Allergic to Death
PRAISE FOR
Allergic to Death
“Allergic to Death is a delicious, de-liteful debut. Gigi is a heartfelt protagonist with calories to spare. Tasty food, a titillating story, and a spicy town and theater, rife with dramatic pause. Add a dash of romance, and you have the recipe for a successful series.”
—Avery Aames, Agatha Award–winning
author of the Cheese Shop Mysteries
“Full of colorful characters, delicious diet foods, a rescued dog, and an intriguing mystery, Allergic to Death is tasty entertainment.”
—Melinda Wells, author of the Della Cooks Mysteries
“The meals that Gigi Fitzgerald makes may be low in calories, but author Peg Cochran serves up a full meal in her debut book.”
—Sheila Connolly, national bestselling
author of the Orchard Mysteries
“Mouth-watering gourmet meals and a scrumptious mystery—a de-liteful combination!”
—Krista Davis, national bestselling
author of the Domestic Diva Mysteries
Allergic to Death
Peg Cochran
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
ALLERGIC TO DEATH
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / August 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Peg Cochran.
Cover illustration by Teresa Fasolino.
Cover design by Sarah Oberrender.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or
electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of
copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-58946-5
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY®PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is
stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the
author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
To Krista Davis,
without whose help, mentoring,
encouragement, brainstorming and door-opening,
my dream would not have come true!
Acknowledgments
First, my mother who nurtured my love of reading and with whom I share a love for words.
My husband, Fletcher, who shares my excitement as if it were his own.
My two beautiful daughters, Francesca and Annabelle, who always encouraged me to go for my dream.
My sister, Chris Knoer, who created the pork tenderloin with spinach and feta recipe and allowed me to share it in this book and who is just possibly even more excited than I am to see this book in print.
The Guppies—a wonderfully supportive Internet writing group.
My Plothatcher buddies who were always there with a suggestion, encouragement and sympathy—Avery Aames, Laura Alden, Janet Bolin, Krista Davis, Kaye George, and Marilyn Levinson.
My agent, Jessica Faust, and editor, Faith Black, who helped make the book as good as it could be.
Various other friends and family who have been supportive over the years—Esther Benz, Mary Loudon, Cathy Sciarappa and Olive Bragazzi.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Gigi’s De-Liteful Diet Tips
Recipes
Chapter 1
“I’m not a cheater.”
“I didn’t say you were, Mrs. Nagel.” Giovanna “Gigi” Fitzgerald sandwiched the phone between her ear and shoulder and pulled a sheet of golden brown, homemade melba toast rounds from the hot oven.
“It’s just that your diet isn’t working for me.”
Gigi remembered the last time she’d delivered a meal to Mrs. Nagel—there had been a waterfall of cookie crumbs cascading down her ample front, even though she insisted she never ate anything except the gourmet diet food Gigi delivered three times a day.
“Unless I see some results soon, I’m going to have to demand my money back.”
Gigi glanced at the plaque over her sink—I have an Irish temper and an Italian attitude. Right now, she was trying to display neither. But it wasn’t easy. Patience didn’t generally go hand in hand with red hair.
She made some sympathetic noises, encouraged Mrs. Nagel to try again and finally hung up. She had very little time to finish lunch preparations and get the food delivered.
With a fine brush, she glazed each melba toast round with a whisper of extra virgin olive oil, then followed with a scant teaspoon of finely chopped fresh tomato and basil marinated in balsamic vinegar. Finally—the pièce de résistance—a shiny, black Kalamata olive placed dead center on each.
Gigi tucked an unruly curl of dark auburn hair behind one ear, pulled her calculator from the drawer and plugged in the calor
ies for all the assembled items. She frowned at the total, worrying her lower lip between her teeth, and made some calculations on a sheet of white scratch paper. Finally, she plucked the olives from each round, cut them precisely in half and placed just one half on each piece of melba toast. She plugged the revised numbers into the calculator. Bingo. Just the right amount. Her customers, all eager for immediate and spectacular results, expected her to keep their daily calorie allotment to a meager but delicious number.
It was difficult, but not impossible. Gigi’s diet theories were simple—only eat real food, watch your portion sizes and don’t waste calories on junk. Unless the junk happened to be strawberry Twizzlers, in which case all bets were off.
