Allergic to Death (6 page)

She inhaled as Moe’s overall-clad legs swished past, inches from her nose, and didn’t exhale until he had disappeared into the tow truck, the dog perched beside him in the cab.

“I think I’ve found it,” Alice called under cover of the departing backfire of the truck’s engine. Gigi straightened up and saw a floral print scarf beckoning in the breeze three rows away. She headed in that direction.

“Is this it?” Alice pointed toward a boxy, dark blue car sandwiched between two hulking SUVs.

“It’s an Element.” Sienna checked the insignia on the rear of the car. “And it’s blue.”

“It looks like Martha’s car.” Gigi put her hands up to the glass and peered in the driver’s window. “Yes,” she gestured to Alice and Sienna. “I remember she had that ticket hanging from her rearview mirror.” She pointed at a white square with
Paid. Hartford City Parking Garage
centered on it in black lettering.

Alice tried the door handle. “It’s unlocked.” She pulled open the door, releasing a
whoosh
of hot, baked air.

Gigi closed her eyes and crossed her fingers behind her back. They had to find something in Martha’s car—a Snickers wrapper, the cellophane from a package of cookies, a half-eaten granola bar—something, anything that might indicate Martha had come upon some peanuts in something other than Gigi’s gourmet diet food.

The inside of Martha’s car was neat and orderly, with a pack of tissues on the dashboard and a black umbrella on the package shelf. Alice opened the glove compartment and turned up a couple of neatly folded maps, a plastic rain slicker in a travel case and the car’s maintenance log.

“I don’t see my Gourmet De-Lite containers.” Gigi glanced in the front seat, then the back.

“The boys will have taken those,” Alice said as she swept a hand under the driver’s seat. “Nothing here except some spare change.” She held out a quarter and two pennies.

Gigi crouched in the backseat and poked a hand around the edges of the cushions and then wriggled an arm under the front passenger seat. “Ouch.” She pulled her hand out and examined the inch-long scrape on the back of her arm.

“Anything?” Alice rummaged in her handbag and handed Gigi a crumpled tissue.

Gigi pressed it to the blob of blood that had appeared on her wrist. “No candy wrappers, fast food bags…nothing.”

“Just because we haven’t found anything doesn’t mean she didn’t eat something.” Sienna said trying to console her. “Maybe she put the wrapper in her purse?”

Gigi sighed. “Someone stole her purse. As a matter of fact, she was on her way to report it when she had the accident.” She shook her head. “I know I didn’t put any peanuts in Martha’s food. There’s got to be some other explanation.” She turned toward Alice and Sienna. “But how am I going to convince Detective Mertz of that?”

Chapter 4

The police station was a square, red brick building that once housed a small knitting factory. The Woodstone Garden Club had hauled some elaborate cement planters in front of it, and members took turns tending the colorful red and white geraniums that did little to disguise the squat ugliness of the building’s exterior. Gigi pushed open the front door, resisting the urge to whip a tissue from her bag to clean the smeary fingerprints off the dirty glass.

She hoped Alice and her other clients would enjoy the lunch she’d prepared—a new recipe that combined canned tuna and cannellini beans in a lemony vinaigrette with plenty of chopped, fresh parsley.

She went up to the reception desk that was screened from the public by a thick piece of glass. It, too, was in desperate need of washing. Gigi wondered if it was bulletproof. She shuddered. Not that there were all that many shootings in Woodstone. The only one she knew about had happened
more than thirty years ago when some longtime resident came home to find her husband in bed with her best friend. She’d tried to make her displeasure known via a shotgun but, fortunately, her aim was terrible, and she’d merely nicked his ear. The story might have died down long ago, except the participants themselves were particularly fond of telling it and had managed to keep it alive even as they approached their golden wedding anniversary.

Gigi peered through the smudged glass and into the small room beyond. An empty swivel chair was pushed back from the desk as if its occupant had gotten up in a hurry. There was no one else in sight. Gigi thought about tapping on the glass, but then someone came into view, edging sideways into the cubicle. She saw Gigi and leaned over toward the window, speaking into a microphone embedded in the glass.

“Help you?”

“Thanks. I have a delivery for Alice Slocum.” Gigi brandished the Gourmet De-Lite container in front of the window.

The woman picked up the phone and stabbed several numbers. Gigi could see her mouth moving but couldn’t hear what she was saying.

She heard the front door open and footsteps clatter across the tile floor. Gigi felt her breath catch in her throat. What if it was Detective Mertz? The thought of running into him made her feel queasy. She hoped Alice would come out soon and get her lunch.

Gigi peeked over her shoulder and gave a sigh of relief when she realized it wasn’t Mertz. She heard a buzz, and a door opened.

Alice stuck her head around the open door and gestured to Gigi. “Come on back for a sec. I want to show you this
adorable garter I found for Stacy. It plays the Wedding March when you push a button.”

Gigi somewhat reluctantly followed Alice through the door and into the rabbit warren of corridors and hallways that made up the Woodstone Police Department. She just hoped Mertz was occupied outside somewhere. Or, better yet, was on vacation or something.

“My cube’s right over there.” Alice pointed to a tiny space under a high, multipaned window that was flecked with dirt. Several tottering stacks of paper were visible over the waist-high wall that ringed the desk.

“Alice?” A male voice came from somewhere behind them.

Gigi stopped and closed her eyes for a second. It sounded like Mertz. Please let it not be Mertz, she prayed silently.

She turned around.

It was Mertz.

“Can I speak to Miss Fitzgerald for a second?”

