Steamed to Death Read online

  “Really?” Gigi said, picturing the gorgeous string of diamonds that had so recently graced Vanessa’s wrist.

  “I didn’t know if we’d ever sell that piece, it being so expensive, but she didn’t hesitate for a minute. Tried it on and said she’d take it, just like that.” Bea snapped her fingers.

  “I wouldn’t want that credit card bill,” Gigi said, not so subtly digging for more information.

  “Oh, she didn’t charge it,” Bea said, her eyes round. “She handed me a check.” She shook her head. “I was a little reluctant at first on account of the check was from a third party. But then the third party was Cornelius Vandenberg, the well-known collector. I can’t imagine he’d be writing bad checks, can you?”

  Gigi reassured her that the check would most likely sail through the clearance process, and then made her way back down the stairs toward the MINI where Reg had his face pressed to the driver’s side window, leaving a horizontal string of nose prints.

  As Gigi unlocked the door, she mulled over what Bea had told her. How had Vanessa come by a check from Cornelius Vandenberg large enough to buy one of the most expensive items in Bea’s jewelry store?

  Vandenberg was a well-known collector specializing in pieces related to television, particularly its early days. His collection included the uniform Lucille Ball had worn in the famed chocolate factory episode of I Love Lucy, Rob Petrie’s typewriter from The Dick Van Dyke Show and Fonzie’s motorcycle from Happy Days. Had Vanessa sold him something?

  She must have, or why else would he have given her a check? Gigi mulled this over as she drove down High Street. It was already getting dark, and the streetlamps cast an orange glow on the rain-slicked street.

  Vandenberg ran a gallery in New York City where he bought and sold bits and pieces of his collection. Gigi made a mental note to pay the gallery a visit in the near future.

  Chapter 22

  By the time Gigi finished work and got home later that evening, she was unusually tired. Maybe she was coming down with something? She hoped not. She couldn’t wait to kick off her shoes, don her sweats and spend at least ten minutes playing fetch with Reggie. Then she was going to crack open the bottle of inexpensive Chardonnay chilling in the fridge.

  Gigi headed toward her bedroom and was reaching for her sweats when she changed her mind. Why bother? She would only be getting undressed again later. She pulled her most comfortable pair of flannel pajamas from the drawer—the ones with the reindeer on them that her mother had given her for Christmas when she was still in college. She was rushing the season slightly, but no one would see her. Besides, the flannel was worn and soft. They were the pajama equivalent of her comfort sweater.

  Five minutes of fetch tired Reg out, and he retired to the rug in front of the back door. Gigi got the Chardonnay out of the fridge and had to wrestle with the cork. It came out partway, then broke off. She ended up shoving the cork back into the bottle and then straining the wine into her glass. No matter, it tasted just as satisfying.

  She took her glass over to the comfy chair and ottoman in her tiny living room. She was too tired to even bother with dinner. She made herself a plate of cheese and crackers and a bowl of popcorn. She had a little of each and then a sip of her Chardonnay. Who knew white wine and popcorn were such a mellifluous pairing?

  Gigi turned on the television and flipped through a number of channels before settling on some bridal show. She watched as women were submerged in enormous and intricate ball gowns. She thought about Vanessa. Was she hoping to become Mrs. Jack Winchel number three? Did she know about Winchel’s financial troubles? If the rumors were even true. Winchel’s second check to Gigi had cleared without a hitch.

  Gigi’s head dropped back against the chair cushion, and her eyes were closing when the doorbell rang. Gigi jumped and splashed Chardonnay on her pajama bottoms. Who could that be at this hour? Was it Sienna or Alice come for a visit?

  Gigi cracked open the front door and peered around the edge. Standing on the step, silhouetted against the glare from the overhead light, was Detective Mertz.

  Gigi glanced down at her attire and cursed the thought that had made her opt for her pj’s instead of her sweats.

  Too late now. Gigi pulled open the door and invited him in with as much aplomb as she could muster.

  She thought she saw a smile cross Mertz’s face, but it was impossible to be sure since it was gone as quickly as the flap of a bird’s wings.

  “Would you care for some wine?”

