“Here’s to my not overcooking the steak or burning the green beans.”
Gigi laughed, and they clinked glasses.
Mertz grabbed a pepper mill from one of the cabinets and began to grind pepper over the steaks. He gestured toward the table with his shoulder. “The china belonged to my grandmother. I had to blow the dust off it, it’s been so long since I used it.”
Gigi followed him to the open door to the deck where he slid the two steaks onto the preheated grill. They spit and sizzled briefly, and in moments a delicious smell wafted toward her.
Mertz rubbed his hands together. “I’ve got baked potatoes and green bean casserole to go with them.” He glanced at his watch. “Better check on those green beans. I was only joking about burning them.”
He pulled open the oven door and peered inside. “Phew, everything looks fine. Five more minutes should do it.”
Gigi practically had to sit on her hands. She wanted to check the steaks, look at the green beans, monitor the potatoes, but she knew she had to let Mertz do this himself. Instead, she had another sip of her wine and tried to stay out of his way.
Fortunately, he pulled it off to perfection. The steak, when Gigi cut into it, was seasoned to perfection and medium rare; the baked potatoes were delicious with butter, sour cream and fresh chives, and the green bean casserole was . . . a green bean casserole. Gigi debated whether or not she ought to offer Mertz a recipe for a fresh casserole that did not include a can of soup, but she decided it was probably best to let it rest.
They were halfway through the meal when Mertz again mentioned the lawn ornaments that had gone missing. Gigi cringed, thinking of Pia’s yellow jacket and the person she had glimpsed so very briefly. She wracked her brain for something to change the subject. Unfortunately the only thing on her mind seemed to be the murders of Bradley and Tiffany.
Gigi took a big gulp of her wine. How to bring up the subject? She didn’t want Mertz to think she was poking her nose in where it didn’t belong. She knew from experience that that made him unhappy. To put it mildly.
“I recorded another commercial the other day,” Gigi began, spearing a slightly overcooked green bean. “Actually rerecorded because of some technical issues.”
Mertz nodded, his mouth full of baked potato and sour cream.
“Cheryl, the woman who works at the recording studio, is the sister-in-law of Barbara Simpson.”
Mertz looked up, his mouth still full, but his eyebrows raised as if in concern.
“She told me that Bradley Simpson’s son Hunter wanted to borrow money from him to launch some medical device he’d invented, but that his father had turned him down.”
Mertz was chewing furiously as if he were desperate to interject something. Gigi decided to overlook that fact.
“So it seems quite possible that Hunter killed his father to get money for his invention. Apparently, it’s quite revolutionary and could propel him into the annals of medical history.”
Mertz swallowed quickly, and judging by the look on his face, it was slightly painful.
“Really,” he finally managed to say.
Gigi decided to take that as encouragement to continue. “And . . .” She paused dramatically and pointed her fork at Mertz. The green bean speared on the end drooped sadly. “Cheryl and her husband had their own reasons for wanting Bradley out of the way.” Gigi put down her fork and rubbed her index finger and thumb together. “Money, of course. With Bradley out of the way, they were convinced that Barbara wouldn’t demand repayment of the loan she’d made them.”
A muscle was now jumping in Mertz’s jaw, but Gigi again decided to ignore the warning sign.
“But it looks as if it backfired. I overheard Cheryl say something about it to a friend on the telephone. She said ‘after all Jimmy went through.’ Now doesn’t that sound suspicious?” Gigi popped the green bean into her mouth.
Mertz sighed loudly. “Words taken out of context are just that—words. It could mean anything.”
“But don’t you think it’s worth investigating?”
Mertz pushed his plate away and got up. “I’ve got ice cream sundaes for dessert. Rather unsophisticated, I’m afraid, but it was all I could manage.”
“Sounds delicious to me.”
Mertz opened the refrigerator and began pulling out small bowls of toppings and a can of whipped cream. “Unfortunately, we can’t go around bothering innocent people just because they’ve been overheard saying something, which,
taken out of context
,” the way he said the words clearly underlined them in Gigi’s mind, “sounds suspicious. We’d be chasing our tails all day long.”
He lined the toppings up on the counter, retrieved the ice cream from the freezer and a scoop from the drawer. He filled two etched glass bowls with vanilla ice cream.
“Help yourself. I’ve got cherries, chopped nuts, chocolate sauce and whipped cream.”
