Iced to Death (14 page)
He shook his head. “Your gravel driveway doesn’t allow for tire marks. I found a large rock right outside your back door. I’m pretty certain the thief used it to break the window. But since they were either wearing gloves or had wrapped something around their hand to protect it, I’m certain we won’t be finding any prints. Even assuming the perp’s prints are on file. If it was Tiffany Morse, then I doubt she’ll have a record. I can’t see Simpson and West hiring her in that case.”
“That’s true,” Gigi murmured drowsily.
“I took a couple of pieces of cardboard from your recycling bin and taped them over the hole in the window. You can call Campbell’s Glass in the morning to replace the broken panes.”
“Okay,” Gigi said, only vaguely aware of what Mertz was talking about.
Mertz shed his coat and draped it over the chair in front of Gigi’s fireplace.
“You look cold,” he said, as he slipped onto the sofa beside her.
• • •
Gigi woke up late on Sunday morning barely remembering the events of the night before. She’d dreamt that she was running through the streets of Woodstone again in pursuit of Janice and the cell phone. The faces of the pedestrians had gone by in a blur, just as they had in reality, but one face stood out in her dream—Tiffany Morse. She was wearing the red coat Gigi had seen her in before with a silk scarf around her neck. Gigi sat up on bed.
“Oh!”
Reg looked at her strangely, and she put her hand on his head to reassure him.
She’d thought she’d seen a familiar face in the crowd the day she was chasing Janice, and the dream had brought it all back. It had been Tiffany Morse.
Gigi wandered into the kitchen in her bathrobe and slippers and stopped short when she saw the piece of cardboard taped over the broken glass in the window in her back door. It brought back her terror at hearing someone prowling around her kitchen, her relief at Mertz’s arrival, and the warmth and coziness of the time they’d spent snuggling on her sofa.
She filled the coffeepot with water and her favorite brew and pushed the on button, leaning on the counter as she waited for the coffee to trickle into the pot. She ached all over—probably from the tension of the night before. But when she remembered Mertz taking her in his arms to still her shivering, she smiled and suddenly felt considerably better.
Reg wandered out from the bedroom, yawning broadly. He, too, was tired from their middle-of-the night escapades. He flopped down on the rug in front of the back door and promptly went back to sleep.
Gigi filled her mug, popped some bread into the toaster and sat down at the kitchen table. She thought she heard a noise similar to the sound Pia’s old van made, and she braced herself for the back door to suddenly be flung open and for Pia to burst into the room. Seconds ticked by, then minutes, but there was no sign of Pia. Gigi’s shoulders slumped. She was really getting worried about her sister. She’d never stayed away this long before. Surely she couldn’t be sleeping in her studio. She’d said it was so cold she had to wear fingerless gloves while she worked, and the bathroom—a toilet and small sink—was down at the end of the hall. If nothing else, Pia would be craving a hot bath or shower by now.
If only Pia had given Gigi the address of her studio. Gigi thought about mentioning it to Mertz—perhaps he would be able to locate it—but she knew that would make Pia furious. Better to just wait for her sister to come to her senses.
Gigi spent the day relaxing—napping off and on—and finishing the paperback she’d picked up at the Book Nook at Sienna’s suggestion. Mertz had called to check on her, and just the thought made Gigi smile. She’d told him about seeing Tiffany in the crowd the day she’d wrested Bradley’s cell phone from Janice Novak. He told her that the police would soon be paying a visit to Miss Morse.
Victor Branston called before Gigi had even finished preparing her clients’ breakfasts on Monday morning. He wanted her to record another radio commercial, which they would start running immediately.
Gigi was a little less nervous this time, but she still wasn’t exactly looking forward to it.
The good thing about recording for radio, she thought as she stared into the depths of her closet, was that it didn’t matter what you looked like. That was fortunate since she needed to do laundry, and her wardrobe these days mainly consisted of jeans and various tops—short-sleeved in summer, long-sleeved in winter. She’d given away many of the clothes she’d worn in her New York City life to make room in her tiny closet.
