Allergic to Death (26 page)

Carlo thrust the pizza box forward. “I am bringing this to you for your dinner.” He made a vague gesture with one hand. “I was thinking that maybe you are tired of cooking for other people and would like someone to cook something for you.”

Delicious smells wafted from beneath the lid of the pizza box, and Gigi’s mouth began to water. She swore she heard Mertz’s stomach growl again, too.

“It’s our famous white pizza,” Carlo went on. “None of that Pizza Hut stuff,” he sniffed disdainfully.

“That’s very kind of you, Carlo. Why don’t you come in?” Gigi held the door a little wider.

But Carlo shook his head. “I do not want to intrude—that is the correct word, no?” He glanced sideways at Mertz. Probably putting the evil eye on him, Gigi thought, remembering her maternal grandmother and how she tried to cast the evil eye on anything that displeased her.

“I’m just going,” Mertz said in a toneless voice, although he made no move to leave.

Carlo stood his ground as well, hugging the pizza box closer to his chest.

At this rate, they’d be standing on the front steps forever, Gigi thought. She had to do something. She put out a hand for the pizza. “Thank you, Carlo, I’ll take this inside and keep it for my dinner. Detective Mertz,” she turned toward him, “I will call you if anything else occurs to me.”

Carlo breathed a deep sigh, and Mertz’s stomach grumbled, but they both turned to leave, being careful not to stray too close to each other on the walkway.

Gigi watched them go. She realized that, while she liked Carlo very much and certainly enjoyed his company, Mertz had somehow gotten under her skin.

If she were going to marry again…a big
if…
she wanted someone reliable this time around. Someone with whom she could imagine raising a family. That all added up to someone like Mertz. It didn’t hurt that she found him insanely attractive

She turned, went back inside and closed the door. She realized with a feeling of deep disappointment that her thoughts were in vain. So far, Mertz—and Carlo, too, for that matter—had not made the slightest move to ask her out.

Gigi completed her dinner prep, packed up her Gourmet De-Lite containers, loaded them into the MINI and delivered them. Then Reg wanted his dinner and a walk. It was almost seven thirty
P.M.
before she was able to check her e-mail.

She tucked several triangles of Carlo’s pizza into the oven to warm, consoling herself with the fact that her walk with Reg had surely burned enough calories to earn her an extra piece. She curled up on the sofa with Reg at her feet and the windows wide open. She could smell the faintest hint of lavender from the garden, which mingled with the lingering scent of the basil from the tomato sauce she’d made to top the chicken breasts she’d grilled for her Gourmet De-Lite customers.

She powered up her laptop and bit the point off one of the pieces of pizza. She closed her eyes in rapture and inhaled deeply as the scent of garlic, tangy cheese and pungent rosemary wafted around her. Between them, Carlo and Emilio had raised pizza to an art form.

She was deleting the contents of her spam folder when the thought occurred to her—was there something in the past that had led to Martha’s murder?

Gigi took another bite, wiped her fingers, set them on the computer keys and brought up her favorite search engine. Who should she start with? She paused with her hands hovering over the keys. So far, Winston was their odds-on favorite, so she quickly pecked out
Winston Bernhardt
and hit enter. Barely a second later, the magic of the Internet had produced several pages of links. Gigi scanned them quickly. Winston’s name turned up on several annual reports as a member of boards, in articles in business magazines and newspapers and in several obituaries for a Winston Bernhardt who had been born in 1902 and died, at the age of ninety-three, in 1995. She clicked on an article from the
Wall Street Journal
. Several clicks later, she had found nothing particularly revealing about Winston Bernhardt and virtually nothing she didn’t already know.

Next up, Barbie Bernhardt. Gigi wished she knew Barbie’s maiden name, but she couldn’t remember anyone ever having mentioned it. No matter—the first article she pulled up was Barbie and Winston’s wedding announcement from the
New York Times
. The heading read “Yablonsky-Bernhardt.” Gigi settled down to read. Barbie had grown up in Youngstown, Ohio—so much for the slight southern accent that brought to mind miles of Kentucky bluegrass and white horse fences. Barbie was obviously a better actress than they gave her credit for. Most of the announcement was taken up with information about Winston, who at the time had been head of one of New York’s biggest investment firms. According to the article in the
Journal
, Winston had resigned shortly after marrying Barbie so they could “enjoy life together.”

Barbie’s father had worked for a tool and die manufacturer, and her mother had been a housewife. Barbie graduated from Ohio State University with a degree in theater arts. She’d had an extremely minor but recurring role in a short-lived soap opera before grabbing the brass ring and marrying Winston. None of which pointed toward her being the murderer.

Next up, Carlo and Emilio Franchi. Gigi plugged their names into the search engine and waited while a page of links loaded. She scanned them quickly. Several led to Al Forno’s Web site, and one or two referenced an Emilio Franchi who had had a very short career with an Italian opera group based in Milan. Nothing there, either.

Alice Slocum didn’t rate a single Internet mention, although there were several obituaries for other Alice Slocums, most of whom had been born and died before the turn of the previous century. Gigi skimmed through the references again but still found nothing of interest.

Last but not least—Adora Sands. Gigi scanned the references that came up, reading one or two here and there. Most related to summer theater performances, in which Adora’s parts ranged from almost nothing to miniscule. Gigi clicked on a link halfway down the page and began to skim, her pointer hovering over the back arrow key the whole time. Suddenly, she yanked her hand away from the mouse as if she’d been burned and studied the picture of the smiling couple in evening dress.

