Allergic to Death

by Peg Cochran

  “Why doesn’t this Sienna count?” Mertz scowled across the desk at her.

  “She’s my best friend, and there’s no way that—”

  “The first thing you learn in police work is to never rule anyone out.”

  “But she was with me the whole time, except of course when—”

  “Yes?”

  Gigi shook her head. “No, Sienna couldn’t have had anything to do with it.” She crossed her arms over her chest definitively. “Do you think this means someone thinks I’m getting close to something?”

  “Close to something? Yes,” Mertz said. “But what, I’m not sure. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  Gigi hesitated. Should she tell him about Martha’s purse? Would that mean he might take this more seriously?

  “There’s the matter of Martha’s, er, purse.” Gigi tried not to squirm as she met Mertz’s direct gaze.

  “What about her purse?”

  “Well you never did find it, did you?”

  Mertz sighed, took the top handful of file folders off the pile on his desk and began to sort through them. He picked one out and replaced the others. He glanced up at Gigi and then opened the file.

  He skimmed the first page and put it to one side, his index finger scanning the lines on the second sheet of paper. “There’s nothing here”—he looked up at Gigi again—“about a purse. Nor”—he flipped through several more pages—“is a purse mentioned in the list of contents of the car.”

  “That would be because it had been stolen.” Gigi suddenly realized that Martha had crashed before getting to the police station to make a report about the theft. “It happened while she was at the theater.”

  “A lot seems to be happening there,” Mertz muttered half under his breath as he closed the file and replaced it on the stack at his elbow.

  “I think the person who stole her purse wanted to make sure she didn’t have her EpiPen. It’s not a pen really, but an—” Gigi stopped short when she saw Mertz’s expression.

  “I know what an EpiPen is.” If possible Mertz was sitting even straighter than before. “If that’s true, then this is beginning to smack of foul play.” He scribbled something on a notepad. “But how do you know Martha carried an EpiPen in her purse?” He looked up suddenly.

  Now Gigi was squirming in earnest. She couldn’t think of any way to explain what had happened without bringing Mertz’s wrath down on her head.

  “I happened to find the purse.” She looked at him through her lashes to see how he was taking it. Not good. His face had become a dangerous, dusky red color, and his brows were drawn down low over his eyes. Gigi felt sweat trickle down her back even though she was sitting directly in the flow from the air conditioner that was wheezing away in the window.

  “When did you find the purse?” He said the words as if there were a period after each one—slow and deliberate—never taking his eyes from Gigi’s face.

  The trickle of sweat became a torrent, and she wiped her damp palms on her thighs. “It was a couple of days ago actually.”

  “And you’ve only now decided to tell us about it?”

  Gigi nodded, trying to think up a reason for the delay and failing. She decided to take the offensive. “The police certainly haven’t been very interested in Martha’s accident until now.” She tilted her chin higher.

  “That could be because certain members of the public were keeping things to themselves,” Mertz said through gritted teeth, although Gigi thought she saw the ghost of a smile pass quickly over his lips before submerging in his frown.

  “Well, I did find it. And her EpiPen was in it. I think someone sprayed peanut oil on her food and then took her purse so she wouldn’t have the medicine to counteract her allergic reaction.” She drew herself up to every single millimeter of her five feet five inches. “I don’t think Martha’s death was an accident at all.”

  “You might be right.” Mertz scribbled some more notes on his pad, then tossed his pen down on the desk. “Where is this purse of Martha’s now?”

  “At my house,” Gigi admitted weakly.

  “And where did you manage to find this purse?” Mertz leaned forward as if he were extra anxious to hear her answer.

  This was the bad part. Gigi squirmed even more. “We found it in Martha’s yard. Hidden in some bushes,” she said quickly, hoping that if she glossed over it, he would do the same.

  “Who is we?” The quizzical look on Mertz’s face looked relatively benign, but Gigi knew better.

  “Sienna and me.”

  “And just how did you end up being in Martha’s yard? I’m assuming Martha was already dead and hadn’t invited you for a garden party.” Mertz’s lips tilted upwards very briefly.

