by Peg Cochran
Light was visible behind the frosted pane of glass. Gigi knocked and waited. A deep rumble came from behind the closed door, which she took as an invitation to enter.
Pierce was seated in front of a desktop computer that looked incongruous among the jumble of dusty outmoded furniture that filled the office. He stared at Gigi over a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that perched halfway down his long, imperious nose.
“Can I help you?” His tone indicated that he thought it unlikely.
Familiar butterflies jostled for position in Gigi’s stomach. It didn’t feel right going around asking people questions, but if she was going to get to the bottom of Martha’s death, she had to do it. “I hope so. I was wondering what Martha Bernhardt was doing at the theater the day she had the accident. She didn’t normally spend time here, did she?”
“Spend time here?” Pierce reluctantly took his hand from the computer mouse and swiveled around to face Gigi. “Not really, no. But I believe she had an appointment of some sort. Although, apparently things went awry, and the fellow never showed.”
“What fellow?”
“A repairman of some sort. For the air conditioner, I believe. Martha was furious at having her time wasted like that.”
“Do you know his name?”
“His name?”
“The repairman.” Gigi squelched a sigh of impatience with difficulty.
“I’m afraid I don’t. Martha handled those sorts of things for the theater. It was her property, after all.” He gave a sniff as if to say that artistes like him were above such petty details.
“Is there an address book, a file or Rolodex or somewhere the name might be recorded?” This time, a brief hiss of annoyance escaped Gigi’s lips.
“I believe there’s a sticker on the unit itself with the repair company’s name and other vitals.” He fingered the computer mouse and began to turn back toward the monitor.
Gigi cleared her throat. “Can you show me where it is, then?”
It was Pierce’s turn to give a sigh of exasperation. He gave one last glance at his computer screen and hoisted himself from the chair.
“All the heating and cooling systems and the like were placed in an addition that was made to the barn when it was turned into a theater.” He drew out the word theater, giving it the English pronunciation.
Gigi followed him down the corridor toward an unmarked door at the end of the hall.
Pierce opened the door and reached inside the small, dark room, his hand waving in the air as if he were trying to catch something. He swore softly under his breath.
“Where is the danged cord?” Finally he grasped something and pulled. A dusty lightbulb glowed dimly in the gloom.
“I believe this is what you’re looking for.” Pierce slapped a square piece of machinery and it gave a hollow thump. “Phone number should be on the side somewhere.” He held the door open for Gigi and edged out of the small space.
Gigi peered at the piece of equipment, searching for a label. Of course it was on the back, where she could barely see it. She leaned over the air conditioner and peered upside down at the square, white patch affixed to the back side. The phone number was just visible. She repeated the numbers over and over in her head as she scrabbled in her purse for a pen and a piece of scratch paper.
“Got it?”
Gigi nodded, and Pierce let the door slam shut behind them.
The air conditioner repairman wasn’t in when Gigi called, but his assistant said he was expected back any minute. Rather than wait to telephone again, Gigi decided she would stop by, since it was on her way home.
Tom’s Heating and Cooling was on the second floor of a small building just off of High Street. Gigi pulled into the parking lot and parked next to a shiny red truck that she hoped meant the repairman was back in his office.
He was. Gigi found him sitting at one of the two desks crammed into the tiny office space. He had a piece of waxed paper spread open on top of a helter-skelter stack of papers and was about to take a bite out of a very large bagel that oozed cream cheese and smelled like onions.
Gigi caught him mid-chew. He nodded and reached for his napkin, swiping it across the three-day-old growth of beard on his chin.
“Help you?” he asked as he gulped down his bite of bagel.
Once again Gigi felt the familiar butterflies churning in her stomach. Investigating was nerve-wracking. She hated going around asking such nosy questions! She closed her eyes and curled her toes under.
“Did you have an appointment to meet with Martha Bernhardt at the Woodstone Theater last week?” She opened her eyes to see Tom—at least she assumed that was his name—shaking his head furiously.