  “Why not?” Mertz ran a hand across his face. “I’m off duty.”

  Gigi rummaged in the kitchen cabinet and returned with a second glass. She poured the Chardonnay and handed it to Mertz.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you.” He gestured with the glass toward Gigi’s nightclothes.

  She shook her head. “No. Not all. I just wanted to be comfortable.” Gigi thought Mertz’s eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch, and she felt heat suffusing her face. “Please sit down.” Gigi moved Reg’s rather tattered-looking blanket from the sofa.

  Mertz sat gingerly on the very edge, his hands knitted together in his lap. He looked very uncomfortable, and Gigi wondered why he had come.

  He took a sip of his wine and cleared his throat. “I’ve come to . . . to . . .” A fit of coughing cut off the rest of his sentence.

  Gigi didn’t know whether she should pat him on the back or fetch him a glass of water. She sat on the sofa next to him and, deciding on the former, rather gingerly patted his back.

  “Sorry about that.” Mertz wiped away the tears that had sprung to his eyes. He ducked his head. “I wanted to say I was sorry for last night.” He took a huge gulp of his wine, sputtered briefly and continued. “I should have warned you that we were bringing your friend in for questioning, but I didn’t want to ruin our evening.”

  He looked glum. “I’m sorry. It only made things worse for you. I understand that now.”

  Gigi was floored. Mertz was actually . . . apologizing! She glanced at his sharp profile, and her stomach did a sudden flip-flop. He really was very handsome. She realized suddenly that their thighs were touching.

  Mertz turned toward her, and now their faces were inches apart. Gigi’s breath caught in her throat. She found herself focusing on Mertz’s lips, and she had to force her gaze to meet his eyes. What she saw there made her heart nearly stop beating. He leaned toward her, closer and closer . . .

  Gigi panicked. “Can I get you some more wine?”

  Gigi bit her lip. What a fool she was! Why hadn’t she let Mertz kiss her? She wanted him to kiss her—quite badly actually. She realized that the last time she’d kissed a man it had been Ted as he left for work the day that ended with his telling her he was leaving her. Hardly the most romantic experience. Too late now. She could only hope that Mertz would give it another try.

  “I’m fine, thanks.” Mertz gave a bemused smile. “By the way, we got the autopsy results in and they indicate that Derek was smothered, possibly by a pillow. The same tranquilizers that were found in Felicity’s system were also found in his, although there’s no way to determine if he took them himself or if he was doped. But what they didn’t find were any needle marks or any indication that he’d been given insulin.”

  “That’s wonderful news.” Gigi was thoughtful for a moment. “Someone was trying to set Sienna up.”

  “Could be.” Mertz agreed. “Anyway, I thought you’d want to know.” He put his glass down and stood up. “I’d better be going.” He glanced at his watch.

  Gigi stood, too, and followed him to the front door. “Thanks for coming. I appreciate your taking the time to fill me in on things.” She opened the door, and Mertz stepped onto the front steps. Gigi started to close the door. “It’s such a relief knowing that Sienna and Oliver aren’t going to be bothered anymore by the police and can concentrate on the coming baby.”

  Mertz put his index finger against the door and pushed it open wider. He stuck his head around the edge. His mouth was s
et in a grim line. He hung his head briefly. “I don’t even know how to tell you this.”

  “What?” Gigi’s heart began to pound.

  “The chief is zeroing in on Oliver as our prime suspect. We think he was having an affair with Felicity, and he was furious when she leaked that story to the newspapers and gossip columns.” He hung his head again. “There’s really nothing I can do about it. If he’s innocent”—Mertz shrugged—“it will be proven soon enough.”

  He pulled the door closed in back of him, and Gigi stood stock-still in the middle of the living room for several moments. Then she threw one of the sofa cushions at the closed door.

  She wondered if Mertz heard it hit.

  • • •

  Gigi lay in bed, acutely conscious of the fact that she’d set the alarm clock for an hour earlier than usual. She now had to prepare and deliver breakfast to both Madeline and Bea. Also, Winchel had asked her, begged her almost, to prepare a lunch for his board meeting. They were convening at his house, and he didn’t want to have to take the time to go to a restaurant.

