Steamed to Death

by Peg Cochran

  Now that most of her work for Winchel was finished, she was relieved that several new clients would be starting shortly. She’d enjoyed the brief foray into catering, but she was anxious to get back to her Gourmet De-Lite business.

  Gigi stopped by Simpson and West where an exuberant Madeline greeted her with the news that she’d lost two pounds. She was wearing a new cranberry wool dress and high-heeled black suede boots and looked every inch the high-salaried executive she aspired to be.

  Gigi was meeting Alice for lunch at the Woodstone Diner. Alice had wanted to go to Declan’s, but Gigi had managed to steer her away from that idea. She didn’t feel like facing Declan herself, and heaven forbid they would run into Stacy there.

  Alice was already perusing the menu when Gigi arrived. She tossed the plastic-coated sheet down on the table. “Can you believe they still do a diet plate here of a hamburger patty, cottage cheese and a peach half?” She smiled at Gigi. “Is tonight your big night with the very handsome Detective Mertz?”

  Gigi nodded.

  “He’s a nice guy, even if he does sometimes jump to the wrong conclusions.”

  The waitress buzzed by their table. “Something to drink?” she asked.

  “A Diet Coke, please.”

  “Me, too,” Alice said.

  The waitress pulled a pad from her pocket and made a note. “Ready to order?” Her pencil was poised above the page.

  “A turkey burger,” Alice said, pushing the menu away from her.

  “Same for me.

  “I have some interesting news for Mertz,” Gigi said as the waitress walked away.

  “I met a colleague of Vanessa Huff’s at Derek’s funeral lunch. She seems to think that Vanessa would do absolutely anything to get ahead.”

  “Including murder?” Alice unfurled her napkin as the waitress approached with their drinks.

  “So it would seem. I think Mertz should look into her alibi.”

  “He’s not going to like you telling him how to run his business.”

  “I hope to be a little more subtle than that.” Gigi took a bite of her turkey burger.

  “I could easily imagine Vanessa killing Felicity. But Derek? What reason could she possibly have?” Alice asked around a mouthful of coleslaw.

  “I’m not sure. Perhaps he saw her sneaking upstairs to lock Felicity in the sauna and threatened to tell the police?”

  Alice lowered gray brows over her faded blue eyes. “Derek was more the type to go after something that would benefit him. Like a spot of blackmail, perhaps.”

  Gigi paused as the waitress slid their tea in front of them. “You’re right. That’s definitely more Derek’s style. I wonder if I could get into Vanessa’s room. Maybe there’s a blackmail note or something like that . . . ?”

  “Be careful.” Alice lifted her spoon and pointed it at Gigi. “If the killer feels threatened, who knows what they might do next.”

  • • •

  Reggie watched with seeming amusement as Gigi beat a path between her bathroom, bedroom and closet. She wondered if Mertz was spending even half as much time getting ready—most likely not. His biggest concern was probably whether or not he needed a second shave to get by.

  Gigi, meanwhile, had shaved virtually every inch of herself, spread on half a bottle of lotion, washed and dried her hair with the diffuser on her blow-dryer—something she’d never done before. It had taken her twenty minutes alone to find the attachment.

  Finally the big moment was at hand—donning her new dress. She felt a frisson of excitement as she slipped the fabric over her head. As usual, Deirdre was spot on. The color burnished the copper in her hair and brought out the green in her eyes. She wondered if Mertz would notice. Her stomach did a complete somersault at the thought.

  • • •

  Gigi was ready when Mertz rang her front bell at seven o’clock. He looked especially handsome in a navy blazer, open-necked blue shirt and gray slacks. And instead of the police-issue Crown Vic, he was driving a sporty Nissan.

  Gigi tried to relax as they wound their way through Woodstone and into the next town. Mertz appeared nervous, too, which made her feel slightly better.

  The Auberge Rouge was crowded when Gigi and Mertz arrived, and a tidal wave of voices washed over them as soon as they opened the door. The maitre d’ rushed forward to check their names against his list and then led them to a plush-covered bench to wait while he checked on their table.

