Iced to Death (A Gourmet De-Lite Mystery)

by Cochran, Peg

  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 w
oman 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.”

  Gigi nodded. “Are Barbara and Jimmy close?”

  Cheryl made a back-and-forth motion with her hand. “They used to be, but ever since Barbara and Bradley got married . . .” She rolled her eyes. “Bradley is such a snob. Didn’t want to associate with us.”

  “That’s too bad.” Gigi tried to inject just the right note of sympathy into her voice.

  “Yeah. Well, Jimmy may not be a lawyer, but he does all right considering. Runs a body shop just outside of town. Nowadays they would have diagnosed him with a learning disability, but back then . . .” She shrugged. “But like I said, he does all right, and I bring in what I can working here at Keith’s.” She fiddled with the hoop in her right ear.

  “It’s not easy nowadays,” Gigi said, injecting even more sympathy into her voice.

  “You’re telling me!” Cheryl snorted. “If I hadn’t needed that operation . . . Keith can’t afford to offer us health insurance, and the same with the body shop where Jimmy works. Barbara”—she looked at Gigi as if to see if she was following the story—“is a decent sort, and when she heard the trouble we were in, wrote a check right on the spot.”

  Gigi nodded, again trying to present the appropriate level of interest without scaring Cheryl off.

  “Bradley insisted on drawing up some papers to show that we’d pay up as agreed. I know Barbara could care less about stuff like that.” Cheryl wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Of course now with Bradley dead maybe it won’t make any . . .”

  The unfinished sentence hung in the air between them. Gigi cleared her throat and made noises about getting her coat and moving on.

  Cheryl smiled and held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Gigi smiled, nodded and shook the proffered hand.

  She fastened Reg’s leash, said good-bye again and went out the door. She couldn’t believe it—Cheryl had just admitted to a very, very good reason for murder.

  Chapter 7

  “How are things going with your sister?” Sienna poured Gigi a cup of steaming coffee. They were settled into the coffee corner, as it was known, at the Book Nook.

  “Okay. I don’t see much of her given the hours she keeps.”

  “How long does she plan to—”

  “She said she has an appointment to go look at some apartments. I feel a little guilty, but I can’t wait to have the cottage all to myself again.”

  “That’s perfectly understandable.” Sienna stirred her cup of herbal tea. “I was really sorry to miss the big party and all of the excitement. Oliver’s mother called up out of the blue wanting to see Camille”—she smiled at the baby gurgling happily in the bouncy seat next to her—“and she offered to pay our airfare and everything. I must admit it was heavenly to get away to Palm Beach at this time of year.” She wiped a bit of drool from the baby’s mouth. “Although we think poor little Camille is cutting a tooth, don’t we pumpkin?” She cooed at the infant. “The first evening she had us up almost all night.”

  Gigi glanced at her goddaughter. She seemed perfectly content now, rocking in her bouncy chair, trying to stuff her fist into her mouth.

  “We were invited because Oliver’s friend, George Lawson, is an associate at Simpson and West. I think the whole thing was less of an engagement party and more of a business affair for Bradley Simpson.” A slight frown crossed Sienna’s face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be speaking ill of the dead, as my mother would say.”

  Gigi cupped her mug of coffee. “It seems there were plenty of people willing to speak ill of him while he was alive.”

  Sienna cocked her head. “Really? I didn’t know him at all well. Oliver said he was a hard-driving lawyer and an incredible rainmaker for the firm.”

  Gigi told Sienna about her re
cording session earlier that day. “Cheryl told me that she and her husband had borrowed money from Barbara Simpson. They seem to think that with Bradley out of the way there won’t be any need to pay her back.”

  “She said that?” Sienna looked up from wiping another blob of drool off of Camille’s chin. She gestured at the cloth in her hand. “They say all this drooling means she’s teething, although we can’t see anything yet.”

  “She didn’t come right out and say it. She sort of left it hanging.” Gigi wondered if she could have misunderstood Cheryl. She didn’t think so.

  “Sounds like you’ve found the perfect suspect.” Sienna grinned, and Gigi knew she was thinking of some of their past detecting adventures. “What do the police think?”

  Gigi slumped in her seat. She still hadn’t heard from Mertz. “I don’t know. Mertz and I had something of a falling out. He didn’t want me helping Declan out the night of the party although I assured him I’m not attracted to the man in the least.” Gigi remembered some of the feelings she’d had while sitting in the kitchen with Declan, after everyone had left, and a flash of heat rushed to her cheeks.

  Sienna glanced at her quizzically. She’d taken Camille from her bouncy seat and had the baby cradled against her shoulder. “Why do I think there’s something you’re not telling me?”

  “There isn’t.” Gigi protested a little too fiercely. She had to force herself not to squirm.

  “So the police haven’t identified any suspects yet?” Sienna shifted the now-sleeping Camille slightly. The baby’s hands were tangled in Sienna’s long mane of golden hair, and her tiny, rosebud mouth was partially open.

  Gigi shook her head. “Not that I know of, but I imagine Declan is going to be at the top of their list.” The thought made her shiver again, and she clutched her coffee cup more tightly.