by Peg Cochran
Evelyn brayed again. “I don’t think Adora would know one end of a car from the other, let alone how to disengage the brakes. Besides”—she pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders—“you wouldn’t kill someone just because their dog had piddled in your flower bed, would you?”
Chapter 6
The scent of onion, garlic, oregano and mint wafted from Gigi’s oven as she pulled out a pan of turkey meatballs with Greek seasoning. The fragrant vapor curled around her, and she inhaled deeply, her stomach growling. She was hungry. She spent so much time feeding others that sometimes she forgot to feed herself. She plucked one of the tiny meatballs from the sheet and popped it into her mouth. She fanned her face furiously. It was hot! But very good, she decided as she chewed carefully. Her clients would like them. This recipe was a keeper.
Gigi set the pan on the counter and began to crumble feta cheese for the salad. She thought back to her conversation earlier with Evelyn and the blond lady at Bon Appétit. Was it possible that Martha had irritated Adora enough to kill? She shook her head—she couldn’t see it. If Adora had clubbed Martha over the head with a garden gnome in a fit of pique…maybe. But this must have been premeditated. Someone had to have doctored Martha’s lunch with the peanut oil. It didn’t make sense.
No, money was far more likely to be at the root of poor Martha’s death. And who had the most to gain? Barbie and Winston. With Martha dead, Winston’s responsibility was effectively over. He and Barbie could spend the alimony money any way they wanted.
Gigi passed her calendar and stopped to flip the page. The new sheet boasted a stunning shot of St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church in downtown Woodstone. Lush, white peonies bloomed against the darker brick of the church, and the trees were thick with fresh, green leaves. Gigi realized it was the first of June already, and her rent was due.
She retrieved her checkbook from its accustomed spot in her desk drawer and opened it to a fresh check. She stopped with her pen poised above the blank “Pay to the order of” line. With Martha dead, who was she to send the check to? Worry niggled at the edges of her mind. What if Martha’s heir wanted to move into the cottage? Where would she go? One of those featureless, boxy apartments near the train station? She shuddered. This place was home. But surely the new heirs, whoever they were, would want the income from the rent?
She pulled the telephone directory from her lower desk drawer and thumbed through it. Simpson and West were the only lawyers in town, and most people went to them for their everyday legal needs. Perhaps Martha had done the same.
William West wouldn’t tell Gigi anything over the telephone, save confirming that Martha had been a client of the firm’s, but he would see her in his office that afternoon.
Gigi hung up the phone, made a note in her diary and headed back to the kitchen to begin boxing up the day’s lunches of salad with low-fat yogurt dressing, the grilled turkey meatballs, tzatziki sauce and a half a pita.
Humidity hovered over Woodstone like a malignant cloud. Gigi rolled the MINI’s windows up and punched the button for the air-conditioning. She had all the food packed in a giant cooler—too bad she couldn’t pack herself in one as well.
The Woodstone Players were deep into rehearsals for the upcoming start of the season. Gigi had been delivering more and more of their meals directly to the theater. She didn’t mind—it made it easier for her.
She pulled the MINI into the theater parking lot under the spreading branches of an elm tree whose roots were starting to buckle the macadam. The hot, close air hit Gigi like a wet washcloth when she opened the front door and slid between the car and the tree. She went around to the passenger side and wrestled the cooler out. It bumped and gyrated with its wheels twisting and sticking as she pulled it across the rutted parking lot. She was a few yards shy of the theater door when the cooler jerked and landed on its side.
Gigi was tempted to kick it as she set it back on its feet and made sure that the contents were all still intact. She pushed a curling strand of hair out of her face as she wrangled the cooler up the steps and into the theater lobby.
She cracked open the door to the theater and peeked inside. Emilio and Barbie were on stage, and Alice was slumped in a seat at the back of the theater, her legs stretched out on the seat in front of her. Pierce was in the front row, arms crossed over his chest. All four looked hot, tired and disgruntled. Gigi glanced at her watch. She was a few minutes early—she’d let them finish this scene before bringing in the lunches.
