Steamed to Death Page 6

  Gigi tilted the chaise longue slightly so they could see the deep well left in the thick rug.

  “But this chair”—Gigi walked toward the chair orphaned in the corner—“is not in its exact former location. You can see the original craterous dents in the carpet, but the legs of the chair don’t match up. They’ve begun creating a second set of marks in the pile.”

  “So the chair was moved!” Alice said, wide-eyed.

  “It would seem so,” Gigi said. “It also”—she gestured toward the chair back—“looks to be about the right height to have made that scratch on the sauna door.”

  Sienna slid off the bed and went over to examine the chair. “It’s wood on back,” she said, peering behind it. “And there are metal grommets along the top.”

  “Yup,” Gigi replied. “Someone used that chair to bar the sauna door.” She looked at Alice and Sienna and shivered.

  “That’s terrible,” Alice said, plunking down into the chaise and swinging her legs up. “Who would do such a thing?”

  Gigi glanced at Alice and frowned. “Maybe we ought to get—” She cut off abruptly when a noise made the three of them swivel toward the door.

  “Someone’s coming!”

  Chapter 6

  Alice let out a tiny shriek and jumped up from the chaise. “Oh no, we’re busted.”

  The sound of footsteps echoed on the wooden back stairs.

  “Quick”—Gigi made a sweeping gesture with her arm—“let’s hide in the bathroom. At least we won’t be visible from the open bedroom door.”

  Together they beat a retreat toward the bathroom. Sienna promptly sat down on the wooden bench inside the sauna.

  “I don’t know how you can go in there.” Alice shivered.

  “I have no choice.” Sienna stuck her legs out in front of her. “My feet are killing me.”

  She was wearing a tunic-length sweater and black leggings, and the front of her top was stretched as far as it could go.

  “Another ten days.” She sighed. “Although I’ve been having contractions on and off, so perhaps it will be early.”

  “Sssh.” Gigi peeked around the edge of the door.

  “Is someone coming?” Alice whispered, drawing back farther into the bathroom.

  “It’s Derek,” Gigi said. She pulled her head back in suddenly and flattened herself against the wall behind the door.

  “What’s he doing?” Alice whispered.

  Gigi shrugged.

  They could hear him moving about in Felicity’s room, opening and closing closet doors and drawers.

  Very cautiously, Gigi peeked around the edge of the door.

  Derek had his back to her. Felicity’s jewelry box was sprawled open on her dresser, and Derek was sifting through the contents one by one, his dark head bent over the task. Gigi watched as he held up two gold chains, palmed them, then stuffed them into the pocket of his jeans.

  Gigi had to put her hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp of outrage. She knew that Derek sometimes raided Felicity’s purse for a few dollars in cash, but this was much worse—stealing from the dead.

  “What’s going on?” Alice hissed when she saw the look on Gigi’s face.

  Gigi shook her head and peeked around the door again. Derek had replaced the other items in the jewelry box and was putting it back inside Felicity’s lingerie drawer. Finally, he eased the drawer closed and sauntered out of the room, whistling softly under his breath.

  Gigi felt steam gathering in her head and let out a huge breath. “Well!”

  “Well, what?” Alice asked eagerly.

  Sienna stopped rotating her ankles and looked at Gigi expectantly.

  “That was Derek!” Gigi’s fists clenched involuntarily. “He stole some pieces from Felicity’s jewelry box.”

  Alice blew out a big breath, and her bangs flopped up and down. “Of all the nerve!”

  “Felicity regularly complained about his taking money from her wallet.” Sienna eased her way off the sauna bench with a hand to her back. “But I got the impression that she didn’t really mind. She rather overindulged him in my opinion.”

  Alice nodded. “Trying to make up to him for not being his real mother.”

  “What happened to his mother?” Gigi had opened the mirrored medicine cabinet and was staring in awe at the contents. It looked like the cosmetics counter at Macy’s.

  “According to Felicity, she was an incredibly selfish, high-powered surgeon who ran off to join Doctors Without Borders and serve the underprivileged in darkest Africa.” Sienna’s mouth curved into a smile. “Instead of staying in New York and making millions of dollars performing plastic surgery on the rich and famous.”

