Iced to Death (A Gourmet De-Lite Mystery)

by Cochran, Peg

  “You’re right.” Alice worried the ends of her scarf.

  “Gigi was just about to tell me what she’s been up to.”

  Gigi recounted everything that had happened recently—from finding Tiffany Morse dead in her own home to her conversation with Cheryl about Hunter and his invention.

  Alice clapped a hand to her chest. “What on earth is the world coming to! Such goings-on in Woodstone. It used to be such a quiet town! When Tom and I moved here, may he rest in peace, there were only a handful of shops on High Street. And none of this highfalutin stuff, either—we had practical stores like the hardware store, the five-and-dime, the butcher and the fishmonger.” Alice’s cheeks flushed red. “Now it’s all these fancy places where I can’t even afford to breathe the air.”

  “Well, I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” Sienna said dryly.

  “No,” Gigi concluded. “Someone hated Bradley enough, or was mad enough at him, to kill him. I suspect Tiffany somehow got in the killer’s way. These murders weren’t random.”

  “You mentioned Hunter.” Sienna put her foot on Camille’s bouncy chair and gently rocked it. The baby cooed softly and turned her head to the side. “Maybe Tiffany overheard him arguing with his father about that invention and put two and two together.”

  “Are you thinking blackmail?” Alice asked.

  “She has expensive tastes,” Gigi said.

  “I’ll say,” Alice snorted. “I’ve seen that red Mustang of hers blazing up and down High Street more than once. Woe betide any pedestrian who gets in the way of Miss Tiffany ‘La-di-da’ Morse. I’m surprised she hasn’t racked up enough speeding tickets to wallpaper her living room.”

  “Every Friday I see her coming out of Abigail’s with a couple of shopping bags,” Sienna added. “Spending half her paycheck, I should imagine.”

  “Keeping up appearances.” Alice nodded sagely.

  “Her condo is very nice,” Gigi said, trying to think about the décor without visualizing Tiffany’s body on the sofa in the sunroom. “Pretty expensive, I’d say.” Her thoughts drifted to her own furniture—the pieces she’d split with Ted but had jettisoned because they didn’t suit her sweet, little cottage. The hand-me-downs from family, the pieces picked up at yard sales and secondhand stores. She lifted her chin a little higher. Everything had come together rather well, in her opinion, and she was very comfortable. It might not be fancy, but it suited her perfectly.

  “On the other hand”—Sienna stroked Camille’s cheek softly—“maybe this Cheryl is lying about Hunter and the invention to take the heat off of her husband.”

  • • •

  Gigi delivered her dinners in a haze. She was thinking about what Sienna had said about Cheryl possibly lying to distract attention from her husband. Gigi thought about her conversation with Cheryl. Gigi certainly didn’t fancy herself as being particularly good at judging whether someone was telling the truth or not. Ted used to tease her about believing everything everyone told her—from the well-dressed fellow on the street claiming to have been robbed and asking for money for a train ticket home to Washington to the sales girl insisting that the dress Gigi was trying on was absolutely made for her. She supposed she was a bit naïve when it came to things like that—the commandment thou shalt not lie had been drilled into her by the nuns in school.

  Pia was on her way out when Gigi arrived back home. She tried not to stare at Pia’s bright yellow jacket. Pia had an egg roll in one hand and a fountain drink in the other. She waved the plastic cup at Gigi.

  “I’m heading out. I ran into Declan at the Shop and Save, and he said to stop by sometime, so I think I’ll head over there first and see if he’s free to chat. I realize he’s on the rebound, what with his girlfriend having been killed, but I really do fancy him.” She shrugged.

  Gigi’s spirits sank. So Pia hadn’t gotten over her crush on Declan. At least he was no longer police suspect number one. Pia might still get her heart broken, but at least she wouldn’t be visiting him in jail.

  As soon as the door closed behind Pia, Gigi collapsed at the kitchen table. She was exhausted. She knew she ought to eat something but she was too tired to be hungry. She was contemplating a good soak in a hot, lavender-scented tub when the telephone rang.

  It was Mertz.

