Iced to Death (A Gourmet De-Lite Mystery)

by Cochran, Peg

  Mertz glanced at his watch as he swiped his napkin across his mouth. “I’m sorry, but I have to be getting back to the station.”

  This was the moment Gigi had been dreading. She had to ask him about Declan before he left.

  She handed Mertz his coat and watched as he put it on and wound his scarf around his neck. Gigi tried to find the words, but they weren’t coming.

  Mertz stood at the front door, looking down at his hands as if he suddenly found them fascinating. “I don’t know how to tell you this—”

  “What!” Gigi looked at him, alarmed.

  “We’ve brought Declan McQuaid in for questioning.”

  “I know. My sister told me. She’s very upset. She’s taken quite a liking to him.”

  Mertz closed his eyes briefly. “You know that ice pick they found in the vic’s body was his?”

  “Yes. You said his name was carved into it.”

  “It’s not just that. Someone might have lifted the pick from the kitchen when he wasn’t looking.” Mertz looked down at his hands again.

  “Yes?”

  He looked up at Gigi with sad eyes. “His were the only fingerprints found on the weapon.” He sighed. “And several witnesses heard him arguing violently with Bradley Simpson at one point during the evening.”

  Chapter 8

  Gigi half expected to find Pia waiting in the kitchen when she got up the next morning, but the room was empty. She peeked into the guest room, but even with the bedclothes in their usual tangle, she could tell the bed was empty.

  She breathed a sigh of relief as she measured coffee into the coffeemaker. She wasn’t up to facing Pia just yet. And certainly not before her first cup of coffee.

  Mertz made the evidence against Declan sound fairly damning, but Gigi was quite convinced that Declan was innocent, and she had confidence that in the end, truth would prevail. How she was going to convince Pia of that, she had no idea.

  Gigi readied her clients’ breakfasts and carried the Gourmet De-Lite containers out to her car. Reg wove in and out between her legs, nearly tripping Gigi.

  “It’s okay,” she reassured him. “You’re going, too.”

  He settled down with a relieved sigh, and she was able to finish loading the car and slip into her coat and boots.

  As Gigi drove past Declan’s Grille on the way back from Simpson and West, she was half afraid she’d see a big Closed sign on the front door. There wasn’t, and there was actually a glimmer of light visible through the window.

  Rather impulsively, Gigi turned into the parking lot and pulled into the space. “I’ll only be a minute,” she told Reg as she got out.

  She tried the kitchen’s back door first. It opened easily, and she stepped inside.

  The kitchen was dark and empty without pots simmering on the stove or dishes baking in the oven. The smell of cooked food hung heavy and stale in the air. Gigi pushed open the door to the restaurant proper. The room was shadowy, with a bright pinprick of light coming from the tiny lamp clipped to the hostess desk. It was the only fixture that had been turned on. Declan was seated on a bar stool, slumped over the bar, his head in his hands. He jumped when he heard Gigi clear her throat.

  “Gigi.” It came out sounding more like a groan than a greeting.

  Gigi slipped onto the stool next to Declan’s. Declan looked at her with shadowed eyes.

  “You’ve heard.”

  Gigi nodded.

  “Someone’s been nicking things from my kitchen. That’s why I carved my name into anything I could. Look.” He glanced up at Gigi, a pleading look in his eyes. “Anyone could have taken that ice pick. Anyone! It was pandemonium in here on Saturday night.” His eyes cleared slightly. “Or maybe someone nicked it earlier in the week. Planning ahead so to speak.”

  “That could be. Mertz said much the same thing.”

  Declan’s face brightened. “He did?”

  “Unfortunately the only prints found on the pick were yours.”

  Declan jerked as if he’d just touched a live wire. He slapped the bar with his open palm. “They had to have worn gloves then, hadn’t they? It’s the middle of February. No one would have thought it strange.” Declan gripped the edge of the polished wooden bar with both hands. “Besides, I didn’t even know the fellow until he called me about hosting his party. Why in the blinking heck would I have murdered the man?”

