Gigi had barely gotten out of bed when the phone rang. She stared at it for a second, debating whether to answer. Whoever it was, she’d rather talk to them after she’d made her coffee. She snatched the receiver just as the phone rang for the fourth time. She’d never been good at letting a ringing phone go unanswered.
The caller was Barbara Simpson. She was hoping to start Gigi’s diet plan that evening. Would that be possible? Gigi assured her it would. She’d need to make a stop at Bon Appétit for some ingredients but that was easily done. Besides, she wanted to see how Evelyn was coming with her renovations.
Gigi dressed quickly, poured her coffee into a travel mug and grabbed her coat and scarf from the closet. Reg sat right by the door, as if daring her to leave without him.
“Don’t worry, buddy, you’re going, too.”
Reg wagged his tail so hard that his entire body squirmed with delight. He paced back and forth as he waited for Gigi to button her jacket and wind her scarf around her neck.
With Reg tucked safely into the passenger seat, Gigi backed down her drive and turned left. She was meeting with Barbara to discuss her meal plan and have her fill out some necessary papers. Barbara had given her directions to Arbor Ridge, the community where she lived, along with the code that would allow her entry through the ornate wrought-iron gates that protected the privacy of the inhabitants of the secluded estates.
Gigi pulled up to the gatehouse and carefully punched in the numbers. Nothing happened. Had she written them down wrong? She tried again. This time the massive gates parted, and she drove through quickly. Houses were set far back on either side of the road—Georgians, Southern Colonials, Victorians and a few modern-looking glass-and-wood structures. All were enormous and had more than an acre of land surrounding them. The street was completely quiet and not a thing was out of place—even the snow alongside the road was still pristinely white.
Gigi glanced at the piece of paper on the seat next to Reg. It seemed that the houses not only had numbers, they had names. Barbara Simpson’s was The Laurels at number four Arbor Lane.
It came into view, and Gigi almost slammed on the brakes, she was so awed. The Laurels looked to be the size of the White House and was built in a similar style, with a conservatory on one side and a huge screened-in porch on the other. The driveway was brick and the front door was shiny black with a highly polished brass kick plate that echoed the pineapple-shaped brass door knocker.
Gigi assured Reg that she would be back shortly and headed toward the entrance to The Laurels. She expected a maid in uniform to come to the door, but Barbara Simpson opened it herself. She was wearing a black velour warm-up suit and a pair of large, dark sunglasses that she pushed to the top of her head when she saw it was Gigi. Her blue eyes were puffy and red-rimmed.
“Sorry,” she said, as she pulled the door open wider. “I can’t stop crying. It’s been terrible.” She sniffed and fished a tissue out of the sleeve of her zip-up jacket. “It’s bad enough Bradley being gone.” She paused and dabbed at her eyes. “I know what everyone thinks. And they’re right. He was difficult to live with—demanding and stubborn. But he had a sweet, gentle side that people rarely saw.”
Gigi tried and failed to picture Bradley Simpson with a gentle side.
“He had to be tough in his profession. Opponents would capitalize on any sign of weakness, he always said.”
Gigi nodded and followed Barbara through the enormous foyer and a football field–size formal living room to the conservatory beyond. The glassed-in room was warm, with an almost tropical feel to it, and was filled with plants in every size and shape, including a few small trees.
Weak February sun slanted through the glass, throwing a beam of light across the slate floor. A tray with tea things stood atop a wrought-iron table in the middle of the room. Gigi sat opposite Barbara and watched as Barbara poured tea into delicate china cups. Her hand shook slightly, and the spout of the teapot knocked over the fragile, paper-thin cup.
“Oh, how clumsy of me. Bradley always said I was like a bull in a china shop.”
She glanced up at Gigi with a look of consternation on her face. “That makes him sound so mean, which isn’t fair. We used to get such a good laugh over it.” She swiped at a tear that was wriggling its way across the bridge of her nose. “I kidded him, too—telling him he was color blind because of some of the ties and shirts he would put together.” She righted the cup and poured out the tea. “He used to call me ‘snookums.’ I called him ‘bear’ because he was my big teddy bear.” Barbara stifled another sob and turned her head away.
“How did the two of you meet?”
“At university.” Barbara handed Gigi the tea and pushed the cream and sugar toward her. “I knew right away that he was going to go places. He was an A student and the highest scorer on the lacrosse team. I couldn’t believe it when he asked me out. We got married while he was in law school.” She stirred two spoons of sugar into her own cup.