  “True.” Gigi traced a circle in the carpet with her toe. “Actually, Sienna and I happened to be walking Reg by her house, and he pulled us onto the lawn and began foraging in the bush. Reg is the one who found the purse.” Gigi spoke really fast so that all the words ran together. She felt her face getting hotter with each syllable.

  “I’m not going to ask you what you were doing walking past Martha’s house. I don’t want to encourage you to lie to an officer.” This time Mertz’s smile lasted an entire two seconds before disappearing. Surely a record, Gigi thought.

  “I suppose your hands have been all over it?” Mertz gestured toward Gigi’s own purse. “And your friend Sabrina’s as well?”

  “Sienna. Her name is Sienna.”

  Mertz shrugged. “Do you mind if I keep this?” He lifted the note from his desk and waved it around.

  Gigi shook her head.

  “I’ll need the purse as well.” He looked at his watch. “Would three thirty be okay?”

  “Three thirty? For what?”

  “For me to pick up Ms. Bernhardt’s purse from your house.” He said the words slowly and patiently, as if for a child.

  “Oh. Yes. Of course.”

  Chapter 17

  Gigi’s doorbell rang at exactly three thirty P.M. She jumped, even though she knew Mertz was coming. As a matter of fact, she’d washed her face, redone her makeup, put her hair up, taken it down, put it back up again, and changed her clothes twice. She was exhausted.

  He looked as tired as she felt and stood visibly drooping on her steps when she yanked open the door. He straightened immediately, and Gigi felt her heartbeat go into overdrive.

  “I hope I’m not keeping you,” he said, glancing at Gigi’s outfit.

  She realized she must look as if she were dressed to go out, and she knew her face was as red as the geraniums in the pot next to the door.

  “No. Not at all. I was just about to finish dinner prep and then load up the MINI for my deliveries.” She pulled the door wider. “Won’t you come in?”

  He stood awkwardly by the front door, hands clasped behind his back. Gigi wondered if the man ever unwound.

  “The purse is in the kitchen.” She gestured toward the back of the house. Mertz followed her closely down the hall.

  She’d put Martha’s purse on a chair by the kitchen table. Mertz cringed when she picked it up.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “We might be able to get some fingerprints off the bag—after we eliminate yours, of course.” That last was tinged with the faintest sarcastic edge.

  Gigi paused with the bag halfway toward Mertz. Should she put it down or hand it to him?

  Mertz reached into the pocket of his sport coat and pulled out a pair of thin latex gloves. He eased them on, and only then did he put out a hand for the purse.

  He started to put it down on the table, but Gigi stopped him.

  “Let me put some paper towels under that. The bottom of a woman’s purse,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound like she was lecturing, although it seemed that way to her ears, “is extremely dirty. We put them down everywhere, you see.” She gestured toward the table and countertops. “In my business I have to keep everything extra clean.”

  Mertz nodded approvingly and wait
ed while she spread out two sections of paper towels before putting the purse down on the table and opening it.

  He reached inside and drew out a cylinder that looked like a pen. “I imagine this is the EpiPen?”

  Gigi nodded. “That’s what I think the person who stole her purse was after.”

  Mertz’s expression turned grim. He carefully looked through the remaining contents of Martha’s purse.

  While he searched, Gigi gave him the whole chapter and verse that she and Sienna had come up with regarding the murder…excluding Emilio’s name, of course. This was her last chance to convince Mertz that the case merited reopening.

  Gigi was gratified to see that Mertz’s expression had changed, and he was nodding approval.

  “You could be right.” He grinned, and this time it lasted long enough for Gigi to be positive that she’d actually seen it. “I just wish you had come to us with your theory and let us do the investigating.” He put the EpiPen back in Martha’s purse and snapped it shut. “Do you have a plastic bag or something I can put this in?”

  “Of course.” Gigi grabbed a bag from the fabric sleeve hanging on the corner of her door. It had Shop and Save written on it in red print.

