Allergic to Death Page 11

  “Lara said she had plain, short hair, not very tall, rather severe.”

  Sienna snorted. “That describes half the population of Woodstone. It doesn’t prove it was Martha.”

  “It had to have been. Why else would Carlo get so upset?”

  Sienna turned her tea around and around in her hands. “True. You’re probably right. That’s not like Carlo.” She stared into her mug for several long seconds. “So, if that was Martha, and things didn’t go well with the dinner, chances are she would have been giving them a pretty bad review. Assuming she’d been planning to review Al Forno in the first place.”

  “It could have ruined them. Like that other place—”

  “The Woodstone River Grill?”

  Gigi nodded. “They closed shortly after Martha’s review appeared in the Woodstone Times.”

  Sienna frowned. “Then that gives Carlo a pretty good motive for murder, doesn’t it?” She looked up at Gigi, her face pinched and her mouth drawn downward.

  Gigi’s face mirrored Sienna’s. “I’m afraid so.”

  Traffic crawled through downtown Woodstone. Gigi sat behind a double-parked Sweet Kleen laundry van and watched as the numbers on her dashboard clock ticked toward the hour. The offices of the Woodstone Times would be locking their doors any minute now, and she had no idea whether Devon Singleton would leave with the staff or not. There was no point in even blowing her horn, since the van’s driver was still inside the Woodstone Medical Group with his delivery.

  And she had to get home, fill her Gourmet De-Lite containers, and get them delivered. Fortunately, dinner was cooking itself today—the slow cooker was a wonderful tool for producing low-fat dishes. Tonight it was a savory beef barbecue that she would serve over whole-grain buns with a low-fat coleslaw.

  The thought of food made her feel slightly queasy. She couldn’t believe Carlo would murder anyone—not even the acerbic Martha. But if Martha had been planning to pan Al Forno, it really was quite possible. She wasn’t in love with Carlo, no matter what Sienna thought, but the idea of his not being there behind the counter of Al Forno as usual made the area in the region of her heart ache in a strange way.

  A sharp-faced woman in a long denim skirt and Birkenstock sandals was locking the front door to the Woodstone Times when Gigi got there, hot and breathless.

  “Has Mr. Singleton gone?” she panted. The only parking place she’d been able to find was in the lot at the other end of High Street.

  The woman paused in the process of putting her key in the lock and looked at Gigi. “We’re closed.” She turned the key decisively.

  “Yes, I can see that, but I need to talk to Mr. Singleton. If he’s here.”

  The woman gave a sigh that heaved her sloping shoulders up and down. “Suppose it’s okay.” She slid the key back into the lock, turned it and pushed the door open with one broad hip. “Devon,” she called through cupped hands. “Someone here wants to see you.”

  “All right,” came the grumbled reply from somewhere down the hall.

  “I’ll be going then.” The woman headed toward the glass-fronted door.

  Gigi perched on a chair in front of the reception desk and flipped through a dog-eared copy of the previous day’s paper. Finally she heard footsteps shuffling down the hall. She realized she’d never met Devon Singleton before. She also realized she had no idea what she was going to say.

  She’d been expecting an older man, Gigi realized, as Devon Singleton ambled into the reception area, running a hand through black hair that was already standing on end. He looked to be about twenty-five years old and was wearing low-slung jeans with a rip at one knee and a faded white T-shirt upon which the red letters BU were faintly visible.

  “Hey,” he said, and stood looking at Gigi, one foot on top of the other, one hand scratching his belly.

  “Devon Singleton?”

  He nodded and gave a grin that made him look even younger. “What’s up?” He tilted his head to the side and stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. “Sorry. I haven’t been getting much sleep. New baby.” And he grinned again.

  “Congratulations.” When had newspaper editors become so young? Gigi wondered.

  He gestured behind him. “Want to go sit in my office? I left my coffee on the desk.”

  “Sure.” Gigi followed him down the hallway, where framed copies of the front pages of the Woodstone Times were hung every few feet.

