Confession Is Murder (26 page)

Neither of them moved. Lucille could hear the clock ticking in the background. She sat up even straighter.

Suddenly Frank looked scared. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Lu. Let’s forget it all and start over, okay?” He came up behind her and began massaging her shoulders.

“I don’t know . . .” Lucille shivered as Frank nuzzled her neck.

“Come on.” Frank tugged on her hand. He led her out to the living room, sat down, and then pulled her onto his lap. Lucille tried to act cool, but she couldn’t. Not with the two of them snuggled together in the recliner, and Frank’s warmth chasing away the chill.

Lucille squirmed around until she was facing him. “Ma must have spent a fortune on all that crap from QVC. What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know. The world’s largest garage sale?” Frank nuzzled her neck again, and Lucille sighed.

“Flo said something about an auction on the Internet. Maybe we can ask Bernadette and Tony Jr. to look into it.”

“Good idea. Those kids know everything about that stuff.” Frank tightened his arm around Lucille’s waist. Her head dropped back against his chest.

• • •

When they woke up, it was getting light, and the birds were making a racket outside the window. Lucille stretched out her arms. Sheesh, she was stiff. She put a hand to the back of her neck. She had a real crick now from falling asleep like that.

Frank yawned. “Christ, I’m hungry. How about you, Lu?”

Lucille nodded. “I could do with something to eat. I could run to the A&P and get some eggs—”

Frank put a finger over her lips. “We’ll go to the Prestige Diner. Then we’ll come home and get into bed . . .” He nibbled her earlobe. Lucille giggled.

They heard a cough and turned toward the door. Bernadette stood at the entrance to the living room, looking from one to the other.

“Yo. What’s for breakfast?”

Keep reading for an excerpt from

the first book in the Gourmet De-Lite Mystery series,

Allergic to Death
!

Chapter 1

“I’m not a cheater.”


“I didn’t say you were, Mrs. Nagel.” Giovanna “Gigi” Fitzgerald sandwiched the phone between her ear and shoulder and pulled a sheet of golden-brown homemade melba toast rounds from the hot oven.

“It’s just that your diet isn’t working for me.”

Gigi remembered the last time she’d delivered a meal to Mrs. Nagel—there had been a waterfall of cookie crumbs cascading down her ample front, even though she insisted she never ate anything except the gourmet diet food Gigi delivered three times a day.

“Unless I see some results soon, I’m going to have to demand my money back.”

Gigi glanced at the plaque over her sink—
I have an Irish temper and an Italian attitude
. Right now, she was trying to display neither. But it wasn’t easy. Patience didn’t generally go hand in hand with red hair.

She made some sympathetic noises, encouraged Mrs. Nagel to try again and finally hung up. She had very little time to finish lunch preparations and get the food delivered.

With a fine brush, she glazed each melba toast round with a whisper of extra-virgin olive oil, then followed with a scant teaspoon of finely chopped fresh tomato and basil marinated in balsamic vinegar. Finally—the pièce de résistance—a shiny black Kalamata olive placed dead center on each.

Gigi tucked an unruly curl of dark auburn hair behind one ear, pulled her calculator from the drawer and plugged in the calories for all the assembled items. She frowned at the total, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, and made some calculations on a sheet of white scratch paper. Finally, she plucked the olives from each round, cut them precisely in half and placed just one half on each piece of melba toast. She plugged the revised numbers into the calculator. Bingo. Just the right amount. Her customers, all eager for immediate and spectacular results, expected her to keep their daily calorie allotment to a meager but delicious number.

It was difficult, but not impossible. Gigi’s diet theories were simple—only eat real food, watch your portion sizes and don’t waste calories on junk. Unless the junk happened to be strawberry Twizzlers, in which case all bets were off.

Gigi swept up the discarded olive halves and, one by one, popped them into her mouth. She grinned. She was always willing to take a caloric hit for her customers even though she continued to struggle with the unwanted five pounds that had ushered in her first birthday after the big three-five.

She packed two of the toast rounds into each of a dozen cardboard containers festooned with
Gigi’s Gourmet De-Lite
in silver script. Her eye caught sight of the day’s crossword puzzle folded open on the table.
Four across: To get by (with out).
That was easy. She paused briefly and penciled in
eke
. Eking out was the story of her life at the moment. Although things were bound to pick up now that she’d snared Martha Bernhardt as a client. She was the restaurant reviewer for the
Woodstone Times
, Woodstone, Connecticut’s, local paper. She could really give Gigi’s business a boost. As long as nothing went wrong. Gigi stuck out her index and little fingers in the time-honored gesture meant to ward off the evil eye of the jealous.

Her red MINI Cooper was waiting in the driveway of her cottage. She’d traded in the overly extravagant engagement ring her miserable, no-good, cheating ex-husband had given her and used the money to buy the car. So far it had been a most satisfying trade. The car was far more reliable than Ted had ever been.

Gigi pushed open the screen door with her hip, the first stack of boxes balanced in her arms, her chin tucked on top to keep them steady. She loaded them carefully into the backseat of the car and returned to the kitchen for the next batch.

With the last load of containers stowed in the car, she paused to look up at the sky. Dark clouds swirled overhead, and the previously warm May breeze had a frigid edge. Gigi slid behind the wheel just as plump drops of rain splattered across the windshield and a jagged bolt of lightning rent the darkening sky.