  “In a way, it was a bit selfish of her not to think of her son,” Alice put in.

  “True.” Sienna stretched her arms over her head and yawned. “But I gather Felicity has been trying to make it up to him ever since.” She glanced toward the door. “Is the coast clear?”

  Gigi peered into the now empty bedroom. “Looks good.”

  “That was close,” Alice said as they dispersed into the hall.

  “Yes, but it was certainly worth it,” Gigi said. “We now know why the police think foul play was involved, and I’m inclined to agree with them.”

  Alice led the way down the dark, twisting back stairs, one hand on the railing, the other trailing against the wall.

  “The killer must have turned up the temperature, too,” Sienna said, feeling her way carefully down the narrow stairs. “There was this Russian fellow I remember reading about. He was in some sort of contest to see who could stay in this dreadfully hot sauna the longest. They turned the temperature up to two hundred thirty degrees. He lasted six minutes.”

  “What do you mean?” Alice said, stopping abruptly on the steps.

  “He died. And his fellow contestant was seriously injured.”

  “Well then, I guess we need to find out who blocked the sauna and tampered with the settings,” Alice said.

  “Sure,” Gigi agreed. “Easy peasy.”

  • • •

  Gigi straightened up a final few things in the kitchen. She could hear voices coming from the dining room and the sounds of knives and forks on plates. Laughter mingled with the murmur of chatter. Gigi crossed her fingers. She hoped they liked the dishes she had prepared. With Felicity gone—the thought still gave her pause—she would have to line up some new clients soon. Fortunately there were several people on her waiting list. She would call them right away.

  “Anything I can do to help?” Alice had one arm in her jacket sleeve.

  “Not really.” Gigi wrung out the dishrag and draped it over the faucet to dry. “Anja is taking care of cleaning up the lunch dishes.”

  “Speaking of lunch”—Alice stuck her other arm through the corresponding sleeve—“I’m starved. What do you say we get a bite to eat at that new place, Declan’s?”

  Gigi wrinkled her nose. “I’ve been dreading going in there since Al Forno closed.”

  “I know what you mean. But we can’t avoid it forever.” Alice buttoned her jacket. “Come on. Let’s go see what everyone’s been talking about.”

  • • •

  Gigi felt her heart thump as they approached the bright red awning announcing Declan’s Grille. It wasn’t going to be the same without Emilio and Carlo there to greet her. Alice went first, pushing open the heavy front door. The interior was dim, and they stopped for a moment to get their bearings. The bar area was paneled, and the bar itself was carved from a massive piece of highly polished wood. High, round tables surrounded the bar. A few scattered people still sat at the white-linen-covered dining tables, finishing up their meal. A blackboard over the bar announced the day’s specials: shepherd’s pie and ploughman’s lunch. Gigi had to admit that the smells coming from the kitchen were tantalizingly delicious, and her mouth was watering already.

  A man stood behind the bar. He appeared to be totaling up the day’s receipts. He was tall and slim with broad shoulde
rs and a narrow waist and had dark hair with a bit of a curl. Gigi found herself wondering two things: Was this Declan McQuaid, and was he as good-looking from the front as he was from the back?

  He turned around, and she had one of her answers at least. The man had vivid blue eyes, thick, dark brows, even features and a delightful cleft in his chin. He smiled at Gigi and Alice, and Gigi found herself momentarily tongue-tied.

  “Welcome to Declan’s.” He stuck out a hand.

  “Declan, I presume?” Alice said as she accepted his handshake.

  “The one and only.” He smiled. “Would you ladies like a table, or would you care to sit at the bar and keep me company while I polish some glasses?” He glanced pointedly at Gigi.

  Gigi cursed the infernal blush that always blossomed at exactly the wrong moments. Hopefully the dim lighting made it less obvious.

  “I’d love to sit at the bar. How about you?” Alice nodded encouragingly at Gigi.

  Why did everyone in Woodstone want to fix her up, Gigi thought, as she let herself be led, like a doomed sheep, toward an empty bar stool.

