Allergic to Death (30 page)

“Don’t be silly. I knew that you knew as soon as I saw your face.” She tossed the blond wig onto the dark red sofa that was part of the set and ran her hands through her hair, lifting it up off her neck. “You have no idea how hot that wig is.”

“I was just looking for Winston.” Gigi took another cautious half-inch step backward into the folds of the musty curtain.

“He’s gone.” Adora turned and looked out over the empty
theater. She turned back toward Gigi. “I told him I’d close up, and he should go on ahead to the party at Al Forno.”

“I should go, too.” Gigi took a step backward and made a half turn. How was Adora going to keep her there against her will?

“I don’t think so,” Adora replied, pulling a very nasty-looking pistol from the waistband of her shorts and aiming it in the vicinity of Gigi’s heart.

A gun would certainly work to keep me here against my will,
Gigi thought. The realization that Adora must have lost some weight crossed her mind. How else would she have fit the pistol into the waist of those too-tight shorts?

Gigi tried to quell her panic. Surely someone would notice she was missing? And Sienna and Oliver would come? Or Carlo? Or, maybe when she didn’t show up with Carlo, Sienna would suspect something and call the police? Another irrational thought crossed her mind—that Mertz would have to put a precipitous end to his date with that eye candy he was with. Meanwhile, she knew enough from the books she’d read and movies she’d seen that she’d have to keep Adora talking to buy time.

“Shooting me won’t do any good.” Gigi was horrified to note that a pleading tone had crept into her voice. “You won’t get away with it.” Now she sounded like the protagonist of a hideously clichéd movie script. Her legs were ready to buckle at any moment. “Can I sit down?” She gestured toward the sofa where Adora had discarded the wig.

“I suppose so.”

She kept her eye on Adora and the gun as she made her trembling way across the stage and sank onto the sofa. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not doing anything.” Adora gestured with the gun, and Gigi flinched. “You are. I know you’re counting on all
your friends rushing to your rescue. But when they do, they’re going to find you dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound.” She held the gun up to her own head as if to demonstrate. “Administered while the balance of your mind was impaired. All caused by the thought that you’d accidentally killed your client, the dear, departed Martha Bernhardt.” Adora gave a shrill bark of laughter. “I actually had to say a line like that in a play once.” She shook her head. “I’ve had to work with some dreadful scripts, believe me.”

“That must have been difficult.” Gigi’s glance kept swiveling toward the door, but so far it had remained stubbornly closed.

“You have no idea how difficult!” Adora screeched. “If that bitch Martha hadn’t ruined my chances on Broadway…” She pointed the gun at Gigi. “It was all her fault. She wanted to get back at me for my affair with Winston.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t my fault Winston was tired of her.” She shrugged. “Anyway, as I was saying, your friends are going to find you’ve committed suicide. You could no longer stand the burden of guilt knowing you’d accidentally killed poor, dear Martha.”

“But I didn’t!” Gigi jumped to her feet in protest.

“Sit down,” Adora commanded, waving the gun in a wild arc.

“Why now?” Gigi asked as she sank back down onto the sofa. If Adora was going to kill her, she figured she might as well at least satisfy her curiosity. “All that was years ago. What made you—?”

“She was going to do it all over again,” Adora snapped. A dreamy look came into her eyes. “She was going to ruin Emilio this time. All because that clumsy waitress spilled some water on her when she went to do her review.”

“Maybe she wouldn’t have—”

“Yes, she would.” Adora spun around and pointed the gun at Gigi. “Martha was like that. Vindictive, mean, nasty…and jealous, too. She wanted Emilio for herself.” She threw back her head and laughed. “As if Emilio would even look at her! He said it made him sick to pretend—”

“To pretend what?” In spite of herself, Gigi was sitting on the edge of her seat.

Adora gave a contemptuous toss of her head. “That he liked her. He pretended to be in love with her to try to get her to cancel her review and give Al Forno a second chance.”