The old theater was damp and close with a musty smell rising from the nearly threadbare carpeting. To save money, they only ran the air conditioner during performances. Gigi fanned herself. Suddenly, she had doubts about what she was doing. Would her business ever really take off? If the deal with Branston Foods came through, things would certainly change. But with everything that had happened, she had lost her optimism. Victor Branston would probably make some excuse and politely but firmly decline the opportunity to do business with Gigi’s Gourmet De-Lite. She really couldn’t blame him. How could he trust her product after everything that had happened? She knew that she hadn’t used any peanuts in the preparation of Martha’s meal—but it didn’t look as if anyone else believed her.
Gigi lifted her hair off the back of her neck. She should have worn it up. She felt her face turning red. She’d worn it down because she thought Carlo liked it that way, and although she didn’t like to admit it, she was hoping to see him. He sometimes joined Emilio and the cast for lunch if Al Forno wasn’t too busy. A trickle of sweat made its way slowly down her right side. She had to get some air. There was a side door that led to a small patio where champagne cocktails were served during intermission. Gigi thought they probably made more money on the drinks than on the tickets themselves, especially when the house was packed. The rickety old air conditioner did little more than blow tepid air from its vents, and by the second act the theater was an oven.
She opened the side door, stepped onto the brick terrace and breathed in the ever-so-slightly fresher air. The atmosphere was heavy and still. She could hear the hum of traffic in the distance and the squabbling of some birds in a nearby tree. Suddenly she became aware of raised voices coming from around the back of the theater.
Some sort of instinct she didn’t even know she had made Gigi tiptoe as she made her way the width of the terrace to peer around the corner of the theater. Winston and Adora were standing under a dogwood tree dripping with showy white blossoms. Winston was leaning against the trunk, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He was wearing a white broadcloth shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and, in spite of the heat of the day, a red paisley ascot was tucked into the open neck. Adora was in costume, and Gigi couldn’t help noticing that her shorts had not become any looser. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth. Was she giving Adora too many calories, or was Adora cheating? Probably the latter, but Gigi would be the one blamed no matter what.
Even if she hadn’t been able to hear their raised voices, it was obvious they were arguing. Adora’s fists were clenched at her sides, and her back was rigid. Winston looked more annoyed than angry—the way you would be if a mosquito or fly were buzzing around you. Gigi half expected him to swat at Adora. What were they arguing about?
Suddenly, Adora drew back a hand and slapped Winston on the side of the face. He shouted, “What the—?” and put a hand to his cheek.
Gigi retreated into the shadows as Adora stomped toward where she was standing. If Adora put that much emotion into her acting, she must be dazzling on stage, Gigi thought. Maybe Adora had gotten mad enough to kill Martha.
Adora flew around the corner of the building, her fists still clenched, and nearly collided with Gigi. Her face was glowing red, although from the heat or from her confrontation with Winston, Gigi couldn’t tell.
“That man is impossible,” Adora cried. “He won’t listen. He just won’t listen.”
She looked like she was playing to the back row, but Gigi sensed this wasn’t any performa
nce. Adora really was mad.
“What did he—?”
“He’s going to ruin everything.” Adora swept a hand toward the theater. “Everything I’ve worked for. I don’t know what I’ll do—” Tears sprang into her eyes. “Oooh.” She stamped her foot suddenly.
“What’s wrong?” Gigi tried again.
“I hate him, I really do.” Adora stamped her other foot. “He’s going to sell the theater. He’s been threatening to do it for months.”
“Maybe if someone else buys it, they’ll put some money into it.” Gigi looked around her at the overgrown gardens and the faded and splintered siding of the old barn-turned-theater.
“Don’t be so naïve.” Adora raised an eyebrow cynically. “No one’s going to pay to repair this place. They’ll tear it down and build more of those McMansions that are going up everywhere. Like the one Winston lives in with that gold-digging wife of his.”