Alice shrugged and looked at Gigi, then at Mertz, and then back again.

Gigi had a feeling she knew what Alice was thinking. And she didn’t like it. Why on earth did every person in the entire town of Woodstone feel it their duty to try to fix up unmarried women?

The look on Mertz’s face made Gigi’s mouth go dry.

Alice looked back and forth between them again and waved a hand. “Go on, don’t let me stop you.”

Gigi ran her tongue over her lips. “If I could get a glass of water?”

“No problem.”

She followed Mertz down the corridor, trying to guess by his posture whether he had something good or bad to tell her, but it was useless. Mertz walked as if he were on parade—shoulders
back, chest out, head high. He stopped at the water cooler, filled a paper cup and handed it to her.

Gigi was horrified to see that her hand was shaking. She took a quick sip to wet her mouth.

“We sent the food and the containers found in Ms. Bernhardt’s car to the lab.” He motioned toward the box in Gigi’s hand, and Gigi realized she was still clutching Alice’s lunch. “They appear to be the same as that one there.”

“They are—were,” Gigi stammered. What was he getting at? “I told you. I had just delivered them to Martha and my other clients at the theater.”

“And you still maintain that you didn’t use any peanuts in the preparation of Ms. Bernhardt’s dinner?”

“No, I didn’t.” Gigi felt her face get hot. What did he want her to do, swear on the Bible or something?

Mertz nodded and regarded her gravely. “Can you explain, then, why the lab found peanut oil all over the food?”

Everything stood still, and Gigi heard a weird
whoosh
ing noise in her ears. Mertz’s face swam hazily before her eyes, and her heart pounded against her ribs as if it wanted to get out. “What?” she demanded. Her life was ruined. She could see it passing in front of her eyes as if she were drowning.

Her right hand squeezed the paper cup convulsively, crushing it and sending a geyser of water down the front of her blouse.

Gigi thrust Alice’s lunch at her and fled, leaving Alice openmouthed and stammering. She delivered the rest of the lunches in a fog. Her hands shook on the steering wheel, and she could barely concentrate. At the corner of High Street and Cherry, she nearly went through a red light. She stopped just in time but not without her brakes screeching
hideously. An older woman walking her dog gave her a strange look, and Gigi felt herself flush with embarrassment. She really shouldn’t have been driving at all, but she had her meals to deliver if she hoped to keep Gigi’s Gourmet De-Lite afloat.

Although that looked to become a losing battle. When people found out about Martha and the peanut oil, she’d be ruined. It wasn’t her fault, but how would she convince everyone of that? She didn’t know what she would do if her business failed. She’d have to leave Woodstone and maybe go back to the city. She couldn’t bear it again—the noise, the smells, the traffic.

She had to talk to someone. Up ahead she could see the curly black lettering of the sign for Al Forno. She thought of Carlo. Why not? He was always so easy to talk to. She put on her blinker and made a left turn into the small parking lot carved out of the space between Al Forno and Gibson’s Hardware next door.

At the back of Al Forno there was a flagstone terrace, just beyond which the ground sloped gently toward the small river that ran through Woodstone. Gigi noticed that today the tables were out with their bright red striped umbrellas fluttering in the brisk breeze. Several patrons sat outside enjoying their lunches, their water glasses sweating in the sun.

Gigi went through the door into the darkened interior. The air was redolent with the scent of garlic, olive oil and herbs. She felt her stomach rumble appreciatively. The lunchtime crowd had arrived, and the low hum of voices drifted toward her along with the melodic tinkle of cutlery and occasional clash of crockery. Carlo was behind the bar, and Sienna was half perched on one of the stools, a beaded and mirrored Indian bag slung over her shoulder. Emilio turned around with a stack of menus in his hand. He waved Gigi over.

“Cara.”
He
kissed her on both checks then stepped back to look at her face. “
Mama mia
, what is it? Another accident?” He whirled around toward the oven, where Carlo was sliding a pizza out on a long, wooden paddle. He snapped his fingers. “A whiskey, Carlo, for our Gigi.”

Carlo put the pizza on the counter and reached for the bottle. “What’s wrong?” he called over his shoulder.

“Nothing. I’m fine,” Gigi protested as she waved the whiskey away. “I can’t. I’m driving. Although not very well,” she added as she perched on the edge of the stool.

“An aperitif, then.” Carlo selected another bottle and a tiny glass. “It’s just a drop of vermouth.” He pushed the glass across the bar toward Gigi. “It can’t hurt you.”

Gigi took a cautious sip and turned toward Sienna. Her face was blotchy, and her eyes were red and puffy, as if she’d been crying.

“What’s wrong?” Gigi asked in alarm, putting a hand on her friend’s shoulder.

Sienna shrugged then gave a halfhearted smile. “Nothing, really. Just the same old, same old. This time I really thought…you know. But the test was negative.” She swiped at a tear that had escaped and was rolling down her cheek.

“I’m so sorry.” Gigi knew how anxious Sienna was to have a baby. The thought gave her a pang. She’d been hoping that she and Ted would consider a family as well. Now she didn’t know if motherhood would ever be in the cards for her.

Sienna looked away. “It’s not that.” She looked back at Gigi briefly, then down into her lap. “I think Oliver is losing interest in…in…having a baby.”

“Why? What makes you think that?”

“Nothing, really.” Sienna kneaded her hands in her lap. “It’s
just that I think he’s seeing someone in the city,” she blurted out.

Gigi wasn’t sure what to say. She took a sip of the vermouth Carlo had poured her.