“No!” he thundered making Gigi jump. She took a step backward, but there was no place to go in the small space.
“Sorry.” Tom smiled and wiped a hand across his face. “It’s just that that woman, Ms. Bernhardt, gave me a terrible time about missing our appointment. Problem is, we didn’t have no appointment. It wasn’t in my book”—he flicked a thumb at a dog-eared appointment book open on the desk—“and Shirley”—this time he jerked a thumb at the empty desk in back of him—“didn’t have no record of it, either.” He shook his head. “The woman wouldn’t believe me. Kept saying someone had called her to tell her that we had an appointment that morning, and that I was late.” His voice rose in indignation.
“Did Martha, er, Ms. Bernhardt, say who told her about the appointment?”
“Afraid not. I just know it wasn’t Shirley here, else she would have written it down in the book.” He thumped the coffee-stained planner with the flat of his hand.
“Do you know if it was a man or a woman—?”
But he was already shaking his head. “I don’t know much of anything about it. Just that Ms. Bernhardt was mistaken. We didn’t have no appointment that day, or any other, for that matter, either.” He picked up his bagel. “I offered to come out another day and see to the air conditioner, but she just slammed the phone down in my ear.”
Well, that seemed to be that, Gigi thought as she opened her car door and got in. Even the repairman didn’t know Martha was going to be at the theater that day. It was all a mix-up. She paused suddenly with her hand on the ignition key. Maybe it wasn’t such a mix-up after all. Maybe someone had told Martha about the appointment to lure her to the theater. Knowing full well, of course, that Tom’s Heating and Cooling had no idea Martha was expecting them.
But that one person, the murderer—Gigi still couldn’t wrap her mind around that word—knew Martha was going to be there. And they had come prepared.
Chapter 9
Gigi’s palms were sweating when she hung up the phone. She leaned against the wall, hands on her knees, and blew out such a huge breath that her bangs flopped up and down. She grabbed her mug of coffee off the kitchen island, and the dark brew sloshed back and forth in the cup. Her hands were still shaking.
She leaned her elbows on the island where she had a dozen open Gourmet De-Lite containers waiting for their contents—this morning it was a low-fat yet very tasty breakfast frittata. Everything swam in a hazy sort of light. She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron and tried to will her heart rate to slow down.
She’d just gotten off the phone with Victor Branston. And he was still very much interested in a deal with Gigi’s Gourmet De-Lite. He would be presenting the idea to his board that very day at a lunch meeting. And he wanted one dozen Gourmet De-Lite lunches to serve to the board members.
It was a tall order, but Gigi couldn’t afford to say no. Somehow, she’d have to get the meals prepared and delivered on time.
Mentally, she ran through her repertoire of lunch dishes. She wanted something that seemed substantial yet was obviously low calorie. Something extremely tasty and maybe a little unexpected. She pulled her black binder from the drawer and began to flip through the pages. Nothing grabbed her interest.
She fished a yellow pad from the same drawer, plucked a pencil from the empt
y jam jar next to the telephone and grabbed her mug. It was almost empty. She refilled it and carried everything over to the kitchen table.
She thumbed through the pages again, but nothing caught her eye. She sat for a minute, chin resting on her palm. The majority of the board members were probably men. And men liked something that felt good and solid for their meals. She might have to cheat a bit calorie-wise. When she had to do that with her clients—because she wanted to give them an extra-special something for lunch—she always made up for it with a lighter dinner. But the board of Branston Foods wasn’t specifically on a diet. She had a sudden mental image of all these fat cats in jackets straining at the buttons, sitting around a beautifully polished wooden table. Gigi shook her head and rubbed a hand across her eyes. No use in stereotyping her audience.
She’d slice up some lean flank steak very, very thinly, then soak it in an Asian marinade with plenty of garlic, sesame and ginger, then she’d grill it and serve it over a salad of baby field greens dressed with a rice wine vinaigrette. She might mix some water chestnuts into the salad as well and a handful of chopped walnuts. Lots of nice crunch there.
