Iced to Death (A Gourmet De-Lite Mystery)

by Cochran, Peg

  She glanced up at Gigi with a look of consternation on her face. “That makes him sound so mean, which isn’t fair. We used to get such a good laugh over it.” She swiped at a tear that was wriggling its way across the bridge of her nose. “I kidded him, too—telling him he was color blind because of some of the ties and shirts he would put together.” She righted the cup and poured out the tea. “He used to call me ‘snookums.’ I called him ‘bear’ because he was my big teddy bear.” Barbara stifled another sob and turned her head away.

  “How did the two of you meet?”

  “At university.” Barbara handed Gigi the tea and pushed the cream and sugar toward her. “I knew right away that he was going to go places. He was an A student and the highest scorer on the lacrosse team. I couldn’t believe it when he asked me out. We got married while he was in law school.” She stirred two spoons of sugar into her own cup.

  “Have you always lived in Woodstone?”

  Barbara shook her head. “No, we spent several years living in New York City. Bradley was working for a big firm on Wall Street, cutting his teeth, so to speak, but then decided he wanted to open his own place. He and the other partners worked long, hard hours to get Simpson and West off the ground, I can tell you. Bradley earned every penny he made and then some. Of course some people were jealous.” She looked at Gigi carefully. “That’s always the way, isn’t it? They don’t see all the hard work, they just see the rewards.”

  Gigi couldn’t help wonder if Barbara was talking in generalities, or was there someone specific who resented Bradley’s success?

  Gigi retrieved some papers from her purse and handed them to Barbara along with a pen. “If we’re to get started right away, I need you to fill these out. It’s nothing complicated,” she added as Barbara looked alarmed, “just information about any allergies and your food likes and dislikes.”

  Barbara bent her head over the forms and began to fill them out. “It’s been a nightmare.” She looked up at Gigi and pressed a tissue to her nose. “The police have been here.” Her mouth set in a thin, grim line. “It seems they found my wrap. It was covered in my Bradley’s blood.” She let out a sob. “Sorry.”

  Gigi had a sip of tea and waited while Barbara composed herself.

  “I thought I lost it the night of the party. It was warm in the restaurant from all the people pressed together, so I folded it over the back of my chair and forgot about it.” She looked at Gigi, her eyes round with horror. “It’s bad enough that someone murdered my husband, but now the police seem to think I might have had something to do with it.”

  • • •

  Gigi drove away from Barbara Simpson’s feeling sad. Reg tilted his head at her as if asking what’s wrong? The poor woman was mourning the loss of her husband and now she had the police to deal with. Gigi wished she could do something. Mertz had listened to her theory that the murderer was trying to cast blame on Barbara, but he had been noncommittal. There had to be some way to prove Barbara’s innocence.

  As Gigi drove down High Street, she passed the storefront where the new gourmet shop was supposedly going to be. So far there was no sign of construction—just a large banner announcing that the place would be opening shortly. Hopefully Evelyn would finish her renovations before it did.

  Bon Appétit was empty when Gigi pushed open the door. Shelves had been moved away from the walls and draped in drop cloths. A man in coveralls was wielding a long-handled paint roller and transforming the formerly white walls into the sort of dark red that Gigi associated with Provence.

  “Very nice,” Gigi said as she approached the counter, where Evelyn was leaning over an open copy of the Woodstone Times.

  “You like it?” Evelyn closed the paper, folded it and slid it under the counter.

  “Very much.” Gigi looked around. The rich, warm color was going to transform the shop.

  “I’ve ordered some wreaths to hang on the walls—one is made from bay leaves and the other from dried chilies. I’m going for a sort of South of France feel.”

  They both watched as the painter dipped his roller in the paint tray and swiped a broad swath of red across the wall.

  “I think it’s just what the shop needed,” Gigi said.

  Evelyn sighed. “I don’t know why I waited so long to redecorate. Complacency, I guess. I’ve been the only game in town for so long, I never expected competition to pop up on my own doorstep.”

  Gigi patted Evelyn’s arm reassuringly. “With your new look and plan, you’ll be attracting even more customers than usual.”

