Iced to Death (6 page)
Every time the floor creaked or a window rattled, she jumped, thinking it was Pia coming home from wherever she was. Even though Gigi was relishing the time alone in her own cottage, she was worried about her sister. Pia’s studio wasn’t in the best part of town, and Pia wasn’t known for being cautious.
Gigi’s real fear was that Pia had somehow learned about Gigi’s late departure from Declan’s on Saturday night. Her sister was known for jumping to conclusions, and Gigi had a strong feeling she knew what conclusion Pia would arrive at.
Pia appeared just as Gigi was heating up a bowl of lentil soup for her dinner. Although she was sorry to have her dinner interrupted—she was going prop her book up and continue reading—she was relieved to see that Pia was okay. She did look tired, though, and there was a smudge of blue paint on her right cheek.
“Want some soup?” Gigi opened the cupboard and began to reach for another bowl.
“What is it?” Pia peered into the pot on the stove.
“Lentil.”
Pia shuddered. “No, thanks. I had my fill of that when I was in the commune. Ghastly stuff. Looked like dirty water with a handful of lentils thrown in.” She opened the cupboard, took out a can of processed cheese Gigi most definitely hadn’t purchased, and sprayed it directly into her mouth.
Gigi cringed. Suddenly her sister looked more like a lost child than the grown-up woman she was. She remembered their childhood and tiptoeing into Pia’s room to comfort her after a nightmare when their mother was too occupied with her grief over losing her husband to do much of anything.
Pia stretched her arms overhead. “I’m beat. I think I’m going to go to bed. I worked all night.”
“I know,” Gigi said more sharply than she meant to. “I was worried about you.”
Pia rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. You sound like Mom.”
“Maybe I do, but I don’t enjoy spending my day thinking something might have happened to you.”
“Look, if you’d rather I left, just say so.”
“That’s not what I meant at all,” Gigi said, although a small part of her did wish her sister would at least find her own place. “It’s just that I worry when I don’t hear from you for so long.”
Pia sighed. “Sorry,” she said begrudgingly. “I didn’t mean to worry you. But I am being careful.” She shivered. “I heard there was actually a murder in downtown Woodstone on Saturday night. Declan told me about it when I stopped by.” Pia gave a slightly hysterical laugh. “The guy had been truly iced. Stabbed with an ice pick.”
“I know.” Gigi tried to block out the image that rose to her mind.
“How did you know about it?”
Gigi looked down at her feet. It was now or never. Pia would find out anyway. “I was there. I . . . I found the body.”
“How horrible.” Pia rushed to put her arms around her sister. “But wait.” She pulled away. “Declan said it was really late. What were you doing there?”
Gigi spread her hands out. “We started talking and . . .”
“And?” Pia demanded.
“And nothing. We just talked, and I lost track of time.”
“Oh, sure.” Pia poked Gigi with her index finger. “You won’t admit it, but you do fancy Declan for yourself. Well, you can’t have him.”
And for the second time in the short span she and Gigi had been living together, Pia flounced from the room, slamming the door to the guest bedroom so hard that it bounced back open again.
• • •
A subdued air hung over Simpson and West when Gigi arrived with Madeline Stone’s breakfast on Monday morning. The receptionist sported a grim expression, and people scurried about with their eyes focused on the ground. Gigi had the feeling, though, that underneath the surface things were bubbling and boiling like a witch’s cauldron. She sensed an aura of smug satisfaction hanging over the place. If Bradley treated his staff like he treated his family, then odds were he wasn’t very well liked, and he wasn’t going to be missed.
Gigi took the elevator up to the third floor, where Madeline toiled in a small cubicle amidst a sea of similar cubes along with the other staff who didn’t yet rate a windowed office on the hushed confines of the second floor. Gigi remembered her meetings with Mr. West and the impressiveness of his wood-paneled, antique-filled corner office. It was what everyone at Simpson and West aspired to.
The elevator jerked to a stop, and the door slowly opened. A small huddle of men in pin-striped suits hovered near the entrance to the break room, coffee cups in hand, voices low in conversation. A similar group of women in short skirts and variously colored sweaters stood around the water cooler, occasionally throwing glances over their shoulder, looking ready to scatter like a flock of birds if someone with authority came along.
Gossip buzzed like electricity sparking along high-tension wires.
Gigi noticed that Madeline’s eyes were puffy and red-rimmed as she handed over the breakfast Gourmet De-Lite container. Her cubicle was, as usual, piled high with folders, papers and various files. A silver-framed picture of Hunter Simpson, his light curls blowing in the wind, a smudge of blue water just visible in the background, stood in pride of place on Madeline’s desk.