“Have you always lived in Woodstone?”
Barbara shook her head. “No, we spent several years living in New York City. Bradley was working for a big firm on Wall Street, cutting his teeth, so to speak, but then decided he wanted to open his own place. He and the other partners worked long, hard hours to get Simpson and West off the ground, I can tell you. Bradley earned every penny he made and then some. Of course some people were jealous.” She looked at Gigi carefully. “That’s always the way, isn’t it? They don’t see all the hard work, they just see the rewards.”
Gigi couldn’t help wonder if Barbara was talking in generalities, or was there someone specific who resented Bradley’s success?
Gigi retrieved some papers from her purse and handed them to Barbara along with a pen. “If we’re to get started right away, I need you to fill these out. It’s nothing complicated,” she added as Barbara looked alarmed, “just information about any allergies and your food likes and dislikes.”
Barbara bent her head over the forms and began to fill them out. “It’s been a nightmare.” She looked up at Gigi and pressed a tissue to her nose. “The police have been here.” Her mouth set in a thin, grim line. “It seems they found my wrap. It was covered in my Bradley’s blood.” She let out a sob. “Sorry.”
Gigi had a sip of tea and waited while Barbara composed herself.
“I thought I lost it the night of the party. It was warm in the restaurant from all the people pressed together, so I folded it over the back of my chair and forgot about it.” She looked at Gigi, her eyes round with horror. “It’s bad enough that someone murdered my husband, but now the police seem to think I might have had something to do with it.”
• • •
Gigi drove away from Barbara Simpson’s feeling sad. Reg tilted his head at her as if asking
what’s wrong?
The poor woman was mourning the loss of her husband and now she had the police to deal with. Gigi wished she could do something. Mertz had listened to her theory that the murderer was trying to cast blame on Barbara, but he had been noncommittal. There had to be some way to prove Barbara’s innocence.
As Gigi drove down High Street, she passed the storefront where the new gourmet shop was supposedly going to be. So far there was no sign of construction—just a large banner announcing that the place would be opening shortly. Hopefully Evelyn would finish her renovations before it did.
Bon Appétit was empty when Gigi pushed open the door. Shelves had been moved away from the walls and draped in drop cloths. A man in coveralls was wielding a long-handled paint roller and transforming the formerly white walls into the sort of dark red that Gigi associated with Provence.
“Very nice,” Gigi said as she approached the counter, where Evelyn was leaning over an open copy of the
Woodstone Times.
“You like it?” Evelyn closed the paper, folded it and slid it under the counter.
“Very much.” Gigi looked around. The rich, warm color was going to transform the shop.
“I’ve ordered some wreaths to hang on the walls—one is made from bay leaves and the other from dried chilies. I’m going for a sort of South of France feel.”
They both watched as the painter dipped his roller in the paint tray and swiped a broad swath of red across the wall.
“I think it’s just what the shop needed,” Gigi said.
Evelyn sighed. “I don’t know why I waited so long to redecorate. Complacency, I guess. I’ve been the only game in town for so long, I never expected competition to pop up on my own doorstep.”
Gigi patted Evelyn’s arm reassuringly. “With your new look and plan, you’ll be attracting even more customers than usual.”
“I hope so.” Evelyn leaned her elbows on the counter. “What can I get for you?”
“I need another box of Arborio rice. I’m almost out, and I’ve picked up another client.”
“Oh?”
Gigi nodded. “Barbara Simpson. I was just out to see her and discuss the plan with her.”
“Rather strange that she wants to go on a diet now . . . under the circumstances. When my friend Rose lost her husband, the pounds just dropped off. She didn’t have to do a thing.”
“It seems she wants to do it for Bradley. She’d promised him she was going to get back in shape, and she wants to go through with it.”
“Miracle she has any appetite at all. Although there are those who eat even more when under stress. Maybe she’s one of them.” Evelyn scratched her head. “I do remember when they first came to town. Quite a looker, she was. About this big”—Evelyn held up her little finger—“and cute as a button.” She sighed. “But age creeps up on all of us, I guess. Quite the place she’s got there, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Gigi thought back to her first view of The Laurels.
“One of my customers said the police have been out there talking to her. Bound to happen, I suppose. Isn’t the spouse always the chief suspect?” Evelyn snorted. “Although what I’ve seen of Bradley Simpson, you could hardly blame her.”