She grabbed her pad and began working out a list. She glanced at the clock, and her heart sped up in panic. She had to finish packing up the Gourmet De-Lite breakfasts and get them delivered, then she had to prepare a dozen of these special lunches, plus the regular ones, and get all of those delivered before noon.
She was really going to have to hustle.
Gigi pulled into the parking lot of the Shop and Save just outside of town and looked around in dismay. Cars vied for every available spot, and it looked as crowded as if it were three o’clock on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Had everyone in Woodstone decided to go shopping this morning?
She found a narrow spot next to the Dumpster around back and once again blessed the compactness of her MINI. She could barely open the driver’s door but managed to slip through the sliver of an opening between her car and an oversize SUV that had been parked crookedly.
Inside, the store hummed with chatter, with shoppers tangling carts, blocking aisles and toppling displays. Gigi’s hands clenched on the handle of her cart as a woman in a pink velour Juicy Couture sweatsuit cut her off without so much as a sorry tossed over her shoulder. She took a deep breath and maneuvered down the aisle and in front of the meat counter, where expensive steaks and roasts gleamed pinkly on artfully arranged beds of curly parsley.
Gigi punched the button on the number machine, and it spit out a ticket with 33 in large, black numerals. She glanced at the board over the counter and was dismayed to see 22 prominently displayed. She looked at her watch. This was going to take forever.
The flank steaks were toward the back of the crowded meat counter, fanned out on a black tray. They looked excellent. Flank steak is a potentially tough cut of meat because it’s so lean, but Gigi had had a lot of success using marinades and cutting the slices as thin as possible. Technically, flank steak isn’t even steak—it’s the belly muscle of the cow—but she had no plans to tell her customers that. All they needed to know was that it contained almost no fat and, when properly prepared, had a wonderful flavor.
The line went quickly until the woman just ahead of Gigi got to the counter. The butcher spent an eternity trying to explain the properties of hanger steak versus those of skirt steak. The woman had recently eaten one of each at some trendy New York bistro and wanted to create a similar dish for her upcoming dinner party.
Gigi sweated as the rather plump blonde and the butcher—Gus, according to his name tag—discussed the relative merits of each. Finally, it was her turn, and she placed her order quickly. Gus wasted no time in wrapping the meat in butcher paper secured with old-fashioned string. Gigi dropped the package into her cart and began to wheel away, but ran smack into someone’s back.
Gigi was already apologizing when the fellow whirled around, and she realized it was Carlo.
“Carlo! I’m so sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
Carlo shook his head. “No, no, that is okay. I am fine.” He smiled shyly and pointed at Gigi’s cart. “What are you cooking today?”
Gigi looked up into Carlo’s dark eyes. She felt her heartbeat jerk slightly, and she was a little breathless as she explained about the order from Branston Foods.
“You will need some help, then,” Carlo declared decisively.
“But the restaurant—” Gigi countered as he took control of her cart and began to wheel it away from the counter.
“Closed for lunch today. The water heater sprang a leak.” He made a gesture with his hands. “So we had to get the plumber to come and fix it.”
“Oh!” Gigi cried. “That’s too bad.”
“Not at all! It’s a stroke of luck. Now I am free to help you.” Carlo smiled broadly, and Gigi felt herself flush.
To cover her awkwardness, she bent her head over her list.
“Where do we go next?”
“Produce.” Gigi pointed toward the first aisle, and Carlo wheeled the cart around.
They went up and down the aisles collecting ingredients, and, in what seemed like no time at all to Gigi, Carlo was pushing the cart toward the registers, arguing amiably with her about which was the shortest line.
“This is so charming, cara.” Carlo looked around Gigi’s small kitchen. Sunlight slanted through the bay window and made a warm puddle of light on the wood floor where Reg was curled in its center. Carlo hoisted three bags of groceries onto the counter. He wouldn’t let Gigi carry anything heavier than her purse, and she felt foolish walking up the drive empty-handed. “What do we do first?” He emptied the last of the contents of the bags and lined them up on the island.
