Iced to Death (A Gourmet De-Lite Mystery)

by Cochran, Peg

  “Mertz wouldn’t do that just because—”

  “Oh, no. Not just because he’s jealous. Mertz would never do that.” Gigi looked into the depths of her steaming mug of coffee. “It’s because of what they found at the scene.”

  “Something that traces to Declan?”

  “Yes. The ice pick that was used to kill Bradley had Declan’s name carved into it.”

  Sienna drew in her breath sharply, and Camille gave a muffled cry before settling back down to sleep. “That doesn’t look good. But someone could have taken it from his kitchen.”

  “True. But how is he going to prove that?”

  “What reason would Declan have for killing Bradley Simpson? Did they even know each other before last night?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  The bell over the front door tinkled, and a blast of cold air drifted toward the coffee corner. Sienna stood up briefly. “Madison’s behind the register. She’ll keep a lookout.”

  Gigi was refilling her coffee cup when the newly arrived customer suddenly appeared around the end of one of the shelving units. She had on a strange assortment of ill-fitting clothing—red-and-white-striped socks, clogs that looked to be about an inch too long, wide-legged trousers that ended well above her ankles, and a corduroy car coat with sleeves that hung down past the tips of her fingers. She rounded the corner and headed toward the back of the store.

  Gigi looked at Sienna with her eyebrows raised. Sienna glanced over her shoulder quickly.

  “That’s Janice Novak. I’ve heard she gets most of her clothes out of the Dumpsters around town,” she whispered.

  “That’s so sad.”

  Sienna nodded. “She used to work for Simpson and West in their accounting department.” Sienna glanced around and lowered her voice even further. “Apparently she embezzled some small sum of money from the firm.” She mouthed the words gambling problem.

  “Too bad.”

  “The firm decided not to press charges, but the partners refused to give her a reference, and she can’t get much of a job anywhere else. Besides, just about everyone in Woodstone knows about it—Bradley Simpson was apparently quite vocal when it happened. I heard she was working at the Dollar Store in that strip mall on the edge of town, but when her register didn’t add up one night, they let her go.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “It’s made her a little . . . off.”

  Gigi also realized that it made her more than just a little off, to use Sienna’s expression.

  It also made her another perfect suspect in Bradley Simpson’s murder.

  • • •

  Gigi was surprised to see Pia sitting at the kitchen island nursing a cup of cocoa when she got up the following morning. Her sister’s face looked thinner than usual and was ashen with fatigue. Pia poked at the marshmallows in her cup with her index finger.

  “Good morning,” Gigi offered tentatively. It was obvious from the stiff set of Pia’s shoulders that something was bothering her.

  Pia didn’t respond, just lowered her face into her mug of cocoa.

  Gigi sighed and began measuring coffee into the coffeemaker. She added water, pushed the button, and the machine gurgled to life. It was equipped with an automatic timer, but she never seemed to remember to set it up the night before—although the few times she had, it was heavenly to wake up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee instead of the usual racket from her alarm clock.

  Pia made a small noise—to Gigi it sounded halfway between a squeak and a suppressed sneeze. Was Pia crying? Gigi glanced at her sister again and saw her shoulders were shaking.

  She was.

  “What’s wrong?” Gigi asked with a sense of resignation. Pia regularly got into scrapes that ranged from almost nothing to practically illegal.

  “I went to Declan’s last night,” Pia said with a hiccough. “We had a wonderful chat. I’ve really missed having a man in my life.”

  By Pia’s own account, she had said good-bye to the philandering Clive barely a few weeks before, so her love life had hardly been akin to the Sahara desert.

  “He asked me to stay for a nightcap.” She glanced up at Gigi. “It’s wonderful to find someone who understands you.”

  Anyone who could understand Pia was exceptional indeed, Gigi thought. Gigi had hoped that Pia’s infatuation with Declan would have passed by now. Obviously it hadn’t. She had to figure out a way to let Pia know that Declan wasn’t serious . . . but without hurting her feelings. Somehow Gigi didn’t think that was going to be possible.

