by Peg Cochran
“Ah, yes, the cottage.” His face relaxed into the deep lines of a bulldog’s mug as he gave this his consideration. Finally, he spoke. “The cottage now belongs to a client of mine.”
At the word belongs, Gigi felt her chest tighten, and all the air in her lungs bellowed out. “Do they…do they want it back?” Gigi gulped.
West shook his head slightly. “For the moment they are content to leave things as they are. You will make out your rent checks to Simpson and West, and we will see that they are put into the hands of our client.”
Gigi fidgeted with the thin gold band she now wore on her right hand. “Do you think your client is going to want to sell…?” She could hardly get the words out. The thought made her heart speed up and her mouth go dry.
West shrugged large, padded shoulders. “I would assume so, given time to think about it.”
“Will you let me know…when…if…?”
West’s caterpillar-like eyebrows crept upwards as his mouth turned down. “If my client should decide to sell, I am sure you will receive ample time to seek shelter elsewhere.”
He made it sound as simple as buying a new dress. Gigi kneaded her hands in her lap. “But what if I want to buy it myself?” she blurted out.
West gave a bark of laughter. He plucked a fountain pen from his desk and twirled it between his fingers. “Given the current price of property in Woodstone, I think it is highly unlikely that you will, er, be in the market for my client’s cottage.”
Gigi felt her face glow red. “I don’t think you’re in a position to know that, now, are you, Mr. West?” Gigi lifted her chin and stared straight into West’s tiny black eyes.
He dropped the fountain pen he’d been fiddling with, and it rolled across the desk, over the edge and onto the plush Oriental carpet. He stared after it for a moment before looking up at Gigi.
He sighed. “In that case, if you would leave your name and contact information with my receptionist, Mrs. Walker, I will see to it that you receive notice when my client decides to put the cottage up for sale.” He pulled a sheaf of papers across the desk toward him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
Gigi delivered everyone else’s dinner first that evening so she could swing by Winston and Barbie’s house and not worry about how long she was taking. People got so testy when they were hungry and on a diet. Although you could hardly call the delicious plank-grilled salmon she’d prepared yesterday “diet food.” Or the couscous salad brimming with peas, corn, scallions, tomatoes, pineapple chunks and fresh parsley grown in her garden.
She’d been delivering Barbie’s food to the theater for the last couple of weeks, packing her dinner in a cooler for her to take home and eat later. She’d gotten the distinct impression that Barbie hadn’t wanted her coming around the house for some reason.
That reason became obvious when Gigi pulled up in front of Winston and Barbie’s house later that evening. The house was set well back from the road with a circular drive curving around under a porte cochere. The house itself was large and impressive, trimmed in fieldstone, with three chimneys rising above the roofline. There was a three-stall garage designed to look like a stable block with hitching posts and a cobblestoned forecourt. But instead of the manicured lawns and gardens of its neighbors, the grass was overgrown and the flower beds choked with several weeks’ worth of weeds.
Although that was about to change. As Gigi watched, two men on riding mowers swooped down the drive and got to work on the acre of front lawn. Three other men, their ball caps tilted against the lowering sun, waded into the weed-infested gardens, shovels at the ready.
Gigi retrieved Barbie’s dinner from the backseat of the MINI and started up the front walk. The noise from the two mowers was deafening, and she jumped when one of them cut a bit too close to the brick path. By the time she was at the front door, a large swath of lawn had already been sheared, the cut grass forming a feathery blanket on top.
Gigi rang the bell and waited. She rang again and waited some more. Nothing. And a third time, but still no response. She looked at her watch. She’d told Barbie to expect her at six o’clock, and she was a few minutes early.
She was heading back down the path when a lady walking a black standard poodle came down the street, tottering on a pair of red canvas espadrilles that laced up her ankles.
“Looking for the Bernhardts, my dear?” she called to Gigi. She pushed large, oval sunglasses to the top of her head.
Gigi nodded and hurried down the walk to where the woman was waiting, her dog sniffing in an ever-widening circle around her.
