“Okay.” She took off her apron, balled it up and tossed it on the counter.
“I expect a full report.” Declan grinned as his sharp-bladed knife slid through the piece of salmon.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Gigi headed for the swinging door to the restaurant. She would hover in the back and spend a few minutes taking it all in.
Most of the gathering had crowded into the bar area or stood, drinks in hand, between the artfully set tables. Waitresses circulated with trays of hors d’oeuvres, and the bartender, a seasoned-looking pro in his fifties, wielded a silver cocktail shaker as if it were a percussion instrument.
Madeline looked radiant in a crimson wrap dress with a deep-V neckline and cap sleeves. Gigi had never met Hunter Simpson, but she picked him out easily enough. He had one arm around Madeline, and in the other, he brandished a glass of what looked like sparkling water. He was slim, with a halo of light brown curls, and bore a slight resemblance to his father.
Bradley had the paunch and the smug, self-satisfied look so common to men of his age and stature. He was wearing a double-breasted navy blazer, gray slacks and a crisp white shirt open far enough to reveal the gray hair on his chest. Gigi recognized his wife Barbara Simpson because she had recently had a consultation with Gigi about becoming a client. Barbara hoped to start the plan as soon as the party was over, with the aim of losing twenty pounds before her son’s wedding. She had dark hair, cut short up over her ears, and she clutched a pashmina wrap that almost hid her stocky middle. Gigi thought she must have been quite attractive at one point in time, but now she looked like the typical middle-aged woman—slightly overweight and a touch masculine.
The woman Madeline had identified earlier as Tiffany Morse, potential Simpson and West partner, stood in front of the bar, surrounded by a cadre of admiring men. Her black dress most decidedly deserved the term
little
—it had a hem so high and a neckline so low that they threatened to meet in the middle. Someone must have said something funny because she tossed back her head and laughed, exposing a long, white column of a neck that was accented by the sparkling sequins edging her plunging neckline.
Gigi noticed Bradley Simpson glancing in her direction more than once. The third time he did it, she saw Barbara Simpson frown and whisper in his ear.
Bradley threw back his shoulders and put his hands to his mouth creating a megaphone.
“Hello, everyone,” he shouted above the din of voices and clinking glasses. “Hello.”
Someone took a fork from one of the tables and began banging it against a water glass. Bradley smiled and waited as the chattering voices slowly came to a halt. He cleared his throat and puffed out his chest.
“As you all know, we’re here tonight to celebrate the engagement of my son”—he nodded curtly toward Hunter, who looked frozen, his eyes wide and his arm tight around Madeline’s waist—“to . . .” Bradley hesitated just long enough that a few people in the back began to murmur softly. “To Madeline Stone!” He finished triumphantly, a satisfied smile on his face. He looked around as if trying to determine which of the women in the restaurant was, indeed, his son’s intended.
Gigi glanced at Madeline. A stiff smile was plastered on her face, and Hunter had tightened his grasp on her waist and was whispering in her ear.
“My son”—Bradley waved his glass of amber-colored whiskey in the air—“has done me proud.” He glanced at his wife, but it was obvious he didn’t really see her or he might have noticed the anxious look on her face. “I chose the noblest profession of all. The law.” He glanced down at his highly polished Gucci loafers. “Like my father before me, and his father before him.” He looked up and his glance swept the assembled crowd.
Everyone was quiet—no ice tinkling in glasses, no whispered conversations or clearing of throats.
“But Hunter,” Bradley gave a nod toward his son, whose face was darkening by the second, “chose medicine.” He annunciated the world carefully as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Surgery.” He laughed softly and shook his head. “Do you know who the original surgeons were?” He scanned the crowd as if looking for someone with the answer. He shook his head again, tilting his chin upward. “Barbers. Barbers were the original surgeons. The red-and-white stripes on the barbers’ poles were meant to signify their craft of bloodletting.” He looked down at his shoes again. “My son eschewed the noble profession of the law for . . . bloodletting.”
Deafening silence greeted Bradley’s pronouncement and was quickly followed by a rustling sound as Hunter Simpson broke away from Madeline’s embrace and began making his way toward the exit. No one said a word until the echo of the slammed front door had died away.
