled out a section of shiny, new pipe.

While Jackson fiddled under the sink, and Reg stood guard nearby, Gigi flipped through her notebook for the names of the people who had asked to be added to her waiting list. She could handle only a certain number of clients at once, but if the deal with Branston went through, hordes of people would be able to access her low-calorie gourmet food. Gigi hoped that some of them would still want the personalized service and fresh ingredients of the real thing.

A half hour later, Gigi hung up the phone and sighed with satisfaction. She’d signed six new clients. It looked like she’d be able to keep the lights burning for another month.

Gigi had almost forgotten about Jackson when he grunted and backed out from under the sink. He rose slowly to his full six feet, one hand on his lower back.

“Sink’s fixed. I’ll just go turn your water back on for you. Valve in the basement?” He pushed his dark blue
Yankees
baseball cap farther back on his forehead.

“I’ll get it.” Gigi opened the door to the basement. By the time Jackson got downstairs, found the valve and came back up, the sun would have set.

There were fewer cobwebs to contend with this time, and Gigi quickly turned the water back on and raced back up the stairs.

Jackson turned the tap, which hissed and spit before finally spewing forth a stream of water.

Gigi had to restrain herself from clapping her hands. Never before had she appreciated water quite so much. Gigi gladly wrote Jackson a check—she had to pay extra because it was a Saturday, but it was worth it. She’d still be spending a fair amount of time in Felicity’s kitchen—it made sense to prepare for the funeral lunch on the spot—but she’d be able to sleep in her own bed again, with the windows open to the scent of lavender from her garden.

Sunday was a quiet day. Gigi slept late and headed to Winchel’s in the late afternoon to prepare a light supper of soup and sandwiches. She was surprised at how tired she was and was glad to be able to have an early night. She would be meeting one of her potential new clients on Monday morning. Gigi felt the same stirrings of excitement as she had the time she had scored her very first client and had realized Gourmet De-Lite was off and running. As much as she’d loved working in New York City for
Wedding Spectacular
magazine, she was relishing the opportunity to grow her own business.

• • •

Her newest client was a paralegal at the offices of Simpson and West. Gigi knew the office well—the attorneys there had handled Martha Bernhardt’s estate. Martha had been a client of Gigi’s and the original owner of Gigi’s cottage. Gigi had been awed by her first visit to their office—the walls were paneled in fine wood, the furniture was all antique and the rugs were silk Orientals. An expensive hush hung over the entire place as if everyone had been forbidden to speak above a whisper.

Gigi pulled into the miniature five-car parking lot in back of the building and was relieved to get the last space. She pulled her collar up against the now chilly wind and walked around to the front of the building. Simpson and West occupied the second and third floors above the Knick Knack Shop.

The offices were as she remembered them—quiet, tastefully expensive and subtly forbidding. Gigi gave her name to the receptionist, who sat behind a huge mahogany desk devoid of anything but a telephone and a blotter. Gigi’s client, Madeline Stone, was on the third floor. Gigi was directed up the interior spiral staircase that linked the two floors.

The third floor was as hushed as the second, but here the offices were smaller, and there were a number of cubicles piled high with law books and manila folders. Madeline had a tiny office, hardly larger than a broom closet, with no window and barely enough room for an extra chair.

Madeline was in her early thirties with long, dark hair. She was pretty, but Gigi noticed that the fabric of her skirt was stretched tightly across her hips. She jumped up from her chair when she saw Gigi coming.

“Hi, I’m Madeline.” She stuck out a hand and pumped Gigi’s own energetically. “Have a seat. Sorry there’s so little room.”

“That’s okay.” Gigi took a green folder off the chair, put it on the corner of Madeline’s desk and sat down.

“I’ve heard wonderful things about you,” Madeline gushed.

Gigi ducked her head. She found compliments embarrassing. “I do my best to make the food taste good. My clients are the ones who do all the work.”

“I do hope your diet will work for me.” Madeline twirled a long strand of hair around her finger and leaned toward Gigi. “Everyone around here is so perfect.” She inclined her head toward her open door. “All the women are thin, and dress perfectly and have their hair and nails just so.”

Gigi nodded encouragingly.

“I’m kind of afraid”—Madeline lowered her voice even further, so that Gigi had to lean forward to hear—“that someone”—Madeline raised her brows up and down as if transmitting secret code—“is going to decide that I don’t quite fit the Simpson and West image, if you know what I mean.” She glanced around again like a secret agent in an old Cold War movie. “It’s happened before.”