Gigi grabbed the pair of jeans she’d taken off last night and left on the bathroom floor and added a dark green wool turtleneck she’d ordered from a catalogue sale. It set off the red tones in her hair and the green of her eyes. And made up for the fact that her jeans probably smelled like last night’s dinner.
“Sorry, bud, but you’ll have to stay home this time,” she said to a disconsolate Reg. She’d given him an extra-long walk to make up for her desertion—allowing him plenty of time to sniff the bases of the trees and climb the snowbanks—but he didn’t seem impressed.
Gigi hopped in the MINI, made her deliveries and then headed toward Keith’s Recording Studio. A dark blue late-model sedan was already parked under the dented metal sign that read
For Keith’s customers only
.
All others will be towed
. It looked as if Alec Pricely had already arrived.
Cheryl was behind the reception desk when Gigi entered the studio. She was wearing a skirt that was way too short for someone her age, and the slim-fitting shirt she’d tucked into the waistband emphasized her sagging midriff. She had the telephone clamped between her shoulder and her ear and was chewing the cuticle on her thumbnail energetically.
Gigi hovered at the desk for a second, but she needed to use the restroom so she pointed wordlessly in that direction. Cheryl nodded but didn’t suspend her animated conversation.
Gigi exited the bathroom stall and washed her hands. The paper towel dispenser was empty so she rubbed her wet palms up and down her jeans. When she pushed open the swinging door from the ladies’ room, Cheryl was still on the phone. Her words brought Gigi up short.
“I don’t know how we’re going to pay it back,” she said to the person on the other end of the line.
Gigi backed up until she was leaning against the door to the ladies’ room. Hopefully Cheryl couldn’t see her from the reception desk.
“We’re up to our eyeballs in debt as it is,” Cheryl continued her conversation. “We got a shut-off notice from the electric company last week, and it was all I could do to scrape together enough to satisfy them. Jimmy just doesn’t understand. He’s always so optimistic. Something good will happen soon, he always says.”
Cheryl listened for a moment, then shook her head vigorously.
“It didn’t do us any good,” she said into the telephone. She listened some more. “I know what I told you, but I was wrong. Barbara expects us to pay the money back anyway.”
Cheryl swiveled her chair around and Gigi pressed herself as far into the recess of the ladies’ room door as she could. She looked up and down the corridor, but all the doors were closed, and there was no one to see her skulking out of sight. Cheryl swiveled her chair back toward her desk, and Gigi leaned forward slightly, straining to hear the rest of Cheryl’s conversation.
“I know! I mean after all Jimmy went through, risking everything like that . . .” Cheryl’s voice trailed off.
Gigi stood rooted to the spot. Was Cheryl hinting that Jimmy had . . . ? Her mind refused to complete the thought. Before she could hear any more, Pricely stuck his head out of the recording area, and beckoned Gigi to enter.
Gigi fumbled her way through another recording. Her mind was reeling after overhearing Cheryl’s telephone conversation. She could tell Pricely was getting impatient with her, but she couldn’t help it. Cheryl’s one-sided conversation kept running through her mind, and she would blurt out the wrong words even though the ones she was supposed to record were clearly written on the piece of paper in front of her. She spent a brief moment thanking the heavens that she had remembered to put on deodorant that morning because her armpits were becoming sticky with perspiration.
Finally Pricely stuck his head in the recording room and told her it was a wrap. Gigi grabbed her coat and scarf and practically ran for the front door. Cheryl looked startled as Gigi bolted past the reception desk in her haste to leave.
She beeped open the MINI and sat for a minute in the driver’s seat, her head resting on the steering wheel. She was utterly confused. The murderer had to be Tiffany Morse. She must have misunderstood Cheryl’s conversation. She’d only heard the one side so it was a distinct possibility. All the evidence pointed to Tiffany. What reason would Cheryl have for breaking into Gigi’s cottage and stealing Bradley’s cell phone? Gigi had barely scanned the call log, so struck had she been by Bradley’s text summoning Tiffany back to Declan’s the night of the murder. Was there some other damning voice mail or text that she’d missed? One that pointed to Cheryl’s husband as the murderer? She debated phoning Mertz and telling him what she’d heard but decided against it. She had no real evidence—just a one-sided conversation that might have been about something else altogether.