  She knew the minute her head hit the pillow that it was going to take her an eternity to fall asleep. She couldn’t get her conversation with Mertz out of her mind. Especially the part where she thought he was going to kiss her. And how she’d desperately wanted him to kiss her, but she’d blown it.

  Gigi finally did fall asleep with Reg curled up snugly against the crook of her legs. In what seemed like only minutes, the alarm shrilled in the quiet morning, and she slapped it shut for another ten minutes. It rang again, and she slipped from bed, did a few rudimentary stretches that Reg watched with amusement, and slipped into her bathrobe.

  Gigi dressed, prepared her clients’ breakfasts, downing only a cup of coffee herself, and then packed the containers in the backseat of her MINI. Reg joined her in his accustomed spot in the front. His nose twitched, and for a moment it looked as if he were going to jump into the backseat to explore the Mexican egg tortillas Gigi had packed in her Gourmet De-Lite containers. Fortunately, a stern look and word from Gigi had him turning back around. He heaved a huge sigh and contented himself with looking out the window.

  Gigi delivered the breakfasts as quickly as she could and headed toward Felicity’s house. When she arrived, several cars were already parked in the driveway, including a long, black limousine whose driver was busying himself polishing the already immaculate hood with a cloth.

  Gigi went in through the back door, hung her coat on one of the hooks in the mudroom and grabbed a clean apron from the stash in the cupboard. Reggie and Tabitha romped around each other in a circle until Gigi shooed them out of the way. They scattered to a place near the stove, and Gigi went into the butler’s pantry. She was surveying the available serving platters when she heard raised voices coming from the direction of the library.

  Gigi tiptoed toward the swinging door into the dining room and pushed it open a couple of inches. The voices were louder, but she still couldn’t make out what they were saying. It was obvious, though, that a very heated argument was going on. Gigi wondered if it had to do with Winchel supposedly losing so much money.

  Gigi peered around the edge of the door. The dining room was empty. Anja had already set the table, and there was an air of expectancy about the room. Gigi skirted the enormous table and tiptoed toward the doorway and into the hall.

  The voices were even louder now and slightly clearer. Gigi caught the words exposed us all, and if the Feds get wind of it, before she heard footsteps on the stairs. She hastened back to the dining room where she was pretending to straighten a napkin when Anja came in.

  Anja gave her a questioning look but didn’t say anything. Gigi whistled tunelessly, trying to look innocent as she made her way back to the kitchen.

  Gigi spent the morning peeling, chopping and dicing while thinking about what she’d heard. Exposed us all. And if the Feds get wind of it. She knew very little about finance, but the first thought that popped into her mind was insider trading. Was that what Winchel was up to? Was he desperately trying to make up for the money he’d lost? Felicity had a lot of money to leave—half to Derek and half to Winchel. Maybe Winchel had gotten greedy?

  Gigi indicated to Anja that the meal was ready. Anja moved in and out of the room silently, filling platters with the food and delivering them to the dining room. Once again it was a buffet meal, elegantly displayed on the sideboard.

  Gigi was finishing a cheese sauce when her mind went blank. Suddenly she couldn’t remember the ingredients or the order of preparation. Sweat broke out around her hairline and under her arms. Was she having some kind of nervous breakdown? Things had been awfully stressful of late. Maybe she needed to find some way to relax—yoga, or jogging or meditation. Gigi wiped a hand across her sweaty brow, but the harder she tried to concentrate, the more elusive the information became, like wisps of gray smoke disappearing on the wind. She looked around the kitchen. Felicity had a stash of cookbooks neatly arranged in a large wooden breakfront.

  Gigi scanned the titles quickly and reached for a tattered volume labeled The Art of Cooking. She knew she would find what she needed within its pages. She’d also find seriously esoteric directions on how to skin a squirrel and the correct temperature for cooking head cheese.

  The volume flopped open to the index, and Gigi ran her finger down the list of C’s. Finally, she found what she was looking for. Cheese sauce.