Gigi swept up the discarded olive halves and, one by one, popped them into her mouth. She grinned. She was always willing to take a caloric hit for her customers even though she continued to struggle with the unwanted five pounds that had ushered in her first birthday after the big three-five.
She packed two of the toast rounds into each of a dozen cardboard containers festooned with Gigi’s Gourmet De-Lite in silver script. Her eye caught sight of the day’s crossword puzzle folded open on the table. Four across: To get by (with out). That was easy. She paused briefly and penciled in eke. Eking out was the story of her life at the moment. Although things were bound to pick up now that she’d snared Martha Bernhardt as a client. She was the restaurant reviewer for the Woodstone Times, Woodstone, Connecticut’s local paper. She could really give Gigi’s business a boost. As long as nothing went wrong. Gigi stuck out her index and little fingers in the time-honored gesture meant to ward off the evil eye of the jealous.
Her red MINI Cooper was waiting in the driveway of her cottage. She’d traded in the overly extravagant engagement ring her miserable, no-good, cheating ex-husband had given her and used the money to buy the car. So far it had been a most satisfying trade. The car was far more reliable than Ted had ever been.
Gigi pushed open the screen door with her hip, the first stack of boxes balanced in her arms, her chin tucked on top to keep them steady. She loaded them carefully into the backseat of the car and returned to the kitchen for the next batch.
With the last load of containers stowed in the car, she paused to look up at the sky. Dark clouds swirled overhead, and the previously warm May breeze had a frigid edge. Gigi slid behind the wheel just as plump drops of rain splattered across the windshield and a jagged bolt of lightning rent the darkening sky.
People were running for cover along High Street, Woodstone’s main street, by the time Gigi got there. The wind swirled a sheet of newspaper down the gutter like a mini tornado, and a woman struggled with an inverted umbrella, her bright red skirt a blurry drop of color through Gigi’s rain-washed windshield. Gigi idled at the light and watched as the woman yanked open the door to Bon Appétit, the town’s gourmet and cookery shop, and disappeared inside.
The light changed, and Gigi slowly stepped on the gas. She passed the Book Nook, where she imagined she could see the vague outline of her friend and the owner, Sienna Paisley, through the rain-streaked window. Right next door was the Silver Lining, a jewelry store specializing in handcrafted pieces that tourists from Manhattan snapped up despite the stratospheric price tags. Gigi crested the hill that led away from town and toward rolling, green hills and open meadows. Right at the top of the hill stood the Woodstone Theater, a converted barn that was home to Woodstone’s amateur theater group.
Gigi pulled into the gravel parking lot and maneuvered as close to the front door as possible. Several of her clients would be there, busy rehearsing for the opening of Truth or Dare the first weekend in June, when tourists would swarm like unwelcome ants over the quaint and charming town of Woodstone.
Gigi stacked up containers for Barbie Bernhardt, Alice Slocum and the star of the upcoming play, Adora Sands. She was grateful that for lunch, at least, so many of her clients were grouped together. A short run down the other side of the hill and she would be able to deliver Martha’s four-hundred-calorie repast as well. It saved gas and wear and tear on the MINI. Gigi craned her neck. Although, maybe the extra trip wouldn’t be necessary. Wasn’t that Martha’s dark blue Honda Element in the back row next to the idling black Mercedes?
Gigi risked freeing one hand to pull open the front door to the theater. She held it wedged with her knee and crooked elbow as she slipped past and into the darkened foyer. Even though it was gloomy outside, the contrast still made her stop for a moment and blink. One of the inner doors was propped partially open, and a chink of light spilled across the foyer floor. Somewhere to the left she could hear hammering and someone humming, and from the theater itself she heard raised voices.
Gigi edged through the inner door and paused for a moment. The actors were assembled on stage, a man facing them. Gigi recognized him as Hunter Pierce, the play’s director. Although the theater was hot and stuffy, he was wearing a worn tweed jacket with patches at the elbow. His black hair was combed straight back, bits of scalp gleaming between the greasy strands.
He gestured toward the telephone that squatted on one of the tables onstage. “We must reset the phone.” He pointed a long, imperious index finger at a young stagehand in baggy overalls. “Move it to that table over there. It’s just not working where it is.” He waved at the other corner of the stage and stood back, watching as the young man repositioned the offending instrument.
