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

  The patrolman stood aside, his hands stuffed into his pockets, as Mertz approached the scene. He circled the body twice before looking up at Gigi and Declan.

  “You must be freezing. Why don’t you go inside? I’ll talk to you when I’m done.”

  He managed to make it sound like a threat, Gigi thought, as she followed Declan back to the restaurant. Her teeth were chattering, and the tips of her fingers felt numb.

  They let themselves back into the kitchen, which was cooling quickly since Declan had turned the heat down for the night. Gigi decided to unbutton her coat but keep it on.

  Declan glanced at her. “You’re cold. Why don’t I put on some coffee? I doubt any of us is going to get to sleep anytime soon. And I imagine the coppers out there”—he jerked his head toward the door—“would appreciate a cup, too.”

  Gigi nodded. She thought of phoning Alice to say she’d pick Reg up in the morning, but knowing Alice, she had already come to that conclusion. She and Reg were most likely tucked into bed keeping each other warm.

  Declan swung a battered, metal coffeepot under the tap, filled it with water and put it on the stove to boil. He looked over his shoulder at Gigi. “I imagine it’s some homeless person who succumbed to hypothermia.” Declan shivered. “Poor sod. I feel terrible for him.”

  “But his coat. It was obviously expensive.”

  “Picked it up at a thrift store perhaps?” Declan opened a cupboard and took out a handful of mugs.

  “His hair was neatly trimmed.” Gigi closed her eyes and tried to bring the scene back in her memory. “His shoes. They were good quality and well polished.” She thought for a moment. “And there was blood . . .”

  “I suppose the police will figure it out soon enough.” Declan held the coffeepot over the mugs and began to fill them with the rich-smelling brew.

  Gigi had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. The man had seemed familiar, even though she’d only been able to see his back.

  Before she could give it any more thought, the door to the kitchen opened, and Mertz stepped in. His nose was red from the cold, and snowflakes were melting in his hair. His eyes lit up when he saw the mugs of coffee sitting out on the table.

  “Help yourself. There’s a cup for the other fellow, too.”

  The cold stare Mertz had been giving Declan softened slightly. He helped himself to a mug and held his hands around it. “Thanks. He’s guarding the scene. Crime scene guys should be here soon, too. Mind putting on a few more cups? I’m sure they’d appreciate the java. It’s freezing out there.” He took a sip of his coffee and sighed appreciatively. “Want to tell me what happened?” He sagged against the wall.

  Declan pushed a stool toward him with his foot. He and Gigi looked at each other.

  “As you know, I was helping Declan in the kitchen tonight.” Gigi carefully avoided looking at Mertz’s face. “I was just leaving when . . . when I all but tripped over the . . . body.”

  Mertz made a big show of glancing at his watch. “This would have been, what? A little after one?”

  Gigi nodded, knowing her face was doing a slow burn.

  “Did you recognize the man?” Mertz looked from Gigi to Declan and back again.

  Both Gigi and Declan shook their heads.

  “I thought perhaps he was homeless and had wandered into our parking lot.” Declan picked up one of the mugs of coffee and held it to his lips.

  “We found his wallet and identification in his jacket pocket. It seems he was the host of tonight’s party—Bradley Simpson.”

  Gigi gasped. “What . . . what happened?”

  “Was it hypothermia?” Declan stopped with his mug halfway to his mouth.

  Mertz gave Declan a strange look as he shook his head. “No, as a matter of fact, it wasn’t.” Mertz had crossed his arms over his chest, and Gigi thought he looked terribly forbidding.

  Declan put his mug down and leaned back in his chair. “What was it then?” He didn’t sound particularly interested in the answer.

  “We found an ice pick protruding from his head.” Mertz glanced at Gigi quickly, as if to make sure she was okay. “It looks like murder.”

  “How awful,” Declan said.

  Gigi was unable to find her voice.

  Mertz looked at Declan. “Do you happen to know,” he said very casually, crossing one leg over the other, “how an ice pick with the name Declan’s carved into the wooden handle ended up in Bradley Simpson’s temple?”