  Devon’s office was surprisingly neat, with an aerodynamic computer chair and an ergonomic keyboard. A Nerf ball hoop stood in one corner and a scrolling computerized picture frame was in a prominent position on his desk.

  He picked up a cardboard container of coffee from the Woodstone Beanery and motioned toward a low-slung chair in front of his desk.

  Gigi sat down, and her knees immediately jackknifed to a position under her chin. She hoped she didn’t look as stupid as she felt.

  Devon threw himself into his chair and took a big gulp of his coffee. “So, what’s up?” He glanced at the picture frame, where a drooling baby was staring up at the camera.

  Gigi fiddled with the strap of her purse. She couldn’t just come right out and ask him if Martha was planning to review Al Forno, could she? She cleared her throat. Devon was still staring at the rotating pictures of his new baby. What if she pretended to have some connection to Al Forno? Devon wouldn’t be likely to know one way or the other.

  “It’s about Al Forno, actually.”

  Devon reluctantly peeled his eyes away from his newborn to glance at Gigi. “The place down the street?”

  “You know it?”

  “Sure.” He poked a finger through the hole in the knee of his jeans and scratched idly. “Can’t afford it now, though. Even if we could get a sitter.”

  Gigi nodded and wet her lips. Here goes nothing, she thought. “I’m doing some freelance marketing for Al Forno.” She put both hands behind her back and crossed her fingers. She still couldn’t tell even a tiny white lie without thinking of the nuns back in grade school.

  Devon nodded, and his head swiveled back to the baby pictures.

  “And I’m wondering…” Gigi cleared her throat again. “Are there any plans for the Woodstone Times to review Al Forno?”

  Devon tore his gaze from the baby pictures long enough to look slightly startled. “I guess you didn’t hear about Martha. Martha Bernhardt. She’d been reviewing for the Woodstone Times for, like, forever—”

  “Yes. I heard about what happened. Terrible, just terrible.” Gigi tried to look suitably sad. She really was sad, but if she started to think about it now, she wouldn’t be able to concentrate. “Are there any plans for anyone to take her place? Not that anyone could, of course…”

  Devon grunted.

  “And maybe they would consider reviewing my client’s restaurant.”

  “It’s funny…” Devon began, when his attention was caught by a particularly adorable baby picture that had rotated to the screen. It changed again, back to the beginning this time, and he returned his attention to Gigi.

  “What’s funny?” she prompted encouragingly.

  “Well, Martha told me she was planning for her next review to be Al Forno. As a matter of fact, she said she was really looking forward to it.”

  “So Martha was planning on reviewing Al Forno.”

  “Apparently.” Gigi sighed. “And now she’s dead. Murdered.” She choked the word out.

  Sienna rolled a wide swath of white paint across a piece of scenery intended to suggest part of the elegant drawing room that was the setting for the first act of Truth or Dare. She had a smudge of paint on the end of her nose and a streak of it through her golden hair.

  Gigi sat with her back against a large armoire that would be wheeled into place during the third act while Sienna worked on her piece of scenery. She’d volunteered to help in order to keep busy during Oliver’s increasing absences.

  “Do you really think she was murdered because of that? I mean, a bad review isn’t life or
death.”

  “It isn’t, of course, but it depends on how you look at it. If Al Forno closed because of it, where would Carlo and Emilio be? I’m pretty sure Emilio only got a visa because he’s helping Carlo with the restaurant.”

  “But still”—Sienna dipped her roller in paint—“I can’t picture either Emilio or Carlo murdering Martha.”

  “Maybe they just wanted to scare her, or delay the review, and things backfired. It’s not like they held a gun to her head or stabbed her in cold blood. All they had to do was add some peanuts to the food I’d prepared and then let nature take its course.”

  Gigi sprang to her feet and began pacing. “Remember the day Martha was killed? Someone had stolen her purse. Why? She said she didn’t have much money in it—barely more than a five dollar bill.”

  “Maybe the thief was after something else?” Sienna dipped her roller in the paint tray again and ran it back and forth to remove the excess paint.

  Gigi stared out into the darkened theater where the ghost light flickered feebly—a light left burning to prevent hapless actors from breaking their necks when entering an unlit theater, or to keep ghosts at bay, depending on your beliefs. “If not money, then what?”