  “I’ve been meaning to call you. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, you know.”

  Gigi glanced at the calendar by the stove. February 14 was circled in red.

  “I’m afraid I have bad news.” Mertz cleared his throat nervously. “The Heritage Inn was completely booked. Apparently people call weeks in advance for these holidays.” Mertz’s sigh came over the line. “I imagine even the Woodstone Diner will be full.” He gave a hollow sounding laugh.

  “That’s all right,” Gigi said, trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

  “But I had an idea.” Mertz’s tone lightened. “How about if you come over here for dinner? I’m not much of a cook, but there are a few things I can manage. I know it’s disappointing, but frankly I’ve found restaurants to be so overcrowded on Valentine’s Day, and half the time the food isn’t up to their regular standard.”

  Gigi forced the thought of Mertz taking other women to dinner on Valentine’s Day out of her mind. “That sounds lovely. I could bring something.”

  “No need. I’ve got it all planned.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “It won’t exactly be fancy, but you won’t starve. I’ll get a nice bottle of wine, and we can relax and enjoy each other’s company.”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  They settled on seven o’clock, and Mertz insisted that he would pick Gigi up so she wouldn’t have to worry about driving at night.

  Gigi felt considerably peppier when she hung up the phone. Her stomach grumbled, and she went to dig in the refrigerator for the leftover chicken in red wine sauce that had been her clients’ dinner for the evening.

  • • •

  Gigi woke up on Wednesday morning with an excited feeling in the pit of her stomach. She was going to Mertz’s for dinner. It was definitely going to be an experience. She hadn’t been to his place yet and was curious to see it. Would it be the typical bachelor pad with beat-up leather sofas and a giant-screen television holding pride of place?

  Gigi had really hoped to talk to Madeline and perhaps learn more about Hunter and his invention, but Madeline had called to say that she would be in Hartford for a conference all day and wouldn’t be needing Gigi’s meals.

  The day started out excruciatingly slowly—the way it always does when you’re looking forward to something in the evening—but eventually things picked up, and suddenly Gigi was getting ready to go to Mertz’s.

  Once again, she bemoaned the state of her wardrobe. Reg seemed to concur, turning his nose up at everything she pulled out of her closet. She finally unearthed a relic from her New York days—a pair of black pants she’d scored at a Carolina Herrera sample sale and a turquoise silk blouse. The pants were long enough for her to wear her high-heeled suede booties, and the charming whisk pin Mertz had given her would complete the outfit.

  As Gigi had suspected, Mertz was smack-dab on time—three minutes early, actually. She was a punctual person herself and really appreciated it when others followed suit.

  She already had her coat on and opened the door quickly.

  Mertz kissed her on the cheek. It was snowing again, and his lips were cold.

  “Sorry, Reg, but you’re going to have to stay here.”

  “Why not bring him? He can play with Whiskers.”

  Mertz had rescued Whiskers from a tree last fall. Gigi could still remember the pride she felt as she watched Mertz easily pull himself up into the old oak, and the applause that rang out from the crowd on the sidewalk when he jumped back down, the kitten tucked safely into his shirt pocket.

  “Do you think they’ll get along?”

  “Why not? Reg is a friendly fellow, and Whiskers loves to play.”

  It
was barely a five-minute drive to Mertz’s condo. Reg was a little huffy about being relegated to the backseat instead of his usual spot in the front, but he soon got over it and eagerly pressed his nose to the window.

  “Here we are.” Mertz pulled up to a small group of condos—not quite as fancy as where Tiffany had lived—but well maintained and attractive. He stopped outside an end unit with a cheerful red door and a light shining through the front window.

  Mertz parked in front of the attached garage and went around to open Gigi’s door. Reg bounded into the front seat and out the door, right at Gigi’s heels. Mertz opened the door to his condo, and Reg dashed inside. Whiskers was waiting by the entrance, and Reg’s sudden appearance startled her, sending her to the top of the foyer table where mail was neatly stacked alongside the day’s rolled-up newspaper. She switched her long, fluffy tail back and forth, voicing her displeasure at Reg’s overly aggressive greeting.