“I’m sure she would have—”

“No.” Adora stamped her foot. “She wouldn’t. Do you believe it? Even after Emilio had somehow managed to convince her that he loved her…she still planned to go ahead with her review.” She swiped at a tear of what Gigi supposed was frustration.

Gigi gauged the distance from where she was sitting to the door. What were her chances if she made a run for it? She doubted that Adora was a particularly good shot—if Gigi bobbed and wove, she might have a chance at making it.

All her muscles tightened at the thought of bolting, but she couldn’t make herself do it. The idea of being shot—even in some relatively harmless location like an arm or a leg—was enough to paralyze her. She’d have to pray that someone at Al Forno missed her and came looking. Meanwhile, she’d have to keep Adora talking.

“Are you the one who let Reg out of my car that day at the theater and left that threatening note?”

Adora wiped her cheek with the palm of her hand then straightened her shoulders. “I had to do something. You were getting too close.”

Gigi got mad all over again at the thought that she could have lost Reg.

“If you weren’t so nosy, none of this would be happening.”

“You’re blaming me?” Gigi’s voice rose to a squeaky crescendo.

“I didn’t think anyone would recognize me in my costume, but then you managed to put two and two together.”

Gigi remembered back to the day of Martha’s murder. Adora had run outside in her costume, hoping that anyone who happened to be passing wouldn’t recognize her in that garb.

Until Gigi saw her on stage and the light finally went on.

Adora looked at her watch. “It’s getting late. Let’s get this over with.” She gestured toward Gigi with the gun. “I need your fingerprints on here.”

“No.” Gigi struggled as Adora tried to grab her hand and press it against the handle of the gun.

“Stop squirming,” Adora commanded. “Your prints have to be on here just the right way.”

Gigi looked up into Adora’s eyes and realized it was hopeless. Adora didn’t care what she had to do to get her own way. Gigi shivered and glanced toward the door again. No one. No knight in shining armor coming to save her. She’d have to do this herself.

She began to struggle in earnest, but Adora was surprisingly strong and succeeded in twisting Gigi’s arm around so that the gun was pointing at her head. She felt the sharp edges of the barrel pressing into her temple and renewed her struggles.

“You’re not going to get away with this.” Gigi strained to put as much distance between her head and the gun as possible. “Someone else might have seen you that day. They’ll figure it out.”

“No one else saw me. Just that stupid woman driving the delivery truck.”

“Au contraire, my dear.” The voice came from somewhere out of the blackness enveloping stage right, and both Gigi and Adora swiveled abruptly in that direction.

Winston stepped from the shadows and stood in front of them, arms crossed over his chest.

Gigi went limp with relief. Surely Winston would be able to do…something.

The gun in Adora’s hand wavered but still hovered in the vicinity of Gigi’s head. Gigi’s mind whirled through an entire gigabyte of thoughts in a matter of seconds. If Winston had seen Adora tampering with Martha’s food that day, or had even seen her outside at the relevant time, why hadn’t he said anything before now?

Winston cocked his head in Gigi’s direction. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I didn’t immediately go running to the police.” He shrugged. “Frankly, it was in my best interests not to. Not”—he held up a hand palm facing out—“that I had any idea what you were up to that day.” He pointed accusingly at Adora.

Adora snorted. “Darn right it was in your best interests, as you put it. You wouldn’t have been able to make the deal for this property if Martha were still alive.”

“And you”—Winston pointed at Adora again—“are getting a completely new, state-of-the-art theater, so I don’t know what you’re complaining about.”

“But they’ll arrest her when they find out, and you…” Gigi trailed off in the face of Winston’s expression.

“I know.” He paused dramatically. “I’ll be an accessory to the crime. My girl, you are truly naïve.” He threw his head back and laughed theatrically. “I have no intention of allowing you to ruin my happy little scheme. I couldn’t
believe my good fortune when Adora decided to take things into her own greedy little hands and get rid of that large, cumbersome obstacle known as Martha. Far be it from me to stand in her way. She took all the risks”—he gestured toward Adora—“and I get all the rewards.”