  • • •

  It was nearly three A.M. Sunday morning by the time Gigi turned into the driveway of her cottage. The place was completely dark—Pia hadn’t even left the light on over the front door. Was she in bed asleep or had she gone to her studio? Gigi slipped out of her shoes by the back door and tiptoed past the guest room. The door was cracked, but it was too dark to see inside. Besides, the way Pia always left the bedclothes in such a tangle, it would be impossible to tell if there was a body in the bed or not.

  Gigi undressed without even turning on the light and slid beneath the covers. She groaned. She was tired from her head down to her very toes. Her eyes, however, refused to stay shut. The scene in Declan’s parking lot kept running through her mind. She missed Reg’s cozy warmth, and although she hugged her pillow to her chest, it was no substitute for his comforting presence. The thought that if she had a husband, she’d have a warm body to snuggle up to ran across her mind like a blip on a radar screen. No use in thinking about that now. She had the feeling that it was going to take a while for Mertz to come around . . . if ever.

  Gigi hardly slept all night and was almost glad when it was finally time to get up the next morning. She padded out to the kitchen and measured coffee and water into the pot, leaning her elbows on the counter, her eyes closing, as she listened to the machine gurgle and spit. The aroma began to revive her, and she retreated to her bedroom to pull on some clothes.

  She filled a travel mug with the freshly brewed coffee and headed out the door toward her car. She scraped some fresh snow off the MINI’s windshield and began the short drive to Alice’s house.

  Alice was in her bathrobe and holding a cup of coffee when Gigi rang her bell a few minutes later. Reg was right beside her, giving excited yelps.

  “I hope I didn’t wake you.” Gigi bent down so Reg could lick her face.

  “Nope. I’ve already made my coffee.” Alice gestured to the mug in her hand. Her eyes twinkled. “So, it was a late night, was it?”

  Gigi nodded. “Stacy wasn’t feeling well so Declan sent her home. I lent a hand with the waitressing.”

  “Stacy wasn’t feeling well?”

  Gigi heard the alarm in Alice’s voice. “Nothing serious, or I’m sure she would have called you. Seemed like some kind of stomach bug. She couldn’t keep anything down.”

  Gigi looked at Alice and was surprised to see the sparkle in her eyes.

  Alice clapped her hands. “That’s wonderful.” Her face was lit and glowing.

  Gigi failed to see how Stacy having a stomach virus could be termed wonderful.

  “Don’t you see?” Alice asked.

  Gigi shook her head. She most certainly did not see.

  “Stacy must be pregnant! I’m going to be a grandmother.” Alice brushed at a tear that had formed in the corner of her eye.

  Gigi thought Alice was jumping to conclusions, but how to let her down easily?

  “Let’s not say anything just yet.” Alice put a finger to her lips. “I’ll let Stacy tell me in her own time.” She winked at Gigi. “In the meantime, tell me about your evening with Declan.”

  Reg had given up jumping on Gigi’s leg—his way of saying let’s go—and had curled up in a sunbeam that slanted across the braided rug in Alice’s foyer. “I didn’t spend the evening with Declan,” Gigi corrected. “I was working. And it was terrible.” Gigi hesitated for a second, but Mertz hadn’t said anything about not telling anyone about Bradley’s death. Besides, the news would be all over town before the noon whistle blew.


  “As I was leaving, I found Bradley Simpson’s body in the parking lot.”

  “Body?” Alice squeaked. “As in . . .”

  Gigi nodded. “Yes. He was dead.”

  “What on earth happened?”

  Gigi shrugged. “I have no idea.” She shivered, even though the sun coming through the window was warm against her back. “Someone had stabbed him with an ice pick. Murder.” Gigi didn’t see any need to broadcast the fact that Declan’s name was on the murder weapon.

  Alice gasped. “What are things coming to? Although from what I’ve heard, there are plenty of people who won’t be sorry to hear that he’s gone.” She folded her arms across her chest. “How his poor wife can stand him, I don’t know. My neighbor”—she jerked a thumb to the right—“does a bit of housework for them. She said Barbara Simpson has resorted to . . .” She made the motion of holding a glass to her mouth and drinking. “Not that anyone can blame her.”

  Gigi thought back to the previous evening and Simpson’s obnoxious speech. No, she didn’t think anyone could blame Barbara Simpson at all.

