Steamed to Death Read online

  She would check out Abigail’s later that afternoon. She sighed. If she didn’t find anything she could afford, she supposed she could wear her old standby black dress. But maybe she would treat herself to a pin to freshen it up.

  • • •

  It was noon by the time Gigi drove down High Street toward Abigail’s, thinking about dinner at Auberge Rouge and the gorgeous outfit she would wear to really make Mertz sit up and take notice. Then she remembered her budget, and her spirits plummeted to below sea level. She would have to depend on nothing but her native attractiveness. Which she knew from experience wasn’t going to get her very far.

  Gigi dropped off a Gourmet De-Lite container of lunch for Madeline. For dinner, Madeline had a company function she couldn’t skip, and Gigi had advised her on smart food choices she could make in such situations to keep her on track. Gigi pulled the MINI into the lot between Declan’s and Gibson’s Hardware, averting her head as she drove past the large white sign that warned Parking for Patrons of Declan’s Grille and Gibson’s Hardware ONLY. If anyone said anything, she would claim that she was coming back to pick up some nails or screws.

  But first . . . Abigail’s. She crossed her fingers that Deirdre would have something wonderful for her—in stock and on sale.

  She was locking the doors of her MINI when she heard someone call her name. She froze. Was she busted already? Her parking excuse rose to her lips and then died when she turned around and saw who it was.

  “Declan.”

  “Hey.” He had a large plastic bag in one hand and was headed toward the Dumpster at the back of the restaurant. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”

  Gigi froze. She swore her blood actually stopped flowing in her veins. Declan had meant to call her? He smiled the sort of crooked half smile that made women swoon.

  “I’m developing a new menu for the upcoming season, and I hoped you’d give me some input.”

  Gigi fumbled with her car keys, trying to stuff them into her purse without upending the contents all over the macadam. So Declan hadn’t meant to call her in the usual sense. Disappointment nibbled at her innards. But then her Irish and Italian genes stood at attention and whispered in her ear, He’s only after a good time. Don’t waste your energy on him unless you’re sure you can handle that.

  “I’d be happy to help you.” She tried to inject the right amount of warmth into the sentence—enough to let him know she was flattered but nothing more.

  Declan gestured toward the restaurant. “The lunch crowd has gone, and I have a few minutes.” He raised an eyebrow in question.

  “Sure.” Gigi devoutly wished she’d taken more time with her hair—done anything at all with it for that matter. It was flying around her face in untamed curls. She was wearing clean jeans at least, and her black turtleneck sweater was a great backdrop for her fair skin and auburn hair.

  The restaurant was dim and quiet, the air permeated with earthy smells of roasted meats, pungent cheeses and yeasty ales. Declan immediately went behind the bar, and Gigi couldn’t help but eye his lean, muscular frame—more like that of a soccer player than a football player.

  He grabbed two glasses off the shelf and held them toward Gigi. “Drink?”

  “I don’t usually drink during the day,” Gigi stammered.

  “Just a sip then?” Declan popped the cap off a bottle of beer. He held it toward Gigi. “Bitter and Twisted. A rather unappetizing name, but it’s very smooth with a nice lemon finish. Try it?”

  “Okay.”

  Declan poured some for Gigi and slightly more for himself. “Cheers.” He held his glass up to be tapped.

  Gigi took a sip and wondered what on earth she was doing, drinking beer in the middle of the day, alone, with Declan McQuaid. The fact that it excited her more than scared her made her even more nervous.

  “What do you think?” Declan tipped his glass toward the beer in Gigi’s hand.

  Gigi licked the froth off the top of her lip. “It’s very good.”

  Declan leaned in close. “Can you taste the lemon?”

  Gigi rolled the liquid around and around in her mouth before swallowing. She frowned. “Yes. Yes, I can. It’s quite good,” she said with surprise.

  “I import it myself. I like to be able to offer my customers something a little different.” His elbows were on the counter, and he leaned toward Gigi.

  Gigi’s eyes met his, and she looked away quickly. “You mentioned developing a new menu?” she said to cover her awkwardness.

