Allergic to Death (11 page)

Chapter 7

Simpson and West, Attorneys at Law had offices on the second and third floors above the Knit Knack Shop on High Street. They had cornered the market on wood paneling, which graced the entire reception area as well as each of the offices. Gigi half wondered if she would find the same dark mahogany boards in the restrooms and employee break room.

A middle-aged woman with a short, lacquered blond hairdo led Gigi to a closed door with a brass nameplate announcing
William West
in elaborate script. She rapped gently against the wood panels with the back of her hand. A deep baritone bade them enter.

West crouched behind a massive partner’s desk, hands folded across a substantial paunch only partially camouflaged by his expensively tailored pinstripe suit.

Gigi traversed what seemed like an acre of antique Oriental
carpet before sliding into the stiff armless chair strategically placed in front of West.

He steepled his fingers, glared at Gigi over their tips and raised caterpillar-like eyebrows. “I understand you are here in the matter of the death of Mrs. Martha Bernhardt.”

Gigi nodded and sat up straighter in her chair. She wasn’t going to allow this overstuffed, pompous ass to intimidate her. “All I need to know is to whom do I make out my next rent check?” Gigi could not actually recall ever having used the phrase
to whom
in conversation before. West, however, did not look particularly impressed.

“Ah, yes, the cottage.” His face relaxed into the deep lines of a bulldog’s mug as he gave this his consideration. Finally, he spoke. “The cottage now belongs to a client of mine.”

At the word
belongs
, Gigi felt her chest tighten, and all the air in her lungs bellowed out. “Do they…do they want it back?” Gigi gulped.

West shook his head slightly. “For the moment they are content to leave things as they are. You will make out your rent checks to Simpson and West, and we will see that they are put into the hands of our client.”

Gigi fidgeted with the thin gold band she now wore on her right hand. “Do you think your client is going to want to sell…?” She could hardly get the words out. The thought made her heart speed up and her mouth go dry.

West shrugged large, padded shoulders. “I would assume so, given time to think about it.”

“Will you let me know…when…if…?”

West’s caterpillar-like eyebrows crept upwards as his mouth turned down. “If my client should decide to sell, I am sure you will receive ample time to seek shelter elsewhere.”

He made it sound as simple as buying a new dress. Gigi kneaded her hands in her lap. “But what if I want to buy it myself?” she blurted out.

West gave a bark of laughter. He plucked a fountain pen from his desk and twirled it between his fingers. “Given the current price of property in Woodstone, I think it is highly unlikely that you will, er, be in the market for my client’s cottage.”

Gigi felt her face glow red. “I don’t think you’re in a position to know that, now, are you, Mr. West?” Gigi lifted her chin and stared straight into West’s tiny black eyes.

He dropped the fountain pen he’d been fiddling with, and it rolled across the desk, over the edge and onto the plush Oriental carpet. He stared after it for a moment before looking up at Gigi.

He sighed. “In that case, if you would leave your name and contact information with my receptionist, Mrs. Walker, I will see to it that you receive notice when my client decides to put the cottage up for sale.” He pulled a sheaf of papers across the desk toward him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Gigi delivered everyone else’s dinner first that evening so she could swing by Winston and Barbie’s house and not worry about how long she was taking. People got so testy when they were hungry and on a diet. Although you could hardly call the delicious plank-grilled salmon she’d prepared yesterday “diet food.” Or the couscous salad brimming with peas, corn, scallions, tomatoes, pineapple chunks and fresh parsley grown in her garden.

She’d been delivering Barbie’s food to the theater for the last couple of weeks, packing her dinner in a cooler for her to take home and eat later. She’d gotten the distinct impression
that Barbie hadn’t wanted her coming around the house for some reason.

That reason became obvious when Gigi pulled up in front of Winston and Barbie’s house later that evening. The house was set well back from the road with a circular drive curving around under a porte cochere. The house itself was large and impressive, trimmed in fieldstone, with three chimneys rising above the roofline. There was a three-stall garage designed to look like a stable block with hitching posts and a cobblestoned forecourt. But instead of the manicured lawns and gardens of its neighbors, the grass was overgrown and the flower beds choked with several weeks’ worth of weeds.

Although that was about to change. As Gigi watched, two men on riding mowers swooped down the drive and got to work on the acre of front lawn. Three other men, their ball caps tilted against the lowering sun, waded into the weed-infested gardens, shovels at the ready.

Gigi retrieved Barbie’s dinner from the backseat of the MINI and started up the front walk. The noise from the two mowers was deafening, and she jumped when one of them cut a bit too close to the brick path. By the time she was at the front door, a large swath of lawn had already been sheared, the cut grass forming a feathery blanket on top.

Gigi rang the bell and waited. She rang again and waited some more. Nothing. And a third time, but still no response. She looked at her watch. She’d told Barbie to expect her at six o’clock, and she was a few minutes early.