  “I hope so.” Evelyn leaned her elbows on the counter. “What can I get for you?”

  “I need another box of Arborio rice. I’m almost out, and I’ve picked up another client.”

  “Oh?”

  Gigi nodded. “Barbara Simpson. I was just out to see her and discuss the plan with her.”

  “Rather strange that she wants to go on a diet now . . . under the circumstances. When my friend Rose lost her husband, the pounds just dropped off. She didn’t have to do a thing.”

  “It seems she wants to do it for Bradley. She’d promised him she was going to get back in shape, and she wants to go through with it.”

  “Miracle she has any appetite at all. Although there are those who eat even more when under stress. Maybe she’s one of them.” Evelyn scratched her head. “I do remember when they first came to town. Quite a looker, she was. About this big”—Evelyn held up her little finger—“and cute as a button.” She sighed. “But age creeps up on all of us, I guess. Quite the place she’s got there, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Gigi thought back to her first view of The Laurels.

  “One of my customers said the police have been out there talking to her. Bound to happen, I suppose. Isn’t the spouse always the chief suspect?” Evelyn snorted. “Although what I’ve seen of Bradley Simpson, you could hardly blame her.”

  “Barbara said he was very different in private. At least she seemed to really love him. You can see she’s devastated.”

  Evelyn looked unconvinced. “Anyway, didn’t she go home sick the night of the party?” She put air quotes around the word sick. “She was probably out cold when the murder occurred.” Evelyn slipped the box of rice into a bag. “Anything else?”

  “No, that’s it for now.”

  “Had someone new come in earlier. She wanted to know if I had any instant dashi.” Evelyn raised her eyebrows. “I don’t even know what that is.”

  “I believe it’s a kind of Japanese stock.”

  “Ah. The customer was Japanese. Very pretty and a lovely accent. The funny thing was”—Evelyn punched some numbers into the cash register—“Hunter Simpson was waiting for her outside. Isn’t he the one the engagement party was for?” She tore off the receipt and handed it to Gigi along with her purchase.

  “Hunter Simpson?” Gigi said in disbelief.

  Evelyn nodded. “I’m not saying they were a couple or anything, don’t get me wrong. But it did make me curious.”

  Chapter 11

  “Stacy still hasn’t said anything,” Alice said later that afternoon when Gigi dropped by the Book Nook between her deliveries. “Maybe it really was just a stomach bug.”

  Alice had stopped by to pick up some bedtime reading. She sat on the sofa in the coffee corner with a pile of dog-eared paperbacks in her lap.

  Sienna juggled Camille in one hand and the handful of books she was trying to shelve in the other. “Most people wait till they’re three months along. If she is pregnant, that’s probably what she and Joe are doing.”

  “I hope you’re right. I’d so love a little grandchild to fuss over.” Alice glanced at Sienna. “Here, let me have the baby while you do that,” she said, holding out her arms.

  Sienna handed Camille over carefully, watching to see if she would cry. She didn’t—just blew a large bubble and rubbed her cheek against Alice’s sweater. Alice patted the top of Camille’s head, a dreamy look on her face.

  “Has there b
een any news about . . . you know.” Sienna stopped as if she didn’t want to say the words in front of the baby. She cocked her head in the vague direction of Declan’s.

  Gigi explained about finding Barbara’s bloodstained wrap.

  Sienna spun around. “Really? That seems quite conclusive. Have the police arrested her?”

  “No. The wrap appeared after the murder. Mertz is positive the people searching the scene wouldn’t have missed it. Personally, I think the real murderer is trying to frame Barbara.”

  “But are there any other suspects?” Sienna shoehorned a book into place on the shelf.

  “The son, right?” Alice had stood up and was jiggling Camille on her hip. “Didn’t you say he took off the night of the party?”

  “Yes, and Evelyn from Bon Appétit said she saw him around town with some Japanese girl she didn’t recognize. Although she couldn’t say for sure they were a couple. And I don’t know how that would relate to his father’s murder.”