Madeline’s face crumpled, and she quickly pushed her way through the crowd toward the restrooms. Several people put a hand on her arm, but she brushed them off. Gigi hesitated, then went after her.
“Oh, I hate him!” Madeline cried, her hands balled into fists, when Gigi joined her in the sanctuary of the ladies’ room. “He’s mean, despicable, and absolutely horrid, and I’ll hate him as long as I live.” She grabbed a tissue from the box on the counter and blew her nose. “He’s always resented the fact that Hunter wasn’t interested in
the law
.” Madeline imitated Bradley’s snooty tones to perfection. “He should be proud of his son. He’s a trauma surgeon, and he helps people.” She gave a loud sniff followed by a hiccup. “He’s been working at Woodstone Hospital teaching the doctors there a new technique he pioneered.”
Gigi just let Madeline talk. The best thing for her would be to get it all out. Then it would be time to powder her nose and join the crowd with her head held high. Gigi could hear the sound of voices swelling outside the door. There was an occasional laugh mingling with the tinkling sound of silver on china.
The party would go on, with or without Madeline and Hunter.
Gigi helped Madeline blot her tears and dash some powder over her reddened nose. She was about to suggest that Madeline apply a little more of the crimson lipstick that matched her dress when someone pushed open the door to the ladies’ room.
“Oh, my dear, I am so sorry.” Barbara Simpson grabbed both of Madeline’s hands in her own. “It’s just that Bradley is so disappointed that Hunter has decided not to follow in his footsteps. He had so hoped that his son would take over as partner someday.” She smiled benignly. “Frankly, I am so proud of Hunter I could burst.”
That brought a brief smile to Madeline’s lips.
“But you must come back out and join us, or Bradley will be furious. All of his colleagues and friends are here, and it’s bad enough that Hunter went off the way he did. Bradley is most upset with him. It’s all very embarrassing.”
Barbara turned toward the mirror with a small cry of dismay. The light in the ladies’ room glinted off her sequined top, making her look heavier than she was.
“I really must powder my nose and refresh my lipstick. Bradley expects me to look my best.”
Gigi had a good idea of what she’d like to say to that so-and-so Bradley, but she kept her mouth shut and gave Barbara a tight smile. She was relieved to see that Madeline was rummaging around in her own beaded handbag for her compact.
They waited while Madeline freshened up, and then Gigi reached for the door.
Barbara was about to follow her when she stopped suddenly. “Now where did my wrap get to?” She looked around her, and both Madeline and Gigi also scanned the counter and floor.
Barbara shrugged. “I must have left it on my chair.” She turned toward Madeline with a rather forced smile. “Chin up, dear. We mustn’t spoil Bradley’s party.”
Bradley’s party?
Gigi thought to herself. She wondered if Madeline knew what she was getting herself into with a father-in-law whose ego was bigger than the state of Texas.
Barbara and Madeline headed back to their tables, and Gigi made her way toward the kitchen.
“What in the blinking hell else can go wrong?” Declan spit out as Gigi pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen. The room was hot and steamy and the harsh overhead lights glared off the metal of the hanging pots and pans.
“What’s wrong?” Gigi reached for her apron and began to tie it around her waist.
“Stacy’s spent more time in the bathroom being sick than waiting on tables.” Declan cocked his head toward the employee restroom off the kitchen. He ran both hands through his hair distractedly. “I’ve sent her home so now we’re short-staffed in the restaurant as well as in the kitchen.” He grimaced. “The steak and peppercorn sauce will be a disaster if it gets cold.”
“I can help. I waited tables in college.” Gigi hoped Stacy wasn’t seriously ill. She was Alice’s daughter, and Alice would be devastated if anything happened to her only child.
“I couldn’t possibly ask you. You’ve already done so much to help—”
“I don’t mind. Really.”
Declan gave Gigi a grin that threatened to melt her knees. “If you’re sure you don’t mind?”
“Not at all.”
“If you’re game—Armand!” Declan snapped his fingers toward the sous chef, who was slumped on a stool next to the counter, his eyes at half-mast. “Start plating the entrée.”
