by Cochran, Peg
“But he chose you,” Gigi reminded her.
“I know. It’s just that sometimes I don’t feel worthy, you know?”
Gigi didn’t say anything. Playing amateur psychologist was not her role. Besides, she’d struggled with those very same issues while married to Ted. Starting and succeeding at her own business had given her the confidence she had lacked back then.
“I suppose the police were just asking routine questions. There’s no need to be upset.”
“I don’t know.” Madeline twirled a loose thread from her sweatshirt around and around her finger. “Hunter told them he was at the hospital just like he told me.” She looked at Gigi and choked back a sob. “It won’t be long before the police discover he was lying.”
Chapter 9
Poor Madeline. She must be quite worried about the possibility of Hunter having a role in his father’s death. Gigi thought back to Saturday night and Bradley’s obnoxious remarks. It was easy to understand how they might have inflamed Hunter. Still, she couldn’t quite imagine him having anything to do with murder. The Hippocratic oath, after all, was about saving people, not killing them.
As Gigi drove back down High Street, she noticed a man in coveralls going into Bon Appétit. He had a stepladder slung over his shoulder. She supposed Evelyn was starting her renovations. Gigi glanced at the clock on her dashboard. Reg had been home alone for over an hour, and she still had to stop at Gibson’s Hardware for a curtain rod. She’d have to give Reg an extra treat to make up for it.
She parked in the lot between Declan’s and Gibson’s. The lot was fairly full—Bradley’s murder obviously hadn’t had an impact on Declan’s business. On the contrary, people were probably coming out of curiosity. Gigi shivered. She found that ghoulish. She didn’t even like having to cross the parking lot, and she carefully skirted the area where Bradley’s body had lain. There was no sign now of the violence that had occurred on Saturday night, but it still made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
Gibson’s smelled of mellow wood and the tang of metal. The floors squeaked as Gigi approached the clerk behind the desk. He had tied around his waist a dark blue apron with several pockets along the front.
“Help you?”
Gigi explained about needing a curtain rod.
“Will a thirty-six-inch do you?”
Fortunately Gigi had remembered to measure. She pulled a piece of scrap paper from her purse and glanced at it, then nodded at the salesman.
He told her to wait while he disappeared down one of the aisles. It was filled with things Gigi didn’t recognize.
He returned promptly, rang up the sale and handed her the rod and a receipt.
“Sorry, but we don’t have a bag that will fit that. Hope that’s okay.”
Gigi smiled. “No problem.”
“Nice to have things get back to normal after, you know.” He jerked his head toward the parking lot next door.
Gigi made some noncommittal noises. She thanked him and hurried out the door with her curtain rod.
She had parked in the back of the lot, perpendicular to the wooden fence that separated the lot from the one behind it. The slats were pointed at the top and a wire ran through them a foot from the top and a foot from the bottom. Gigi beeped open the doors of the MINI and was about to get in when something caught her eye. She left the car door ajar and walked closer to the fence.
Something was snagged on the pointed tip of one of the wooden slats. It looked like fabric or something knitted—a scarf maybe. Gigi went closer and saw that it looked like the edge of some sort of garment. The rest of it appeared to be hanging down behind the fence, on the side away from Declan’s and Gibson’s. Some innate sense of caution kept Gigi from touching it—instead, she stood on tiptoe and tried to see over the fence.
Drat—she was just a little too short. She looked around and noticed a discarded crate lying next to the Dumpster. She dragged it into place and carefully placed a foot on top. It creaked, and the wood gave slightly, but she was able to stand up long enough to see a piece of clothing hanging from the stake.
She couldn’t tell what it was exactly, but it was white and definitely knit. She had a flashback to her conversation with Barbara Simpson. Her wrap had gone missing the night of the party, and it was white cashmere on one side and black on the other. It was highly unlikely that this was Barbara’s missing stole, but Gigi didn’t want to touch it and possibly destroy evidence.
She would have to go to the police.