  “We had such a lovely chat.” Pia drained the rest of her cocoa and put the mug down. It had already left a series of wet rings on Gigi’s countertop. “And then the police came in! Said he was wanted for questioning.” She turned large, imploring eyes on Gigi. “For that murder in the parking lot!”

  Gigi was reaching for the carafe of coffee, and her hand jerked, sloshing hot liquid onto her bathrobe. She stared at the spot and sighed. The robe was due for a wash anyway.

  “You have to do something.” Pia knitted her fingers together as if she were praying.

  “Me?” Gigi pointed to herself. “There’s nothing I can do. I’m sure that the police will soon sort it out and realize they’ve made a—”

  “You can call that detective of yours. Tell him he has to let Declan go. He had nothing to do with the murder. It’s not fair!” She ended on a wail.

  “We’re somewhat on the outs at the moment,” Gigi admitted.

  “Then you have to make up with him. Come on,” Pia pleaded. “You know you want to.”

  Gigi had to admit her sister was right. She missed Mertz.

  “Just call him and see what you can find out.” Pia slid off her stool and grabbed the phone from the cradle. “Here.” She held it out toward Gigi.

  “I can’t just call him and . . . demand an explanation.” Gigi insisted.

  Pia’s face fell, then almost immediately brightened. “Have him over for dinner. Wine him and dine him. That ought to do the trick.”

  Gigi was surprised to find herself actually considering the idea. She’d always done whatever was necessary to take care of Pia. Was this any different?

  Pia waved the phone at Gigi.

  “Oh, all right.” Gigi took the receiver from Pia’s hand and quickly dialed the Woodstone Police Station. Her mouth went dry. What if Mertz refused to talk to her? What if he hung up on her?

  She glanced over her shoulder at Pia, who was making encouraging gestures.

  Gigi slammed the phone down. She couldn’t do it.

  “You have to.” Pia grabbed the phone and handed it back to Gigi.

  Gigi dialed the number again with trembling fingers. She turned her back on Pia and listened as the phone rang. She closed her eyes, hoping that by some miracle no one would answer. But of course that was impossible.

  The receptionist’s voice came on the line.

  Gigi managed to find enough breath to ask for Mertz. Once again she closed her eyes and prayed that he was out on a case somewhere.

  No such luck.

  “Mertz,” he said economically. Gigi could hear the rustling of papers in the background and muted voices.

  “I . . . I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Gigi managed to squeak out, ready to hang the phone up immediately if he said he was busy.

  “Gigi!”

  Gigi had thought Mertz might sound annoyed, exasperated, angry, distant, but instead he sounded . . . pleased.

  Gigi gulped hard. “I was wondering if . . . if . . .” She turned around to see Pia urging her on. “I was wondering if you’d like to . . . um . . . come over for dinner.” Again Gigi hesitated, and Pia waved her on. “Tonight.”

  “I’d love to.” Mertz sighed. “But I’m going to a meeting out of town, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back. If it’s not too late, maybe I can just stop by, and we can have a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure. That would be fine.” Gigi heard voices in the background.


  “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later and let you know how things are panning out, okay? Maybe I’ll be able to get away earlier.”

  “Great. Fine.” Gigi hung up the phone.

  “What did he say?” Pia demanded immediately.

  “He said he’d stop by if he can.” She explained about the out-of-town meeting.

  “You’ll need to be prepared.” Pia paced up and down the kitchen, an anxious look on her face. “What are you going to make?” Before Gigi could answer, she continued. “It would look odd if you had a complete dinner waiting for him . . . just in case. It might be best to have some ingredients on hand so you could whip up something simple like . . . I don’t know. You’re the chef.”

  “I think I can handle it,” Gigi said dryly.

  “And wine. Don’t forget to get a bottle of wine to relax him.”

  “It’s already on my mental list.”

  Pia threw her arms around her sister. “You’re the best.”

  Gigi sighed and returned the hug.

  Later that afternoon, as Gigi was driving through the darkening town after having delivered her dinner meals, a commercial came on the radio. She had tuned to a rock station she liked—if asked, she would deny it, but she had a penchant for cheesy pop songs and had been known to sing along at the top of her lungs while piloting the MINI through Woodstone.