“I saw their car leave about an hour ago,” the woman told Gigi. She glanced over her shoulder where the men were working furiously on the lawn. “I must say, it’s a relief to see them taking care of things again. Fifi, no,” she commanded abruptly as the dog attempted to relieve itself on the Bernhardts’ property. “They’ve been letting it go for weeks. The neighbors were starting to complain. I offered to go ring their bell and see what was what, but we voted to wait another week.” She wrapped the dog’s leash around her fist and yanked it off the grass where it had wandered again. “I was rather relieved. I have to say, that Winston gives me the creeps. Always skulking about in those ascots of his. Honestly, what year does he think it is?”
“It’s odd that they’ve suddenly got people working on things again.” Gigi watched as one of the men yanked the power cord on a hedge trimmer, and it roared to life with a belch of sooty exhaust.
“Isn’t it? But I think they were caught in the recent stock market plunge like a lot of people. The Martinsons on the hill”—she pointed up the street with a hot pink manicured finger—“never did recover. They actually had to sell.” She shivered. “We had a few sleepless nights ourselves, but everything has turned out okay. Same for the Bernhardts, it looks like.”
“Did they come into some money?” Gigi tried to sound offhand, but her heart was hammering.
The woman jerked the dog’s leash again and pulled it closer. “It certainly looks like it, doesn’t it?” She looked over her shoulder at the swarm of men cutting the grass and tending to the garden. “And just the other week I saw”—she lowered her voice and leaned closer to Gigi—“I saw Barbie vacuuming her own living room. The shades were up, and you could see right through those enormous windows of theirs…and there she was! Pushing the vacuum herself.” She shivered. She sounded as shocked as if Barbie had been caught running naked down the street. “That just isn’t done around here. They must have let Linda go,” she said with relish.
The woman turned her dark, beady eyes on Gigi. “How do you know the Bernhardts?”
“Mrs. Bernhardt subscribes to my meal plan. Gigi’s Gourmet De-Lite. For weight loss…” Gigi trailed off. The woman was staring at her most peculiarly, with her thin, penciled-in eyebrows practically disappearing into her hairline.
“Do people actually lose weight? Does the stuff taste good?”
“Yes. Hopefully on both counts. My clients do claim to enjoy the food, and since it’s low in calories, you ought to lose weight unless you have some sort of medical problem…or you cheat.”
“I hope you don’t use a lot of that fake stuff they put in the frozen diet dinners.”
Gigi shook her head. “No. Nothing you wouldn’t find in regular food.”
“Do you have a card?” The woman stuck out her hand. Her dog had finally exhausted itself and lay panting by her feet.
Gigi dug in her purse and pulled out one of the cards she’d had printed at Folio in town. The possibility of getting another client was certainly an unexpected bonus. She realized she hadn’t heard back from Branston Foods yet. She really hoped that didn’t mean they’d changed their minds.
The woman took Gigi’s card and finally walked on, the poodle straining on the leash ahead of her, and Gigi got back into her car.
It certainly did look like Winston and Barbie had come into money from somewhere, Gigi thought as she waited for them to come home. Was it just g
ood luck that Martha had died right when they needed money so desperately?
Or was it something else entirely?
Chapter 8
Winston and Barbie zoomed up the drive in their shiny, dark Mercedes half an hour later. Gigi had dozed off in the front seat of her car, her cheek pressed into the steering wheel, and she stretched awkwardly. The air inside the car was hot and stale despite the open windows. Barbie gave her a peculiar look as they whizzed past in a cloud of dust and cut grass.
Gigi got out of her car, retrieved Barbie’s container of food, and followed them on foot down the long, circular drive. Winston had already parked and was waiting for her on the front step when she got there.
“What have we here?” He held out a hand to take the glossy Gourmet De-Lite box from Gigi.
“It’s Barbie’s dinner—”
“Ah, yes! Especially prepared in your kitchen so we don’t have to dirty ours. How thoughtful of you.” Winston bowed with a flourish.