Gigi walked the two blocks to the large, square brick building that housed the Woodstone Police Department. A former knitting factory, it was ugly and squat, and there was constant talk about tearing it down and rebuilding. Of course, no one wanted their taxes raised to pay for the construction, so the old building continued to do service. The Woodstone Women’s Garden Club filled the planters out front with colorful flowers in the spring, and at Christmas the bushes were draped with lights.
Gigi hoped Mertz was in. She had the feeling that she might have uncovered a very important clue. She approached the receptionist with her fingers crossed. The woman was separated from the lobby of the police station by a thick piece of bulletproof glass. Gigi had to shout through the microphone embedded in the barrier.
The woman moved at a maddeningly slow pace as she picked up the phone and carefully punched in some numbers. She peered at Gigi over her Ben Franklins as she waited for the phone to be answered.
Four seconds, five seconds—Gigi held her breath as the phone continued to ring and ring. Finally, just as the woman was moving the receiver away from her ear, someone must have picked up. Gigi could see her lips moving, but couldn’t hear what she was saying.
The woman leaned across her desk, closer to the microphone. “He’s in his office. Said you were to come in. Said you knew where it was.” She eyed Gigi suspiciously.
Gigi felt her face become suffused with color, but she tilted her chin up and nodded curtly. A buzzer sounded, and she was able to enter the inner sanctum of the Woodstone Police Department.
Mertz was at his desk, which was covered with stacks of meticulously aligned folders and papers. He was biting into a chocolate-covered candy bar as Gigi entered.
He waved it toward her sheepishly. “My lunch.”
Gigi pretended to look at him sternly, and he laughed.
“I got called out again just as I was about to run out for a sandwich. This time someone swiped Mrs. VanZeldt’s kissing Dutch couple from her front steps. I can’t imagine what anyone is doing with all these lawn ornaments. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a huge pain in the neck.” He folded the now-empty candy wrapper neatly into thirds and carefully placed it in the wastebasket.
“This is a pleasant surprise.” He smiled at Gigi and leaned back in his chair. He glanced at his watch. “I wish it were later. We could go for a drink at Declan’s.”
Declan’s is the last place I want to go, Gigi thought. She wondered if Mertz had suggested it to prove he was no longer jealous.
“I think I’ve found something.”
Mertz’s chair sprang upright as he leaned forward. “Found something? What?”
“There’s something hanging off one of the fence slats in the parking lot between Gibson’s and Declan’s. Where the . . . murder . . . took place. I couldn’t see over the fence—”
Mertz grinned at her, and Gigi scowled back.
“Anyway, it looks like a sweater of some sort.”
“It couldn’t have been there on Saturday night. The scene-of-the-crime techs combed that parking lot for hours.” He pursed his lips. “I guess I’d better have a look at it though. Just in case. Besides”—he grinned—“it will give me a chance to spend some more time with you.”
Gigi could feel the eyes of the woman behind the reception desk following her as she and Mertz strolled out the front door. The wind had picked up, and dense gray clouds filled the sky.
“Looks like snow,” Gigi said, running a little to keep up wit
h Mertz’s long stride.
Mertz glanced up at the sky. “Let’s hope it holds off till we retrieve our evidence. If it is evidence.”
Gigi pulled her collar up and yanked her hat down over her ears. Her hand brushed Mertz’s as they walked, and she quickly stuffed them both in her pockets. The townspeople gossiped enough as it was. She didn’t need to give them any ammunition.
Several more cars had pulled into the parking lot, Gigi noticed as they approached the back spaces and the wooden fence.
“Where exactly did you see this garment?” Mertz asked, stopping to scan the scene.
“Here.” Gigi led him to the spot where the bit of knitted fabric was just visible.
Mertz stepped closer. “It’s hooked over the slat.” He stepped even closer and peered over the fence. “The rest of it is hanging down on the other side.” He reached over and carefully touched the item with his gloved hand. “Looks like some kind of sweater or knitted shawl.” He carefully unhooked it from its perch and pulled it over the fence.
It was a length of knitted material—black on one side and creamy white on the other.
