Allergic to Death (20 page)

“That?” Winston cleared his throat, and an uneasy expression smudged his features.

“Yes, that.” Barbie tapped her foot. “Well? I’m waiting.”

“That will be the new Woodstone Theater. New and improved.” He smiled at Barbie and raised his glass in cheer.

“But you told me—”

Winston cleared his throat. “I wanted to surprise you, my dear.”

“You bastard!” Barbie hissed, and flung the contents of her glass at Winston.

He sputtered, and wine dripped off the end of his nose onto the blueprints on the desk. “But Barbie! I thought you’d be pleased.”

But Barbie had already stomped from the room, giving the door a resounding slam behind her.

“Well!” Winston pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his face. “I guess my little sweetie is one of those people who don’t like surprises.” He laughed. “The joys of newly married life! There’s always something fresh
to discover about each other.” He beamed at Gigi and Sienna, but Gigi could see the uneasiness clouding his eyes. She glanced at Sienna, who shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “What gives?”

Winston jabbed the center of the drawing with his finger again. “I’m sure Barbie will be as excited about the theater as I am as soon as she’s had the chance to think it over.” He beamed at them. “We’ll have the Woodstone Players in the summer”—he winked at them slyly—“fortified with some ringers from Broadway.” He reached for his glass, and the papers rolled together again with a
snap
. “And we’ll have traveling shows, and some single acts, but not”—he shuddered broadly—“any rock and roll.”

“So the Woodstone Players will continue…” Gigi looked from Winston to Sienna.

“Yes.” Winston clapped his hands gruffly. “Isn’t that just splendid? And here”—Winston unrolled the papers again and anchored them with a monogrammed crystal paperweight on one end, and a high-tech looking stapler on the other—“we’re planning an atrium with real, live trees—a bit of a green oasis for weary shoppers.”

Gigi felt Sienna’s elbow in her rib and turned toward her. Sienna raised her eyebrows questioningly, and Gigi silently mouthed, “What?” Sienna rolled her eyes toward Winston in a desperate pantomime.

Of course! Gigi had been so astounded by Winston’s revelation that she’d forgotten all about the questions she’d planned to ask. But how to turn the conversation toward Martha and her murder? Especially now that Winston was in full bore with his plans for the new Woodstone Mall.

Gigi spied a copy of the
Woodstone Times
discarded on
the floor near Winston’s desk. She gestured toward it. “Did you see the article in the paper about Martha’s death? It seems the police have decided that it was an accident after all.”

“Of course it was,” Winston declared, polishing off the last sip of champagne in his glass.

Gigi felt herself bristle, and Sienna shot her a warning look.

“Unfortunately, people seem to think I was the cause of the accident.” Gigi tried to keep the bitterness from her voice.

“You?” Winston went to the corner of the room, where he retrieved a golf club that had been leaning against the wall. He took a practice swing, sighing with satisfaction as he followed through.

“Yes. By process of elimination. My Gourmet De-Lite food was the last thing that Martha touched.”

“Of course, she might have eaten something earlier while she was at the theater…” Sienna interjected helpfully.

“That’s true.” Gigi tried to act like the idea had just occurred to her. “Did you, by any chance, see her eating anything while she was there that afternoon?” Gigi looked hopefully at Winston.

Winston shook his head and moved his hands farther down on the golf club, taking a crack at a practice putt this time, gently tapping a phantom ball. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

“You didn’t happen to see anyone lurking around my car that afternoon?

Winston had raised the club over his shoulder again, preparatory to swinging, but this time he let it drop unceremoniously with no follow-through. “See someone around your car?”

Gigi nodded. “Yes.
You were sitting in your car, I remember, and Barbie came out to have her lunch with you.”

“Well, if you say so,” Winston said amiably enough, but his features had hardened, and there was a shadow behind his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“Did you see anyone?” Gigi prompted.

But Winston was shaking his head before she even finished the sentence.

Winston ran off to show the gardeners, who had just arrived amid a roar of engines, where he wanted his truckload of new Japanese maple trees planted, and Barbie reappeared to walk Gigi and Sienna to the door. Her eyes were red, and it was obvious she’d been crying.

“The property where the new mall is going to stand,” Gigi began as they crossed the foyer, “is that the land that Winston owned jointly with Martha?”

Barbie nodded, her eyes wary.

“Adora seemed to think that Winston was planning on doing away with the Woodstone Theater altogether.”

“Yes,” Sienna chimed in. “And now it looks as if he’s actually going to put a ton of money into it.”

Barbie’s pink mouth tightened into a sour line, and her slender shoulders stiffened, but she didn’t say anything.

“I guess Winston changed his mind.” Gigi glanced over her shoulder at Barbie.

Barbie’s mouth tightened even more, as if she had to clench her lips to keep the words from spilling out.

Gigi hesitated on the doorstep, and Sienna dawdled as well, pretending to admire the large terra cotta pot of red and white geraniums on the brick entryway. They both looked at Barbie expectantly.

Her cheeks were puffed out as if they would explode, and a deep flush had spread from the open neck of her blouse to the roots of her blond hair. She had her hand on the door, and as soon as Gigi and Sienna were clear of the doorway, she slammed it hard behind them.

Chapter 13

“What was that all about?” Gigi said as she pulled out of the Bernhardts’ circular drive.