“Looks great.” Gigi served herself ice cream, then squirted on a swirl of whipped cream.
They took their dessert back to the table. “So does this mean you’re not going to look into my theories?”
“If I find something more solid to go on . . . maybe.” Mertz dug into his sundae. “Right now we have no reason to believe anyone besides Declan McQuaid is responsible.” Mertz put down his spoon, and counted on his fingers. “One, the murder weapon was his ice pick. Two, his are the only prints on the weapon. Three, he was heard arguing violently with the victim, and four, Tiffany Morse was cheating on the victim with him.”
“But then why kill Tiffany?” The ice cream was forming a frozen ball in the pit of Gigi’s stomach.
Mertz shrugged. “Because she was cheating on him? Whoever killed her had been expected. Remember the tea things all set out? We don’t have the reports back yet, but it looks as if someone drugged her and then smothered her with one of those . . . what did you call them?”
“Throw pillows,” Gigi said glumly.
“And the most likely person is Declan.”
They finished their ice cream sundaes in near silence, Gigi’s head whirling with the information Mertz had just revealed. And here she had thought Declan was off the hook. She was going to have to come up with some information that would lead Mertz in a different direction. But how?
Mertz’s reasoning was sound. Declan had a motive in both murders. But so did Hunter. Tiffany might have learned or overheard something that made her a liability to the murderer so Cheryl and her husband were still suspects in Gigi’s book.
Mertz poured them each a nightcap—a snifter of Baileys Irish Cream—something Gigi could never resist. They sat together on the sofa, and it wasn’t long before Mertz was kissing her.
He swore when his cell phone rang. He glanced at the number. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”
His side of the conversation was short and terse. He punched the end call button and frowned. “Another lawn ornament has gone missing. The Fosters came home from a trip to Europe to discover someone had nicked a metal frog from their front lawn.” Mertz laughed. “Apparently, the frog was playing the violin.” He shook his head. “What will they come up with next?”
Gigi was bending down to pick up her purse when she stopped short. She was about to tell Mertz that she’d seen the actual theft when she remembered the flash of yellow, and Pia’s yellow jacket. Somehow she couldn’t bring herself to mention it. She was going to locate Pia’s studio somehow and find out once and for all if Pia was involved. Then she would let Mertz deal with it.
“I’m sorry our evening has to be cut short.” Mertz got Gigi’s coat from the closet and held it out for her. “Just when it was getting good.” He gestured toward the sofa.
Gigi felt her face heat up. She had enjoyed kissing Mertz. And she appreciated the fact that he wasn’t rushing her into something she wasn’t ready for.
Mertz put on his own coat and slipped his hand into the pocket. He pulled out a white envelope and handed it to Gigi. This time his face reddened. “I hope you like it. I think I read every card in the store before I chose that one.”
Gigi ripped open the flap on the envelope and pulled out the card. The design was simple and pleasing, the prose equally simple but poignant. The message was clear.
Mertz gathered Gigi into his arms. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said, his lips hovering over hers.
As they drove through the darkened streets back to Gigi’s house, Gigi glanced at Metz’s profile in the flickering light from the streetlamps. She felt a rush of warmth and thankfulness. There had been a few other men who had caught her attention since her move to Woodstone, but Mertz had stayed the course. She had made the right choice.
The house was dark when they pulled into Gigi’s driveway. Reg gave a giant yawn and stretched before jumping out of the backseat. He made straight for one of the rose bushes and lifted his leg.
Mertz waited until Gigi got inside and turned on the light. She waved from the back door and watched as he backed down the driveway. She turned away as his taillights disappeared down the street. She was putting the kettle on for a cup of tea when she noticed a white envelope sitting out on the counter. It was addressed to her.
At first she thought Pia had gotten her a Valentine’s Day card, but it was a business-size envelope and didn’t look at all like a card. Was it a good-bye note? Had Pia finally taken off for California? Gigi hoped not. She was enjoying having family around and hoped that Pia might settle down—in her own place, to be sure—but at least close to Woodstone.
Gigi slit open the envelope and pulled out the piece of paper inside. It looked like some sort of certificate. She read it through. It was a gift certificate for a manicure and pedicure at the new nail salon that had opened behind Abigail’s. Stuck to it was a sticky note with
thanks for everything and happy Valentine’s day
,
love Pia
scrawled across it.