Gigi was suddenly regretting her impulsive offer. It had been years since she’d waitressed. It would be just her luck to spill something on one of the guests. But there was no getting out of it now. With Declan’s help, Armand had already prepared two trays.
They had barely finished when Rita burst through the swinging doors, her jaws going a mile a minute, snapping and popping a large piece of pink gum.
All the waitresses at Declan’s wore old-fashioned barmaid’s uniforms with a full skirt, a low-cut, puffed-sleeve white blouse and a frilly apron. Stacy filled hers out to perfection, but Rita was rail thin, and the whole ensemble hung on her like a flag on a pole with no breeze. Her face was pinched and hard, her skin roughened from too many hours spent in tanning parlors.
She grabbed the first tray and hoisted it to her shoulder with the ease of a seasoned pro. She gave her gum one last good crackle and pop and was through the swinging doors, off to deliver the food.
Gigi was immediately intimidated. It was all she could do to pick up the tray with both hands. None of this carrying-on-her-shoulder stuff for her. She knew her limits. She gave Declan a weak smile as he held the door open for her.
They were to start serving from the back, the first course, or “starters” as Declan called it, having been brought to the customers in the front first.
Gigi slid the first plate in front of a man whose suit smelled faintly of mothballs and was of a cut and color reminiscent of the fashion from a decade earlier.
He seized his knife and fork eagerly, turning to the woman beside him, whose dress fit as if she’d been ten pounds heavier the last time she wore it. He cut a chunk of steak and forked it up eagerly. “At least my brother-in-law isn’t going to make us wait for our entrée.” He stuffed the bite of steak into his mouth. “It’s bad enough we’re sitting all the way back here. We’re family after all.”
The woman with him, who Gigi assumed was his wife, smiled wanly and accepted the plate Gigi placed in front of her. Gigi served the rest of the table and began to head back toward the kitchen, her tray now empty. She was making her third trip from the kitchen, and starting to feel more confident, when she noticed a bit of a commotion at the front of the restaurant.
The woman who had been sitting next to Bradley’s brother-in-law was helping Barbara Simpson to a seat by the front door. Bradley followed close behind with an annoyed expression on his face. Barbara swayed slightly, and the woman quickly put out a hand to steady her. Barbara slumped onto the proffered seat, her chin coming to rest on her chest.
“Can you give us a hand?” Bradley grabbed Gigi’s elbow as she went by.
“Certainly. What can I do for you?”
“We need a taxi. My wife has . . . taken ill . . . and needs to go home. I can’t seem to find my cell at the moment. Never can find the darn thing when I need it.” He scowled, his thick, graying brows drawn together over eyes as black and as cold as coal.
“I’d be glad to. There’s a land line in back.” Gigi hurried toward the kitchen.
She called Woodstone’s only taxi service—two ancient Lincoln Town Cars obviously purchased second-or thirdhand and run by two equally ancient drivers who rarely got the speedometer up past thirty miles per hour. She wondered why Bradley couldn’t run his wife home himself. He certainly didn’t seem very concerned.
Gigi was helping Armand fill the final tray when Rita stuck her head into the kitchen. “Who called for the taxi?”
Gigi stopped with a plate halfway to the tray. “I did. For Mrs. Simpson. She’s not feeling well and wants to go home.”
Gigi hastened out to check on Mrs. Simpson and the taxi. Her sister-in-law was attempting to put Barbara’s coat around her shoulders.
“My wrap,” Barbara said. “I’ve lost it.”
“We’ll find it later,” the thin, mousy woman said consolingly.
Gigi hastened to reassure them that Declan’s would call if the missing wrap turned up.
Barbara let herself be led out to the waiting Lincoln Town Car, and Gigi hurried back to the kitchen.
• • •
“It certainly has been quite a night.” Declan turned a chair around and straddled it, briefly leaning his forehead against the chair back.
The dishes, silverware, glasses and dirty linens had all been collected, and the dishwasher was humming. Armand had already left, pulling his beret down over his forehead and his scarf up to his chin.
“I’ll be going if there’s nothing else.” Rita poked her head into the kitchen. She was zipping up a dark blue parka with a fake-fur collar.
Declan waved a hand wearily. “Good night. And thanks.”
“I should be going.” Gigi started toward the hook where she’d hung her coat.