She was heading back down the path when a lady walking a black standard poodle came down the street, tottering on a pair of red canvas espadrilles that laced up her ankles.

“Looking for the Bernhardts, my dear?” she called to
Gigi. She pushed large, oval sunglasses to the top of her head.

Gigi nodded and hurried down the walk to where the woman was waiting, her dog sniffing in an ever-widening circle around her.

“I saw their car leave about an hour ago,” the woman told Gigi. She glanced over her shoulder where the men were working furiously on the lawn. “I must say, it’s a relief to see them taking care of things again. Fifi, no,” she commanded abruptly as the dog attempted to relieve itself on the Bernhardts’ property. “They’ve been letting it go for weeks. The neighbors were starting to complain. I offered to go ring their bell and see what was what, but we voted to wait another week.” She wrapped the dog’s leash around her fist and yanked it off the grass where it had wandered again. “I was rather relieved. I have to say, that Winston gives me the creeps. Always skulking about in those ascots of his. Honestly, what year does he think it is?”

“It’s odd that they’ve suddenly got people working on things again.” Gigi watched as one of the men yanked the power cord on a hedge trimmer, and it roared to life with a belch of sooty exhaust.

“Isn’t it? But I think they were caught in the recent stock market plunge like a lot of people. The Martinsons on the hill”—she pointed up the street with a hot pink manicured finger—“never did recover. They actually had to sell.” She shivered. “We had a few sleepless nights ourselves, but everything has turned out okay. Same for the Bernhardts, it looks like.”

“Did they come into some money?” Gigi tried to sound offhand, but her heart was hammering.

The woman jerked the dog’s leash again and pulled it closer. “It certainly looks like it, doesn’t it?” She looked over
her shoulder at the swarm of men cutting the grass and tending to the garden. “And just the other week I saw”—she lowered her voice and leaned closer to Gigi—“I saw Barbie vacuuming her own living room. The shades were up, and you could see right through those enormous windows of theirs…and there she was! Pushing the vacuum herself.” She shivered. She sounded as shocked as if Barbie had been caught running naked down the street. “That just isn’t done around here. They must have let Linda go,” she said with relish.

The woman turned her dark, beady eyes on Gigi. “How do you know the Bernhardts?”

“Mrs. Bernhardt subscribes to my meal plan. Gigi’s Gourmet De-Lite. For weight loss…” Gigi trailed off. The woman was staring at her most peculiarly, with her thin, penciled-in eyebrows practically disappearing into her hairline.

“Do people actually lose weight? Does the stuff taste good?”

“Yes. Hopefully on both counts. My clients do claim to enjoy the food, and since it’s low in calories, you ought to lose weight unless you have some sort of medical problem…or you cheat.”

“I hope you don’t use a lot of that fake stuff they put in the frozen diet dinners.”

Gigi shook her head. “No. Nothing you wouldn’t find in regular food.”

“Do you have a card?” The woman stuck out her hand. Her dog had finally exhausted itself and lay panting by her feet.

Gigi dug in her purse and pulled out one of the cards she’d had printed at Folio in town. The possibility of getting another client was certainly an unexpected bonus. She realized she hadn’t
heard back from Branston Foods yet. She really hoped that didn’t mean they’d changed their minds.

The woman took Gigi’s card and finally walked on, the poodle straining on the leash ahead of her, and Gigi got back into her car.

It certainly did look like Winston and Barbie had come into money from somewhere, Gigi thought as she waited for them to come home. Was it just good luck that Martha had died right when they needed money so desperately?

Or was it something else entirely?

Chapter 8

Winston and Barbie zoomed up the drive in their shiny, dark Mercedes half an hour later. Gigi had dozed off in the front seat of her car, her cheek pressed into the steering wheel, and she stretched awkwardly. The air inside the car was hot and stale despite the open windows. Barbie gave her a peculiar look as they whizzed past in a cloud of dust and cut grass.

Gigi got out of her car, retrieved Barbie’s container of food, and followed them on foot down the long, circular drive. Winston had already parked and was waiting for her on the front step when she got there.

“What have we here?” He held out a hand to take the glossy Gourmet De-Lite box from Gigi.

“It’s Barbie’s dinner—”

“Ah, yes! Especially prepared in your kitchen so we don’t have to dirty ours. How thoughtful of you.” Winston bowed with a flourish.

“It’s not that, it’s low-calorie food,” Gigi began before he interrupted her again.

“But of course. So my charming wife doesn’t even have to make the effort to diet. You do it all for her.”

The scent of wine washed over Gigi—some expensive vintage, no doubt. Winston had obviously been drinking. As if to confirm it, he swayed slightly and grabbed at one of the white pillars holding up the portico.

“Well, not exactly. She still has to—”

“Just another way to spend my money,” Winston sighed.

“If you’d rather I didn’t—” Gigi was seriously tempted to bolt back down the stairs, leap into her car and drive off.

“Do I owe you some money for this?” Winston began to pull a tan leather Gucci wallet from his back pocket.