“It’s not that, it’s low-calorie food,” Gigi began before he interrupted her again.
“But of course. So my charming wife doesn’t even have to make the effort to diet. You do it all for her.”
The scent of wine washed over Gigi—some expensive vintage, no doubt. Winston had obviously been drinking. As if to confirm it, he swayed slightly and grabbed at one of the white pillars holding up the portico.
“Well, not exactly. She still has to—”
“Just another way to spend my money,” Winston sighed.
“If you’d rather I didn’t—” Gigi was seriously tempted to bolt back down the stairs, leap into her car and drive off.
“Do I owe you some money for this?” Winston began to pull a tan leather Gucci wallet from his back pocket.
“No.” Gigi shook her head. “It’s all been taken care of already.”
“Will wonders never cease?” Winston swayed again and grabbed for Gigi’s shoulder.
His grip was strong, and she tried not to flinch as he held on while regaining his rather precarious balance. She thought of what Alice had said about being careful, and a tremulous shiver ran up and down her spine. There was an underlying ruthlessness about Winston that was frightening.
Gigi cleared her throat. She wanted to ask him if he knew anything about Martha’s cottage, but she was half-afraid. He swayed again, and Gigi moved backward on the step, out of arm’s reach.
“I wonder if you might be able to tell me,” she began, taking a deep breath, “who owns my cottage now that Martha is dead. I know that you and Martha owned the theater together…”
“Ah, yes, Martha’s twee little cottage.” Winston burped. He pointed to his chest. “I own it. It’s all mine. At least until I find a buyer. I don’t know why Martha bought that place. It’s too small to be of any use. But”—he hiccoughed this time—“the land it’s on should fetch a pretty penny.” He looked thoughtful. “A pretty penny, indeed.”
“So you’re planning on selling?” Gigi tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice, even as she felt her spirits plummet.
He nodded. “Martha was very savvy, you know. Very savvy. She was the one who suggested we invest in that miserable old barn they call the Woodstone Theater. Too bad she didn’t live to see our investment come to fruition.” He wagged a finger at Gigi. “We got it at an excellent price, too. Martha knew how to drive a bargain.” He looked thoughtful again. “She knew how to”—he hesitated—“overlook things, as well.” He glanced back toward the house, where mellow lights had suddenly appeared in the windows. He cackled gleefully. “And she knew when and how to exact her revenge.”
“Revenge?”
He waved a hand at Gigi. “Ancient history now, my dear. Ancient history.”
The front door creaked open. “Winston!” Barbie stood on the threshold, hands on hips. She was wearing white linen slacks and a pink cotton twin set. There was a matching pink headband holding back her blond hair.
“Coming, my dear, coming.” He winked at Gigi. “I’ve got your nummy, yummy dinner here.” He brandished the Gourmet De-Lite container at Barbie.
Her lips thinned. She nodded at Gigi. “Thank you for bringing it.” She glanced out at the lawn as if trying to gauge how far along the men had been when Gigi arrived and how much she had seen.
Gigi turned around and looked, too. “They’re doing a good job,” she commented, carefully watching Barbie’s expression.
Barbie’s face became even more pinched. “Yes. Well. We had some trouble with our previous landscapers, and it took me simply decades”—she drawled the word out slowly for emphasis—“to find someone new. You have absolutely no idea how much trouble it was. And here we were, stuck with this dreadful mess. It made me positively sick every time I looked out the window.”
“Yes, indeed, positively sick,” Winston parroted. Barbie shot him a dirty look.
“I’ve got my dinner now.” Barbie turned her back on Gigi. “Thank you and good night.” She nodded curtly at Gigi and grabbed Winston by the arm.
He followed her inside, stumbling slightly on the doorstep.
“Wait,” Gigi cried out. “What about the cottage?”
“What about it?” Barbie swiveled around to face her.