Gigi’s head was spinning as she put the car in gear and slowly drove out of the parking lot of the recording studio. There were too many people who might have wished Bradley Simpson dead—Declan, if the reports were true about him and Tiffany. Barbara Simpson was the typical neglected wife, and Tiffany was the mistress who wasn’t going to get what she was after—not marriage in this case, but a partnership in Bradley’s law firm. And then there was Janice, whose reputation had been tainted forever by her dismissal from Simpson and West. Gigi was convinced that neither Declan nor Barbara Simpson was guilty. But that still left Tiffany and Janice. Personally, she was putting her money on Tiffany. She had struck Gigi as a cold, unfeeling woman who would do anything to get what she wanted.
Gigi couldn’t wait to get home. She caught the red light at the corner of High Street and Elmwood and sat staring out the window waiting for it to change. The house across from her had a metal sculpture of a frog playing the violin on its front lawn. Gigi had briefly taken up the violin in sixth grade, but had quickly learned she had little musical talent. Fortunately the violin had been rented, and Gigi wasn’t at all sad when her mother took it back to the store.
The sculpture was a whimsical piece, different from the usual sorts of lawn ornaments. Gigi turned to look at it again and it was . . . gone. She rubbed her eyes, but they weren’t deceiving her. The violin-playing frog was gone. She heard the thud of someone running and caught a brief glimpse of a bright yellow jacket as a person rounded the corner.
It was the lawn ornament thief Mertz had been trying to catch! Gigi thought of the crowd protesting in front of the Woodstone Police Station. If she could catch him, the Woodstone Police would be redeemed. The light changed, and Gigi flipped on her left blinker. The car behind her honked impatiently at her sudden change of heart. Gigi ignored them, and as soon as there was a break in oncoming traffic, she turned the corner onto Elmwood.
She thought she saw a speck of yellow ahead in the distance. She squinted, but she couldn’t be sure. As she got closer, it resolved itself into someone’s recycling bin left at the curb for pickup. Gigi slowed to a crawl and tried to peer between the houses. The thief couldn’t have gotten far. The frog ornament was fairly large and cumbersome, and running with it had to be slowing him or her down.
Gigi decided her best bet was to follow on foot. She pulled the MINI over to the curb, got out and beeped the doors locked. Fortunately she was wearing flats. She was almost always wearing flats—her heels were gathering dust in the back of her closet. She scanned the front yards of the houses along the road for any sign of movement. She thought she saw a flicker of something toward the end of the block, near an ornately painted Victorian, and took off in that direction.
Gigi jogged along, her eyes peeled for movement of any sort. A young girl came toward her with two greyhounds on leashes.
“Excuse me,” Gigi said somewhat breathlessly, “did you happen to see anyone go by carrying a . . . a . . . lawn ornament?”
The girl gave Gigi a strange look, shook her head and pulled on the dog’s leashes to urge them forward.
So much for that.
Gigi debated going back to her car but perhaps she’d try one more block. She turned the corner and stopped for a moment with her hands on her knees, her chest heaving. When she’d finally caught her breath, she continued on—walking this time.
In the distance she thought she saw someone trying to squeeze through the boxwood hedge surrounding a small white Cape Cod. She imagined she could discern dark hair and something yellow—a jacket maybe. She hurried forward, but by the time she got there, the person, if it had even been a person, was gone.
Gigi returned to her car, panting slightly. The thief had certainly been fast. Faster than Gigi, at any rate. She really was going to have to check out the fees at the local fitness center. She used to jog when she lived in New York City. It was one of the things she and Ted did together—laps around Central Park followed by bagels smeared with salmon cream cheese from the deli down the street. She hadn’t had to worry much about calories back then.
She beeped open the MINI and got behind the wheel. Five minutes later she was pulling into the empty driveway of her cottage. Her shoulders slumped. She had so hoped to see Pia’s pathetic van parked in its usual spot behind the garage.