  Declan tossed back a sizeable quaff of his beer and wiped a hand across his mouth. “I can’t compete with your American Thanksgiving, so I plan to embrace it. There’s a turkey farm not far from here for some fresh birds.” He stared into his beer for a moment, stirring the foam with his index finger. He looked up at Gigi with a strange expression on his face. “You know people come in here talking about how they wish Al Forno was still here.”

  Gigi was startled. Declan’s parking lot was full whenever she went past, and the few times she’d been there, there had been a decent-size crowd.

  “People don’t like change,” Gigi said. She had firsthand experience with that herself—she’d resisted moving on after Ted’s desertion until Sienna had dragged her kicking and screaming to her new life in Connecticut.

  “I suppose you’re right.” Declan gave a sad approximation of a smile. “I will have to wow them with my food and the homey atmosphere and hope they forget that this wasn’t always Declan’s Grille.”

  Gigi nodded. “People need to get to know you as a person. For instance, Emilio was involved in the local theater.” Gigi felt a lump rising in her throat and hastily swallowed it away.

  “Can’t see myself doing that.” Declan gave his crooked smile again. “I’m a terrible actor.” He spread both hands out on the counter. “But I did have this idea . . .”

  He ducked his head.

  “Yes?”

  “You know that fellow who fell off his ladder while painting his house . . . Joe something-or-other?”

  Gigi nodded. “Yes, Joe Flanagan. His mother-in-law, Alice, is a friend of mine.”

  “I saw it in the paper.” Declan gestured toward a folded issue of the Woodstone Times tucked next to the cash register. “About how he can’t work because of his injuries, and the family is getting into debt.”

  “Alice is very worried about them.” Gigi often wondered if some of the money from Alice’s second job was going to help Joe and Stacy. “I gather Joe is on disability, but he’s used to taking on extra work to make ends meet, like providing security at parties, sporting events and the like.”

  “Here’s my plan, then.” Declan took a big swig of his beer. “I’m going to do a whole American Thanksgiving dinner—turkey, stuffing, all the trimmings. And”—he leveled a finger at Gigi, his eyes sparkling—“I’m going to donate all the profits to help out Joe and his family.”

  Gigi was speechless. She felt tears spring into her eyes at the thought of how relieved Alice would be when she heard.

  “It’s brilliant, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Gigi stammered. “Absolutely brilliant.”

  “I’m going to need some help, though.” Declan’s voice lowered to a dangerously seductive level.

  Gigi inched slightly backward, in full-on self-protection mode. “I’ll do anything I can . . .”

  “I’ll need some advice with the menu—not being a native myself.” Declan reached for another bottle of beer, uncapped it and held it over Gigi’s glass.

  She shook her head, which was already swirling more than enough.

  Declan poured himself another glass. “For instance . . .” He paused to take a sip. “Do you traditionally serve jacket potatoes or mash?” Gigi must have looked confused because Declan laughed and went on to explain. “We call them jacket potatoes, but I think you call them baked potatoes.”

  “Oh, mashed, definitely.” Gigi’s mouth watered at the thought. “And lots of stuffing and gravy. And creamed o
nions and cranberry sauce.”

  Declan smiled. “I knew you would be able to help me.”

  • • •

  Gigi left the restaurant with her head spinning from Declan’s presence as well as from the beer. She realized, as she hurried down the street toward Abigail’s, that she’d forgotten all about her evening dinner date with Mertz. She felt guilty as she pulled open the door to the boutique.

  A blast of richly perfumed air greeted Gigi as she entered. The shop was hushed and appeared empty, although Gigi heard someone moving around in the back. The beaded curtains were pushed to one side and Deirdre came out. Her dark hair was pulled off her face into a tight bun, and she was wearing an amber-colored sheath with her gold name tag pinned to the bodice.

  She smiled when she saw Gigi. “I just got in the perfect dress for you!”

  Gigi made a sad face. “I probably won’t be able to afford it.” Did she want to torture herself by having a look? Or worse, trying it on?

  “You must see it.” Deirdre went to one of the racks and clicked through the hangers. She pulled out an item and held it in front of Gigi.