Adora threw herself into one of the wrought-iron chairs that were scattered around the terrace. She tugged at the waistband of her shorts. “These miserable things are still too tight.”
Gigi started to say something but had barely opened her mouth when Adora interjected.
“He’ll get a fortune for this land from some developer. They’ll turn the place into another one of those insipid developments—‘Harvest Harbor Homes’ or something equally dreadful, with huge houses that all look the same.”
“Can’t the theater move?”
Adora shook her head. “There’s no place to go. We don’t have any money—or hardly any money.” She tugged at her shorts again. “This is our first season, and now it looks as if it’s going to be our last.”
She burst into tears and bolted through the door.
Gigi found Alice backstage, organizing the props table. She noticed that Alice’s long, cotton skirt was noticeably loose around the waist. There was something else different, too. She studied Alice through narrowed eyes. It was her hair. Alice had smoothed her normally frizzy locks into a wavy bob that was very becoming. And Gigi thought she detected a hint of pink lipstick and a bit of eye shadow as well. Gigi smiled to herself. She’d seen it many times before—a woman needed only to lose a bit of weight before she began to fix herself up.
“You brought my grub?” Alice placed a very realistic-looking gun in one of the taped-off squares on the prop table. “This goes off in the third act.” She gestured toward the pistol.
Gigi shuddered. “Is it real?”
“Real enough, I guess. But the noise of the report will come from off-stage, just to be on the safe side. Some of these props are practically as old as the theater itself.”
She glanced up at the dusty rafters soaring above them. “This place has been here since eighteen ninety-two. Of course, it was a working barn then.”
She put out a hand, and Gigi handed her the Gourmet De-Lite container with her name on it.
“When was it turned into a theater?”
“Some Broadway actor came out here in the early seventies and decided to turn the place into a theater.” Alice opened her container and inhaled deeply. “How do you manage to make everything so delicious, and yet I’m still losing weight. See?” She pulled at her loose waistband. “The fellow—I don’t remember his name—caused a bit of a scandal because he was living with another man. They claimed to be friends, but the townspeople eventually caught on.” She gave Gigi a wicked grin.
“I thought Adora was the one who—”
Alice shook her head. “The theater did quite well. In fact, it had a good, long run. But then there was Black Monday in 1987, and he lost a lot of his backing. He had to close the doors.”
“So Adora has only been here—”
Alice nodded. “She descended on us quite recently and decided she wanted to try to get the place going again. Winston kicked in some money, and here we all are. Our own little version of hell.”
“What do you mean—?”
“Just kidding, don’t look so shocked. It’s the same whenever you get a group of people together and put them under stress. This one doesn’t like that one, the other one won’t play fair. Someone else wants all the attention. Same song every time.”
Gigi thought about Wedding Spectacular magazine and the feuds, the pettiness, the sulking. Alice was right—it was the same everywhere you went. She really was glad to be rid of it.
“But Adora just told me that Winston is planning on selling this place.”
“What?” Alice stopped with one of the turkey meatballs halfway to her mouth. “Are you sure? We’ve only just got this place up and running again.”
“That’s what Adora just told me. She and Winston were outside arguing about it. At least, I think that’s what they were fighting about.”
Alice popped the meatball into her mouth. “Mmmm, these are delicious. How do you make everything taste so good and yet be so low in calories?”
Gigi shrugged. “Flavoring, mostly. Herbs, spices, things like that. And good ingredients.” She shuddered. “I don’t believe in things like fat-free dressings. They taste awful. It’s better to have a little of the good stuff than a lot of the artificial stuff.”
Alice licked the tips of her fingers. “I can second that.” She looked thoughtful for a moment. “Why is Winston selling now, I wonder? Why let Adora go through all this trouble if this is going to be the beginning and the end of the Woodstone Theater?”
