Allergic to Death (9 page)

Gigi propped her elbows on the table, her coffee forgotten, as she read the story. They’d interviewed Detective Mertz, and he had told the reporter how Martha’s last known meal had come from Gigi’s Gourmet De-Lite. “We believe it was an accident,” he was quoted as saying. “Somehow peanut oil was mistakenly introduced into the production of Mrs. Bernhardt’s meal.”

Gigi groaned. After this article, her business was toast. Burnt toast. Who would trust her to prepare a meal for them now? She flipped to Martha’s obituary on page thirty.

According to the article, Martha had been born in Bronxville, New York, an upper-class village less than half an hour from Grand Central Terminal and Midtown Manhattan. She’d attended Bryn Mawr and married Winston Bernhardt
shortly after graduation. Her career had been varied—newspaper reporter; book, theater and restaurant reviewer; director of a nonprofit and animal-rights activist.

The picture with the article was of a slightly younger Martha with longer hair and a softer expression. Gigi sighed and closed the paper. Even though she knew she wasn’t responsible for Martha’s death, she still felt guilty. As if she had failed Martha somehow. Maybe if she found the person who really did it, she’d feel better.

Gigi cleaned up her breakfast dishes, put some fresh water in Reg’s bowl, exchanged her pajamas for a pair of jeans and a bateau-necked top and tucked her grocery list into her purse. She had to make a trip to the Shop and Save just outside of town but her first stop would be Bon Appétit. She needed a few things she wouldn’t find anywhere else like black truffle oil and a new tart pan. And, even more importantly, the owner, Evelyn Fishko, was near neighbors with Martha Bernhardt. Who knew what gossip she might be persuaded to share?

Evelyn was behind the counter when Gigi pushed open the door to Bon Appétit. A small bell announced her arrival with a melodic tinkle. Evelyn looked up from the jar of lemon curd she was wrapping in tissue paper and glanced at Gigi over the top of her glasses. She had an apron with
Bon Appétit!
in scrawling black script fastened around her middle and a black cardigan tied loosely over her shoulders.

She nodded at Gigi as she lowered the jar into a glossy white bag with
Bon
Appétit
in the same black script. She pushed it to one side and leaned on the counter. “Morning. What can I get you?”

She knew Gigi always came in with a list and was an
efficient shopper, unlike so many of the housewives who trolled the aisles for an hour and left empty-handed.

Gigi pulled the piece of paper from her purse. “Some truffle oil to start.”

Evelyn pushed off from the counter and went to a well-stocked display to the right of the checkout. She ran her finger along the shelves until she found what she was looking for. “This do?” She adjusted the glasses on her nose and peered at the label. “It’s the Sabatino Tartufi from Italy. I’ve only got the smaller size.” She glanced at Gigi over her shoulder.

“That’s fine,” Gigi reassured her. “I only need the slightest bit.” The last thing she planned to do was drown her clients’ food in hundreds of calories of expensive oil. She wouldn’t use more than the barest drop—just enough to provide the maximum flavor with the minimum of calories.

Evelyn put the bottle of oil on the counter and stood poised with her hands on her hips.

“Do you have a nine-inch tart pan? Preferably nonstick?”

Evelyn snorted. “Of course I do. What kind of a cookery store would this be if I didn’t stock the most basic necessities?” She spun on her heel and disappeared into the warren of shelves opposite the cash register.

Gigi wondered about a tart pan being a basic necessity. Most people these days did little more than take out, eat out or microwave.

She glanced at the counter and noticed that Evelyn had received the day’s
Woodstone Times
. It was folded and still in its plastic wrapper. Obviously Evelyn hadn’t had a chance to read it yet. Gigi felt heat crawl from her feet to the top of her head. Once Evelyn—and everyone else in Woodstone—read about Martha’s Gourmet De-Lite meal and the peanut oil, she’d be ruined. She’d never be able to hold her head up again.

Evelyn returned, brandishing the pewter-colored pan. She plunked it down on the counter. “What else?”

“That’s it for today.” Gigi was itching to get out of there in case Evelyn had the only case of X-ray vision ever known and could see through the newspaper wrapper to the damning article inside on the front page. But that wouldn’t solve anything. If she was going to clear her name, she’d have to learn more about Martha, and Evelyn was a good place to start. She reached into her purse for her wallet.

But how to introduce Martha into their nonexistent conversation? Perhaps she’d start with the usual pleasantries and find a way to weave it in. Surely Martha’s murder—she stumbled over the word, even in her own head—was on the tip of everyone’s tongue.

“Nice day today.” Gigi slid her credit card across the wooden counter.

Evelyn grunted. She fiddled with her glasses and squinted at the card before running it through the processing machine. “Shame about Martha Bernhardt.”

“What?” Gigi was startled. Here she’d been searching for a way to bring up Martha’s name, and Evelyn had done it for her.

“She a client of yours?” Evelyn paused with the bottle of truffle oil half in and half out of a Bon Appétit shopping bag.

Gigi hesitated. Had Evelyn heard about the peanut oil and Martha’s allergy? Maybe she’d already read the paper and then carefully folded it back up and put it back in its wrapper? Gigi could feel her face getting red.

“Neighbor of mine,” Evelyn offered in her usual terse style. She pulled a sheet of tissue paper from a roll and carefully wrapped both pieces of the tart pan.

The front bell tinkled, and Gigi groaned inwardly. Just when she might have gotten somewhere with Evelyn!

A bright-eyed, middle-aged
blond woman approached the counter. She wore white capris, a lime green T-shirt and matching lime green canvas shoes.

“I’ll be with you in a minute.” Evelyn looked up from placing Gigi’s pan in the shopping bag.