“Barbara said he was very different in private. At least she seemed to really love him. You can see she’s devastated.”
Evelyn looked unconvinced. “Anyway, didn’t she go home sick the night of the party?” She put air quotes around the word
sick
. “She was probably out cold when the murder occurred.” Evelyn slipped the box of rice into a bag. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s it for now.”
“Had someone new come in earlier. She wanted to know if I had any instant dashi.” Evelyn raised her eyebrows. “I don’t even know what that is.”
“I believe it’s a kind of Japanese stock.”
“Ah. The customer was Japanese. Very pretty and a lovely accent. The funny thing was”—Evelyn punched some numbers into the cash register—“Hunter Simpson was waiting for her outside. Isn’t he the one the engagement party was for?” She tore off the receipt and handed it to Gigi along with her purchase.
“Hunter Simpson?” Gigi said in disbelief.
Evelyn nodded. “I’m not saying they were a couple or anything, don’t get me wrong. But it did make me curious.”
“Stacy still hasn’t said anything,” Alice said later that afternoon when Gigi dropped by the Book Nook between her deliveries. “Maybe it really was just a stomach bug.”
Alice had stopped by to pick up some bedtime reading. She sat on the sofa in the coffee corner with a pile of dog-eared paperbacks in her lap.
Sienna juggled Camille in one hand and the handful of books she was trying to shelve in the other. “Most people wait till they’re three months along. If she is pregnant, that’s probably what she and Joe are doing.”
“I hope you’re right. I’d so love a little grandchild to fuss over.” Alice glanced at Sienna. “Here, let me have the baby while you do that,” she said, holding out her arms.
Sienna handed Camille over carefully, watching to see if she would cry. She didn’t—just blew a large bubble and rubbed her cheek against Alice’s sweater. Alice patted the top of Camille’s head, a dreamy look on her face.
“Has there been any news about . . . you know.” Sienna stopped as if she didn’t want to say the words in front of the baby. She cocked her head in the vague direction of Declan’s.
Gigi explained about finding Barbara’s bloodstained wrap.
Sienna spun around. “Really? That seems quite conclusive. Have the police arrested her?”
“No. The wrap appeared after the murder. Mertz is positive the people searching the scene wouldn’t have missed it. Personally, I think the real murderer is trying to frame Barbara.”
“But are there any other suspects?” Sienna shoehorned a book into place on the shelf.
“The son, right?” Alice had stood up and was jiggling Camille on her hip. “Didn’t you say he took off the night of the party?”
“Yes, and Evelyn from Bon Appétit said she saw him around town with some Japanese girl she didn’t recognize. Although she couldn’t say for sure they were a couple. And I don’t know how that would relate to his father’s murder.”
“Phew.” Sienna blew a lock of golden hair off her face. “Think we’ve got enough suspects?”
“There’s more.” Gigi helped herself to a cup of coffee. “Barbara Simpson’s sister-in-law works at the studio where I went to record my radio commercial for Branston Foods. She all but admitted to having a motive for murder, too.” Gigi was quiet for a moment. “Of course the police may have uncovered things I know nothing about.”
Alice gave her a wicked smile. “Time for some pillow talk with Detective Mertz, perhaps?”
• • •
Gigi’s face burned as she left the Book Nook. Did everyone think she and Mertz . . . ? She hit the gas pedal a little too hard, and the MINI lurched forward.
Well, there were some things she’d like to worm out of Mertz. Like whether or not he viewed Barbara as a serious suspect. She hoped not. The woman had endured enough already, and Gigi was convinced she was innocent. She just had to find a way to prove it.
The answer came to her as she was sitting at the light in front of the Silver Lining, a tony jewelry store that carried one-of-a-kind pieces that only the wealthier residents of Woodstone could afford. There was a white-bordered, navy blue sign in the window with
Protected by The Guardian
written in gold letters. Gigi remembered there had been one like it on a post alongside Barbara’s driveway and another smaller one in her front window. A lot of the larger homes and estates sported similar signs.
Gigi had seen their commercials on television and had a vague idea of how their system worked. You turned the alarm on when you left the house, and when you returned, you had to enter a code to turn it off again. With all the computerization these days, perhaps the company would have a record of when Barbara returned home from the party?
Gigi chewed on a cuticle as she waited for the light to change. It had started to snow, and she flicked on her windshield wipers. The Guardian was unlikely to reveal any information to her. She would have to tell Mertz about it and persuade him to do the investigating.