“I can answer that.” Adora stomped in. “He had to wait until that bitch, Martha, was out of the way.”
“What do you mean?” Gigi and Alice both spun in Adora’s direction.
Adora peered into Alice’s lunch container. “Those look good. Except I’m too angry to eat.” She began pacing, her fists clenched at her side. “I could kill Winston!” She stopped pacing abruptly and turned toward Alice and Gigi with her hands outspread. “I didn’t mean…”
“What makes you think that Martha’s dying has anything do with Winston’s sudden decision to sell this place?” Alice tore off a piece of her pita half and wiped the sauce from the inside of her container before popping it into her mouth.
Adora’s shoulders sagged. “Because Martha owned half of the theater”—she waved a hand toward the moth-eaten, red velvet curtain—“and the land it’s on. And while this pile of rubble isn’t worth a dime, the acreage could be worth a fortune to some developer.”
“I still don’t see what that—” Alice began.
“Martha refused to sell,” Adora snapped. “And Winston couldn’t do anything without her approval. Now that she’s dead…” She shrugged her shoulders.
“But didn’t they divide everything up when they divorced?” Gigi thought about the hours she and Ted had spent apportioning the few belongings that had fit into their miniature New York apartment.
“According to Winston, the property wasn’t worth nearly as much when they first divorced. But they suspected the value was only going to go up. They agreed to hang on to it together to wait for a better time. Which, according to Winston, is now.” She stamped her foot.
“Won’t Martha’s half go to one of her heirs?” Gigi thought about her cottage again and the prospect that someone might show up at her door demanding she leave.
“They agreed that if one of them died, the other would get that person’s half share,” Adora moaned. “So it looks as if this is going to be the last of the Woodstone Theater. Winston thinks we should be able to finish this season’s run, but then…” Adora burst into tears and rushed off.
Gigi jerked her head in Adora’s direction. “She’s taking this really hard.”
“Oh, the dramatics come with the territory, don’t you think?” Alice closed her empty Gourmet De-Lite container with a sigh. “But this place does mean a lot to her. She’s put a good deal of work into it, and now…” She kissed the tips of her fingers.
Gigi was thoughtful as she walked back toward her car. Sunshine was breaking through the clouds and puffs of steam were rising from the damp macadam. She
held her hair off the back of her neck with one hand and pulled open the driver’s door to the MINI with the other. She rummaged briefly in the glove compartment and found a slightly bent aluminum hair clip. She stabbed it through the untidy bun she had created and breathed a sigh of relief.
As she was pulling out of the parking lot, she thought about what Alice had said—how, whenever you got a group of people together, there were bound to be petty disagreements, dislikes, arguing. She could testify to that from her own experience. There was just one thing.
Someone didn’t usually wind up murdered.
Chapter 7
Simpson and West, Attorneys at Law had offices on the second and third floors above the Knit Knack Shop on High Street. They had cornered the market on wood paneling, which graced the entire reception area as well as each of the offices. Gigi half wondered if she would find the same dark mahogany boards in the restrooms and employee break room.
A middle-aged woman with a short, lacquered blond hairdo led Gigi to a closed door with a brass nameplate announcing William West in elaborate script. She rapped gently against the wood panels with the back of her hand. A deep baritone bade them enter.
West crouched behind a massive partner’s desk, hands folded across a substantial paunch only partially camouflaged by his expensively tailored pinstripe suit.
Gigi traversed what seemed like an acre of antique Oriental carpet before sliding into the stiff armless chair strategically placed in front of West.
He steepled his fingers, glared at Gigi over their tips and raised caterpillar-like eyebrows. “I understand you are here in the matter of the death of Mrs. Martha Bernhardt.”
Gigi nodded and sat up straighter in her chair. She wasn’t going to allow this overstuffed, pompous ass to intimidate her. “All I need to know is to whom do I make out my next rent check?” Gigi could not actually recall ever having used the phrase to whom in conversation before. West, however, did not look particularly impressed.