Madeline pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “It isn’t as if I knew . . . Bradley . . . all that well,” she confided to Gigi. “But I feel so badly on Hunter’s account.” She gave a loud sniff.
“He must be terribly upset.” Gigi couldn’t help wondering how Hunter really felt about his father’s death. She doubted there was much love lost between them. She remembered Bradley’s hurtful comments, and Hunter’s abrupt departure on Saturday night.
“He’s devastated,” Madeline said, dabbing at her nose with the tissue. “And he’s worried about Barbara and what this is going to do to her. Bradley took care of everything. Barbara hardly had to lift a finger.”
Must be nice,
Gigi thought but then changed her mind. She much preferred being a capable woman and running her own business than being dependent on a man for everything.
“Hunter must have found his father rather . . . difficult . . . to get along with,” Gigi hazarded.
Madeline’s eyes widened. “Hunter adored his father. He would have done anything to please him.”
Except become a lawyer,
Gigi thought. It seemed as if Madeline was protesting just a little too much.
“When is the funeral?”
“I don’t know. Hunter is helping his mother with the arrangements right now.” She glanced at her watch. “They’re meeting with Father Stephens in half an hour over at St. Andrews Episcopal Church. They’ve been members since they moved here from the city when Hunter was a baby.”
“Is that where you’re being married?”
Madeline gave a loud sniff. “Yes. Although we’ve decided not to go through with a big wedding under the circumstances. Just a small reception with a few family and friends.”
Gigi nodded. She thought it was a shame that Madeline was going to be cheated out of a proper wedding—surely every girl’s dream. She thought back to her marriage to Ted. Perhaps she’d been too taken up with the excitement of the planning and should have paid more attention to his potential—or lack thereof—as a husband.
“Have the police told you anything?” Gigi said as delicately as someone putting a toe in frigid water. She hadn’t heard a peep out of Mertz and wondered what was going on.
Madeline shook her head, a sob turning into a hiccough. “They said”—she lowered her voice and leaned closer to Gigi—“that he was stabbed with an ice pick. I can’t get over it! Things like that aren’t supposed to happen in Woodstone.”
Gigi’s mind was going as she left Simpson and West. Madeline had been quite determined to convince Gigi that Hunter and his father got along just fine. What Gigi had witnessed on Saturday night suggested something altogether different. Was Madeline afraid that Hunter might somehow be involved?
Walking briskly, Gigi headed toward where she’d parked the MINI. Reg was asleep on the package shelf above the backseat and jumped down when he heard her put her key in the lock. He took his accustomed spot in the front passenger seat, yawned widely and shook.
“A few more deliveries, and then we can go home,” Gigi reassured him as she pulled out onto High Street.
Gigi’s last delivery was to a new development on the edge of town. The builder had razed all of the trees and replaced them with enormous brick Georgian-style homes. A few anemic-looking maples had been planted in the front yards, and a fancy wrought-iron gate separated the exclusive enclave from the rest of the world. Gigi’s newest client, Penelope Lawson, had been referred by Madeline. Her husband, George, worked at Simpson and West and had just been promoted to a small office on the hallowed premises of the second floor.
Penelope came to the door in a pair of baggy sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt advertising a 5K race to raise money for the local animal shelter. Penelope wasn’t particularly overweight, but she was determined to lose the final ten pounds she’d gained after her last baby.
She took the container of food from Gigi and frowned. “Have you delivered Madeline’s yet? How is she holding up? George got a call last night from Mr. West. I can’t believe Bradley’s dead.”
“I guess Madeline is doing as well as can be expected under the circumstances,” Gigi said.
“I should probably give her a call.”
“I think she’d like that.”
Penelope shook her head. “It’s still so hard to believe. Mr. West had to repeat it to George twice before he was able to take it in.” She played with the frayed edge of her T-shirt. “I wonder what this means for the partnership? I mean, will they be replacing Bradley? George hopes he eventually—”
The wail of a baby from the back of the house cut her short. “Sorry, that’s Hughie. I’ve got to go.”
Gigi reluctantly turned away from the now-closed door and headed back to her car, where Reg was waiting, his attention caught by a fellow checking his mailbox across the street. Bradley’s death was obviously going to shake things up at Simpson and West. Had someone from the firm been determined to free up a partnership?
Gigi noodled on the idea as she pulled away from Penelope’s house and headed back toward town. She needed to make a stop at Bon Appétit. Woodstone’s gourmet and cookery store. Evelyn Fishko stocked items Gigi couldn’t find anywhere else—truffle oil, fresh pâté, interesting cheeses and other delectable goodies.