Gigi turned around in a driveway just beyond the last shop on High Street and headed back toward the police station. The same woman was seated behind the desk when Gigi entered the building. The cold draft that followed Gigi sent a swirl of snow skittering across the smudged tile floor.
The woman gave her the same look as she had the last time Gigi was there. She dialed the phone, and they both waited for Mertz to pick up. Eventually, the woman replaced the receiver and leaned her mouth close to the microphone, jerking her head toward the door. “You know where to go.”
Alice’s words
pillow talk
rang in Gigi’s ears as she walked down the corridor, and she knew her face was red as she entered Mertz’s office.
He was working at his computer, sitting ramrod straight in his chair, notebook precisely aligned at his elbow. Gigi couldn’t help but smile. If Mertz couldn’t control the world, he was at least going to control his immediate vicinity.
He jumped up when he saw Gigi, and a smile spread across his face. “What a nice surprise.”
“Yes,” was all Gigi could think to say.
“I was going to call you.” Mertz perched on the edge of his desk.
“Oh.” When had she become so monosyllabic? Gigi wondered.
“I just read about this new restaurant that’s opened not far from here.” He grabbed a newspaper off his desk and scanned the page. “The Heritage Inn. And with Valentine’s Day coming up . . .”
Gigi smiled. “I’d love to.”
“Great.” Mertz looked relieved. He carefully placed the newspaper back on the stack from which he’d retrieved it. “I understand they’re known for their”—he grabbed the newspaper and scanned the column again—“innovative cuisine. Meaning you’ll probably know what the dishes are, but you’ll have to translate for me.”
Gigi felt a warm glow. She knew that Mertz was more than content with the open-faced turkey sandwich they prepared at the Woodstone Diner, but he’d chosen this place because he thought she would like it.
“What brings you—”
“I stopped by because—”
They both laughed.
“You go first,” Mertz said.
“Okay.” Gigi took a deep breath. “I had an idea as to how we . . . I mean you . . . might prove that Barbara Simpson is innocent in Bradley’s murder.”
A bemused look settled on Mertz’s face. Gigi knew what he was thinking. She should stick to cooking, and he’d do the detecting. She tried to keep her Irish temper under control. Hopefully the information she was about to impart would wipe the smug look off his face.
“You know that company the Guardian?”
“Certainly.”
“The Simpsons have the system installed at their house. Surely their records will indicate what time Barbara turned the alarm off the night of Bradley’s murder.”
Mertz’s brows rose as if pulled by a single string.
Gotcha!
Gigi thought. She allowed herself to gloat for a moment.
“What’s to stop her from going out again and just not setting the alarm?”
“It’s possible, definitely, but not probable. Barbara went home sick from the party.” Like Evelyn, Gigi put air quotes around the word
sick
.
“What does this”—Mertz copied her air quotes—“mean?”
Gigi stared at the carpet. “People are saying she was actually drunk. Everyone says she’s been to rehab, but that she’s been drinking again. I saw her the night of the party, and she was . . . unstable . . . to say the least. I can’t swear she’d been drinking, but either way, my guess is she went home and collapsed into bed.”
“I must say, that is some pretty good detective work.”
Now he was patronizing her. Gigi felt a rush of irritation. “Are you going to check with the Guardian?” she said with more of an edge than she meant.
“Possibly.”
“But don’t you think—”
Mertz held up a hand. “I agree that it’s a clever idea. It’s just that some new evidence has come to light.” He stared at his hands for a moment. “Have you heard of someone named Tiffany Morse? She’s an associate at Simpson and West.”
“Yes. According to Madeline, she’s going to be the first female partner the firm has ever had.”
Mertz nodded. “According to my sources, she was having an affair with Bradley Simpson.”
“I know.” Gigi crossed her arms over her chest and tried not to look too smug.
“But unbeknownst to Bradley, she was also seeing Declan McQuaid, the owner of Declan’s Grille.”
I know who he is,
Gigi thought, clenching her fists at her sides.
“And?”
“And Bradley and Declan were heard arguing heatedly the night of the party.”
“He said it was over the bill—the gratuity for the waitresses.” Gigi’s mouth had suddenly gone dry, and the words seemed to stick to her tongue.
Mertz gave her a sad look. “Much more likely it was because of Tiffany Morse. When the two men found out she was seeing both of them, they argued. Things got ugly and Declan stabbed Bradley with the ice pick.”