  Gigi thought back to the times she’d seen Martha at the theater or around town. She always carried the same purse—a large, black leather satchel with handles that she looped over her arm or tucked over her shoulder. She closed her eyes and tried to picture it more clearly. She snapped her fingers and whirled around toward Sienna.

  “Her notebook,” she announced triumphantly. “It was spiral bound with a brown cover. About so big.” She held her hands about six inches apart. “I saw her at the Woodstone Diner once, making notes in it. Then, when she came to ask me about Gigi’s Gourmet De-Lite, she wrote everything down in the same notebook.”

  Sienna stopped mid-roll. A blob of white paint dripped onto her foot, but she didn’t notice it. “And maybe her notes about her dining experience at Al Forno were in the same notebook.”

  Gigi paced faster, her hands clenched in front of her. “And maybe that’s why her purse had to disappear.” She whirled around to face Sienna. “Carlo said something when he was helping me prepare the lunches for Branston Foods.” Gigi realized she still hadn’t heard from Victor Branston, but she pushed the thought out of her mind. “He said Adora is hiding chip bags in the prop box.”

  Sienna pointed the roller at Gigi, and another blob of white paint slid down her calf and landed on her big toe. “And how would he know that if he hadn’t been going in there himself?” Sienna made a wide gesture with the roller and paint splattered in every direction, like an airborne Jackson Pollock. “He stole Martha’s purse with her notebook and stuffed it in the prop box.”

  Gigi and Sienna whirled around as one and headed for the prop box. They lifted the lid and began to root through the contents. Finally, they pulled out the last item—a rather moth-eaten stuffed bear—and stared into the now-empty depths.

  “Okay, there’s nothing here now, but what if this was merely a temporary hiding place?”

  Sienna looked at Gigi with one eyebrow raised.

  “Okay, let’s go back to the day Martha’s purse was stolen.” Gigi had a sudden flashback to Martha’s car swerving unsteadily across the yellow line before heading straight at the roundabout and the sturdy oak tree in its center. She rubbed a hand across her forehead. “Someone—and we don’t know who that is yet,” she added defiantly, “steals Martha’s purse. This place is crawling with people. I’ve just arrived with the lunches, Barbie flits out to have lunch in the car with Winston. Who knows who else was coming and going at the time.”

  “So this person has this purse, which, of course, they can’t possibly be seen with,” Sienna added.

  “Yes.” Gigi turned on her heel and began pacing in the other direction. “So what do they do?” She looked up at Sienna.

  “Ditch it,” Sienna said succinctly, “in the prop box.” She pointed to the wooden steamer trunk with its lid flung back.

  Gigi nodded. “But they can’t leave it where it is. Anyone might go into the prop box at any time.”

  “Especially Adora, who is hiding goodies in there.”

  “That’s right. So, as soon as no one is looking, they retrieve the purse and take it with them to—”

  “Dispose of it somewhere else.”

  Gigi whirled around. “The question is where.”

  “There.” Sienna pointed out the open stage door at a hulking, rectangular-shaped object, shrouded in darkness, squatting next to the theater.

  “The Dumpster?”

  Sienna nodded. “Come on. Let’s go check it out.” Sienna grabbed Gigi by the arm and pulled her through the open door.

  Gigi’s stomach did flip-flops as unappetizing aromas drifted toward them on the warm, humid air.

  “How are we going to get in there?” Sienna stood on tiptoe and peered over the edge of the Dumpster. “I can’t see anything from here.”

  “Is there a stool around here somewhere?”

  “There’s one in the dressing room. I’ll get it. Be right back,” Sienna tossed over her shoulder as she headed toward the back door of the theater.

  Gigi stood in the darkness, trying to quell the faint sense of nausea caused by the smells wafting from the Dumpster and the thought of having to get up close and personal with its odiferous contents.

  An owl hooted in the distance, and she jumped. Goose bumps prickled along her arms and legs. She glanced toward the door, willing Sienna to hurry. Being out here alone in the dark was giving her the creeps.