• • •

People were running for cover along High Street, Woodstone’s main street, by the time Gigi got there. The wind swirled a sheet of newspaper down the gutter like a mini tornado, and a woman struggled with an inverted umbrella, her bright red skirt a blurry drop of color through Gigi’s rain-washed windshield. Gigi idled at the light and watched as the woman yanked open the door to Bon Appétit, the town’s gourmet and cookery shop, and disappeared inside. The light changed, and Gigi slowly stepped on the gas. She passed the Book Nook, where she imagined she could see the vague outline of her friend and the owner, Sienna Paisley, through the rain-streaked window. Right next door was the Silver Lining, a jewelry store specializing in hand- crafted pieces that tourists from Manhattan snapped up despite the stratospheric price tags. Gigi crested the hill that led away from town and toward rolling green hills and open meadows. Right at the top of the hill stood the Woodstone Theater, a converted barn that was home to Woodstone’s amateur theater group.
Gigi pulled into the gravel parking lot and maneuvered as close to the front door as possible. Several of her clients would be there, busy rehearsing for the opening of
Truth or Dare
the first weekend in June, when tourists would swarm like unwelcome ants over the quaint and charming town of Woodstone.

Gigi stacked up containers for Barbie Bernhardt, Alice Slocum and the star of the upcoming play, Adora Sands. She was grateful that for lunch, at least, so many of her clients were grouped together. A short run down the other side of the hill and she would be able to deliver Martha’s four-hundred-calorie repast as well. It saved gas and wear and tear on the MINI. Gigi craned her neck. Although, maybe the extra trip wouldn’t be necessary. Wasn’t that Martha’s dark blue Honda Element in the back row next to the idling black Mercedes?

Gigi risked freeing one hand to pull open the front door to the theater. She held it wedged with her knee and crooked elbow as she slipped past and into the darkened foyer. Even though it was gloomy outside, the contrast still made her stop for a moment and blink. One of the inner doors was propped partially open, and a chink of light spilled across the foyer floor. Somewhere to the left she could hear hammering and someone humming, and from the theater itself she heard raised voices.

Gigi edged through the inner door and paused for a moment. The actors were assembled onstage, a man facing them. Gigi recognized him as Hunter Pierce, the play’s director. Although the theater was hot and stuffy, he was wearing a worn tweed jacket with patches at the elbows. His black hair was combed straight back, bits of scalp gleaming between the greasy strands.

He gestured toward the telephone that squatted on one of the tables onstage. “We must reset the phone.” He pointed a long, imperious index finger at a young stagehand in baggy overalls. “Move it to that table over there. It’s just not working where it is.” He waved at the other corner of the stage and stood back, watching as the young man repositioned the offending instrument.

Pierce clapped his hands. “Okay, costume call, everyone. Let’s go,” he lisped in his slightly effeminate voice.

A low grumbling rose from the stage. “We’re hungry,” came a plaintive wail from upstage. “And tired,” another voice added. “And hot,” someone else contributed from downstage. Pierce clapped his hands again, more briskly this time.

“Costume call, please. We must act like professionals if we are going to give our audience a professional performance.”

“If we were professionals, we’d have Actors’ Equity to protect us, and we’d get breaks every hour and two hours for meals,” someone shouted from downstage.


Pierce pursed his lips in displeasure and craned his neck to see who had spoken.

“Gigi’s here with our lunch.” A woman—Gigi thought it was Alice Slocum—approached the edge of the stage and peered into the audience, a hand over her eyes to shade them from the stage lights.

“This will only take a minute.” Pierce snapped his fingers.

The cast reluctantly got in line and came and stood at the front of the stage while Pierce made notes on a clipboard, occasionally exchanging remarks with a mousy woman in a black dress who had appeared from backstage. She had pins in her mouth and bits and pieces of different-colored threads stuck to her bodice.

Alice stepped forward and turned slowly in a circle.

“Where’s the sweater?” Pierce flipped through several pages of notes. “The little blue cardigan?” He sketched an outline with his hands.

Alice stuck out her lower lip and blew a puff of air that flopped her frizzy gray bangs up and down. “It’s too hot.” She folded her arms across her chest and glared at Pierce over the footlights.

“I want to see the sweater,” Pierce lisped petulantly. “Don’t you understand? It positively defines your character.”

Alice raised an eyebrow.

Pierce sighed. “Sylvia is a cautious woman. And a modest one. She hides behind her clothes. The sweater gives her a feeling of being protected. You can’t really get a feel for Sylvia as a character without the sweater.”

Alice spun on her heel and exited the stage, a mulish look on her face.

“Next,” Pierce demanded.

Finally, the entire line had trooped dutifully past, including Alice, who had the blue cardigan draped over her shoulders.

“Adora? Where is Adora?” Pierce demanded, looking around. “Where has she gotten to? And Emilio?” He stalked up and down the stage muttering “Very unprofessional” under his breath.

Someone tapped Gigi on the shoulder, and she spun around with a stifled cry.

“I’m starving. Where’s my lunch?” a young man demanded.

Gigi began to stammer. The fellow wasn’t one of her clients. Did he think she’d brought food for everyone? He was wearing a T-shirt, shorts and heavy work boots and had cropped blond hair.

Gigi squinted at him. Could she possibly have forgotten a client?

“Adora. There are you.” Pierce leaned over the edge of the stage, wagging his finger. “Now where’s Emilio?”

Gigi squinted at the young man again and realized it was Adora Sands in costume for the part she was playing in
Truth or Dare
.

The androgynous outfit did little to hide Adora’s ample curves, which strained her thin cotton T-shirt and shorts as well as her credibility as the boyish Tina. The shorts were still way too tight. Adora had insisted on having them a size smaller in anticipation of losing weight. If she stuck with the 1,200 calories of food Gigi delivered daily, she would certainly lose, but on more than one occasion, Gigi had noticed grease from chips on her fingers or a dab of choco-late at the corner of her mouth. Gigi sighed.