Pierce clapped his hands. “Okay, costume call, everyone. Let’s go,” he lisped in his slightly effeminate voice.
A low grumbling rose from the stage.
“We’re hungry,” came a plaintive wail from upstage.
“And tired,” another voice added.
“And hot,” someone else contributed from downstage.
Pierce clapped his hands again, more briskly this time. “Costume call, please. We must act like professionals if we are going to give our audience a professional performance.”
“If we were professionals, we’d have Actors’ Equity to protect us, and we’d get breaks every hour and two hours for meals,” someone shouted from downstage.
Pierce pursed his lips in displeasure and craned his neck to see who had spoken.
“Gigi’s here with our lunch.” A woman—Gigi thought it was Alice Slocum—approached the edge of the stage and peered into the audience, a hand over her eyes to shade them from the stage lights.
“This will only take a minute.” Pierce snapped his fingers.
The cast reluctantly got in line and came and stood at the front of the stage while Pierce made notes on a clipboard, occasionally exchanging remarks with a mousy woman in a black dress who had appeared from backstage. She had pins in her mouth and bits and pieces of different-colored threads stuck to her bodice.
Alice stepped forward and turned slowly in a circle.
“Where’s the sweater?” Pierce flipped through several pages of notes. “The little blue cardigan?” He sketched an outline with his hands.
Alice stuck out her lower lip and blew a puff of air that flopped her frizzy gray bangs up and down. “It’s too hot.” She folded her arms across her chest and glared at Pierce over the footlights.
“I want to see the sweater,” Pierce lisped petulantly. “Don’t you understand? It positively defines your character.”
Alice raised an eyebrow.
Pierce sighed. “Sylvia is a cautious woman. And a modest one. She hides behind her clothes. The sweater gives her a feeling of being protected. You can’t really get a feel for Sylvia as a character without the sweater.”
Alice spun on her heel and exited the stage, a mulish look on her face.
“Next,” Pierce demanded.
Finally, the entire line had trooped dutifully past, including Alice, who had the blue cardigan draped over her shoulders.
“Adora? Where is Adora?” Pierce demanded, looking around. “Where has she gotten to? And Emilio?” He stalked up and down the stage muttering, “Very unprofessional,” under his breath.
Someone tapped Gigi on the shoulder, and she spun around with a stifled cry.
“I’m starving. Where’s my lunch?” a young man demanded.
Gigi began to stammer. The fellow wasn’t one of her clients. Did he think she’d brought food for everyone? He was wearing a T-shirt, shorts and heavy work boots and had cropped blond hair.
Gigi squinted at him. Could she possibly have forgotten a client?
“Adora. There you are.” Pierce leaned over the edge of the stage, wagging his finger. “Now where’s Emilio?”
Gigi squinted at the young man again and realized it was Adora Sands in costume for the part she was playing in Truth or Dare.
The androgynous outfit did little to hide Adora’s ample curves, which strained her thin cotton T-shirt and shorts as well as her credibility as the boyish Tina. The shorts were still way too tight. Adora had insisted on having them a size smaller in anticipation of losing weight. If she stuck with the twelve hundred calories of food Gigi delivered daily, she would certainly lose, but on more than one occasion, Gigi had noticed grease from chips on her fingers or a dab of chocolate at the corner of her mouth. Gigi sighed.
Adora took the container with her name neatly printed in the corner, whipped it open and stared at the contents. She’d pulled off the short wig, and her own blond tresses cascaded to her shoulders. “I could eat three of these,” she moaned, gesturing at the meal Gigi had delivered. “Pierce has been working us hard all morning. We’ve burned millions of calories, I’m sure.”
“Well, you can’t have mine,” said Barbie Bernhardt, clutching her container of food to her chest. She was pretty in a cotton candy kind of way and already had a figure to die for. But as the “trophy” second wife of rich investor Winston Bernhardt, she had to stay on her toes. Someone even younger, more attractive and with a better figure, might come along and snatch him away at any moment.
Which is exactly what Barbie herself had done, or so Gigi had heard—stealing Winston right out from under Martha Bernhardt’s nose. Barbie and Martha were icily polite with each other whenever their paths crossed, with Martha’s mouth set in a permanently bitter line and Barbie looking as smug as a cat that had discovered crème fraîche.