  “Phew.” Sienna blew a lock of golden hair off her face. “Think we’ve got enough suspects?”

  “There’s more.” Gigi helped herself to a cup of coffee. “Barbara Simpson’s sister-in-law works at the studio where I went to record my radio commercial for Branston Foods. She all but admitted to having a motive for murder, too.” Gigi was quiet for a moment. “Of course the police may have uncovered things I know nothing about.”

  Alice gave her a wicked smile. “Time for some pillow talk with Detective Mertz, perhaps?”

  • • •

  Gigi’s face burned as she left the Book Nook. Did everyone think she and Mertz . . . ? She hit the gas pedal a little too hard, and the MINI lurched forward.

  Well, there were some things she’d like to worm out of Mertz. Like whether or not he viewed Barbara as a serious suspect. She hoped not. The woman had endured enough already, and Gigi was convinced she was innocent. She just had to find a way to prove it.

  The answer came to her as she was sitting at the light in front of the Silver Lining, a tony jewelry store that carried one-of-a-kind pieces that only the wealthier residents of Woodstone could afford. There was a white-bordered, navy blue sign in the window with Protected by The Guardian written in gold letters. Gigi remembered there had been one like it on a post alongside Barbara’s driveway and another smaller one in her front window. A lot of the larger homes and estates sported similar signs.

  Gigi had seen their commercials on television and had a vague idea of how their system worked. You turned the alarm on when you left the house, and when you returned, you had to enter a code to turn it off again. With all the computerization these days, perhaps the company would have a record of when Barbara returned home from the party?

  Gigi chewed on a cuticle as she waited for the light to change. It had started to snow, and she flicked on her windshield wipers. The Guardian was unlikely to reveal any information to her. She would have to tell Mertz about it and persuade him to do the investigating.

  Gigi turned around in a driveway just beyond the last shop on High Street and headed back toward the police station. The same woman was seated behind the desk when Gigi entered the building. The cold draft that followed Gigi sent a swirl of snow skittering across the smudged tile floor.

  The woman gave her the same look as she had the last time Gigi was there. She dialed the phone, and they both waited for Mertz to pick up. Eventually, the woman replaced the receiver and leaned her mouth close to the microphone, jerking her head toward the door. “You know where to go.”

  Alice’s words pillow talk rang in Gigi’s ears as she walked down the corridor, and she knew her face was red as she entered Mertz’s office.

  He was working at his computer, sitting ramrod straight in his chair, notebook precisely aligned at his elbow. Gigi couldn’t help but smile. If Mertz couldn’t control the world, he was at least going to control his immediate vicinity.

  He jumped up when he saw Gigi, and a smile spread across his face. “What a nice surprise.”

  “Yes,” was all Gigi could think to say.

  “I was going to call you.” Mertz perched on the edge of his desk.

  “Oh.” When had she become so monosyllabic? Gigi wondered.

  “I just read about this new restaurant that’s opened not far from here.” He grabbed a newspaper off his desk and scanned the page. “The Heritage Inn. And with Valentine’s Day coming up . . .”

  Gigi smiled. “I’d love to.”

  “Great.” Mertz looked relieved. He carefully placed the newspaper back on the stack from which he’d retrieved it. “I understand they’re known for their”—he grabbed the newspaper and scanned the column again—“innovative cuisine. Meaning you’ll probably know what the dishes are, but you’ll have to translate for me.”

  Gigi felt a warm glow. She knew that Mertz was more than content with the open-faced turkey sandwich they prepared at the Woodstone Diner, but he’d chosen this place because he thought she would like it.

  “What brings you—”

  “I stopped by because—”

  They both laughed.

  “You go first,” Mertz said.

  “Okay.” Gigi took a deep breath. “I had an idea as to how we . . . I mean you . . . might prove that Barbara Simpson is innocent in Bradley’s murder.”

  A bemused look settled on Mertz’s face. Gigi knew what he was thinking. She should stick to cooking, and he’d do the detecting. She tried to keep her Irish temper under control. Hopefully the information she was about to impart would wipe the smug look off his face.