“And so you’re throwing me to the wolves?” Adora jumped to her feet. “If I’m going down, so are you.” She moved the gun from Gigi’s head and Gigi breathed a momentary sigh of relief.

Adora held the pistol at arm’s length, braced with both hands and aimed directly at Winston.

“No!” Gigi cried. She waved an arm trying to throw off Adora’s aim.

Winston just stood there and watched. “Don’t worry,” he said with a smirk, “it’s not a real gun.” He gestured toward the revolver in Adora’s hand. “It’s a prop.”

“This”—his hand disappeared into the folds of his jacket—“is a real gun,” and he pulled out a serious-looking pistol. He aimed it casually but steadily at Adora. “What a pity, but this has to be done. You”—he cocked the pistol in Adora’s direction—“are going to kill yourself after having murdered our little Gigi here. So sad. You were overcome with remorse and saw no way out but to take your own life.”

“You won’t get away with this,” Gigi stammered, realizing how ridiculous that sounded even as she said it.

Winston took a step toward Adora.

“Don’t you come any closer!” Adora brandished the prop gun as if it were real.

“Nonsense, dear, I don’t want to put too much trust in my aim.” Winston steadied the gun with his left hand and moved his finger to the trigger.

Adora closed her eyes and squeezed the trigger of the prop pistol a second before Winston squeezed his.

The explosion was massive, and Gigi’s hands flew to her ears practically of their own accord. It took her several seconds to realize she was screaming and several more to force herself to stop.

Adora’s bullet had grazed Winston’s arm, tearing through the expensive fabric of his suit jacket and the custom-made shirt beneath. Blood tinged the edges of the fabric a bright red.

“What the bloody hell!” he shouted. “That was supposed to be a prop, not a real gun. Bloody stagehands can’t do anything right.” He stared at the blood welling up from the deep grove in his left arm. His face was pasty, and prickles of sweat broke out on his forehead.

He lurched forward, and Adora began to scream. “Don’t you come any closer, or I’ll shoot again.” She waved the gun around wildly.

She was equally pale, and Gigi could see the sheen of perspiration on her upper lip.

Winston looked to be in shock, and Adora didn’t look much better. Gigi wondered if she could slip away unnoticed and summon help before either of them actually succeeded in shooting the other…or her.

Winston tried to aim the gun again, but he swayed violently, grasping at the air for balance. Adora dropped her gun and ran toward him, one arm outstretched. He sagged heavily onto her shoulder.

Somehow Gigi struggled to her feet. Her legs quivered but she managed to put one foot in front of the other. She didn’t look back. She didn’t want to know if either Adora or Winston were aiming at her.

She ran straight into the folds of the curtain, stifling a sneeze as dust went into her nose and mouth. She couldn’t see and batted her arms around uselessly trying to find the opening. The velvet fabric weighed heavily on her arms and molded to her face. She could barely breathe.

Finally, one arm sliced through the opening, and she was able to push the cloying fabric to one side. She plunged through it into shadowy darkness.

She stopped for a minute to get her bearings. As her eyes adjusted, dark, looming shapes came into slow focus. One of the shapes suddenly detached itself from the others and moved toward her. Before she could utter the scream that rose in her throat, arms were thrown around her, and she was held roughly against someone’s chest.

“Are you okay?”

Gigi looked up into the blazing blue eyes of Detective Mertz.

“I…I…think so,” she stammered. “How did you…what…?”

“Never mind that now. If you go through that door”—he pointed behind him—“it will take you outside. Wait out there for me.”

Gigi nodded. “Okay.” She noticed his gun was drawn and held loosely, but confidently, in his right hand.

She started to turn away, but he put a hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, and Gigi?”

“Yes?”

“That was my niece I was with tonight.”

Gigi couldn’t be sure in the gloom, but she thought he was blushing.

“Oh” was all she said before breaking into a big smile.

Several police officers brushed past her as she made her way toward the open door. She thought she heard the sounds of a scuffle, but she didn’t linger long enough to find out. She was more than happy to take Mertz’s advice and wait outside.