  She’d just finished a rousing rendition of one of Britney Spears’s earlier songs when the music ended and the advertisement came on. Gigi had her finger on the button and was about to change the station when a familiar voice caught her attention. Her voice. Advertising Gigi’s frozen Gourmet De-Lite dinners. She nearly drove into a light post on High Street, she was so surprised. She supposed Branston was running the commercials now to create excitement over the launch of his new product—Gigi’s frozen diet entrées.

  It was strange hearing her voice emanating from the radio. Reg obviously thought so, too. He tilted his head, listening, occasionally turning to look at Gigi with a curious look on his face. He gave a confused howl as the commercial came to an end.

  “That’s okay, boy.” Gigi reached out and patted him on the head. “I’m here and not inside the radio.”

  He gave her another strange look and then, with a sigh, hunkered back down on the front passenger seat.

  As Gigi pulled into the driveway of her cottage, a feeling of relief swept over her. She’d left a few lights on, and they glowed warmly through the front windows. Pia had assured her she would be at her studio, so Gigi knew she would have the place to herself.

  Reg raced ahead of her as Gigi headed toward the front door. She picked up the spill of mail that was fanned out across the wood floor of the foyer and stacked it on the kitchen table. She’d go through it later.

  Gigi hadn’t heard from Mertz yet. Most likely his meeting would run late, and he wouldn’t be stopping by. She sort of hoped that would be the case. As much as she wanted to see him again and mend the rift that had opened between them, she wasn’t anxious to bring up the subject of Declan’s possible guilt in Bradley’s murder.

  Gigi made herself a cup of tea and curled up on the sofa with a book. A sense of peace settled over her as she listened to the blissful silence broken only by the occasional exhale from Reg, who had staked out a spot at her feet.

  Gigi was enjoying her book, but soon her eyes grew heavy. There was no harm in closing them for a few minutes, she thought. She stretched out on the sofa, displacing Reg, who retreated to the furthest end, and pulled up the throw she had tossed over the arm of the couch. When she woke two hours later, she was cold and cramped. The clock read nine o’clock. Mertz was certainly not going to be stopping by at this hour, so she might as well change into her pajamas, make some cheese toast for her dinner—she wasn’t particularly hungry—and have an early night.

  Gigi slipped into her favorite pajamas—the ones with the reindeer on them that her mother had given her when she was a senior in college. The hems were ragged and the pattern was nearly worn off in spots, but they were soft and comfortable.

  She was heating water in the kettle when the doorbell rang.

  Note to self, Gigi thought as she flung open the front door. Always, always, peek through the window before opening the door.

  Mertz stood on her front steps, his collar turned up around his ears, and his hands stuffed into his pockets. Snow was falling, and flakes were melting in his hair.

  “Oh,” was all Gigi was able to muster.

  He glanced at her reindeer pajamas and a smile briefly crossed his face.

  Gigi held the door wider. “Come . . . come in,” she stammered. She could already feel her face flushing crimson. Why, oh why, hadn’t she left her jeans and sweatshirt on?

  “I hope I’m not too late. The meeting was positively interminable.”

  Other than a fleeting smile, Mertz didn’t seem to mind Gigi’s unconventional attire or even notice it much. Gigi really liked that about him. Ted had been hypercritical of everything she wore, how she did her hair, what perfume she chose, even going so far as to tell her what shoes to put with her outfit. It was a relief to be with a man who accepted her the way she was.

  “Come on in. Please.”

  Mertz followed her into the living room, where he stood awkwardly, not even unbuttoning his coat.

  “Let me take your coat.”

  “I wasn’t going to stop, considering the hour,” Mertz blurted out. “But as I was driving along, all of a sudden your voice came on the radio.” He smiled. “I almost hit the light post outside of the Silver Lining.”

  That makes two of us, Gigi thought.

  Mertz took a deep breath. “I’m really sorry about Friday night. I guess I was . . .” The words stuck in his throat. “. . . jealous of Declan.”