  Gigi spent the rest of Sunday—a bitterly cold day with a ferocious wind that picked up the newly fallen snow and tossed it around—curled up on the sofa with a book, Reg nestled in at her feet. She felt incredibly weary from all the work and strain of the evening before. She really needed to run the vacuum and throw a load of laundry in the washer, but she couldn’t bring herself to move from her cozy nook.

  Every time the floor creaked or a window rattled, she jumped, thinking it was Pia coming home from wherever she was. Even though Gigi was relishing the time alone in her own cottage, she was worried about her sister. Pia’s studio wasn’t in the best part of town, and Pia wasn’t known for being cautious.

  Gigi’s real fear was that Pia had somehow learned about Gigi’s late departure from Declan’s on Saturday night. Her sister was known for jumping to conclusions, and Gigi had a strong feeling she knew what conclusion Pia would arrive at.

  Pia appeared just as Gigi was heating up a bowl of lentil soup for her dinner. Although she was sorry to have her dinner interrupted—she was going prop her book up and continue reading—she was relieved to see that Pia was okay. She did look tired, though, and there was a smudge of blue paint on her right cheek.

  “Want some soup?” Gigi opened the cupboard and began to reach for another bowl.

  “What is it?” Pia peered into the pot on the stove.

  “Lentil.”

  Pia shuddered. “No, thanks. I had my fill of that when I was in the commune. Ghastly stuff. Looked like dirty water with a handful of lentils thrown in.” She opened the cupboard, took out a can of processed cheese Gigi most definitely hadn’t purchased, and sprayed it directly into her mouth.

  Gigi cringed. Suddenly her sister looked more like a lost child than the grown-up woman she was. She remembered their childhood and tiptoeing into Pia’s room to comfort her after a nightmare when their mother was too occupied with her grief over losing her husband to do much of anything.

  Pia stretched her arms overhead. “I’m beat. I think I’m going to go to bed. I worked all night.”

  “I know,” Gigi said more sharply than she meant to. “I was worried about you.”

  Pia rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. You sound like Mom.”

  “Maybe I do, but I don’t enjoy spending my day thinking something might have happened to you.”

  “Look, if you’d rather I left, just say so.”

  “That’s not what I meant at all,” Gigi said, although a small part of her did wish her sister would at least find her own place. “It’s just that I worry when I don’t hear from you for so long.”

  Pia sighed. “Sorry,” she said begrudgingly. “I didn’t mean to worry you. But I am being careful.” She shivered. “I heard there was actually a murder in downtown Woodstone on Saturday night. Declan told me about it when I stopped by.” Pia gave a slightly hysterical laugh. “The guy had been truly iced. Stabbed with an ice pick.”

  “I know.” Gigi tried to block out the image that rose to her mind.

  “How did you know about it?”

  Gigi looked down at her feet. It was now or never. Pia would find out anyway. “I was there. I . . . I found the body.”

  “How horrible.” Pia rushed to put her arms around her sister. “But wait.” She pulled away. “Declan said it was really late. What were you doing there?”

  Gigi spread her hands out. “We started talking and . . .”

  “And?” Pia demanded.

  “And nothing. We just talked, and I lost track of time.”

  “Oh, sure.” Pia poked Gigi with her index finger. “You won’t admit it, but you do fancy Declan for yourself. Well, you can’t have him.”

  And for the second time in the short span she and Gigi had been living together, Pia flounced from the room, slamming the door to the guest bedroom so hard that it bounced back open again.

  • • •

  A subdued air hung over Simpson and West when Gigi arrived with Madeline Stone’s breakfast on Monday morning. The receptionist sported a grim expression, and people scurried about with their eyes focused on the ground. Gigi had the feeling, though, that underneath the surface things were bubbling and boiling like a witch’s cauldron. She sensed an aura of smug satisfaction hanging over the place. If Bradley treated his staff like he treated his family, then odds were he wasn’t very well liked, and he wasn’t going to be missed.

