Allergic to Death (12 page)

“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 mind.

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.

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.