“I’ll put together the marinade if you don’t mind slicing the beef? It needs to be super-thin.”
“I’d be delighted.” Carlo took off his tweed blazer and slung it over the back of a chair. It was gently worn, with patches at the elbows. He pushed up his sleeves and contemplated Gigi’s knife block before selecting a knife with a long, thin blade. He pulled out the old-fashioned sharpening steel and began to run the knife back and forth with dazzling speed—like a virtuoso violinist wielding the bow.
Gigi watched as light glinted off the sharp blade, and she shivered slightly. Somewhere in Woodstone a murderer was loose. What if it were Carlo? She was alone with him in the house, and he had one of her sharpest knives in his hand. She shook her head firmly. She was being ridiculous. Carlo wouldn’t hurt anyone!
She got busy assembling her marinade ingredients and whisking them together in a white ceramic bowl. Carefully, drop by drop, she drizzled in some sesame oil.
“Your steak will soften up nicely if you soak it in some olive oil.” Carlo stood with the bottle of extra virgin olive oil poised above the thin slices of steak he’d arranged on a plate.
“No,” Gigi shouted, lunging for the bottle.
“I’m sorry.” Carlo’s face fell. “I did something wrong?”
“No, it’s just that oil has a lot of calories—one hundred per tablespoon, to be exact.” Gigi took the bottle and carefully put it back in its place in the cupboard. “My customers can’t afford to eat that many calories. They’re all trying to lose weight.”
Carlo looked baffled. “And yet I see them eating all kinds of bad foods.” He made a frustrated gesture with his hands. “What you call junk food, I think. Your Adora, for instance”—he pointed at Gigi—“when I went to see Emilio at the theater one day, I found her hiding something in the prop box. When I asked her what it was”—he made a helpless gesture with his hands—“she said it was a bag of chips.” He shook his head. “That is not good, no?”
“No,” Gigi agreed.
Carlo laughed and came to stand right behind her as she covered the beef he’d sliced with the garlic and ginger marinade. “People are funny, no?”
Gigi could feel his breath whisper against the side of her neck. She turned around, and they were face-to-face, inches apart.
Heat flashed across her cheeks as if someone had suddenly opened the oven door. She tried to take a step backward, but she was already pressed against the edge of the counter. Carlo was close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. Gigi held her breath as they stared at each other, momentarily as frozen as an ice sculpture.
The tick of the clock behind her made Gigi jump. She swiveled her head around and gasped. “We’ll never make it. I have to get the food there by noon…”
“Then we must hurry.” Carlo spun on his heel and grabbed the bag of lettuce from the counter. He held it up toward Gigi. “To be washed, yes?”
She nodded thankfully. Her hands shook a little as she retrieved the olive oil from the pantry and carefully measured some into a small bowl.
Carlo raised an eyebrow at the miserly amount but didn’t say anything, merely gave a shrug of feigned indifference. He filled the sink with cold water and plunged the lettuce under with both hands.
Gigi watched as he gathered the tender leaves from their icy bath and dropped them into her salad spinner. “Are you sure this won’t make the lettuce too…too…tired?” Carlo gestured toward the spinner.
Gigi laughed. “No more tired than I am.”
“You are tired. I can see it in your eyes.” Carlo’s face drooped in concern. “But this is important, no?”
“Yes.” Gigi nodded.
“Then we will make it happen.”
The salad spinner whirred feverishly as Carlo spun the lettuce dry. He emptied it into a large bowl Gigi had set on the counter. “You have some dressing, or do they have to eat it plain?” He pulled a silly face, and Gigi laughed.
“There’s some dressing, don’t worry. I’ll mix it up as soon as I finish with this.” Gigi carefully turned the slices of meat grilling on her cast-iron stovetop grill.
“It smells delicious.” Carlo sniffed appreciatively. “I think your lunch will be a big success.”
“I hope so.” Gigi’s shoulders drooped. “I hope Victor Branston likes the meal. I really need this deal to go through.”