  Mertz carefully placed the purse in the bag but made no move to leave. He looked around her kitchen and sniffed. “It sure smells good in here.”

  Gigi thought she heard his stomach growl. “It’s tonight’s dinner order. Are you hungry? There’s plenty.”

  A look of hesitation blurred his features for a moment, but then he squared his shoulders and straightened his back. “Thanks, but I have to get back.” He glanced at his wrist. “I have a meeting.”

  Gigi felt slightly foolish, and she stuffed her balled hands into her pockets. She felt her shoulders lift defensively as she walked Mertz to the door.

  After an awkward good-bye, Gigi pulled open her door and was astonished to see Carlo coming up her front walk, carrying a square, white pizza box with Al Forno scrawled across the top in curly black letters. He stopped short when he saw Mertz.

  Gigi sensed Mertz stiffen as he contemplated Carlo, his face as emotionless as usual, except for the faintest flicker of his left eyelid. Carlo, on the other hand, was anything but a blank slate. His face fell so comically that Gigi would have laughed if she hadn’t felt so sorry for him.

  Carlo thrust the pizza box forward. “I am bringing this to you for your dinner.” He made a vague gesture with one hand. “I was thinking that maybe you are tired of cooking for other people and would like someone to cook something for you.”

  Delicious smells wafted from beneath the lid of the pizza box, and Gigi’s mouth began to water. She swore she heard Mertz’s stomach growl again, too.

  “It’s our famous white pizza,” Carlo went on. “None of that Pizza Hut stuff,” he sniffed disdainfully.

  “That’s very kind of you, Carlo. Why don’t you come in?” Gigi held the door a little wider.

  But Carlo shook his head. “I do not want to intrude—that is the correct word, no?” He glanced sideways at Mertz. Probably putting the evil eye on him, Gigi thought, remembering her maternal grandmother and how she tried to cast the evil eye on anything that displeased her.

  “I’m just going,” Mertz said in a toneless voice, although he made no move to leave.

  Carlo stood his ground as well, hugging the pizza box closer to his chest.

  At this rate, they’d be standing on the front steps forever, Gigi thought. She had to do something. She put out a hand for the pizza. “Thank you, Carlo, I’ll take this inside and keep it for my dinner. Detective Mertz,” she turned toward him, “I will call you if anything else occurs to me.”

  Carlo breathed a deep sigh, and Mertz’s stomach grumbled, but they both turned to leave, being careful not to stray too close to each other on the walkway.

  Gigi watched them go. She realized that, while she liked Carlo very much and certainly enjoyed his company, Mertz had somehow gotten under her skin.

  If she were going to marry again…a big if…she wanted someone reliable this time around. Someone with whom she could imagine raising a family. That all added up to someone like Mertz. It didn’t hurt that she found him insanely attractive

  She turned, went back inside and closed the door. She realized with a feeling of deep disappointment that her thoughts were in vain. So far, Mertz—and Carlo, too, for that matter—had not made the slightest move to ask her out.

  Gigi completed her dinner prep, packed up her Gourmet De-Lite containers, loaded them into the MINI and delivered them. Then Reg wanted his dinner and a walk. It was almost seven thirty P.M. before she was able to check her e-mail.

  She tucked several triangles of Carlo’s pizza into the oven to warm, consoling herself with the fact that her walk with Reg had surely burned enough calories to earn her an extra piece. She curled up on the sofa with Reg at her feet and the windows wide open. She could smell the faintest hint of lavender from the garden, which mingled with the lingering scent of the basil from the tomato sauce she’d made to top the chicken breasts she’d grilled for her Gourmet De-Lite customers.

  She powered up her laptop and bit the point off one of the pieces of pizza. She closed her eyes in rapture and inhaled deeply as the scent of garlic, tangy cheese and pungent rosemary wafted around her. Between them, Carlo and Emilio had raised pizza to an art form.

  She was deleting the contents of her spam folder when the thought occurred to her—was there something in the past that had led to Martha’s murder?