  “I bet he’s got more than a few notches in his belt,” Alice whispered, tipping her head toward Declan. She perused the menu. “I love the sound of bubble and squeak, but I think I’m going to go with the grilled cheddar cheese sandwich on homemade bread with warm potato salad.” She put the menu down. “How about you?”

  Gigi’s hunger had suddenly deserted her. She was hyperaware of Declan’s crooked grin as he watched them from behind the bar where he was polishing glasses that already sparkled with cleanliness. Gigi felt her telltale blush flame her face again, and she buried her head in the menu.

  “I don’t know,” she mumbled from her protective cover. “I can’t decide. It all sounds so good.” She read through the options again and glanced up at the blackboard where the specials had been printed out in strong, block letters. “Maybe the ploughman’s lunch.”

  “What is that?”

  Declan must have heard Alice because he approached them, his cloth slung over his right shoulder. “That’s an old English favorite.” He smiled, his eyes on Gigi’s. “My ancestors may be Irish, but I grew up in England. A ploughman’s lunch centers around a chunk of homemade bread, a wedge of fine cheddar or Stilton, a piece of good ham and, last but not least, Branston pickle. Our very own recipe, of course.”

  Gigi fought the urge to fan herself with the menu. “What’s Branston pickle?” she asked in an attempt to divert Declan’s attention from her.

  “It’s more pickled than pickle,” he said, smiling in such a way that the cleft in his chin deepened. “It’s a combination of vegetables and fruits—apples, cauliflower, carrots, onions, garlic, swedes—I think you call those rutabagas—courgettes—” He ducked his head. “I must learn that when in Rome . . . courgettes are what you call zucchini, I believe.” He looked at Alice.

  She shrugged. “Ask Gigi, she’s the expert.”

  Declan raised his eyebrows, causing Gigi’s blush to intensify. She cursed Alice under her breath.

  “I do like to cook.”

  “Ha!” Alice guffawed. “That’s an understatement.” She poked an elbow in Gigi’s direction. “She’s really good. Her stuff is delicious.”

  “I hope I get to try it sometime.” Declan lowered his voice so that he and Gigi were wrapped in their own bubble.

  “I’ll have the ploughman’s lunch, then.” Gigi snapped her menu shut.

  Declan’s face returned to a neutral expression, and he moved back away from the bar. “I’ll put your order in. It shouldn’t be long.”

  “Now why on earth did you go and—”

  Gigi cut Alice off. “He was making me uncomfortable.”

  “You’re never going to find a man if—”

  “I don’t want to find a man,” Gigi all but screamed even though she realized she didn’t mean it even as the words came out of her mouth. What she didn’t want was another Ted. Another heartbreak. Another divorce. And Declan McQuaid had all the hallmarks of the “love ’em and leave ’em” type. This time she wanted something permanent . . . or nothing at all.

  • • •

  Gigi’s cell phone rang as she was about to pull away from the curb after dropping Alice off at the police station. She didn’t normally work Saturdays but was covering for someone who had a funeral to attend. Gigi answered the call quickly—it seemed that Hector’s Heating and Plumbing had finally secured the correct piece of pipe for the one-hundred-year-old plumbing system under her cottage’s kitchen sink.

  Gigi was glad she would soon be able to escape Felicity’s posthumous hospitality. Tension crackled in the air between the guests, and it was hardly a comfortable place to be.

  After several days of rain, sunshine finally filtered through the vibrant leaves on the trees and formed dappled patterns on the sidewalk. There was a brisk breeze—it was light coat weather, but still comfortable.

  Gigi had half an hour before Jackson was expected at the cottage with the piece of pipe that was going to put everything back in working order. At least until something else springs a leak, a small devilish voice whispered in the back of Gigi’s mind. She felt her stomach clench. She had to sign some new clients soon. The deal with Branston Foods looked as if it was going to go through, but she’d learned long ago not to count her chickens before they hatched.

  Gigi pulled up in front of Bon Appétit, Woodstone’s cookery store and gourmet shop. Fortunately, there were two spaces in front of the store, so she didn’t have to attempt to parallel park. Gigi’s face reddened annoyingly as she remembered another occasion when she was trying to park and making a complete mess of it. As luck would have it, Mertz had come along in time to witness her humiliation. She’d vowed never to try parallel parking again, even if it meant parking a mile away and walking back.