  Gigi took the elevator up to the third floor, where Madeline toiled in a small cubicle amidst a sea of similar cubes along with the other staff who didn’t yet rate a windowed office on the hushed confines of the second floor. Gigi remembered her meetings with Mr. West and the impressiveness of his wood-paneled, antique-filled corner office. It was what everyone at Simpson and West aspired to.

  The elevator jerked to a stop, and the door slowly opened. A small huddle of men in pin-striped suits hovered near the entrance to the break room, coffee cups in hand, voices low in conversation. A similar group of women in short skirts and variously colored sweaters stood around the water cooler, occasionally throwing glances over their shoulder, looking ready to scatter like a flock of birds if someone with authority came along.

  Gossip buzzed like electricity sparking along high-tension wires.

  Gigi noticed that Madeline’s eyes were puffy and red-rimmed as she handed over the breakfast Gourmet De-Lite container. Her cubicle was, as usual, piled high with folders, papers and various files. A silver-framed picture of Hunter Simpson, his light curls blowing in the wind, a smudge of blue water just visible in the background, stood in pride of place on Madeline’s desk.

  Madeline pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “It isn’t as if I knew . . . Bradley . . . all that well,” she confided to Gigi. “But I feel so badly on Hunter’s account.” She gave a loud sniff.

  “He must be terribly upset.” Gigi couldn’t help wondering how Hunter really felt about his father’s death. She doubted there was much love lost between them. She remembered Bradley’s hurtful comments, and Hunter’s abrupt departure on Saturday night.

  “He’s devastated,” Madeline said, dabbing at her nose with the tissue. “And he’s worried about Barbara and what this is going to do to her. Bradley took care of everything. Barbara hardly had to lift a finger.”

  Must be nice, Gigi thought but then changed her mind. She much preferred being a capable woman and running her own business than being dependent on a man for everything.

  “Hunter must have found his father rather . . . difficult . . . to get along with,” Gigi hazarded.

  Madeline’s eyes widened. “Hunter adored his father. He would have done anything to please him.”

  Except become a lawyer, Gigi thought. It seemed as if Madeline was protesting just a little too much.

  “When is the funeral?”

  “I don’t know. Hunter is helping his mother with the arrangements right now.” She glanced at h
er watch. “They’re meeting with Father Stephens in half an hour over at St. Andrews Episcopal Church. They’ve been members since they moved here from the city when Hunter was a baby.”

  “Is that where you’re being married?”

  Madeline gave a loud sniff. “Yes. Although we’ve decided not to go through with a big wedding under the circumstances. Just a small reception with a few family and friends.”

  Gigi nodded. She thought it was a shame that Madeline was going to be cheated out of a proper wedding—surely every girl’s dream. She thought back to her marriage to Ted. Perhaps she’d been too taken up with the excitement of the planning and should have paid more attention to his potential—or lack thereof—as a husband.

  “Have the police told you anything?” Gigi said as delicately as someone putting a toe in frigid water. She hadn’t heard a peep out of Mertz and wondered what was going on.

  Madeline shook her head, a sob turning into a hiccough. “They said”—she lowered her voice and leaned closer to Gigi—“that he was stabbed with an ice pick. I can’t get over it! Things like that aren’t supposed to happen in Woodstone.”

  Chapter 6

  Gigi’s mind was going as she left Simpson and West. Madeline had been quite determined to convince Gigi that Hunter and his father got along just fine. What Gigi had witnessed on Saturday night suggested something altogether different. Was Madeline afraid that Hunter might somehow be involved?

  Walking briskly, Gigi headed toward where she’d parked the MINI. Reg was asleep on the package shelf above the backseat and jumped down when he heard her put her key in the lock. He took his accustomed spot in the front passenger seat, yawned widely and shook.

  “A few more deliveries, and then we can go home,” Gigi reassured him as she pulled out onto High Street.

  Gigi’s last delivery was to a new development on the edge of town. The builder had razed all of the trees and replaced them with enormous brick Georgian-style homes. A few anemic-looking maples had been planted in the front yards, and a fancy wrought-iron gate separated the exclusive enclave from the rest of the world. Gigi’s newest client, Penelope Lawson, had been referred by Madeline. Her husband, George, worked at Simpson and West and had just been promoted to a small office on the hallowed premises of the second floor.