She had to call Sienna right away.

“I’ve just made some wonderful iced green tea. Why don’t you come over and tell me about it?” Sienna said when she answered.

Gigi didn’t need to be asked twice. She powered down her laptop, slipped it into the case and slid her feet back into
her sandals. She hated doing it, but she decided she would leave her dishes piled in the sink. Surely the gods of good housekeeping would turn a blind eye just this once.

Reg was waiting by the back door. Gigi clipped on his leash, and they both got into the MINI—Reg beside her, his head hanging out the window.

Gigi tried to quell the excited feeling that was building in her stomach, but she wasn’t having much success. She might be wrong, and this new trail might lead them right back to where they’d started, but she really thought it was promising.

Sienna lived in an old fieldstone and half-timbered Tudor-style carriage house that she and Oliver had spent two years converting into a spacious and cozy home. Doors on the four garage bays on the first floor had been replaced by windows and transoms, and the front door was painted a cheery Victorian red.

Gigi banged the brass, pineapple-shaped door knocker and waited.

“Come on in.” Sienna pulled the door wide open. Gigi was glad to see that there was some much-needed color in her cheeks.

Gigi followed her through the spacious and airy open-plan first floor and into the kitchen, which was dominated by an island with a limestone top. Sienna picked up a tray set with a pitcher of iced tea, glasses, and a plate of sliced pound cake.

Sienna swung around to face Gigi. “You look very excited.”

“So much for my career as a poker player, I guess.”

“Let’s sit outside.” Sienna gestured toward the French doors leading to a flagstone patio.

Gigi was about to follow her when she noticed a man’s suit jacket slung over one of the kitchen chairs, and a tie hanging from the pantry doorknob.

“Is Oliver home?”

“Yes,” Sienna whispered. “I’ll tell you more outside.”

Sienna set the tray on a small wrought-iron café table, leaving room for Gigi’s laptop. Gigi tried to control her impatience as Sienna fussed with the tea. Finally, glass in hand, she could restrain herself no longer.

She nodded toward the kitchen. “How did Oliver take the news about the baby?”

“He’s thrilled.” Sienna beamed. “It’s all been a misunderstanding.” Sienna stirred her tea. “He hasn’t been seeing anyone, and he said”—she dashed a hand across her eyes—“he doesn’t regret our life here in Woodstone at all. He’s just been really stressed about his job.”

Gigi raised an eyebrow.

“Seriously,” Sienna said. “More and more people have been getting laid off every week, and he and the rest of the staff have been taking on more and more work. He’s been staying late trying to get things done and to prove to his bosses that they need him.” Sienna stared into her tea. “He didn’t want to tell me about it because he didn’t want to worry me. Meanwhile, he’s been waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“What—?”

Sienna looked up. “He’s lost his job. He didn’t survive the last round of layoffs.”

“Oh no!”

Sienna smiled. “But now that it’s over, he can start to move forward. He’s thinking about opening up a small firm of his own right here in Woodstone! That way he can be
near the baby when it comes.” She ran a hand over her still-taut abdomen.

“That’s really good news. So, he’s excited about the baby?”

“Oh, yes,” Sienna glowed. “He’s as thrilled as I am. We’ve already spent hours talking about names and how to fix up the nursery.” Sienna tapped Gigi’s computer. “Anyway, tell me what you’ve discovered.”

Gigi swiveled the laptop around and turned it on, her hands hovering impatiently over the keys. “I went to the search engine and plugged in
Adora Sands
, and the first thing I came up with was this.” She chose a link, hit enter and turned the screen so that they could both see it.

Sienna tilted her glass in the direction of the screen. “So Alice was right—Adora really was on Broadway once. It’s hard to believe. No wonder she sometimes gets so impatient with the Woodstone Players.”

“I know.” Gigi leaned over the screen. “The play sounds very avant-garde.” She read the headline out loud. “‘Young Playwright Has New Take on McCarthy Era’.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t sound like my sort of thing.”

“Mine, either,” Sienna agreed.

Gigi clicked on another bookmarked site. “Cindy Adams, the
New York Post
. Check this out.”

Sienna leaned forward and studied the grainy black-and-white picture that figured prominently in the infamous gossip column. “It’s Winston and Adora.”

“Yes. Coming out of some fancy nightclub on Fifty-Seventh Street.”

Sienna peered at the photo again. “With their arms around each other.”

Gigi nodded. “It looks like Adora might be the one who broke up Martha’s marriage to Winston, not Barbie.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Sienna leaned back in her seat and curled her feet under her.

“There’s only one problem,” Gigi said as she snapped the computer shut. “If that’s the case, then Adora should be dead, not Martha.”

Chapter 18

Gigi led Reg up the steps to the Book Nook and pushed open the door. She was happy to see Sienna once again behind the counter, her eyes bright and her complexion much rosier than it had been.

She smiled when she saw Gigi. “I was just going to make some tea. Would you like some?”

“Is there any coffee?” Gigi leaned her elbows on the counter.

“You’re in luck. I just started a pot.”

“Madison?” Sienna called to the spike-haired girl who was shelving a stack of inspirational romances. “Can you watch the register for a few minutes?”

Sienna swooshed out from behind the counter, her bright cotton skirt swirling around her ankles.

Gigi followed her to the coffee corner, where she inhaled the delicious aroma of fresh-brewed coffee. “Smells heavenly.” She unclipped Reg’s
leash, and he sat down next to the sofa, his pink tongue bobbing with each breath.