“I…I’d like to try to buy it.” Gigi thought of her last bank statement and felt her face getting hot. She really wasn’t in any position to make Winston an offer. But perhaps they could work something out. She’d had the idea while driving over. If he would agree to put her rent money toward a down payment, perhaps she could get a loan for the rest of it.
Winston wiggled his arm away from Barbie’s grasp. He leaned against the doorjamb and examined the fingernails of his left hand. “If you really want to take the place off my hands, who am I to stop you?” He named a price and then began a minute examination of the nails on his right hand.
Gigi gasped. “But I can’t afford that much,” she blurted out.
Winston pulled a sad face. “That’s a pity. It would be wonderful to have the whole issue so handily taken care of.” He took a white, monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose loudly.
“I don’t suppose you’d reconsider the price?”
“No way,” Barbie snapped. She linked her arm in Winston’s and began to pull him away from the door. “We’ve waited long enough to get rid of the place as it is. It’s time we got our money’s worth.”
She slammed the door loudly in Gigi’s face.
Gigi stood at the counter and tore red leaf lettuce into small pieces before putting them in the large, hand-turned wooden salad bowl she’d bought in Bon Appétit when she first moved to Woodstone. She was creating her signature salad—a delectable combination of lettuce, chunks of tomatoes, slices of avocado, crumbled feta cheese, pine nuts, sliced red onion, black olives and plumped raisins—tossed with a dressing of balsamic vinegar whisked with extra virgin olive oil. Reg hovered underfoot, hoping for a treat. Gigi slipped him a piece of cheese, and he licked his lips appreciatively.
The sun was setting, creating a golden glow that lit the small kitchen with mellow warmth. Gigi felt her stomach clench at the thought of having to give it all up. The cottage had helped her grow whole again after her flight from the city and her divorce from a marriage she had been convinced was going to last forever.
She dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron. She wouldn’t cry. She couldn’t. Sienna was arriving at any moment, and she had more than enough troubles of her own. Oliver was staying in town for the night—again—and Gigi was making her dinner to take her mind off her problems.
She was hoping that it would help take her mind off her own troubles as well. There was no way she could afford the price Winston had mentioned for the cottage. The thought had gnawed at her all the way home. Unless the deal from Branston Foods comes through, a little voice whispered inside her head. Of course, she hadn’t heard from Victor Branston since the opening at the Silver Lining. It seemed quite likely that he had changed his mi
nd.
She would just have to resign herself to moving. There were plenty of apartment complexes in Crestfield, the next town over. It lacked the charm of Woodstone, but she couldn’t afford to be picky. It was still near enough to make delivery of her meals relatively easy. A thought suddenly struck her. What if she couldn’t take Reg? A lot of places only allowed cats, if that. She glanced down at where Reg lay at her feet, his glance faithful and trusting. She wasn’t giving him up, no matter what. She’d live in her car if necessary.
If she didn’t want to lose it all, she was going to have to figure out who killed Martha herself. Winston and Barbie had one of the oldest motives known to man—greed. Martha’s death was a windfall to them. They’d had opportunity, too. They could have easily gotten into Gigi’s car to doctor the food without being seen.
Gigi grabbed the bottle of extra virgin olive oil from the cupboard and measured half a cup into a bowl. Now that she thought about it, she realized that Martha’s murder couldn’t have been a spur of the moment decision. The murderer must have come prepared with the peanut oil. People didn’t generally run around with a bottle of it in their car or purse.
So that person, whoever it was, must have known Martha would be at the theater that day.
All she had to do was figure out who that person was.
Gigi pulled into the parking lot of the Woodstone Theater, the wheels of her MINI kicking up a splash of dust and gravel. She’d just delivered her clients’ breakfasts, and she had a few minutes to spare before she had to head home and start all over again. She maneuvered into a parking space and hauled herself out of the car. She was so tired! Her body ached, and her eyes felt as gritty as sandpaper.
The theater was empty when Gigi pushed open the door. Strange shapes loomed in the darkness that shrouded the stage. Gigi shivered, let the door close behind her, and made her way down the corridor toward Hunter Pierce’s office.