  Gigi took another bite, wiped her fingers, set them on the computer keys and brought up her favorite search engine. Who should she start with? She paused with her hands hovering over the keys. So far, Winston was their odds-on favorite, so she quickly pecked out Winston Bernhardt and hit enter. Barely a second later, the magic of the Internet had produced several pages of links. Gigi scanned them quickly. Winston’s name turned up on several annual reports as a member of boards, in articles in business magazines and newspapers and in several obituaries for a Winston Bernhardt who had been born in 1902 and died, at the age of ninety-three, in 1995. She clicked on an article from the Wall Street Journal. Several clicks later, she had found nothing particularly revealing about Winston Bernhardt and virtually nothing she didn’t already know.

  Next up, Barbie Bernhardt. Gigi wished she knew Barbie’s maiden name, but she couldn’t remember anyone ever having mentioned it. No matter—the first article she pulled up was Barbie and Winston’s wedding announcement from the New York Times. The heading read “Yablonsky-Bernhardt.” Gigi settled down to read. Barbie had grown up in Youngstown, Ohio—so much for the slight southern accent that brought to mind miles of Kentucky bluegrass and white horse fences. Barbie was obviously a better actress than they gave her credit for. Most of the announcement was taken up with information about Winston, who at the time had been head of one of New York’s biggest investment firms. According to the article in the Journal, Winston had resigned shortly after marrying Barbie so they could “enjoy life together.”

  Barbie’s father had worked for a tool and die manufacturer, and her mother had been a housewife. Barbie graduated from Ohio State University with a degree in theater arts. She’d had an extremely minor but recurring role in a short-lived soap opera before grabbing the brass ring and marrying Winston. None of which pointed toward her being the murderer.

  Next up, Carlo and Emilio Franchi. Gigi plugged their names into the search engine and waited while a page of links loaded. She scanned them quickly. Several led to Al Forno’s Web site, and one or two referenced an Emilio Franchi who had had a very short career with an Italian opera group based in Milan. Nothing there, either.

  Alice Slocum didn’t rate a single Internet mention, although there were several obituaries for other Alice Slocums, most of whom had been born and died before the turn of the previous century. Gigi skimmed through the references again but still found nothing of interest.

  Last but not least—Adora Sands.
Gigi scanned the references that came up, reading one or two here and there. Most related to summer theater performances, in which Adora’s parts ranged from almost nothing to miniscule. Gigi clicked on a link halfway down the page and began to skim, her pointer hovering over the back arrow key the whole time. Suddenly, she yanked her hand away from the mouse as if she’d been burned and studied the picture of the smiling couple in evening dress.

  She had to call Sienna right away.

  “I’ve just made some wonderful iced green tea. Why don’t you come over and tell me about it?” Sienna said when she answered.

  Gigi didn’t need to be asked twice. She powered down her laptop, slipped it into the case and slid her feet back into her sandals. She hated doing it, but she decided she would leave her dishes piled in the sink. Surely the gods of good housekeeping would turn a blind eye just this once.

  Reg was waiting by the back door. Gigi clipped on his leash, and they both got into the MINI—Reg beside her, his head hanging out the window.

  Gigi tried to quell the excited feeling that was building in her stomach, but she wasn’t having much success. She might be wrong, and this new trail might lead them right back to where they’d started, but she really thought it was promising.

  Sienna lived in an old fieldstone and half-timbered Tudor-style carriage house that she and Oliver had spent two years converting into a spacious and cozy home. Doors on the four garage bays on the first floor had been replaced by windows and transoms, and the front door was painted a cheery Victorian red.

  Gigi banged the brass, pineapple-shaped door knocker and waited.

  “Come on in.” Sienna pulled the door wide open. Gigi was glad to see that there was some much-needed color in her cheeks.

  Gigi followed her through the spacious and airy open-plan first floor and into the kitchen, which was dominated by an island with a limestone top. Sienna picked up a tray set with a pitcher of iced tea, glasses, and a plate of sliced pound cake.