How terribly sweet,
Gigi thought. She hadn’t treated herself to a manicure or pedicure in ages. It would be fun and relaxing. Maybe she’d go tomorrow.
Meanwhile, it was off to bed for her. “Come on, Reg.”
They padded down the hall to the bedroom where they were both soon fast asleep.
• • •
Pia was still sound asleep when Gigi left to make her deliveries the next morning. Gigi wanted to thank her for the gift certificate so she penned a quick note and left it in the bathroom where Pia was sure to see it.
Her plans were to deliver her breakfast Gourmet De-Lite meals and then head to the Perfect Ten Nail Salon to use her gift certificate. Reg was quite put out that he wasn’t able to go along as she dropped off her meals, which was their norm, but she suspected that the sunbeam coming through the kitchen window would be calling his name in no time.
A drooping plastic banner with
Grand Opening
on it hung from the front of the Perfect Ten Nail Salon. Gigi pushed open the front door. The girl at the reception desk was simultaneously talking on the telephone and shaking a bottle of bright red nail polish.
She moved the receiver away from her mouth. “Manicure or pedicure?”
“Both.”
Gigi glanced around. A row of manicure tables were lined up at the front of the shop and behind those were half a dozen pedicure stations. A middle-aged blond woman was getting a set of acrylics applied, and Gigi could see the back of another woman, with her pants rolled up to her knees, who was about to climb onto one of the pedicure platforms. Other than that, the shop was empty.
The décor was simple and streamlined, with a Zen-like feel to it. Everything was in black and white except for an acrylic wall of shelves where bottles of nail polish provided a splash of every color imaginable, from dark purple to bubblegum pink.
A young girl came rushing out of the back toward Gigi. She wore slim-fitting cropped black pants and a white blouse with a mandarin collar. She smiled and motioned toward the wall behind her. “Please, pick your color.”
Gigi went over to examine her choices. They were endless, it seemed. She settled on a neutral sort of mauve shade for her nails and a bright red for her toes. Even though no one would see them, she would enjoy the pop of color when she took her shoes off.
The girl summoned her to the pedicure area. The other woman was now seated, and Gigi got a better look at her.
“Mrs. Simpson,” she exclaimed.
Barbara looked up from the magazine she was reading. “Gigi! Please do call me Barbara. Why don’t you sit here,” she motioned to the station next to her, “and we can chat.”
Gigi was glad to see that Barbara was getting out, although there were still dark circles under her eyes and an air of sadness about her. Her shoulders drooped, and she looked as if she might start to cry at any moment.
Gigi slipped out of her shoes and socks, cringing at the sight of her toes—it had been at least a year since she’d last had a professional pedicure—and slid her feet into the basin of warm, bubbling water. A sigh escaped her lips as she settled back into the chair.
“I’ve been enjoying your food so much,” Barbara said, putting down her magazine. “I’ve only lost a pound so far, but I know I have to be patient. I just wish Bradley were here to . . .” She wiped at a tear that had collected in the corner of her eye. “But I mustn’t dwell on that. Tell me how you’re doing.”
“Oh . . . just fine I guess.”
“I was horrified when I heard about Tiffany Morse,” Barbara confided in a near whisper. “She was a very ambitious young woman. Bradley was quite taken with her and was acting as her mentor. It was just unfortunate that that old geezer West was so old-fashioned about allowing women into the partnership.” Barbara watched as the nail technician painted a wide swath of hot pink polish down the middle of her big toe. “I learned quite a bit about self-actualization in the . . . the . . . well, in all the magazine articles and self-help books I’ve read.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Bradley used to tease me about it.” Her expression turned serious. “But a woman needs to do whatever necessary to reach her full potential.”
“Yes.” Gigi agreed, sighing again as the salon technician rubbed a citrusy-smelling scrub over her feet and lower legs. This was heaven. She should have done it sooner.
“I’m just afraid,” Barbara stopped abruptly.
“Yes?” Gigi tried not to look too eager.
“It’s about Hunter.” Barbara’s voice was still barely above a whisper. “Well, not Hunter exactly, but his fiancée. I adore Madeline, but she’s rather . . . ambitious . . . for Hunter.”
Gigi’s ears perked up. That was a surprise. Madeline had certainly never struck her that way.