And it was spattered with blood.
• • •
“I know it wasn’t there the night of the murder or the crime scene guys would have caught it,” Mertz said later that evening. Gigi had felt sorry for him as he’d had nothing but a chocolate bar for lunch, and she had invited him over for dinner. Okay, it wasn’t only because she felt sorry for him—she’d looked forward to having his company.
He had arrived with a bottle of good red wine and had even hung his own coat up in the closet by the door. Reg greeted him like an old friend and rolled onto his back to have his stomach scratched. Gigi had managed to get a fire going in the fireplace, although how long it would last, she didn’t know. She’d made a big pot of chili seasoned with a smoky chipotle pepper to serve over some brown rice and had set up tray tables in the living room in front of the fire. Mertz, dogged by Reg, followed her out to the kitchen, where she’d put out some cut-up raw vegetables and a bowl of herbed yogurt cheese.
“Delicious,” Mertz mumbled around a bite of carrot and dip.
He uncorked the bottle of wine and poured them each a glass. Gigi perched on one of the stools that surrounded her kitchen island.
“Do you know anything more about that cashmere shawl we found? Was it blood?”
Mertz shook his head. “It looked like blood, but we won’t know for certain until the lab gets through with it. My money is on its being blood though.”
Gigi went to the stove and lifted the lid on the pot sitting on the front burner. She gave it a stir and reached for some bowls in the cabinet to her left. “It looked just like the shawl that Barbara Simpson described to me.”
“But what was it doing there? It wasn’t there when we searched the scene.”
“True.”
“So maybe the red stain is simply some barbecue sauce or tomato sauce that someone spilled on it, and they decided to throw it away. If Barbara Simpson bought it in that fancy shop on High Street—”
“Abigail’s?”
“Yes, that one. Then it isn’t beyond the realm of possibility that someone else had one just like it.”
“True,” Gigi admitted reluctantly. She filled the bowls with rice and steaming ladles of chili topped with shredded cheese and a dollop of sour cream. “If you carry the wine, I can handle these.”
Mertz picked up both their glasses and the bottle and carried them into the living room, where he tucked into his meal immediately.
“Mmmm, so good,” he said as he forked up a mouthful. “That candy bar was the only thing I’ve had to eat since this morning. Fortunately I’d ordered the farmer’s breakfast at the Woodstone Diner.”
Gigi had suspected as much. She waited while Mertz quickly polished off half the contents of his bowl.
“But don’t you think it’s strange that the exact same shawl, covered in what certainly looked like blood, wound up at that particular place?”
“I can’t tell you how many strange things I’ve seen in my career. But I agree,” he said, wiping some chili from his chin, “it is peculiar.”
“I mean if I had a garment like that, and it had been ruined, I’d probably try to get the stain out first. Someone spent a lot of money on that thing.”
“I agree. A good dry cleaner can work miracles these days.”
A thought was swimming around in Gigi’s brain, but she couldn’t quite get hold of it. The harder she thought, the more it escaped her. She tried to relax. It came to her so suddenly, she almost knocked over her tray table.
“What if,” she began excitedly, “that is blood on the stole, and it does belong to Barbara.”
Mertz frowned. “If that’s true, why didn’t she take it home and dispose of it somewhere safe? Why bring it back to the scene of the crime after the fact?”
“She didn’t,” Gigi said triumphantly. “Someone else did. Barbara told me her wrap went missing the night of the party. I just saw her again, and she asked me if Declan had possibly found it.”
“And?” Mertz prompted, his attention completely focused on Gigi now.
“What if her wrap wasn’t lost? Someone actually took it—easy enough to do in the midst of the party. And they used it to cover their own clothes while they . . . they . . . murdered Bradley with the ice pick.”
“Go on. I can tell there’s more.” Mertz’s eyes had a twinkle in them.
“They took the wrap home with them thinking to destroy it. Throw it on the fire perhaps.” She nodded toward the blaze that was quickly diminishing in her fireplace. “But then they had an even better idea. The bloodstained shawl was the perfect bit of evidence to incriminate Barbara Simpson. Who’s always the first to be suspected in a murder case? The spouse, right?”
