Iced to Death (A Gourmet De-Lite Mystery) Read online

  “I wonder what’s got her in such a tizzy?” Madeline stared out the window. She turned toward Gigi. “I heard her arguing with Bradley earlier.” This time she barely stumbled over the name. “I was surprised the two of them were fighting. She’s Bradley’s . . .” She hesitated. “. . . Pet. If you know what I mean.” She rolled her eyes at Gigi.

  Gigi nodded.

  “Don’t get me wrong, she’s a good lawyer. One of the best. It’s just that Simpson, West, Donahue, Flanagan and Moskowitz—that’s the firm’s full name but obviously it would never have fit on the sign out front or on the letterhead so we just go with Simpson and West—has never had a female partner before.” She frowned. “Mr. West once said he wouldn’t have a woman partner unless it was over his dead body, but I guess Mr. Simpson”—she blushed again—“I mean Bradley, managed to change his mind.”

  Gigi supposed Madeline must be right. But if Bradley had changed Mr. West’s mind, it sure made her wonder what Tiffany Morse had done to change Bradley’s mind.

  Gigi had just returned home from making her dinner deliveries when she heard the knocking sound that heralded the arrival of Pia’s beat-up old VW van. The car hissed loudly as the engine was turned off. Gigi couldn’t imagine Pia attempting to drive that thing to California—if she ever left, that is, now that she had apparently found true love or, at least, romance.

  Pia came in through the back door carrying two bags of groceries. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, and moisture glimmered in her short, dark hair.

  “Snowing again,” she said as she dumped her purchases on the counter. “I didn’t think Sparky was going to make it up the hill.”

  “Sparky?”

  Pia gestured with her shoulder in the general direction of the cottage’s driveway. “I decided to name that beastly van.” She sighed. “At least it’s getting me around.”

  Gigi thought of mentioning California but decided that perhaps this wasn’t the best time. “What did you buy?” she asked instead.

  “I’m sorry.” Pia made a sad face. “I forgot some of the things on your list. Just the parsley, lettuce and chicken stock though.”

  Those were the only things on my list, Gigi thought as she watched Pia unpack the groceries. “What did you get?”

  “Twinkies!” Pia held up the cellophane-wrapped package triumphantly. “And some of that buttered movie popcorn in case we want to watch a flick on television.” She dug deeper. “Hot dogs for dinner.” She laid them on the counter. “Chocolate chip cookies, marshmallow fluff and salt-and-vinegar potato chips,” she finished triumphantly. “Do you know the Brits call chips crisps?”

  Gigi shook her head. She was in shock over the contents of her sister’s shopping spree. Surely Pia didn’t think Gigi was going to eat that stuff?

  “How was your lunch date? It must have gone well.” Gigi glanced at the clock. “It’s almost dinnertime.”

  “Oh, I spent some time setting up a small studio I found to rent by the week. It’s out by that industrial park on the edge of town. Nothing fancy, but it will allow me to get some work done.” Gigi was relieved. The thought of Pia bringing in paint or clay or whatever she used for her artwork to the cottage gave Gigi the shivers.

  “My lunch date was dreamy though.” Pia perched on one of the stools around the island and popped the top off a can of soda—not sugar-free, Gigi noted—and took a huge gulp. “I sat at the bar and kept him company.”

  Gigi felt something in her chest freeze. “Sat at the bar?” she repeated.

  Pia shook her head. “Yeah. He runs this place downtown. A lot of English cuisine but nothing like the stuff we had in that commune. His food is good.”

  Gigi’s mouth had dried up. “What was the name of the place?’

  “Declan’s Grille. I never thought I’d fall for another En-glishman, but Declan McQuaid has to be one of the dreamiest men I’ve ever met.” Pia stared into space, a rapturous look on her face.

  “Oh,” Gigi said in a very tiny voice.

  Chapter 2

  Gigi was filling containers with her clients’ lunches when Pia wandered into the kitchen. A piece of hair stood straight up on the top of her head, and her face was still creased with sleep. She had Gigi’s robe wrapped around a pair of faded long johns.

  She must have noticed Gigi glancing at them.