“Oh, that’s okay.” The woman waved a hand toward Evelyn. “I’m just looking.” But instead of moving toward the shelves of merchandise, she continued to hover near the counter.

“Sure I can’t help you with anything?” Evelyn handed Gigi her credit card receipt.

Gigi hesitated. Just when she’d gotten Evelyn talking! “It really is a shame about Martha,” she agreed with an emphatic nod.

The blond woman approached the counter eagerly. “Is that the woman who died in the car accident?” She lowered her voice. “I heard her death wasn’t completely natural…that some are calling it foul play.” She looked back and forth between Gigi and Evelyn like a spectator at a tennis match.

Evelyn pursed her thin lips. She leaned over the counter, closer to Gigi and the blond. “I’ve heard the same thing.” She looked over her shoulder briefly. “I heard that something caused her to have that accident.” She crooked her left brow. “And I don’t think it was a heart attack like they’d have us believe,” she finished triumphantly.

“I heard she was only in her fifties.” The blond looked from Evelyn to Gigi. “I don’t know about you, but that’s not old enough for a heart attack in my book.” She laughed huskily and patted her chest in the region of her own heart.

Evelyn fiddled with a ball of twine that was sitting out on the counter. “Martha lived two doors down from me. And she was always working in that garden of hers—hauling bags of fertilizer, mulch and top soil as if they didn’t weigh a thing. Then she’d be
off on a long hike up the hills, swinging that walking stick she always took with her.”

“There you go, then.” The blonde shook her index finger at them. “She was in too good shape to have a heart attack.”

“Unless it was all that arguing that did her in. Bad karma.” Evelyn drew her lips back over her horsey teeth and brayed loudly.

Gigi’s ears perked up. “Arguing?”

“Yup. Martha and her neighbor, that woman who’s running the old Woodstone Summer Theater…what is her name? Give me a minute, it’ll come to me.”

“Adora Sands?” Gigi prompted.

Evelyn snapped her fingers. “That’s it. She moved in alongside Martha about six months ago, and it’s been nonstop crabbing at each other ever since.”

“Oh?”

“Bicker, bicker, bicker, they’re always at it.” Evelyn said. “First it’s Martha’s dog doing its business in Adora’s yard, then it’s Adora’s cat chewing on Martha’s prize roses. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.” She looked at Gigi. “Not that Martha was all that easy to get along with, mind you. We had our fights, too. The time my Howard accidentally blew some snow onto her driveway…” She raised her eyes and threw her hands into the air.

“Well, you want to know what I heard?” The blonde paused dramatically. “I heard it was something quite different that caused Martha’s accident.”

And she turned and looked straight at Gigi.

Gigi held her breath. Had she read the story in the day’s paper? Soon everyone would know, and she’d have to leave Woodstone…go back to the city. She panicked and for a moment didn’t realize what the blonde was saying.

“I heard”—the blond paused dramatically—“that her car had been tampered with.”

Gigi expelled her breath in a loud
whoosh
. She raised a hand to her forehead and realized it was shaking. She quickly shoved it into her pocket, hoping the others hadn’t noticed.

“Really?” Evelyn breathed.

The blond nodded. “Do you think maybe that neighbor of hers, what was her name—Adora? Do you think maybe she had something to do with it? Maybe she got tired of arguing with Martha and fiddled with her brakes or something?”

Evelyn brayed again. “I don’t think Adora would know one end of a car from the other, let alone how to disengage the brakes. Besides”—she pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders—“you wouldn’t kill someone just because their dog had piddled in your flower bed, would you?”

Chapter 6

The scent of onion, garlic, oregano and mint wafted from Gigi’s oven as she pulled out a pan of turkey meatballs with Greek seasoning. The fragrant vapor curled around her, and she inhaled deeply, her stomach growling. She was hungry. She spent so much time feeding others that sometimes she forgot to feed herself. She plucked one of the tiny meatballs from the sheet and popped it into her mouth. She fanned her face furiously. It was hot! But very good, she decided as she chewed carefully. Her clients would like them. This recipe was a keeper.

Gigi set the pan on the counter and began to crumble feta cheese for the salad. She thought back to her conversation earlier with Evelyn and the blond lady at Bon Appétit. Was it possible that Martha had irritated Adora enough to kill? She shook her head—she couldn’t see it. If Adora had clubbed Martha over the head with a garden gnome in a fit of pique…maybe. But this must have been premeditated.
Someone had to have doctored Martha’s lunch with the peanut oil. It didn’t make sense.

No, money was far more likely to be at the root of poor Martha’s death. And who had the most to gain? Barbie and Winston. With Martha dead, Winston’s responsibility was effectively over. He and Barbie could spend the alimony money any way they wanted.

Gigi passed her calendar and stopped to flip the page. The new sheet boasted a stunning shot of St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church in downtown Woodstone. Lush, white peonies bloomed against the darker brick of the church, and the trees were thick with fresh, green leaves. Gigi realized it was the first of June already, and her rent was due.

She retrieved her checkbook from its accustomed spot in her desk drawer and opened it to a fresh check. She stopped with her pen poised above the blank “Pay to the order of” line. With Martha dead, who was she to send the check to? Worry niggled at the edges of her mind. What if Martha’s heir wanted to move into the cottage? Where would she go? One of those featureless, boxy apartments near the train station? She shuddered. This place was home. But surely the new heirs, whoever they were, would want the income from the rent?

She pulled the telephone directory from her lower desk drawer and thumbed through it. Simpson and West were the only lawyers in town, and most people went to them for their everyday legal needs. Perhaps Martha had done the same.