  “I’m sorry.” He smiled at Gigi. “Not sure what the point is in making a reservation if the table’s not ready when you arrive.” Mertz glanced pointedly at his watch.

  “I don’t mind,” Gigi reassured him, and she noticed his shoulders relax. She was drinking in the atmosphere—the delicious smells, sights and sounds. It had been a long time since she’d been in such a restaurant. The women were all quite fashionably dressed—she couldn’t help but admire the pair of short, black suede booties one of them was wearing. She was glad she’d splurged on her new dress. She felt perfectly at home in the sophisticated crowd.

  Finally, the maitre d’ led them to their table—tucked into a corner where, Gigi was delighted to note, she had a good view of the entire room.

  “At last,” Mertz said as they settled into their seats. “I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time now.”

  “Oh?” Gigi fiddled with her menu. It was odd being on a date with anyone, let alone with Mertz. So far their relationship had been at times hostile, suspicious, conflicting and borderline cordial.

  “What would you like to drink?” Mertz smiled at Gigi as the waiter approached their table.

  Gigi froze. What was the cool thing to order these days? She used to enjoy a kir, but that was a long time ago. A glass of wine seemed so pedestrian. A cosmopolitan? Were they still considered in? She remembered a movie where they ordered dirty martinis, but she had no idea what that was. And she definitely didn’t like the sound of it.

  Mertz must have sensed her hesitation. “I’m having a Manhattan.”

  The waiter smiled. “Ah, the classics are classic for a reason.”

  Gigi remembered her grandmother drinking Manhattans. Surely she’d be able to handle one. She looked up with a smile. “I’ll have one of those as well.”

  Mertz put his hand on the table, and Gigi pointed at it. “What happened? What’s that?”

  “Oh.” Mertz laughed. “Whiskers and I were playing, and she scratched me. It’s nothing, but I’m thinking maybe I should consider having her declawed.”

  “That’s probably not a bad idea. Especially if she’s going to be an indoor cat.” Gigi picked up her menu.

  Mertz did the same. “Some interesting stuff here. But I have to admit I don’t know much about fancy food.”

  Gigi smiled. “I’m a fairly accomplished cook, so perhaps I can be of assistance.” She began to read the entries. She glanced up at Mertz. “Any major dislikes? Likes?”

  He smiled. “I’m not a huge fan of beets or Brussels sprouts, to be honest.”

  “There are plenty of choices, then.” Gigi scanned the menu for things that Mertz, a self-confessed “meat and potatoes” kind of guy, would like.

  “You’d probably enjoy the dry-aged New York steak and the fingerling potatoes.”

  “The three words I recognize are steak, New York and potatoes, but I’ll take your word for it.” Mertz put down his menu. “What on earth does dry-aged mean?”

  “The meat is placed in a special cooler, ironically known as a hot box,” Gigi said. She’d once done a piece for Wedding Splendor magazine on a well-known steak house in Brooklyn, and the owner had insisted on explaining the process to her. “There’s a lot of shrinkage and the whole process makes the steak cost more, but the meat is supposed to be extremely tender and flavorful.”

  The waiter placed their drinks on the table and discreetly withdrew.

  “What’s the alternative?” Mertz took a sip of his Manhattan, and Gigi thought she noticed his face actually relax.

&nb
sp; “Appropriately enough, it’s called wet aging. Virtually all the beef you find in supermarkets is placed in a vacuum-sealed bag and wet aged. There’s less loss of moisture, therefore less weight loss.”

  “I guess no one wants to start out with a pound of steak and end up with three-quarters.”

  “Yes, and dry aging can take up to a month.”

  “So this is going to be special.” Mertz rubbed his chin. “I’m guessing I shouldn’t order it well done.”

  Gigi was about to say something when she realized he was joking. She smiled as she told him, “Medium rare at the most.”

  Mertz picked up his menu again. “What would go well with that for starters.”

  Gigi glanced over the appetizers. She certainly didn’t want to recommend the oysters. She felt her face getting warm at the thought. “How about lobster bisque?”

  “Ah. A sort of sequential surf-and-turf dinner. Excellent idea.” Mertz put his menu down again. “What about you? What are you having?”