  “From Marks and Sparks,” she said as she poured herself a mug of coffee from the thermos on the counter. “Otherwise known as Marks and Spencer. That commune was so flipping cold, I had to wear them under everything to stay warm.” She yawned loudly and settled down at the kitchen island, cradling her cup and watching as Gigi finished loading her containers.

  Fortunately for Gigi, Pia had been spending most of her time at her new studio, often working into the wee hours of the morning and only slipping into the cottage as dawn was beginning to break. Gigi, on the other hand, was up with the birds and in bed by ten o’clock more often than not, so they were like ships passing in the night. It definitely made for a better relationship.

  “I stopped by Declan’s for a bite yesterday,” Pia smothered another giant yawn. “I rather think he does fancy me.”

  Gigi froze momentarily. “Are you . . .”

  Pia ran her hands through her short hair, making her cowlick even more pronounced. “Oh, he hasn’t asked me out yet or anything. But give me time . . .” She let the sentence trail off enigmatically.

  Gigi didn’t know how that made her feel. On the one hand, she was dating Detective Bill Mertz and enjoying their budding relationship. On the other hand, she couldn’t help going weak in the knees every time she saw Declan McQuaid. And the thought that he might take her sister Pia out made her feel . . . slightly jealous.

  “Well, I’m off to deliver these.” Gigi gestured toward the stack of filled containers on the counter. “Eggs and bacon are in the fridge. Help yourself.” She pulled her scarf off the hook by the door and wound it around her neck. “Come on, Reg.”

  Reg immediately jumped to his feet, despite the fact that he’d been snoring softly seconds before.

  Gigi was slipping into her coat when the telephone rang. She glanced at the clock on the wall. She was five minutes behind schedule and was tempted to let the call go to voice mail, but perhaps it was a client with a change of delivery plans. That happened at least once a week.

  Gigi reached for the phone, and Reg lay back down, his head on his front paws, his expression clearly one of disappointment.

  “Hello?”

  A man’s voice came across the line, deep and lilting. Gigi felt her face begin its telltale burn. It was Declan McQuaid. The sound of his voice never failed to bring a rush of heat and color to Gigi’s cheeks. She glanced at Pia, and Pia looked back at her curiously.

  “Gigi. I’m glad I caught you.” Declan’s normally smooth voice had a slightly panicked edge to it.

  “Oh?” Gigi was intrigued. She plunked down on the stool next to the telephone and swiveled so that her back was to her sister. She heard Reg give a deep sigh from his post by the back door.

  “I need your help desperately.”

  Gigi frowned. She couldn’t imagine what Declan would need her help with. Unless he was in trouble. She had helped solve two murder cases recently, although she had no illusions about her sleuthing abilities.

  “My chef just threw down his apron and walked out the door.”

  “You mean he’s quit?”

  “Yes.” Declan’s furious exhale came over the phone line loud and clear. Gigi could picture his strong, dark brows lowered over his bright blue eyes.

  “But why . . . how?”

  “We had a small argument, nothing serious. I didn’t think . . .” Declan paused. “Anyway, he’s gone. I tried to persuade him to stay and help with tomorrow night’s party, but he refused.”

  Gigi had heard that chefs could be temperamental, but behavior like this was unprofessional.

  “I can handle dinner tonight myself. Most of the preparations are already done
,” Declan continued, “but I really need help with this big engagement party. They’ve booked the restaurant for the whole evening. I gather that Simpson guy is rolling in dough. It’s his son who’s getting married.”

  “Yes. I don’t know the son, but I know the bride-to-be. Madeline Stone has been a client of mine for a couple of months. Unfortunately I don’t know how I can help. I don’t know any professional chefs. Perhaps you could try an employment agency?”

  Declan snorted. “That would be fine if I wanted someone to sling hamburgers.” He paused. “I was hoping you would be willing to help me.”

  “Me?” Gigi squeaked. While she might prepare delicious diet food for upward of twelve people a day, she was far from a restaurant chef. “I’m not sure . . .”

  “I know it’s an awful lot to ask. You’ve probably been invited to the party as a guest.”

  Gigi thought of the new dress hanging in her closet that she’d bought to wear to the event.