  Reg ignored her and darted around the condo getting acquainted with the smells. Gigi looked around while Mertz hung up their coats. As she had suspected, his place was very tidy, with a few pieces of plain but comfortable-looking furniture. There was a framed photograph of an older couple on one of the end tables—his parents?—and one of those collage-type frames filled with pictures of school-aged children. She knew Mertz came from a big family—they were probably his nieces and nephews.

  On the wall across from the sofa was a large photograph of a young man at the beach holding a life preserver and leaning casually against the lifeguard stand. His blue eyes stood out strongly in his tanned face. She moved closer to get a better look.

  “I was head lifeguard for the Connecticut State Parks when I was in school. That was taken right after I’d rescued this little kid from a riptide.” A faraway look crossed his face. “It was one of the proudest moments of my life. I’ll never forget his parents’ gratitude. And it made me realize I wanted to help people, which is why I went into police work.” He made a face. “Of course I didn’t realize I’d be spending half my time trying to track down a lawn ornament thief.”

  Gigi gave a last look at the picture—she imagined Mertz had caught more than one girl’s eye on the beach—and followed him out to the kitchen, which, like the rest of the condo, was clean and tidy. The counters were bare save for a coffeemaker and a toaster. Gigi thought about her own kitchen and the tangle of utensils and spread of appliances she couldn’t live without.

  A platter sat on the counter with two prime-looking New York strips on it.

  “I thought I’d throw some steaks on the grill.” Mertz motioned toward a sliding glass door leading to a small deck. “I’ve shoveled the deck off so I can use the gas grill all winter long.”

  “Sounds great. It feels like ages since I’ve had anything barbecued.”

  Gigi noticed that his kitchen table was set with placemats, flowered china, and fancy folded linen napkins. She stared at it, trying to figure out how to bring up the topic of Bradley and Tiffany’s murders.

  Mertz must have noticed her glance. “I turned the dining room into an office for myself. Didn’t think I’d have much use for it otherwise.” He uncorked a bottle of malbec that was sitting on the counter and poured some into two glasses. He handed one to Gigi and raised the other in a toast.

  “Here’s to my not overcooking the steak or burning the green beans.”

  Gigi laughed, and they clinked glasses.

  Mertz grabbed a pepper mill from one of the cabinets and began to grind pepper over the steaks. He gestured toward the table with his shoulder. “The china belonged to my grandmother. I had to blow the dust off it, it’s been so long since I used it.”

  Gigi followed him to the open door to the deck where he slid the two steaks onto the preheated grill. They spit and sizzled briefly, and in moments a delicious smell wafted toward her.

  Mertz rubbed his hands together. “I’ve got baked potatoes and green bean casserole to go with them.” He glanced at his watch. “Better check on those green beans. I was only joking about burning them.”

  He pulled open the oven door and peered inside. “Phew, everything looks fine. Five more minutes should do it.”

  Gigi practically had to sit on her hands. She wanted to check the steaks, look at the green beans, monitor the potatoes, but she knew she had to let Mertz do this himself. Instead, she had another sip of her wine and tried to stay out of his way.

  Fortunately, he pulled it off to perfection. The steak, when Gigi cut into it, was seasoned to perfection and medium rare; the baked potatoes were delicious with butter, sour cream and fresh chives, and the green bean casserole was . . . a green bean casserole. Gigi debated whether or not she ought to offer Mertz a recipe for a fresh casserole that did not include a can of soup, but she decided it was probably best to let it rest.

  They were halfway through the meal when Mertz again mentioned the lawn ornaments that had gone missing. Gigi cringed, thinking of Pia’s yellow jacket and the person she had glimpsed so very briefly. She wracked her brain for something to change the subject. Unfortunately the only thing on her mind seemed to be the murders of Bradley and Tiffany.

  Gigi took a big gulp of her wine. How to bring up the subject? She didn’t want Mertz to think she was poking her nose in where it didn’t belong. She knew from experience that that made him unhappy. To put it mildly.

  “I recorded another commercial the other day,” Gigi began, spearing a slightly overcooked green bean. “Actually rerecorded because of some technical issues.”