After an excited greeting, and a biscuit that Gigi saw him hide under the edge of the kitchen rug, Reg sought out his favorite spot—directly in the middle of the sunbeam coming through the back window. Gigi glanced at the door where Mertz had taped the piece of cardboard over the broken pane of glass. She would have to call Campbell’s Glass as soon as she delivered her meals.
Gigi was chopping carrots, celery and onions—a combination the French called mirepoix and the Italians
soffritto
—as a base for soup when the telephone rang.
Maybe it was Pia?
“Hello?” Gigi said hopefully.
It wasn’t Pia—it was Tiffany Morse. Gigi was so surprised she almost dropped the phone into her simmering pot of Tuscan bean soup.
Tiffany’s honeyed tones came over the line, and all Gigi could imagine was the image of her standing over Bradley Simpson with Declan’s ice pick.
“Madeline, here at the firm, has told me about your wonderful diet plan.”
Gigi held the phone in the crook of her shoulder and added a handful of chopped, fresh parsley to the concoction on the stove. Tiffany had a splendid figure—why on earth would she need Gigi’s diet plan?
“I’ve put on a few odd pounds”—Tiffany’s melodic laugh tinkled over the phone wires—“and I’m desperate to get rid of them. I have a big event coming up, and I positively have to fit into my new Donna Karan. I’m afraid it’s completely unforgiving, so this weight has got to go. Do you think your plan will work for me?”
“It should. The calories are carefully calculated. Always assuming you don’t cheat.” Gigi thought back to some of her clients who had complained that her diet didn’t work—but then they were supplementing the food Gigi brought them with cookies, ice cream and other goodies.
Tiffany’s voice took on a steel-like tone. “Don’t worry. I won’t cheat. I’ve been told I have iron willpower.”
Gigi shivered. She could easily imagine that. “I can stop by your office after delivering my meals, and we can go over the paperwork, and I can explain the plan to you in detail. Would that work?”
“Perfectly, but I’m working from home today. Do you mind coming here?” She gave Gigi the address.
Gigi whistled as she hung up the phone and gave the soup another stir. Not only did she have another new client, she had the golden opportunity to talk to Tiffany. With any luck, she might let something slip that would reveal her involvement in Bradley’s murder or in the theft of his cell phone from Gigi’s kitchen.
Tiffany lived in a set of very exclusive condominiums designed to look like Georgian townhomes. Each was three stories and built of red brick with glossy black shutters, shiny brass hardware and multipaned bay windows. The street was lined with mature trees and old-fashioned streetlamps. It was obviously a very expensive enclave.
Gigi found Tiffany’s condo easily enough. Her flame red Mustang was parked in the driveway. Gigi gathered up the file she had started on Tiffany—she created one for each client where she kept their paperwork, the contract and notes about their likes, dislikes and allergies. She sat for a moment contemplating the front of Tiffany’s building. She had to play this just right. She didn’t dare arouse Tiffany’s suspicions by asking too many obvious questions. If Tiffany was the murderer . . . Gigi shivered. She didn’t want to think about what might happen.
The walkway to Tiffany’s front door was paved with cobblestones. They were slick with ice, and Gigi slipped halfway to the front door, turning her ankle slightly. She stopped for a moment to rub it.
She held the railing tightly as she climbed the three front steps. Two empty terra-cotta pots sat on either side of the slightly recessed door. Gigi could imagine them overflowing with flowers in the spring and summer.
She pressed the doorbell and waited, her heart hammering lightly in her chest.
There was no response.
Maybe it was broken?
She grabbed the brass, pineapple-shaped door knocker and went to tap it when she realized the door was already an inch or two ajar. She put a hand against it and pushed it open further.
“Tiffany?” Gigi called tentatively as she stepped into the foyer.
A small table was pushed against the wall. A brass lamp stood on top and a woven basket held several pieces of mail. There wasn’t a speck of dust on the highly polished surface.