  It was an exquisite dress, beautifully constructed and not too fancy. The blue-green would be perfect with Gigi’s coloring. She tried not to look at it too closely. She knew she couldn’t afford it. She couldn’t even afford to think about it. Or look at it. Or try it on.

  Gigi departed Abigail’s with a bright, shiny, new shopping bag on her arm and a huge dent in her bank account. Deirdre had given her a very good price for the dress, but it had still been extremely expensive—especially for someone who spent most of her time in jeans and T-shirts and a stained apron. Gigi didn’t know what had come over her. Why did she feel such a need to impress Mertz tonight? Was it the deafening sound of her biological clock ticking double time, or was she feeling guilty because of her attraction to Declan?

  She glanced at her watch and realized she’d have to hurry. She threw the dress in the backseat of the MINI and dashed out of the parking lot, bumping up and down over the curb in her haste.

  She felt a burning sense of shame over her spontaneous purchase that had her stomping on the gas and speeding down High Street in her irritation with herself.

  She arrived at Felicity’s house, parked her car and headed quickly for the kitchen.

  She put together a simple boeuf bourguignon, browning the meat and onions carefully for maximum flavor. Anja was feeling slightly better and thought she would be up to doing the final preparations and the serving. Gigi put the stew in the oven and wiped down the counters. Almost time to go home and primp for her date with Mertz.

  Date. The word hit her over the head with the force of a rogue rolling pin. She and Mertz were actually going on a date. She hadn’t been on a date in years. A few well-meaning friends had tried to fix her up after Ted left, but the evenings had been disasters. The men were all wrong, and Gigi hadn’t been ready. This date, however, had possibilities. And that thought scared Gigi half to death.

  Gigi was alternately dreaming about and feeling guilty over the new dress waiting in the bag from Abigail’s. It would take some digging, but she knew she had the perfect pair of shoes somewhere in the depths of her closet—left over from her New York days. High-heeled, black suede peep-toes. They didn’t make them much more “come hither” than that.

  Gigi had gone to the Auberge Rouge Web site and checked out their menu. She didn’t want to be distracted by Mertz’s presence as she tried to decide what to order. So far she’d narrowed it down to the osso bucco—a wonderful dish that took many hours to prepare—or the duck with wild rice and lingonberries. Duck wasn’t something she generally made for herself, and she hadn’t had it since that French restaurant Ted had taken her to for their last anniversary, ten days before he announced he was leaving. She’d had a strange aversion to duck for several years afterward, but it had finally passed.

  Gigi was tossing her soiled apron into the laundry when she heard a peculiar noise.

  She stopped for a moment and listened. The noise became louder and clearer. Gigi dashed into the hallway where she nearly collided with Anja, who had half run, half fallen down the stairs. Her mouth was open in another scream, but she managed to stifle it when she saw Gigi.

  “What is it?” Gigi grabbed her by the shoulders.

  Anja’s mouth moved, but nothing came out.

  Gigi gave her a gentle shake. “What’s wrong?”

  “Derek,” Anja bleated.

  “Is he ill?”

  Anja shook her head, and her blond hair spun wildly around her face. “No.”

  “What is it, then?” Gigi demanded.

  “He’s dead.”

  Chapter 15

  Gigi felt the blood drain from her face and rush south toward her feet. For one moment, she thought she might faint, but she took a deep, restorative breath and steadied herself.

  Perhaps Anja was mistaken. She had to be mistaken. Maybe Derek had been experimenting with drugs and had taken something that had put him in a coma-like state?

  Gigi mounted the stairs slowly, not looking forward to what she was going to find. Anja was uttering little cries of anguish under her breath and twisting a handkerchief around and around in her fingers. Gigi wanted to scream at her to stop.

  Derek’s bedroom was that of a young man in transition between childhood and adulthood. A pinup of some scantily clad celebrity jostled for space on a wall crowded with Harry Potter posters. One shelf on the bookcase was given over to model cars while the others were crammed with textbooks, popular magazines and the latest thrillers.