  Gigi looked into her lap as if she would find some sort of solace there. She didn’t believe Declan was the murderer, but how to prove it?

  “Mertz said that someone has come forward . . . a witness,” Gigi said haltingly. “They claim to have heard you arguing with Bradley the night of the party. Violently arguing, was how they put it.”

  Declan went very still for a few seconds. He turned slowly to look at Gigi before his glance darted away. “We did have a bit of a row. But it wasn’t something I’d have killed the man over.” He clenched his fists. “The arrogant so-and-so tried to stiff me on the tip for the waitresses. Said it was standard to include eighteen percent to cover the gratuities. I told him it might be standard in his book, but that I hadn’t done it. We went back and forth over it.” He gave an abashed smile. “I’m afraid I did raise my voice a bit. Fine thing for someone who’s constantly drilling it into the staff that the customer is always right.” He looked Gigi in the eye. “We settled the whole thing amicably enough.”

  Gigi was quiet.

  “You do believe me, don’t you?”

  Gigi nodded yes, although somehow she knew in her gut he was lying.

  • • •

  Gigi hit the gas a little too heavily as she drove through Woodstone. She knew in her heart that Declan couldn’t have killed Bradley. She didn’t know why, but she was certain. But she was also positive that he was lying to her. Was he protecting someone else? Was he afraid it would make things worse for him with the police?

  She didn’t have time to think about it. She needed to get home and work on lunch prep for her clients. Gigi reached out and gave Reg a scratch behind the ears. He sighed softly and leaned against her hand, directing her caress to underneath his chin.

  “You’d have me scratch you all day if you could.” Gigi gave him a final pat and put her hand back on the wheel.

  A weak, pale sun was struggling higher in the sky. The snow alongside the road, which had been white and new the other night, was mixed with grit now, and Gigi’s tires swished loudly on the wet street. She was heading past the last of the downtown shops when she remembered her dry cleaning was ready. There was a space outside of Abigail’s, only four doors down from the Sweet Kleen Laundry. Gigi pulled over, lined up her car and swiftly backed into the space. She remembered her earlier attempts at parallel parking, and a hot flood of color washed over her face. Mertz had caught her attempting to maneuver the MINI into a space that would have fit an eighteen-wheeler. She could still see the look of amusement on his face. Fortunately, he’d subsequently given her a few tips, and now Gigi was quite confident in her parking skills and didn’t have to circle downtown Woodstone looking for a place to leave the car that didn’t involve parallel parking.

  Reg looked at her hopefully when she opened the door, but she shook her head and he settled back down on the passenger seat.

  “Not this time, buddy. But I’ll only be a sec, and then we’ll be heading home.”

  Gigi locked the car and pocketed her keys. She was stepping away from the curb when she collided with someone coming out of Abigail’s. The woman had a shopping bag in each hand and was struggling to put on a pair of oversize sunglasses.

  “I’m sorry,” Gigi said automatically.

  “All my fault,” the woman said. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.” She lowered her glasses and peered at Gigi. “You’re the Gourmet De-Lite girl, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Gigi suddenly recognized the woman as Barbara Simpson, Bradley Simpson’s widow. Words of sympathy rose to her lips, but Barbara was already talking.

  ‘I still need to do
your program if you have space for me.” She gestured with her chin toward the shopping bags. “I’ve just bought a new outfit for Bradley’s funeral, and it seems I’ve gone up a size again.” Her chin wobbled, and a tear snaked its way out from under the dark glasses. “I feel I owe it to him. I was a size two when we married, can you believe it? I promised him I’d get back in shape again, and now, even though it’s too late for Bradley”—she gave a loud sniff—“I feel I ought to do it.”

  “Of course.” Gigi thought Barbara looked terrible—as if she hadn’t slept in days. Everything about her seemed to droop—her face, her posture.