  It was a tough decision. Gigi didn’t dine at places like the Auberge Rouge every day, and she wanted to make the most of the experience. She could have steak anytime, even if it wasn’t dry aged.

  “I think I’ll have the duck consommé with the foie gras dumplings. Followed by the duck with lingonberries.

  “That sounds like something my grandparents would have made, only they would have shot the duck themselves and picked the berries from their own garden.”

  Gigi felt herself relaxing as the conversation ebbed and flowed naturally and seamlessly. By the time the waiter approached with their main course, she realized she was actually enjoying herself. Mertz, too, had let down his guard, although his impeccable posture hadn’t slipped a notch in the process.

  “The duck for mademoiselle.” The waiter grabbed the plate from his tray.

  Just as he did so, a man at the table in back of Gigi and Mertz jumped to his feet. His elbow jostled the waiter’s arm, and the plate tilted, tilted, tilted until the duck breast Gigi had been so looking forward to slid right off and into her lap.

  The waiter turned as white as his shirt.

  For a moment Gigi could do nothing but sit and stare at the piece of meat reclining in her lap. The stain from the sauce was spreading in an ever widening circle. All over her brand new dress. Which had cost a fortune she could hardly afford.

  Gigi closed her eyes in disbelief. Would the cleaner’s be able to get that mess out? It would probably be best if she went and sponged it with cold water in the interim.

  Meanwhile, the waiter had commandeered a whole host of other waiters and busboys, who waved various bits of cloth and bottles of solution at Gigi.

  “The dinner is on the house,” Gigi overheard the waiter whisper to Mertz. Mertz looked relatively amused by the entire spectacle.

  Finally, Gigi decided she needed to be alone to deal with things, excused herself from the table and bolted for the ladies’ room.

  The ladies’ room was enormous, with two dark blue velvet chaises and a crystal chandelier, but Gigi hardly noticed the décor. She looked at her ruined dress in the beveled mirror and felt like crying. The cleaner’s might be able to get the stain out, but there was no guarantee, and she knew from experience that grease was the worst possible offender.

  And until now, the evening had been going so well. Gigi thought of her Uncle Frank on her mother’s side. His answer to everything was What are you going to do? Always said with a quirk of a smile and a shrug of his massive shoulders. Indeed, Gigi said to herself, What are you going to do? Let a simple accident ruin your evening?

  Gigi squared her own shoulders, took out her compact and powdered her nose. She was about to push open the swinging door when she felt her phone vibrate from the depths of her clutch. She glanced at the number and saw that it was Sienna’s.

  “Hello?”

  “Gigi?” Gigi was startled to hear Oliver’s voice, not Sienna’s.

  “Oliver?”

  “I’m using Sienna’s cell. I knew your number would be programmed in.”

  His voice sounded strange—very strained and almost panicky. Gigi felt panic rise in her own throat. “What is it?” Oh please don’t let something be wrong with the baby, she prayed fervently.

  “It’s Sienna.” Oliver swallowed a sob.

  “What is it? What’s happened?”

  “The police.” Oliver stopped and took a deep breath. When he went on, his voice was stronger and more assured. “The police have taken her in for questioning.”

  Chapter 20

  “What’s wrong?” Mertz jumped up as Gigi approached the table. He glanced at Gigi’s dress. “I’m sure the restaurant will make good for the—”

  “It’s not that!” Gigi was so mad she felt like upending the whole table full of food all over him.

  Mertz slid back into his seat but without taking his eyes off Gigi. “Do you want to tell me what it is, then?”

  That only made Gigi madder. He knew perfectly well that the police were picking up Sienna tonight and taking her to the station. He probably planned to head there right after their dinner. And yet he calmly sat there, made small talk and ate and drank with Sienna’s best friend. The nerve!

  A knowing look came over Mertz’s face. “Oh,” was all he said.

  Oh, indeed, Gigi thought. She sat opposite him, her arms crossed over her chest, food forgotten.

  “It’s that friend of yours, right?” Mertz pushed his steak aside.

  Gigi nodded.