  As she began thumbing through the book, it yawned open at a crack in the binding. Gigi was about to start over when she noticed a newspaper clipping had been tucked between the pages. She eased it out carefully. It was yellowing but not yet brittle. The date at the top was from four years ago.

  Gigi absentmindedly sat on one of the stools tucked under the kitchen island and began to read. Along with the article was a black-and-white photograph of a young woman with blond hair, and the headline read, “Maid Arrested for Stealing.” Gigi skimmed the article. It appeared that this woman, Monica Tuomi, had been employed by Felicity, and Felicity had accused her of stealing. The woman in the picture looked vaguely familiar, but Gigi couldn’t have met her because all this had happened before she moved to Woodstone. She wondered what had happened to the case. Perhaps Mertz would know.

  It was a shame that Gigi had sworn to herself to never, ever talk to him again.

  Chapter 23

  Gigi wasn’t sure why, but she carefully tucked the discolored clipping into the pocket of her jeans. Maybe she would ask someone else if they knew anything about it.

  She finished plating the lunches, and Anja ferried the last dish out to the dining room. Gigi untied her apron and tossed it into the hamper in the mudroom. Reg and Tabitha had given up begging for treats and were snoozing under the kitchen table. Gigi started to run a hand through her hair but then stopped. What a mess she must look! She still had to drop off Madeline’s and Bea’s lunches—it might be best to tidy up before she went out in public.

  She didn’t want to use the first-floor powder room in case any of Winchel’s guests might need it, but there was a bathroom on the third floor between the room that Sienna had used as an office and the one that had been given to Anja. She wouldn’t disturb anyone up there.

  Gigi headed up the back stairs and was rounding the second-floor landing when Alex Goulet came out of his room.

  “Alex.” Gigi stopped him and pulled out the clipping she’d found in the cookbook. She held it out toward him.

  He quirked an eyebrow inquiringly.

  “I found this tucked in one of Felicity’s cookbooks. I’m curious. Do you know anything about this?”

  Alex didn’t seem to find it strange that she was asking questions, and Gigi sighed with relief. She waited as Alex read through the newspaper article, his brows drawn together in concentration.

  He tapped the clipping with a finger. “I remember this. Vaguely. But I do remember it.” He thought for a moment. “It was a big brouhaha. Felicity thought her maid”—he tapped the clipping again�
��“was stealing from her. The police were called in, and the woman was arrested. I think it was Winchel who posted bail in the end. It wasn’t much, but the poor girl had little more than the clothes on her back. She came from some Scandinavian country—Norway, Sweden? I don’t remember.” He handed the clipping back to Gigi.

  “What happened after that?”

  Alex closed his eyes for a moment. “If I recall correctly, there was this big drama.” He lowered his voice and leaned closer to Gigi. “She bolted.” He swept a hand through the air and snapped his fingers. “Somehow she found the means to buy a ticket back to wherever it was she had come from.” His voice lowered even more, and he put a hand alongside his mouth. “Rumor was that she and Winchel were . . .” He raised his eyebrows up and down.

  Gigi nodded understanding.

  “It was probably Winchel who paid for the ticket. But just like that, poof, she went back to some country in Europe and the Woodstone Police were left holding their—” Alex cut off the sentence abruptly, but Gigi knew what he meant.

  It was a good thing she hadn’t asked Mertz about it. It was probably a very sensitive subject.

  Alex handed the clipping back to Gigi, and she tucked it into her pocket. Alex gave her a chipper salute—he obviously wasn’t holding a grudge about the other night—and Gigi continued up the stairs to the third floor.

  The door to the bathroom was open. The bathroom was obviously meant for staff. The original claw-foot tub was still in place surrounded by a very utilitarian plain plastic shower curtain. The wooden medicine cabinet looked to be original to the house as well, and the mirror embedded in the door had a thin crack running down its length.

  Gigi went in, closed the door and sank down onto the side of the tub. It had been a busy morning, and she was bushed. After a few minutes, she picked herself up and risked a glance in the mirror. She cringed at what she saw. A smear of chocolate ran from her left ear almost to the corner of her mouth, and something gooey had caused a clump of hair to stick together. She tackled the smear first, washing her face in extra-hot water.