“You’ll have to stay here,” Gigi said to Reg as she closed the car door. Evelyn loved dogs, Reg especially, but the Board of Health made the rules, and she had to abide by them.
Evelyn’s rather long face looked even longer when Gigi pushed open the door to Bon Appétit. She had her usual cardigan draped around her shoulders, and her glasses were pushed up on top of her head, holding back her thick, gray bob.
“Good morning,” Gigi said as she approached the counter.
Evelyn’s greeting sounded more like a grunt than her usual cheery hello.
Gigi looked at her. “What’s the matter? You seem awfully down in the dumps today.”
Evelyn grunted again. “I am. Have you heard about that new shop that’s opening in town?” She jerked her head toward the right. “It’s going into that place where the old Clip and Curl used to be.”
The Clip and Curl had been one of the many casualties of the changing times. Most of the Woodstone residents went to the chain place that was out at the mall, and the Wall Streeters who owned the big houses in Woodstone still went to their favorite salons back in the city.
“What kind of shop is it?”
Evelyn leaned her elbows on the counter. “That’s the thing. It’s going to be some super fancy gourmet store.” She swept a hand around her own establishment. “I’m afraid they’re going to put me out of business.”
“But people have been coming here for years.”
Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “You saw how fast everyone deserted Woodstone Opticians when that chain eyeglass place opened at the mall. Apparently they’re putting a ton of money into the place. It’s owned by two guys from the city.” Evelyn waggled her eyebrows at Gigi. “They already have a shop on the Upper West Side, and they wanted to expand. Why Woodstone?” she added glumly. “I heard they’re going to do wine and cheese parties, give cooking classes, the whole shebang. Who’s going to want to come to this dusty old place when they can go there?”
Gigi glanced around Bon Appétit. She loved it the way it was, but looking around with an unbiased eye, she supposed it could use a little updating. Dust had collected on some of the cans, and more than a few of Evelyn’s signs had faded into invisibility.
“You’ve always had whatever I needed,” Gigi said reassuringly. “Surely that will count with the citizens of Woodstone.”
Evelyn’s mouth turned down at the corners. “But wine and cheese parties and cooking classes? I’ll never be able to compete with the likes of that.”
Gigi raised her chin. “Well, maybe what you need is a battle plan.”
Evelyn tilted her head to one side and looked at Gigi with narrowed, but curious, eyes. “A battle plan?”
“If they can throw wine and cheese parties, so can you. When are they opening?”
Evelyn glanced at the calendar behind her with beauty shots of Connecticut. “It’s February now. I heard the grand opening festival is to be in April sometime.”
“So you have almost two months. A little fresh paint, some rearranging, and no one will recognize this place.”
Evelyn’s expression lifted slightly. “You know, I think you’re right. It’s been an age since I’ve done any sprucing up. Hey”—she put a hand on Gigi’s arm—“maybe you can give a cooking demonstration.”
Gigi thought for a moment. “Branston Foods is supposed to debut my line of frozen Gourmet De-Lite dinners soon. Perhaps they would hold the launch party here.” Gigi started to get excited. “And give you at least temporary exclusivity in carrying them.”
“That would be splendid!” Evelyn’s eyes had brightened considerably. “Now that we’ve got that settled, what can I get you?”
Gigi pulled out her shopping list.
“I don’t suppose you were at that party at Declan’s Saturday night?” Evelyn said as she plunked a bottle of aged balsamic vinegar down on the counter.
“Actually, I was.” Gigi said.
Evelyn shook her head. “I wonder if Barbara Simpson finally snapped and offed him.”
“I don’t think so. She left the party early because she wasn’t feeling well.”
“You mean she’d had too much to drink.” Evelyn reached for a jar of capers on the shelf behind her. “She’s been to some fancy rehab place twice now. For exhaustion.” Evelyn made air quotes. “One of those joints where you get your meals prepared for you, spend all day talking about yourself and have massages and do yoga. Sounds like a vacation to me.” Evelyn snorted. “Doesn’t seem to have done her any good though.”
Alice had hinted at something similar, Gigi remembered. But she was pretty certain Barbara had been sick the night of the party, not drunk.
Gigi pulled away from the curb in front of Bon Appétit and waved good-bye to Evelyn, who was standing in the doorway looking slightly happier than she had when Gigi arrived.
Gigi was half excited for and half dreading her next appointment—the same sort of feeling she remembered having in second grade before her first ballet recital. Victor Branston, founder and CEO of Branston Foods, had decided to run a series of radio commercials, and he wanted them to have a personal touch in keeping with the concept of Gigi’s Gourmet De-Lite—meaning he wanted Gigi to record the commercials herself. She had never done anything like it before, but the marketing manager for Branston’s, a very slick young man who bore a slight resemblance to a less down-home version of Elvis, assured her that there was nothing to it. Gigi wasn’t so sure about that, but she was in no position to disagree.