  Gigi noticed that the tips of his ears were bright red.

  She shrugged. “That’s okay.” She fiddled with the loose button on her pajama top.

  Mertz reached into his coat pocket and handed something to Gigi. “Here, this is for you. I know Valentine’s Day isn’t until next week, but . . .” He trailed off, his whole face turning almost as red as Gigi’s had earlier.

  “Oh . . . my . . .” Gigi didn’t know what to say. She accepted the gaily wrapped box and stood looking at it.

  “Go ahead. Open it.”

  Gigi moved over toward the sofa and perched on the edge. Mertz joined her, watching eagerly as she undid the white ribbon and tore off the glossy red paper. Gigi held her breath as she lifted the lid of a dark blue box with Woodstone Jewelers written in elegant gold script across the top.

  “Oh.” She lifted out the pin nestled inside. It was a gold whisk with a ring of dark blue sapphires circling the handle. “Oh,” she said again, not quite able to speak.

  “I hope you like it.” Mertz frowned, his eyes darkening. “I had them make it especially for you.”

  “I love it,” Gigi said, tears rushing to her eyes. It was the most thoughtful gift anyone had ever given her.

  She could feel Mertz relaxing beside her. She thought about some of the extravagant jewelry Ted had bought her. None of it had ever really suited her. They were pieces he liked. Not like this pin. This was perfect.

  Gigi looked up in time to see Mertz dash a hand across his eyes.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  Before Gigi could answer, he leaned toward her and enveloped her lips with his. It was several minutes before they broke apart. Gigi tried to catch her breath.

  “Have you eaten? Did they feed you at your meeting?” Gigi put the pin carefully back in the box. She looked up to see Mertz roll his eyes.

  “Not unless you count an Almond Joy bar, a bag of Cheez Doodles and a bottle of water.”

  Gigi laughed. “No, I’m afraid that doesn’t count. I don’t know what I have in the fridge, but I’m sure I can rustle up something.” She crossed her fingers behind her back, knowing full well she’d spent an hour in Shop and Save trying to decide what to buy in case Mer
tz showed up for dinner.

  Mertz followed her out to the kitchen, where he straddled a chair and watched as she rummaged in the refrigerator.

  Gigi pulled out a packet of Black Forest ham, a jar of coarse, grainy mustard, a chunk of butter still in the wrapper, several slices of Gruyère cheese and two eggs. She lifted the lid of her ceramic bread box and rummaged around until she found half a loaf of white bread.

  “What are you making?” Mertz sounded bemused.

  “The French call it croque monsieur. Basically it’s a fancy grilled ham and cheese sandwich.”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  “It is.” Gigi swung a frying pan onto the lit burner on the stove and added a smear of butter. She hardly ever used butter, given that her recipes were all low calorie, but you couldn’t make a croque monsieur without at least a dab of it.

  She assembled her sandwiches, dipped them in a mixture of beaten eggs and a few spoonfuls of water, then added them to the butter already sizzling in the pan. When they had turned golden on one side, she flipped them over.

  “You have no idea how good that smells.”

  “The French also do a croque madame, which is a similar sandwich but with a fried egg on top.”

  “The French sure do know how to eat. We thought adding marshmallow fluff to our peanut butter sandwiches was the cat’s meow, as my mother used to say.”

  While Gigi prepared the meal, she directed Mertz to get out placemats, napkins and silverware. When Gigi looked up from plating the sandwiches, she discovered Mertz had folded the napkins into a pyramid shape.

  He looked embarrassed when Gigi stared at them, her mouth slightly open.

  He shrugged, the tips of his ears coloring again. “I spent one summer working as a busboy in the Poconos. About the only thing I learned was how to fold napkins. That and that I don’t like borscht.” He shuddered.

  Gigi laughed as she put the plates on the table.

  Mertz had obviously been very hungry. He devoured his croque monsieur in record time. Finally, Gigi was finished as well. She’d completely forgotten she was wearing tatty old reindeer pajamas and that her red hair was pulled back haphazardly with a twist tie from a loaf of bread. She felt utterly relaxed.