Mertz nodded.
“So they decided they wanted the wrap found, not destroyed. Eventually someone was bound to see it hanging from that fence and go to the police with it.”
Chapter 10
Gigi had barely gotten out of bed when the phone rang. She stared at it for a second, debating whether to answer. Whoever it was, she’d rather talk to them after she’d made her coffee. She snatched the receiver just as the phone rang for the fourth time. She’d never been good at letting a ringing phone go unanswered.
The caller was Barbara Simpson. She was hoping to start Gigi’s diet plan that evening. Would that be possible? Gigi assured her it would. She’d need to make a stop at Bon Appétit for some ingredients but that was easily done. Besides, she wanted to see how Evelyn was coming with her renovations.
Gigi dressed quickly, poured her coffee into a travel mug and grabbed her coat and scarf from the closet. Reg sat right by the door, as if daring her to leave without him.
“Don’t worry, buddy, you’re going, too.”
Reg wagged his tail so hard that his entire body squirmed with delight. He paced back and forth as he waited for Gigi to button her jacket and wind her scarf around her neck.
With Reg tucked safely into the passenger seat, Gigi backed down her drive and turned left. She was meeting with Barbara to discuss her meal plan and have her fill out some necessary papers. Barbara had given her directions to Arbor Ridge, the community where she lived, along with the code that would allow her entry through the ornate wrought-iron gates that protected the privacy of the inhabitants of the secluded estates.
Gigi pulled up to the gatehouse and carefully punched in the numbers. Nothing happened. Had she written them down wrong? She tried again. This time the massive gates parted, and she drove through quickly. Houses were set far back on either side of the road—Georgians, Southern Colonials, Victorians and a few modern-looking glass-and-wood structures. All were enormous and had more than an acre of land surrounding them. The street was completely quiet and not a thing was out of place—even the snow alongside the road was still pristinely white.
Gigi glanced at the piece of paper on the seat next to Reg. It
seemed that the houses not only had numbers, they had names. Barbara Simpson’s was The Laurels at number four Arbor Lane.
It came into view, and Gigi almost slammed on the brakes, she was so awed. The Laurels looked to be the size of the White House and was built in a similar style, with a conservatory on one side and a huge screened-in porch on the other. The driveway was brick and the front door was shiny black with a highly polished brass kick plate that echoed the pineapple-shaped brass door knocker.
Gigi assured Reg that she would be back shortly and headed toward the entrance to The Laurels. She expected a maid in uniform to come to the door, but Barbara Simpson opened it herself. She was wearing a black velour warm-up suit and a pair of large, dark sunglasses that she pushed to the top of her head when she saw it was Gigi. Her blue eyes were puffy and red-rimmed.
“Sorry,” she said, as she pulled the door open wider. “I can’t stop crying. It’s been terrible.” She sniffed and fished a tissue out of the sleeve of her zip-up jacket. “It’s bad enough Bradley being gone.” She paused and dabbed at her eyes. “I know what everyone thinks. And they’re right. He was difficult to live with—demanding and stubborn. But he had a sweet, gentle side that people rarely saw.”
Gigi tried and failed to picture Bradley Simpson with a gentle side.
“He had to be tough in his profession. Opponents would capitalize on any sign of weakness, he always said.”
Gigi nodded and followed Barbara through the enormous foyer and a football field–size formal living room to the conservatory beyond. The glassed-in room was warm, with an almost tropical feel to it, and was filled with plants in every size and shape, including a few small trees.
Weak February sun slanted through the glass, throwing a beam of light across the slate floor. A tray with tea things stood atop a wrought-iron table in the middle of the room. Gigi sat opposite Barbara and watched as Barbara poured tea into delicate china cups. Her hand shook slightly, and the spout of the teapot knocked over the fragile, paper-thin cup.
“Oh, how clumsy of me. Bradley always said I was like a bull in a china shop.”