  Mertz rubbed his face with his hands. “I’m sorry. I really am. We had no choice. The mayor is breathing down our necks. When the chief heard about the latest development, he insisted we bring her in for questioning. I asked him if we couldn’t possibly avoid it, but he was insistent. One murder in Woodstone was bad enough, but now with two . . . he’s playing it strictly by the book.”

  Gigi still hadn’t touched the fresh plate of food the waiter had brought. She thought she would choke if she tried to eat anything.

  “But why Sienna? There are plenty of other suspects.”

  “The chief insisted.” Mertz rubbed his face again. “Listen, if you really want to help your friend, then get her to tell us where she was the afternoon Felicity was killed. She claims to have an alibi but refuses to divulge what it is.”

  • • •

  Gigi barely slept a wink, worried about Sienna and imagining her giving birth behind bars. She stared at the window waiting for the barest hint of dawn, for once taking scarce comfort in the delightful warmth and comfort of her cozy bed. At the first glimpse of light, she slipped her feet over the side and felt around for her slippers.

  Reg opened one eye and stared at her, confused.

  “It’s early. Go back to sleep.”

  But he got up anyway and followed her out to the kitchen.

  Gigi brewed a cup of coffee and poured it into her lucky mug—the one with the picture of President Kennedy on it. Her parents had purchased it during his campaign, and, although plenty of other bits of crockery had been broken or lost, it had remained. She reached into the refrigerator for the carton of milk and noticed the foam container with last night’s dinner. The waiter had insisted on packaging it up for her along with a large slice of chocolate amaretto pie, on the house. Frankly, Gigi would be more than happy if she never heard of the Auberge Rouge again.

  She finished her coffee and checked the clock. It was still only six A.M. Definitely too early to call Oliver and find out about Sienna. Instead, she grabbed a frying pan from the overhead pot rack and plunked it down on the stove. She was making Madeline a breakfast of whole wheat blueberry pancakes and turkey sausage. It wasn’t the lowest-calorie breakfast imaginable, but if one practiced portion control, it was still something a dieter could enjoy. And Gigi was providing the portion control. Madeline couldn’t eat what she didn’t have.

  Once the pancakes were done, Gigi took a quick shower and pulled on her favorite jeans and the sweater that had started life as waist le
ngth but over time had stretched to tunic length. It was her “blankie” for when times were really bad. She’d worn it relentlessly after her breakup with Ted, but it hadn’t been out of the closet in months.

  She grabbed the containers with Madeline’s breakfast and jumped into the MINI.

  The streetlamps were still on in downtown Woodstone when Gigi got there, and the shops were closed with their windows shuttered, but a steady stream of men and women carrying briefcases was already hurrying silently toward the Woodstone train station.

  Gigi stopped quickly in front of Simpson and West to deliver Madeline’s meal, then continued on toward Sienna’s house. As she pulled into the long driveway, she realized she was clenching both her teeth and her hands on the steering wheel. She pulled up to the front door and sat for a moment, wiggling her fingers and her jaw, trying against the odds to relax.

  A light was burning toward the back of the house. Gigi picked her way through the brittle red leaves that littered the path leading to the kitchen door. She peered through the window. Sienna was seated at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. Gigi tapped lightly on the door.

  “Gigi!” Sienna jumped up and rushed to pull the door open. “I am so glad to see you. It’s been horrible.” She buried her face in her hands.

  Gigi threw her arms around Sienna and gave her a fierce hug. “Thank goodness, the police let you go.”

  Sienna nodded. “They just took me in for questioning. That was bad enough. I think they were trying to . . . scare me.”

  “It’s going to be okay. Why don’t you sit down while I make you a cup of tea?”

  Sienna allowed Gigi to lead her toward a kitchen chair. “I don’t know what to do.” She looked up at Gigi with tears in her eyes.

  “For starters, you can tell the police where you were the afternoon Felicity was killed. Right now they seem to think you snuck into the house using your key, crept up the back stairs and doctored her glass of water with a handful of tranquilizers.”

  Sienna shook her head so fiercely that her hair whipped back and forth across her face. “But I didn’t!”