Gigi nodded understandingly.

“Anyway,” Madeline continued, “a friend of mine, Beth Taylor, used your services and dropped a ton of pounds, and she said it was easy. And I’ve heard that you were hired by that actress, Felicity Davenport, who lives here in Woodstone, and I thought if you’re good enough for her, wow, you’re sure good enough for me.”

Something had unleashed the floodgates of Madeline’s conversation, and Gigi drew back in alarm as her voice got louder. She half expected some Simpson and West gatekeeper to come along and tell her to shush.

“What a shame about that poor woman dying the way she did.” Madeline’s face was getting flushed in her excitement. “Back before I started working I always watched
For Better or For Worse
, and sometimes now I even record it.” Her voice dropped back to a conspiratorial level.

“Really?”

Madeline nodded her head. “People tell me they see Felicity around town all the time, seeing as her country house is here and all, but I only saw her the once. Only she actually came
here
.” Madeline was almost breathless. “Waltzed in wearing this heavenly fur coat that must have cost a fortune! Of course, she
has
a fortune. I guess that stepson of hers, Derek, is getting half of it. The rest will go to her husband, of course.”

Gigi, who had been thinking of something else altogether, felt her ears perk up. “Derek? Really?”

Madeline nodded. “Mr. Simpson himself handled the will. And he asked specifically for me as his assistant.”

Gigi could barely focus after that. If Derek stood to inherit most of Felicity’s money, didn’t that give him a darn good reason for killing his stepmother? Gigi remembered watching as Derek lifted the gold jewelry from Felicity’s room. She couldn’t imagine what he needed the money for. Felicity said he received a generous allowance, and they paid all his charges around town. Did he need money desperately enough to kill?

Don Bartholomew had also gained from Felicity’s death—a nice hefty check from the insurance policy he’d had the brilliant forethought to purchase. Gigi felt a tingle of excitement. She now had not one but two likely suspects to present to Detective Mertz.

Surely this would make him realize that Sienna couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with the murder.

Chapter 8

Gigi drove down High Street, past the Book Nook, past Abigail’s, past the Silver Lining, rehearsing what she would say to Detective Mertz when she got to the police station. He’d discounted everything she’d discovered last time—when Martha Bernhardt had been the victim. Would this time be any different? She found herself dragging her feet.

Maybe she ought to talk to Sienna first? She felt like a coward as she pulled into the tiny parking lot next to Declan’s Grille and turned the car around. She couldn’t help glancing at the window shaded by the bright red awning. She didn’t want to admit it, but she wouldn’t have minded catching a glimpse of Declan again.

She was about to pull back out onto High Street to head in the other direction when she realized that perhaps she ought to call Sienna first. She backed up, pulled into the closest vacant spot and, after much scrambling, dredged her phone from the bottom of her purse.

The phone rang half a dozen times before Sienna picked up.

“Gigi. I’m glad you caught me. We were just about to go out.”

“I won’t keep you, then. I just wanted to give you some good news. I think I’ve uncovered another potential suspect in Felicity’s death.”

“Really? Hang on a sec.”

Gigi heard the muffled sounds that indicated Sienna had put her hand over the receiver.

“Oliver just got home. We’re headed to Declan’s for dinner. Why don’t you join us?”

“Declan’s?” Gigi heard the squeak in her voice.

“Yes. We haven’t been yet, and Oliver is anxious to try it. We’ve heard some really good things about the place.” Sienna lowered her voice. “And about the owner, too. I gather he’s gorgeous.”

“He is. I’ve met him.”

“Then this will give you a chance to see him again,” Sienna said decisively.

“I don’t think he’s the type I want to get involved with.”

“Why not? He’s good-looking and employed. A winning combination.”

“He just seems like he might be a player.”

“Why? Just because he’s gorgeous? Don’t be silly. You can’t judge a book by its cover.”

“All right.” Gigi reluctantly agreed to meet them in five minutes.

• • •

Gigi felt rather ridiculous sitting in her car waiting, but there was no way she was going into Declan’s alone. The very thought made her shiver.

People gave her funny looks as they drove into the parking lot, and some even hesitated, wondering if she were leaving and they could have her space. Gigi was about to slink down in her seat so no one would see her when Sienna and Oliver pulled into the lot in the new BMW Oliver had leased. Gigi was surprised to see that Oliver still had the car. With Oliver’s law practice slow to take off, Sienna had mentioned cutting back on any number of things.