  “I’m just not sure how much help I’d—”

  “I’ve pared down the menu,” Declan hastened to reassure Gigi. “I really just need another set of hands. My sous chef is something of an idiot and needs lots of direction. I don’t know anyone else who has as much experience in the kitchen as you do. Cookery is becoming a lost art—it’s all microwave or take-away these days.”

  Gigi was flattered. And she had to admit, working side-by-side in the tiny restaurant kitchen with Declan was a very attractive proposition.

  “Please?”

  Gigi couldn’t resist. “Okay. But I can’t promise I’ll be all that much help.”

  “You’ve saved my life. You have no idea.”

  By the time Gigi hung up the phone, Reg had rolled on his side in front of the back door and was sound asleep again.

  “Who was that?” Pia asked.

  Gigi felt her face burn. “Oh, no one. No one, really.” She glanced at the clock in alarm. All of her deliveries were going to be late now. She buttoned her coat and grabbed Reg’s leash.

  “Come on, boy, we’ve got to get going.”

  Reg scrambled to attention immediately and looked at Gigi as if to say it’s about time. He managed to convey the impression that he, personally, had been ready for hours.

  Gigi was conscious of Pia’s curious look as the back door closed behind her.

  For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t admitted to Pia that it had been Declan on the phone.

  Now she had two problems, Gigi realized as she drove through downtown Woodstone. Although it was only early afternoon, the dense cloud cover made it feel much later. The streetlights were on and so were the lights over the shops.

  Gigi was going to have to eventually admit to Pia that not only had she been talking to Declan on the phone, but she was going to be working with him on Saturday night. Pia was going to wonder why Gigi hadn’t told her right away. Gigi felt a trickle of sweat make its way down her side despite the blowing snow.

  Worse, she was going to have to tell Mertz that she couldn’t attend the party with him. That was bad enough, but when he found out it was because she was helping Declan . . . To say he wasn’t going to be happy was an understatement. The trickle of sweat threatened to become a torrent as Gigi thought about her situation.

  She would have to tell him that night. Mertz was coming to dinner, Pia would be at her studio, and they would have some time alone. Gigi slowed in front of Bon Appétit, Woodstone’s gourmet and cookery store. Perhaps a good bottle of wine was in order. She’d wine and dine him, and hopefully, soporific with food and drink, he wouldn’t protest about the change in plans for Madeline’s engagement party.

  Yeah, right.

  • • •

  Delicious, rich smells permeated Gigi’s tiny kitchen. She was making chicken cacciatore and had an antipasto platter of olives, provolone cheese, prosciutto, eggplant caponata and marinated mushrooms ready to serve along with some artisanal bread. The expensive bottle of wine Gigi had splurged on sat on the counter breathing. Surely all that would put Mertz in a receptive mood . . . right?

  With dinner prepared, Gigi was able to indulge in a lavender-scented bath before leisurely dressing and doing her hair and makeup. She was ready and pacing the hall ten minutes before Mertz was due to arrive, but even so, his sudden knock on the door, quickly followed by Reg’s excited barking, startled her.

  The open door let in a blast of cold air along with a smattering of snowflakes.

  “It’s snowing again.” Mertz said, handing Gigi a large paper-wrapped bouquet of assorted flowers.

  “These are lovely, thanks.”

  Mertz ducked his head. “Glad you like them.” He motioned toward the door. “I’ll clear the walk and driveway for you before I leave.”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “It’s no problem. I don’t want you out there trying to do it yourself.” He brushed the melting white flakes of snow off his coat before handing it to Gigi. “Roads are fine fortunately.” He took a deep breath. “Sure smells delicious in here.”

  Reg was dancing in and out between Mertz’s legs, demanding his due, so Mertz reached down and scratched him between the ears. He gave Gigi a peck on the cheek, and the coldness of his touch made her shiver briefly.

  Mertz rubbed his hands together briskly. “What smells so good?”

  “Chicken cacciatore,” Gigi answered as she hung his coat in the closet.

  “Chicken catch-a-who?”