  Mertz nodded, his mouth full of baked potato and sour cream.

  “Cheryl, the woman who works at the recording studio, is the sister-in-law of Barbara Simpson.”

  Mertz looked up, his mouth still full, but his eyebrows raised as if in concern.

  “She told me that Bradley Simpson’s son Hunter wanted to borrow money from him to launch some medical device he’d invented, but that his father had turned him down.”

  Mertz was chewing furiously as if he were desperate to interject something. Gigi decided to overlook that fact.

  “So it seems quite possible that Hunter killed his father to get money for his invention. Apparently, it’s quite revolutionary and could propel him into the annals of medical history.”

  Mertz swallowed quickly, and judging by the look on his face, it was slightly painful.

  “Really,” he finally managed to say.

  Gigi decided to take that as encouragement to continue. “And . . .” She paused dramatically and pointed her fork at Mertz. The green bean speared on the end drooped sadly. “Cheryl and her husband had their own reasons for wanting Bradley out of the way.” Gigi put down her fork and rubbed her index finger and thumb together. “Money, of course. With Bradley out of the way, they were convinced that Barbara wouldn’t demand repayment of the loan she’d made them.”

  A muscle was now jumping in Mertz’s jaw, but Gigi again decided to ignore the warning sign.

  “But it looks as if it backfired. I overheard Cheryl say something about it to a friend on the telephone. She said ‘after all Jimmy went through.’ Now doesn’t that sound suspicious?” Gigi popped the green bean into her mouth.

  Mertz sighed loudly. “Words taken out of context are just that—words. It could mean anything.”

  “But don’t you think it’s worth investigating?”

  Mertz pushed his plate away and got up. “I’ve got ice cream sundaes for dessert. Rather unsophisticated, I’m afraid, but it was all I could manage.”

  “Sounds delicious to me.”

  Mertz opened the refrigerator and began pulling out small bowls of toppings and a can of whipped cream. “Unfortunately, we can’t go around bothering innocent people just because they’ve been overheard saying something, which, taken out of context,” the way he said the words clearly underlined them in Gigi’s mind, “sounds suspicious. We’d be chasing our tails all day long.”

  He lined the toppings up on the counter, retrieved the ice cream from the freeze
r and a scoop from the drawer. He filled two etched glass bowls with vanilla ice cream.

  “Help yourself. I’ve got cherries, chopped nuts, chocolate sauce and whipped cream.”

  “Looks great.” Gigi served herself ice cream, then squirted on a swirl of whipped cream.

  They took their dessert back to the table. “So does this mean you’re not going to look into my theories?”

  “If I find something more solid to go on . . . maybe.” Mertz dug into his sundae. “Right now we have no reason to believe anyone besides Declan McQuaid is responsible.” Mertz put down his spoon, and counted on his fingers. “One, the murder weapon was his ice pick. Two, his are the only prints on the weapon. Three, he was heard arguing violently with the victim, and four, Tiffany Morse was cheating on the victim with him.”

  “But then why kill Tiffany?” The ice cream was forming a frozen ball in the pit of Gigi’s stomach.

  Mertz shrugged. “Because she was cheating on him? Whoever killed her had been expected. Remember the tea things all set out? We don’t have the reports back yet, but it looks as if someone drugged her and then smothered her with one of those . . . what did you call them?”

  “Throw pillows,” Gigi said glumly.

  “And the most likely person is Declan.”

  Chapter 18

  They finished their ice cream sundaes in near silence, Gigi’s head whirling with the information Mertz had just revealed. And here she had thought Declan was off the hook. She was going to have to come up with some information that would lead Mertz in a different direction. But how?

  Mertz’s reasoning was sound. Declan had a motive in both murders. But so did Hunter. Tiffany might have learned or overheard something that made her a liability to the murderer so Cheryl and her husband were still suspects in Gigi’s book.

  Mertz poured them each a nightcap—a snifter of Baileys Irish Cream—something Gigi could never resist. They sat together on the sofa, and it wasn’t long before Mertz was kissing her.

  He swore when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the number. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”