  Derek looked as if he were sleeping, but when Gigi dared to get close enough to check, she realized he wasn’t breathing. She stifled the scream that rose in her throat.

  “We’d better call nine-one-one.”

  Anja didn’t move, and Gigi had to take her by the arm and lead her back into the hallway.

  “You stay here.” She shepherded Anja to a padded velvet bench at the top of the stairs. “And make sure no one goes in there.” Gigi already had one foot on the top stair. “I’ll get my cell phone and call the police.”

  Gigi gave a doubtful backward glance at Anja as she headed down the stairs. The woman was dreadfully pale, and Gigi prayed she wouldn’t faint. Maybe she should have told her to put her head down?

  She nearly fell down the last steps and ran directly into Winchel.

  “Oh.”

  “In a hurry?”

  Gigi took a deep breath. She didn’t want to tell him about Derek until she’d already called the police. “I left something on the stove,” she fibbed, feeling the usual stab of guilt that was a relic from her Catholic school days. Even white lies, told to protect someone’s feelings, caused her a pang of remorse.

  Fortunately Winchel merely nodded and continued down the hall toward the library.

  Gigi dug her cell phone out of her jacket pocket and, with shaking fingers, punched in 9-1-1. Then she walked down the seemingly endless hall to the library to break the news to Winchel.

  • • •

  Winchel heard her out, his face etched in stoic lines, only the clenching of his jaw betraying the slightest hint of emotion.

  “Can I get you a drink?” Gigi asked.

  “Thanks.” Winchel put his head in his hands, and Gigi thought she heard him groan.

  She fixed him a scotch and water that was more scotch than water and put it on the desk. He didn’t look up as she tiptoed from the room. Hopefully he would have a few moments of peace before the police arrived.

  Five minutes later, Gigi heard the front door open and then Winchel’s deep voice. The police had obviously arrived. She waited in the kitchen, listening to the sound of footsteps overhead punctuated by the occasional shouted command. She thought perhaps she ought to make some tea. It would do her and Anja good, if nothing else.

  Gigi was pouring out hot water when a quiet knock at the back door startled her. A few drops of boiling water landed on the top of her hand, and s
he winced. She pulled open the door, wondering if one of the policemen had gone around back.

  Alice was standing on the doorstep, her gray hair caught by the wind and tossed around her face.

  “I heard the news at the station, and I hoped that you’d be here.” She was breathless.

  Gigi opened the door wider. “I’m making some tea. You look as if you could use a good, hot cup.”

  “It is getting cold out there.” Alice threw her jacket over one of the kitchen chairs. She sat down at the table opposite Gigi and cupped her hands around the mug of warm tea Gigi handed her. “Terrible about that young man. Even if he did strike me as rather useless.” Alice took a sip of her tea and looked up at Gigi. “It looks as if our chief suspect is now dead.”

  “I know.” Gigi’s shoulders slumped. She sighed.

  “How is Winchel taking it?”

  “Stoically, of course.”

  Alice nodded. “Just as you’d expect.”

  “How is Stacy?”

  Alice frowned. “You can imagine. Now that Joe can’t work, she’s even more unhappy. They’ve got that huge mortgage on that big house. Why she talked him into it, I’ll never know. She might have to get a job herself, and she’s not at all happy about it. Most of her friends are staying home, but they have children to care for.” Alice stared into her tea. “She knows I’ve always worked. Even when her father was alive, I did something part-time to help out. If we wanted things, we knew we had to earn the money for them. Kids!” She threw her hands in the air. “They want everything handed to them today.”

  Gigi thought about Declan’s fund-raising plans and nearly opened her mouth but clamped it shut quickly. It wasn’t up to her to tell Alice about it.

  Gigi glanced at her watch and was startled when she saw the time. She had to get home and start getting ready for her dinner with Mertz. She was about to retrieve her new dress from the coat closet to show Alice when she heard someone walking down the corridor toward the kitchen, their sharp footsteps striking the wood floor with the sound of authority.

  Gigi looked up to find Mertz framed in the doorway, a very apologetic look on his face.