  “Cacciatore. It means hunter or hunter-style, either chicken or rabbit, with onions, tomatoes, herbs and wine. In southern Italy it’s usually red wine, while in the north they use white.”

  “If it tastes half as good as it smells . . .”

  “Oh, it does, don’t worry.”

  He followed Gigi out to the kitchen, where she rummaged in a cabinet for a vase. It had a small chip on the rim, but it wasn’t visible when she placed the flowers in it. She added some water and placed it in the center of the kitchen island.

  “There.” Gigi moved the vase a bit to the left. “That looks perfect.”

  “Glad you like them.” Mertz cleared his throat and looked down at his feet.

  Gigi got out two wineglasses, poured them each a glass of the Syrah the clerk at the wine store had recommended, and pulled the antipasto platter from the refrigerator and placed it on the counter.

  Mertz accepted his glass of wine and helped himself to the delicious treats on the platter.

  “I’m really looking forward to tomorrow night.” Mertz selected a Kalamata olive and popped it into his mouth.

  Gigi paused with her wineglass halfway to her mouth. She made a noncommittal noise. She could feel heat rising up her chest to her neck and toward her face. Perhaps it would be better to feed Mertz first before breaking the news to him.

  Gigi had opened up the small gate-legged table in the living room that served as a dining table on occasion, and Mertz helped her carry out the platter of chicken, along with the bottle of wine and their glasses. She had a fire going in the fireplace—not exactly roaring, and it had taken her the entire Sunday edition of the Woodstone Times to get it going, but the logs glowed brightly in the shadowy room.

  Mertz wasted no time in tucking into the meal. “I’m starved,” he said around a mouthful of chicken. “Lunch was a bag of chips from the vending machine.”

  “What do you think?” Gigi watched him as he chewed.

  Mertz gave a deep sigh. “Delicious. Absolutely delicious. What did you call this again?”

  “Chicken cacciatore.”

  “Best meal I’ve had in a long time.” He forked up another bite of the stew. “I was about to run down to the diner for lunch when a call came in. Those potato chips didn’t quite fill the void, I’m afraid.”

  Gigi raised her eyebrows questioningly.

  “Someone stole Mrs. Nottingham’s garden gnome.” Mertz rolled his eyes. “That’s the second yard ornament to go missing in as many days. Someone also swiped one of those
old-fashioned jockeys the Yarboroughs had beside their driveway.”

  “What on earth would anyone want with them?”

  “Beats me.” Mertz sighed and finished the last bit of chicken on his plate. “My guess is some kids are pulling a prank. I’m sure they think it’s funny, but I don’t appreciate their wasting my time.”

  Mertz shrugged and tossed his napkin onto the table. “That fire looks very inviting. Why don’t we take the rest of our wine over to the sofa?”

  “Okay.”

  They sat side by side on the couch, a careful two inches separating them. Mertz placed his left arm along the back of the sofa, the tips of his fingers lightly brushing Gigi’s shoulders.

  The warmth of the wine and the cozy crackling of the fire relaxed Gigi, and she found herself leaning against Mertz’s shoulder.

  He moved his hand to the back of Gigi’s neck, his fingertips brushing her skin lightly. “What time should I pick you up for tomorrow night’s party?”

  Gigi stiffened, all sense of relaxation gone. “About the party . . .”

  “Hmmm?” Mertz turned toward her slightly.

  Gigi’s fingers twisted together in her lap. Guilt pricked at her skin like a thousand porcupine quills. How was she going to break the news to Mertz?

  “What about the party?” Mertz turned further around so he could see Gigi.

  She closed her eyes. “Something has come up.”

  “Oh, no. I hope nothing’s wrong.” Mertz’s blue eyes crinkled with concern.

  “Not wrong, no. Not exactly.”

  “What is it then?”

  Gigi twisted her sweater between her fingers. “It’s like this. Declan’s chef quit—”

  “The party’s cancelled?”

  “No. But Declan needs help in the kitchen, and I . . . I . . .”

  “Volunteered?”

  “Yes,” Gigi said meekly. “I didn’t want to, but he persuaded me.”

  “Persuaded you?” Mertz jumped to his feet. “I have heard the fellow is terribly persuasive so I’m not surprised.