As she drove toward a small strip mall on the outskirts of Woodstone, she reminded herself that trying new things was good for you—it stretched you and made you grow. Still, if she hadn’t already agreed to it, she would have turned tail and run straight home.
The building she was looking for turned out to be a converted shop front with a small printed sign in the window that read
Keith’s Recording Studio
. Gigi pushed open the door reluctantly, Reg sticking close to her heels. Dusty album covers adorned the walls, and the carpet was faded and threadbare. A receptionist sat at a nicked and dented metal desk, her back to Gigi, the telephone clutched between her shoulder and her ear.
She turned around when she heard the door open and motioned Gigi toward one of two orange, molded plastic chairs. Gigi recognized her from Madeline Stone’s engagement party as the woman who had helped Barbara Simpson after she’d taken ill. Today she was wearing skintight jeans and a stretched-out brown T-shirt with
Keith’s Recording Studio
barely visible on it.
Reg hunkered down next to Gigi’s chair, and Gigi had just picked up a two-year-old copy of
Rolling Stone
when the door opened and the manager from Branston’s came in. Gigi watched as he hung his coat on a metal coat rack. He was handsome, if you liked the type, but there was something smarmy about him that set her teeth on edge.
“Alec Pricely.” He held his hand out. He was wearing a brown suit, a dark brown shirt and a silver tie.
Gigi shook his hand gingerly. It was quite cold. Before she could say anything, the door to the recording area opened and a young man popped his head out. He had dark hair that stood on end and the tattoo of a fleur-de-lis on his right wrist.
“I think we’re about ready,” he said.
Gigi felt her heart do a slight tap dance in her chest.
“There’s nothing to be nervous about,” Pricely said, as if reading her thoughts.
Gigi just smiled at him.
“You can leave your pooch with me,” the girl behind the desk said. “I’ll be glad to keep an eye on him. We’ve got three strays ourselves.” She reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a dog biscuit.
Reg was happily nibbling away as Gigi and Pricely went into a windowless room dominated by a control panel with all sorts of dials and buttons. A young man who introduced himself as Geoff sat down in front of it in a worn-looking swivel chair. He faced a wall of glass and a smaller room beyond, where Gigi could see a narrow podium and a microphone.
Pricely handed Gigi a piece of paper. “Your part is written right there.” He pointed a rather stubby finger at several lines of text.
Gigi took the paper and read over the words. She hoped she could get through them without flubbing.
It took her ten tries to nail it. It felt strange talking into the microphone while wearing a set of headphones.
“Pretend you’re talking directly to your audience,” Pricely said, sounding slightly exasperated after the fifth take.
Gigi could see him through the window turning his gold-and-diamond wedding band around and around.
She tried again. “From my house to your house . . .” she began, when Geoff tapped on the glass, and she heard the click of the mic coming on.
“Sorry about that. I wasn’t quite ready.” His voice came through the glass.
Gigi started over. By the time Geoff and Pricely were both satisfied, perspiration was running down her sides, and she’d finished the glass of water the receptionist had brought her.
“Great job,” Pricely said, clapping her on the back.
Gigi gave a weak smile.
“About the music,” Pricely said, slumping back into his seat. “Something upbeat, I would think.”
Gigi hesitated.
He waved a hand at her. “Thanks a million. I’ll take care of the rest of this.”
Gigi nodded gratefully and headed toward the reception area.
She was wrapping Reg’s leash around her hand when the receptionist looked up at her. “Didn’t I see you at Hunter Simpson’s engagement party?”
Gigi nodded. “Yes. I was meant to be a guest, but Declan, the owner, needed my help in the kitchen.”
“I thought you looked familiar, but I couldn’t place you. It was driving me crazy.” She stuck her pencil behind her ear. “Quite a do wasn’t it?” She looked down at her nails briefly. “Until that sod Bradley had to cut into Hunter the way he did.” She quirked a smile at Gigi. “Jimmy—that’s my husband—is Hunter’s uncle. Not much love lost between him and his brother-in-law, as you can imagine.”
Gigi tried to look interested without looking too interested. In her experience, an overly obvious show of interest tended to remind people that they were spilling their secrets to a near stranger, and it would often staunch the flow of information.
“I’m Cheryl, by the way.” She held out a slim hand. The skin on the back of it was pale and thin and dotted with a handful of brown spots. Cheryl was a lot older than she wanted people to think. “I felt badly for Barbara. First Bradley going off the way he did, and then her coming down sick. Barbara’s a good egg.”