“Hunter has created this medical device, you see.” Barbara winced as the nail technician briskly rubbed a pumice stone up and down the bottom of her foot. “And he needs funds to get it off the ground. He didn’t want to ask his father, because he wanted to do it all on his own.”
Was it that, or was he afraid to ask his father?
Gigi wondered.
“But Madeline kept pushing him to do it. Finally, she said she was going to take matters into her own hands and speak to Bradley herself.” Barbara’s lower lip quivered. “I’m just afraid that she might have . . . gone too far.” Barbara turned her wedding ring around and around. “Hunter thinks the world of Madeline. If anything happened to her . . .”
Gigi reached over and patted Barbara’s hand. “I’m sure everything is going to be okay,” she said with a lot more conviction than she felt.
Gigi had to sit for what felt like hours as her nails dried. She thought about what Barbara had said, but she couldn’t reconcile an ambitious Madeline with the Madeline she knew.
But she did decide to lose weight in order to better fit the culture at Simpson and West,
a small voice whispered inside Gigi’s head. Was it possible that Madeline had become ambitious enough to kill? Logistically it was possible. It would have been easy enough for her to slip into the kitchen at some point and take Declan’s ice pick. Hunter had stormed off, leaving her alone. No one knew exactly how she got home that night. Or when.
Gigi shook her head. Not Madeline. It just wasn’t possible.
She almost put her gloves on as she was leaving Perfect Ten but remembered just in time that her nails still weren’t completely dry. She paused for a moment by the door, admiring the pretty mauve color she’d selected.
Gigi was leaving the nail salon just as Alice was coming down the street. Alice saw her and waved furiously, rushing along to catch up with Gigi.
“Gigi,” Alice said, panting slightly. “Do you have time for a cup of tea?” She gestured toward the Woodstone Diner. “I’ve got some news.”
Gigi glanced at her watch quickly. “Sure. A quick one. Then I need to get back home.”
“I am just so excited!” Alice declared as they walked toward the diner.
Gigi could easily guess what Alice’s news was, but she decided to let her play it out her way.
They settled themselves in a booth, and the waitress immediately appeared at their table with two glasses of ice water. She pulled her pad from the pocket of her apron.
“What can I get you?”
“Just two cups of tea.” Alice looked at Gigi for confirmation, and Gigi nodded her head.
The waitress headed toward the kitchen, and Alice could contain herself no longer.
“It’s true!” she exclaimed. “My Stacy is pregnant. I’m going to be a grandmother!”
“That’s wonderful,” Gigi said, taking Alice’s hand in her own and giving it a squeeze. “When is the baby due?”
“The end of June. A perfect time to have a baby,” Alice said as the waitress slipped cups of tea in front of them. “She’ll deliver before the weather gets too hot.” Alice ran a finger around the neck of her sweater as if imagining the summer temperatures. “I was nine months pregnant with Stacy in August, and it was nearly unbearable.”
“How is she feeling?”
“Much better. She’s back at work. It’s those first three months that are so hard. She said she could barely stand the smell of food. Not the best thing when you work in a restaurant!”
Gigi finished the rest of her tea and checked her watch. She needed to be getting back home. The waitress had just slid their check across the table when the front door opened, letting in a blast of cold air. Gigi glanced up briefly, then did a double take. It was Hunter Simpson and the Japanese woman Gigi had seen him with before.
Alice was about to get up, but Gigi motioned for her to stay. Alice plunked down in her seat, a puzzled look on her face.
Hunter looked around, then headed toward the booth in back of Gigi and Alice. Gigi couldn’t believe her luck.
“What?” Alice whispered, pushing her teacup to the side and leaning across the table toward Gigi.
“It’s Hunter Simpson. With that Japanese woman he’s been seen around town with.”
Alice’s eyebrows shot up.
The waitress walked past their table, looked questioningly at the check abandoned next to Gigi’s saucer and continued on to Hunter’s booth.
Gigi leaned back in her seat and listened. Hunter ordered coffee with cream, but she couldn’t hear what the woman said.
Alice started to open her mouth, but Gigi put a finger to her lips and shushed her.
Hunter’s words were not as distinct or easy to hear as his order to the waitress had been. Gigi picked up a few words here and there—
finance
,
interest
,
ownership
. She was desperately trying to make sense of them when Hunter’s next words came through loud and clear.