Declan put out a hand. “Don’t go yet. Let’s just relax for a minute.” He unstraddled the chair. “Wait right here.”
Gigi felt her stomach do something strange and queasy. She ought to leave. She really should. But she felt rooted to the spot like Lot’s wife. Hopefully her fate would not be as drastic.
Before she could move, Declan returned with a bottle of brandy in one hand and two glasses in the other. Gigi started to protest, but he was already uncorking the bottle and pouring them each a snifterful.
“Just one drink.” He gave Gigi the same smile he had earlier—the one that made her knees buckle. He pulled two stools next to each other and patted one of them. “I can’t thank you enough for saving my bacon tonight. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
Gigi didn’t know what to say so she just smiled and took a sip of the brandy. It was excellent—smooth and mellow, much like Declan himself—but she was tired, and she was afraid it was going to go to her head. Then she, too, would be calling the Woodstone Taxi Service for a ride home.
“This place”—Declan gestured around the interior of the kitchen—“means the world to me. I’ve sunk the lot into it, as you can imagine.” He peered at Gigi over the rim of his glass. “My folks ran a pub back in Manchester. Just a place where the locals grabbed a pint after work and whiled away a Saturday afternoon playing darts. Mum did butties and a decent ploughman’s lunch.” He took a sip of his brandy. “But I wanted to go one better.” He scowled. “A bit egotistical of me, don’t you think?”
Gigi shook her head. “No, I think it’s normal.”
They talked some more, Gigi taking cautious sips of her brandy. She was conscious of the time passing. She nibbled on the edge of her thumb. What was Pia going to think if she caught her coming home so late?
But Declan was telling her about his childhood and growing up as the youngest of three sisters, and Gigi became caught up in the story. She told him about her father dying when she was little more than a toddler, and how the Fitzgerald brothers had enveloped Gigi, her sister and her mother and made sure they never lacked for anything.
Before Gigi knew it, her glass was empty and the hands on the clock pointed to one
A.M
. She jumped off her stool. “Oh. I’d better be going. It’s terribly late.”
“Pia—that’s your sister isn’t it?” Declan said suddenly.
Gigi nodded.
Declan shook his head. “She’s quite a character. I enjoy our chats when she comes in.” He scanned Gigi’s face. “She doesn’t look all that much like you, but I can see a bit of a resemblance.” He winked at Gigi. “Frankly, I’d rather have the real deal, if you know what I mean.”
Gigi’s heart began to pound strangely. “Yes, well, good night.” She grabbed her coat and struggled into it, wrapping her scarf securely around her neck.
“If you wait while I turn the lights out, I’ll walk you to your car.”
“No, no, I’ll be fine.” Gigi twisted the door handle. “I’ve got to get going.”
Declan looked at her quizzically and shrugged. “Okay, then. Are you parked right outside?”
“Yes. At the end of the row, toward the back.” Gigi gestured in what she thought was the right direction.
“You should be safe enough. Hopefully there are no boogeymen lurking in the alley. I’d feel better if you’d let me walk you, but I’ll keep the light on until you get to your car. Just give me a honk as you go past, okay?”
Gigi nodded. She pulled open the door and slipped outside. The temperature had dropped, and the brisk wind felt like an icy slap against her face. Snowflakes drifted down from the inky sky, were picked up by the wind and swirled in circles. Gigi felt a cold sting as they melted on her face.
The parking lot was filled with shadows and pockets of darkness. Gigi made her way carefully, her eyes on the ground, searching for the black icy patches that lurked treacherously underfoot. Something winked in the darkness, a mere speck, caught in the light from one of the lamps. Curious, Gigi bent down for a closer look. It was a silver sequin. It must have come off one of the women’s dresses. Without thinking, Gigi tucked it into her pocket and continued on her way.
The bulb in one of the old-fashioned light stanchions was out, leaving a large section of the parking lot in total darkness. Gigi was inching her way forward along the slick macadam when her foot suddenly struck something soft and yielding yet strangely solid at the same time.
“Oh.” She couldn’t help crying out.
She looked down to see the outline of a darkish shape that looked like a bundle of clothes. She leaned over and peered at the obstruction. When she realized it was human, she began to scream.