Sienna pulled down the car’s visor, flipped open the mirror and began drawing her hair into a wobbly knot on top of her head. “I don’t think it’s a
what
, I think it’s more like a
who
.”

“Who?”

“Yes, who.”

“You’re beginning to sound like that old Abbott and Costello skit.”

Sienna laughed.

“Someone made Winston change his mind about the theater.”

“And obviously it wasn’t Barbie.” Sienna stuck a final pin in the makeshift bun on top of her head.

“No. Who is the one person who cares more about the Woodstone Theater than anyone else?”

“Adora.”

“I can’t think of any other reason why he’d suddenly change his mind about the theater. She must have changed it for him.”

“Now, that’s a picture I don’t want to contemplate.” Sienna shuddered. “But why Adora? Winston already has his little trophy wife in Barbie. Why go after Adora? She’s a good fifteen years older than Barbie and forty pounds heavier!”

“Maybe Winston’s discovered that hanging out with someone half his age isn’t as much fun as he thought it would be. Look at Prince Charles and Camilla.”

Sienna grunted.

“Were you watching Winston when I asked him whether he’d seen anyone around my car the day Martha died?”

Sienna nodded, and the hair piled on top of her head bobbed unsteadily. “Yes, I was.”

“What did you think? Does he know something?” Gigi glanced swiftly at Sienna, then back at the road again.

“Hmmm.” Sienna pursed her lips. “He did seem a bit fishy to me.”

“As if he were lying?”

“Maybe not lying exactly. More like there was something he wasn’t telling us.”

“That’s what I thought. We do know one thing: Someone did go into Martha’s car that day and steal her purse. And they went into my car and added peanut oil to the food. Surely someone saw something!”

Sienna shrugged. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you?”

“I have an idea.” Gigi was so excited, she slammed on the brake as they neared a stop sign at the corner of Monroe and High, and they both shot forward and backward in their
seats. “Sorry about that.” She looked both ways before pulling across High Street. “What if I can convince Devon Singleton to run something in the paper asking anyone who might have seen anything that day to come forward?”

“Brilliant!”

“Someone might have been passing in their car or walking their dog…or something.”

Devon Singleton was wearing the same Boston University T-shirt he’d been in the last time Gigi had visited his office, but she could tell the jeans were new—the holes were in different places this time.

Gigi followed him back to his office, nearly stepping on his heels in her excitement. Sienna was close behind, and they both tried to go through the door at the same time. Sienna took a step back and motioned for Gigi to go ahead.

Gigi graciously urged Sienna toward the low-slung chair in front of Devon’s desk. She had to suppress a smile when the unsuspecting Sienna slid into the seat, her knees nearly hitting her chin in the process. Gigi pulled an armless chair away from the small round table pushed into the corner of the office and wheeled it closer to Devon’s desk.

Devon’s computerized picture frame was scrolling through a new group of pictures, Gigi noticed. Devon gave it half of his attention, and Gigi and Sienna the other half.

“So,” he began, tossing a glance in their direction. “What’s up?”

Gigi fiddled with the strap on her purse. She stole a glance at Sienna, who looked equally dumbstruck. It had seemed like such a good idea on the way over. Now, faced with Devon Singleton’s open and honest gaze, she wasn’t
sure where to begin. Was she making a mountain out of a molehill simply to clear her own name?

No. Mertz had said that the food in the Martha’s Gourmet De-Lite container was covered in peanut oil. Which meant it could only have been put there deliberately by someone who knew Martha was allergic and who wanted to do her harm. And that person was not her. And if the police couldn’t figure it out, then she was just going to have to do it herself.

She raised her chin and looked Devon squarely in the eye. “You recently ran a story in the
Woodstone Times
that the police have closed the investigation into the death of Martha Bernhardt. They’ve decided it was an accident.”

Devon nodded, his eyes sliding back toward the rotating picture frame.

“I just can’t accept that, you see.” Gigi could feel herself “getting her Irish up,” as her mother used to say.

Devon made a gesture that might have been a shrug.

“The police believe I was the one who used peanut oil in preparing Martha’s food. Which would make me criminally negligent because I knew perfectly well that Martha was deathly allergic to peanuts. I have all my clients fill out a form with their likes, dislikes, and most importantly”—Gigi could feel her face flushing and her voice becoming louder—“whether or not they have any allergies.” She sank back in her seat and fixed Devon with a gaze so intent that this time he didn’t dare look away.

She could sense Sienna silently cheering at her side, and she felt a glow of satisfaction. If she could just go shout that from the rooftops, maybe she’d feel better. And maybe then someone would listen!

Devon spread his hands open on the desk. “What is it you want me to do?”

Gigi inched forward in her chair and leaned her elbows on the edge of the desk. “I’d like you to run a story asking if anyone saw anyone around my car or Martha’s the day she was killed.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Devon’s mouth quirked into a smile, making him look even younger.

Gigi’s “Irish” rose to unprecedented heights. “Why not?”

Devon leaned back in his hair, crossing one leg over the other. His finger snaked beneath one of the holes in his jeans and rooted around aimlessly. “Because it’s not a story. The
Woodstone Times
prints stories,” he explained as patiently, as if they were children. He leaned forward, and his chair snapped back into place.

“It doesn’t have to be a big piece. It doesn’t even have to be on the front page.” Gigi was chagrined to notice that a wheedling tone had crept into her voice.