  Evelyn Fishko was behind the counter at Bon Appétit as always, her dark hair in its short bob held back off her face with a bright red headband. If something happened in Woodstone, there was no keeping it from Evelyn.

  “Howdy, stranger,” she said as Gigi approached the counter. Gigi did her big shopping trips at the Shop and Save outside of town, but there were certain items like truffle oil and fresh pâté that couldn’t be had anywhere except at Bon Appétit.

  Evelyn looked eager to see Gigi, and Gigi thought she knew why. There had been a brief mention of Felicity’s death in the local paper. Evelyn, no doubt, planned to pump her for the in-depth details.

  “Hello, yourself.” Gigi smiled as she approached the counter.

  “What can I get for you today?” Evelyn leaned her elbows on the counter.

  Gigi pulled a short list from her purse and consulted it. “Not much, really. I’m out of pine nuts, and I’m running low on that lovely balsamic vinegar you carry.”

  Evelyn glowed at the compliment. She prided herself on the top-notch quality of her selection and did all the buying herself. She fetched the two items and put them down on the counter.

  “And?”

  “That’s it for now.”

  Evelyn thumbed two pieces of tissue from the stack on the counter and carefully wrapped Gigi’s items. She pulled a black and white striped bag with Bon Appétit written on it in script from under the counter and placed Gigi’s order inside. But instead of handing over the package, she leaned her elbows on the counter again and got comfortable.

  Gigi sighed. She knew what was coming.

  “I read about your client, that soap opera star, in the paper. Shame. Awfully young, wasn’t she?”

  Gigi smiled and nodded her head.

  “And didn’t she take up with that friend of yours’ husband? The one who runs the Book Nook down the street?”

  “Sienna?”

  “That’s the one. Someone left a copy of the New York Post on the bench outside the shop.” Evelyn shook her head. “I don’t understand some people . . . there’s a trash can not five feet away. Anywho, I glanced through it before throwing it away. Do you think
it was true? I know a lot of these actress types take up with a boy toy.”

  Somehow Gigi had never pictured Oliver as a “boy toy,” and she had to suppress a giggle. “No, it wasn’t true at all. Just a publicity stunt. Sienna says it happens all the time.”

  “That’s what I thought. Hey, weren’t you catering that big shindig Miss Davenport had?”

  Gigi reluctantly acknowledged that she had.

  “I suppose you know all about what happened that night,” Evelyn hinted.

  “Not really,” Gigi murmured.

  “Real shame for the Woodstone Players. They were counting on her to bring in the crowds. And the—” She rubbed two fingers together. “Of course, I heard that her manager covered his own you-know-what by taking out some kind of policy on her.”

  “Really?” Now Gigi was listening in earnest, her own elbows resting comfortably on the counter, her groceries forgotten.

  Evelyn nodded vigorously, causing her bob to swing to and fro. “Yes. I guess it’s S-O-P—standard operating procedure—in that business. If for some reason Miss Davenport doesn’t show up, takes ill, walks off, whatever—you know how temperamental those actor types can be—then he gets the money from the insurance policy.”

  What she wanted to say was How on earth did you hear about that? but she settled for, “How interesting. I suppose you’re sure . . .”

  Evelyn nodded her head vigorously. “Hunter Pierce was just in buying some herbes de Provence. I overheard him talking to his companion—some young man I didn’t recognize—I suppose he came out from the city.”

  Evelyn said city as if it were a four-letter word.

  “He was complaining about it,” she continued, leaning closer toward Gigi. “About how Felicity’s manager was going to get all this money, and once again the Woodstone Players were going to be left in the hole.”

  Well, she was certainly leaving with more than just her groceries, Gigi thought, as she exited Bon Appétit and headed toward her car. She sat in the MINI for a minute contemplating what Evelyn had told her. If, and it was a big if, what Evelyn told her was true, then Don Bartholomew, Felicity’s manager, had a very good reason for wanting his client out of the way. Felicity had been Don’s golden goose for many, many years, but she was getting too old now to lay any more golden eggs. Parts for middle-aged women were notoriously few and far between. Don’s prize client had become more of a liability than an asset.