  “Do you think you can take me on? You’re not too busy?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Listen,” Barbara pushed her sunglasses up on top of her head. “Do you know if they ever found my wrap?” She jerked her head in the direction of Declan’s. “I lost it the night of Bradley’s party. It must be at the restaurant somewhere. It’s double-ply cashmere. Black on one side and cream on the other. Maybe when you cleaned up . . .” She shook her head. “Not that it matters now, of course. But Bradley bought it for me. We saw it in a store window, and he insisted on dashing into the shop to buy it for me.” Another tear made its way down her cheek, and she brushed at it impatiently.

  “I’m sorry, but as far as I know, we didn’t find anything. You might check with Declan though. It may have turned up in the meantime.”

  Barbara nodded. “I suppose I will. And don’t forget to call me.” She tapped Gigi on the arm. “I’d like to get started right away.”

  Gigi assured Barbara she would call her later that afternoon, then walked down to the Sweet Kleen Laundry to collect her things.

  • • •

  “You certainly don’t lack for suspects,” Alice said as she poured a half gallon of milk into a blue-and-white flowered slow cooker.

  “What are you making?” Gigi peered into the cooker. She had stopped by Alice’s to return a drill she had borrowed earlier to hang some new pictures.

  “I’m making homemade yogurt,” Alice put the top on the cooker. She reached for a battered kettle on the stove and swung it toward Gigi. “Tea?”

  “Sure.” It was a gray day with a wind that had a bitter edge to it. Gigi’s fingers were still cold, and some tea would be most welcome. She glanced at Reg, who had curled up underneath Alice’s round oak kitchen table. Even he looked chilled, despite his heavy fur coat.

  “I’ll strain it afterward and turn it into Greek yogurt. I found the recipe online and had to try it.” Alice turned the burner on under the water. “As I was saying, we’ve got ourselves plenty of suspects. Always assuming the police aren’t wrong, and Declan really did do it.”

  Gigi slumped in her chair. “I’m positive Declan is innocent. Besides, why would he kill Bradley? He’d never met him before that night.”

  “You mentioned an argument,” Alice said above the rattle of crockery as she set two teacups and saucers on the table.

  “Yes, but it was about the tip for the waitresses. Declan would hardly have killed someone over that.” Gigi ignored the little voice in her head reminding her that she was positive Declan had been lying.

  “There were certainly enough other people wanting the nasty bugger dead.” Alice poured boiling water into each of the cups.

  Gigi dunked her tea bag in the hot water. “When I was at the Book Nook, this rather strange woman came in. Sienna said she used to work for Simpson and West but was fired for stealing money.”

  Alice nodded. “Yes. Janice Novak. Everyone knows about it. Do you think she—”

  “Why not? Maybe she’s harbored a grudge against Bradley all this time.”

  “True.” Alice sank into the chair opposite Gigi. “And maybe she saw her moment to get revenge. She wanders around Woodstone at all times of the day and night in those strange getups of hers. She might have seen Bradley leaving Declan’s and decided to seize the moment.”

  “But how would she have gotten hold of the ice pick?”

  “Dunno. Perhaps she stole it earlier. She’s like a magpie, collecting bits and pieces of trash here and there. I often see the back door to Declan’s propped open when he’s got a delivery. Easy enough for her to slip inside and pocket it while he’s carting stuff down to the basement.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “On the other hand, there’s the son, Hunter. One, from what you said, his father seems to be making his life a living hell, and two, he probably stands to inherit some decent cash.” Alice ticked the reasons off on her fingers.

  “He did leave the party early—right after that nasty remark his father made. I wonder if anyone knows where he went.”

  “The fiancée maybe? Isn’t she one of your clients?”

  “Yes. I suppose I could ask her a few questions,” Gigi said reluctantly. She hated quizzing people. It didn’t feel right. But if she didn’t, Mertz would continue to blame Declan and Pia would have a meltdown . . .

  And even though she knew Declan was lying about something, she also knew he wasn’t a murderer.

  • • •

  When Gigi arrived with Madeline Stone’s lunch later that morning, she was told that Madeline had gone home sick.

  “Although she didn’t look sick to me,” said the rabbity looking girl behind the reception desk. She was wearing a cheap navy blue suit that puckered at the shoulders.

  “Not sick?” Gigi said casually.