An Oriental rug shimmered like a jewel on the dark wood floor. Gigi took another tentative step forward. A small but elegant living room opened off the foyer to the left with a formal dining room on the right. Sunlight came through the bay window and glanced off the crystal chandelier that hung over the antique dining table.
Gigi called out again, but there was still no answer. Perhaps she ought to come back at another time. Tiffany must have been called out or had managed to forget about their appointment.
But why, then, was the front door open? And Tiffany’s car was parked in the driveway. Unless someone had picked her up, she had to be around somewhere.
Gigi called again, louder this time. She followed the hallway back toward a spacious kitchen outfitted with high-end appliances and richly veined granite countertops. The double-door stainless-steel refrigerator hummed softly in the background.
The kitchen opened to a sunroom with windows on three sides. A small table was pulled up in front of a sofa slipcovered in a textured cream-colored fabric and brightened with several patterned throw pillows. The table was set with two teacups, two dessert plates and forks, a small teapot and a platter with an iced cake missing two pieces.
Tiffany was on the sofa dressed in black slacks, a sapphire blue cashmere sweater and black, patent leather-tipped flats. Diamond studs glittered in her ears. She was slumped sideways and her long, blond hair cascaded over the arm of the couch.
Gigi stopped short. Had Tiffany fallen asleep? She cleared her throat loudly, but there was no response from the woman on the sofa.
Gigi had a bad feeling. There was something unnaturally still about Tiffany’s body. She watched for several seconds but could not discern any rise and fall to her chest. Gigi reluctantly went closer and reached out a hand to Tiffany’s neck. She could not find a pulse.
Tiffany was dead.
She had to call 9-1-1. Gigi dumped the contents of her purse on the counter and dug through the mess until she found her phone. She pressed the numbers with shaking fingers. After a brief chat with the 9-1-1 operator, she ended the call and immediately hit speed dial for Mertz.
Within minutes, a patrolman pulled into the driveway, and what seemed like only a moment later to Gigi, Tiffany’s elegant town house was crawling with police. Gigi stood by the front door, peering through the glass panes alongside, hoping to see Mertz’s car pull up front.
She had turned away momentarily when the door opened and Mertz stepped in. Once again, he enveloped Gigi in his arms. She let her head drop against his chest, and they stood like that for several minutes. Finally, she looked up.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” Mertz asked gently. He steered Gigi toward the living room, where they both perched on the sofa.
“Tiffany called me. Said she wanted to start my diet plan—she’d gained a few pounds and needed to get rid of them.”
Mertz jerked to attention. “She called you?”
“Yes. We agreed to meet at her house, but when I arrived”—Gigi’s chin wobbled dangerously—“she didn’t answer the bell. Then I noticed the front door was slightly open.”
Mertz swore softly. “Didn’t it occur to you that you might have been walking into something dangerous?” He shook his head. “I mean, we’d just talked about the possibility of Tiffany being the murderer as well as the person who broke into your kitchen last night. What if she had lured you here to—” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I just didn’t think, I guess. I was so startled to find the door open.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “And then I found Tiffany.”
“Can you come here a minute?” One of the policeman beckoned to Mertz.
Mertz squeezed Gigi’s hand. “Just stay here. I’ll be right back. And try to touch as little as possible, okay?”
Gigi nodded, her arms crossed over her chest. Suddenly she was very cold.
She heard noises coming from the other room and shuddered. The front door opened, and two men came in pushing a gurney. Gigi looked away quickly.
Finally, Mertz returned.
“What happened? Do you know?”
Mertz shook his head. “We won’t know much until the autopsy is done and the toxicology tests come back. Whoever . . . or whatever . . . killed her isn’t obvious. I would like to know who her guest was. Someone cut two pieces of cake, but there isn’t a bite out of either of them.”
“I noticed that. The table was set for two, so Tiffany was obviously expecting someone.”
Mertz put an arm around Gigi’s shoulders. “Unfortunately, unless two murderers are loose in Woodstone, and that seems highly unlikely, Tiffany Morse didn’t kill Bradley Simpson. We’re back to square one.”