  “You know that company the Guardian?”

  “Certainly.”

  “The Simpsons have the system installed at their house. Surely their records will indicate what time Barbara turned the alarm off the night of Bradley’s murder.”

  Mertz’s brows rose as if pulled by a single string.

  Gotcha! Gigi thought. She allowed herself to gloat for a moment.

  “What’s to stop her from going out again and just not setting the alarm?”

  “It’s possible, definitely, but not probable. Barbara went home sick from the party.” Like Evelyn, Gigi put air quotes around the word sick.

  “What does this”—Mertz copied her air quotes—“mean?”

  Gigi stared at the carpet. “People are saying she was actually drunk. Everyone says she’s been to rehab, but that she’s been drinking again. I saw her the night of the party, and she was . . . unstable . . . to say the least. I can’t swear she’d been drinking, but either way, my guess is she went home and collapsed into bed.”

  “I must say, that is some pretty good detective work.”

  Now he was patronizing her. Gigi felt a rush of irritation. “Are you going to check with the Guardian?” she said with more of an edge than she meant.

  “Possibly.”

  “But don’t you think—”

  Mertz held up a hand. “I agree that it’s a clever idea. It’s just that some new evidence has come to light.” He stared at his hands for a moment. “Have you heard of someone named Tiffany Morse? She’s an associate at Simpson and West.”

  “Yes. According to Madeline, she’s going to be the first female partner the firm has ever had.”

  Mertz nodded. “According to my sources, she was having an affair with Bradley Simpson.”

  “I know.” Gigi crossed her arms over her chest and tried not to look too smug.

  “But unbeknownst to Bradley, she was also seeing Declan McQuaid, the owner of Declan’s Grille.”

  I know who he is, Gigi thought, clenching her fists at her sides.

  “And?”

  “And Bradley and Declan were heard arguing heatedly the night of the party.”

  “He said it was over the bill—the gratuity for the waitresses.” Gigi’s mouth had suddenly gone dry, and the words seemed to stick to her tongue.

  Mertz gave her a sad look. “Much more likely it was because of Tiffany Morse. When the two men found out she was seeing both of the
m, they argued. Things got ugly and Declan stabbed Bradley with the ice pick.”

  Chapter 12

  Gigi barely remembered leaving the Woodstone Police Station. She knew she said good-bye to Mertz and even discussed their plans for Valentine’s Day, but her mouth felt paralyzed, and there was a strange rushing sound in her ears. She didn’t think Mertz had noticed anything awry. She hoped not. Although he did keep looking at her with an expression that combined wariness and concern.

  Tiffany and Declan. The words rang in her ears as she walked to her car, her coat pulled closed against the icy February wind. As soon as she slid into the driver’s seat of the MINI Reg jumped into her lap and began to lick her face, as if he sensed her distress.

  What was she going to tell Pia? Or, more accurately, how was she going to persuade Pia to turn her affections elsewhere and move on to someone else? When Pia fell, she fell hard. And by all accounts, she’d fallen hard for Declan. They hadn’t done more than have a few cozy chats together, but Gigi knew that to Pia, that was tantamount to declaring undying love. She remembered the first time her mother had taken the two of them swimming. Gigi couldn’t remember where the pool was—probably at a friend’s house. Pia had never been in the water before, but had jumped straight into the deep end with no hesitation. She was the same way when it came to romance.

  Gigi thought about what Mertz had told her. She still didn’t believe Declan had murdered Bradley. He might not have been telling Gigi the truth about their argument the night of the party, but she was certain he’d been telling the truth when he’d insisted he had had nothing to do with Bradley’s death.

  Gigi drove home slowly, her brain whirling furiously. She had to do something—bring Mertz some new evidence, a new fact—anything that would move the case in another direction.

  “What are we going to do?” she said to Reg as she opened the front door. She stuck her hands in her coat pockets to retrieve the gloves she’d stuffed in them—she’d been too stunned to remember to wear them on the ride home. She pulled them out and put them on the top shelf of the hall closet. She was shutting the door when she noticed something on the floor wink in the light from the foyer.