  The girl shook her head, and her nondescript brown hair swung back and forth. “More like upset if you ask me.”

  “Did she say anything?

  “To me?” The girl snorted. “No one talks to me. I just answer the phone. I’m like, you know, invisible.”

  Gigi knew what she meant. She remembered her early days in New York, trying to make her mark, suffering through one low-paying job after another.

  Gigi waved her Gourmet De-Lite container at the girl. “I guess I’ll deliver her lunch to her home address then.”

  “Do you think the police coming by had anything to do with it?” the girl asked as Gigi was turning away.

  Gigi turned back to the desk and set down Madeline’s lunch container. “The police?”

  “Yes.” The girl’s face brightened. “This really hunky guy.” She gestured with her hand. “Tall with really blue eyes.”

  Mertz! Gigi thought to herself.

  “Kind of stiff though,” the girl added.

  Definitely Mertz, Gigi thought.

  “And he spoke to Madeline?”

  “Yup. And it was shortly after that that Madeline came rushing downstairs saying she didn’t feel well and was going home.”

  “I guess I’d better deliver her lunch to her house then.” Gigi brandished the container again.

  “Do you need her address?” The girl jiggled the mouse next to her computer, and her screen came to life—it was filled with a picture of a beach in the background and, closer up, a fruity drink on an umbrella table.

  “No, that’s okay. I already have it.”

  Gigi’s mind was whirling as she exited Simpson and West. Why had Mertz gone to Madeline and what had he said to upset her enough that she had left work early for the day?

  Hopefully Madeline would be willing to tell her.

  Gigi headed toward the address Madeline had given her. It was a small town house complex on the north end of Woodstone. The units were brick-fronted with slate gray shutters and glossy black doors. Gigi found number 25 and gently tapped the polished brass door knocker.

  She was about to knock again when the door was yanked open. Madeline was wearing a scruffy pair of gray sweats with University of Connecticut barely visible on one leg of the drawstring pants. She’d obviously been crying and had a tissue balled up in her right hand.

  “I’m sorry. I forgot all about my lunch. Can you imagine? Me, forgetting about food?” She made a halfhearted attempt at a smile.

  “The receptionist said you were sick,” Gigi said. “I hope I’m not dist
urbing you.”

  Madeline shook her head and held the door open wider. “Come on in.”

  The town house boasted a small foyer furnished with a narrow table and a brass lamp in need of polishing. The table was awash with letters, circulars and newspapers.

  Madeline led Gigi into the living room, where an L-shaped sofa dominated the space. Madeline sat at one end and hugged a furry white pillow to her chest.

  “I’m glad you’re here. I needed someone to talk to. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Gigi shook her head.

  Madeline gave a loud sniff and dabbed at her nose with the crinkled tissue. “I had a policeman come by work today”—she gave a sob that ended in a hiccough—“asking me where Hunter went the night of our engagement party.”

  Gigi tilted her head and raised her eyebrows but didn’t say anything for fear of staunching the flow of Madeline’s conversation.

  “The terrible thing is . . .”

  “Yes?” Gigi leaned forward eagerly.

  “I don’t know where he went.” Madeline wailed.

  “Did you ask him?”

  Madeline nodded, and her hair, which was pulled back into a haphazard ponytail, bobbed up and down. “I did. He said he went to the hospital. Said he’d had a call that there was an emergency. That’s why he wouldn’t drink anything alcoholic at the party—in case he got called in.” She pulled her legs up close to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “I went to the hospital and talked to Amanda. She’s one of his colleagues. It was mortifying.” She wailed again. “Amanda said she hadn’t seen him at all on Saturday night. She assumed he was at the party.” Madeline swiped the back of her hand across her nose. “I had to make up some story about why I was asking. She must have thought I was a fool.”

  She looked at Gigi with pleading eyes.

  Gigi opened her mouth, but before she could say anything, Madeline was talking again.

  “I know everyone thinks Hunter is marrying beneath him. He could have any number of the lawyers at my firm, and goodness knows how many of his female colleagues are after him.”