  The door opened, and a rectangular chink of light spread across the gravel drive. Sienna eased through the opening, holding the stool in front of her, much like a lion tamer.

  “This is the tallest one I could find.” She set it next to the Dumpster.

  Gigi put a hand on Sienna’s shoulder and stepped up onto the stool. It put her waist-high with the top of the Dumpster. She leaned over the edge and peered into the darkness. “You didn’t, by any chance, happen to grab a flashlight while you were at it, did you?”

  Sienna shook her head. “No, but we can turn that light on at least.” She pointed toward a bare floodlight hanging over the back door to the theater.

  Gigi gripped the edge of the Dumpster and swallowed hard. The smell was much worse up there. She closed her eyes and tried to remember why she was doing this and how important it was to find out just what had happened to poor Martha. Because if she didn’t, she was pretty sure the public planned on pinning it on her. They might call it an accident, but it would ruin her business nonetheless.

  The bulb flashed on, and the top of the Dumpster was illuminated with watery light. A quick glance told Gigi that Martha’s purse wasn’t part of the top layer. She leaned over the edge, held her breath, and began pushing the contents to one side. She just prayed she’d find Martha’s handbag without actually having to get in the Dumpster. Her stomach was giving little warning heaves as it was.

  Gigi jumped down from the stool, and they dragged it to the other end of the Dumpster.

  “Want me to try this time?”

  Gigi shook her head. “I’m already up to my elbows in ick.” She held her hands away from her. “No need for both of us to get dirty.”

  Once again, Gigi gingerly sifted through the contents she could reach—discarded tissues clotted with face cream and makeup remover, rotting banana peels, half-eaten sandwiches and crumpled-up wads of paper. Something black and leather-looking was sticking up out of the disgusting morass. Gigi stretched out a hand, but it was just beyond reach. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked like it might possibly be a strap from a handbag. Then again, perhaps that was just wishful thinking.

  She stood on tiptoe and reached forward again.

  “Careful. You’re going to fall in.” Sienna rushed forward and grabbed Gigi around the ankles.

  Gigi shuddered. There wouldn’t be enough water and soap in the world to make her fe
el clean after tumbling around in this disgusting stuff.

  With Sienna’s grasp strong on her legs, she reached even farther. This time her fingertips brushed the object briefly. It definitely felt like a leather strap. She took a deep breath, heaved herself up a little higher onto the edge of the Dumpster and stretched.

  Gigi’s feet shot out from under her, and Sienna lost her grip on her ankles. For a moment, Gigi teeter-tottered on the edge, flailing for purchase with her feet and failing.

  She tumbled headfirst into the putrid contents of the Dumpster.

  “What’s that smell?” Sienna sniffed and looked around her.

  “It’s me!” Gigi declared on an anguished note. “I can’t wait to get home and shower. I can barely stand myself.”

  “Phew, you can say that again.” Sienna pulled a cord, and the theater passage lit up. “Let’s take it in here.” She pushed open the door to the dressing room and felt along the wall for a switch. “There’s a sink, so you can at least wash your hands and face.”

  As tempted as she was, Gigi couldn’t wait to begin exploring the notebook she’d unearthed from the contents of the Dumpster. A quick glance had revealed that it was most definitely Martha’s. They may not have found Martha’s purse—the leather strap had turned out to be a black plastic garbage handle—but this was even better.

  Gigi peeled back the cover and glanced at the first page. It was college-ruled in grayish blue. Martha’s handwriting had been small, neat and precise. Her notes were easy to read.

  Gigi flipped through the pages. With each one, her heart thudded harder and harder until she could hear it echoing in her ears like a drumbeat. She came to some notes about Sprouted Goodness, the new health food restaurant on Cherry Street. She remembered the review. She read through Martha’s notes. Yes, she hadn’t like Sprouted Goodness all that much—the wait staff had been pretentious and the bread moldy. A few pages beyond she found Martha’s reactions to Surf and Turf—a place catering to the weekend and summer crowd and their opinion that the best meal included either lobster or steak.