Steamed to Death (16 page)

She looked every inch the leading lady, and once again Gigi wondered what impact Felicity’s death would have on the show. Would the writers expand Vanessa’s character or find someone to take Felicity’s place?

Vanessa must have caught Gigi staring at the bracelet. She held her wrist up to the light. “Like it?” she said in a tone that oh, so clearly said
You’ll never have one like it.

“It’s beautiful,” Gigi said truthfully, enjoying the way the diamonds picked up the light and refracted it into colored prisms.

Gigi wondered if Don had already cashed in his insurance policy and run out to buy his lady love another expensive trinket.

“Will you be back for dinner?” Gigi asked as Vanessa hesitated in the doorway.

“Yes.” She nodded briskly before heading down the hall.

Gigi listened as the clack of her heels retreated toward the foyer, then sat at the kitchen table noodling on a menu for that evening. She had been developing a chicken tikka masala using low-fat Greek yogurt and eliminating most of the butter and oil and all of the cream. It would be delicious served with brown basmati rice mixed with a handful of toasted pine nuts. She thought Winchel and his guests would like it. Meanwhile, she’d have to make a quick dash to the Shop and Save for the ingredients.

An hour before dinner, Anja was still in bed, having taken some herbal remedy she claimed would calm her nerves but which also had succeeded in knocking her out. Gigi had had a brief conversation with Winchel, and they agreed she would put the dishes on the sideboard and serve them buffet style.

Gigi began work on dinner, taking a couple of onions from the bag in the pantry and chopping them. She pushed them to one side of her cutting board, placed three generously sized garlic cloves on her work surface and pressed down on them with the side of a large knife blade to loosen the skins.

She was about to turn on the stove to heat some olive oil in her skillet when she heard the melodic tinkle of a feminine laugh coming from the direction of Winchel’s library. Curious, she edged down the hall, the thick Oriental carpets muffling the sound of her footsteps. The clinking of ice against crystal mingled with the continuing sounds of low murmurs and throaty conversation. Obviously, there was a woman in the room with Winchel. Gigi wondered who it was. They sounded very intimate.

She sidled closer to the door, which was partially cracked. She wondered if she dared put her eye to the opening and peer inside. The woman’s voice trilled in laughter again, and Gigi paused, listening. She knew that voice—she’d definitely heard it before. She waited, hoping the woman would say something. She finally did, and although Gigi couldn’t make out the words, she definitely recognized the speaker.

She inched closer to the gap in the door and carefully peered around the edge. Vanessa was on the sofa with Winchel. She must have just come back. Her belted trench coat was tossed over one of the chairs. Her blond hair tumbled around her plunging neckline, and Gigi saw the diamonds in her tennis bracelet flash in the lamplight.

They were both holding champagne flutes, and an open bottle stood on the coffee table in front of them. Vanessa had one leg draped casually over one of Winchel’s, and his arm was splayed along the back of the sofa, the fingers of his right hand buried in her hair.

It looked to Gigi as if Vanessa was working on getting ahead in more ways than one.

Chapter 14

Gigi’s phone rang early the next morning. She recognized Mertz’s number right away. Was there something new on the case?

“Hello?” She held the phone with her shoulder as she poured a mug of coffee.

Mertz cleared his throat twice before speaking. “I know it’s short notice but . . .”

Was he about to ask her out? Gigi put down her cup and gripped the phone hard. “Yes?”

“I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight.”

Gigi said yes immediately.

Mertz sounded relieved. “Great, I’ll get us a reservation for seven at the Auberge Rouge.” He was silent for a moment. “What?”

Gigi realized he wasn’t talking to her.

“Look, I’m afraid I’ve got to go. I’ll see you tonight. I look forward to it,” he added shyly and quickly ended the call.

Gigi drifted in a fog toward her bedroom and stood in front of her open closet door. She groaned. Reggie cocked his head at her.

“I don’t have a thing to wear,” she told him.

He raised his shaggy brows and proceeded to settle down with his rawhide bone.

“Just like a male,” Gigi muttered as she went through the hangers one by one.

Since moving to Woodstone, she hadn’t had much need for fancy clothes beyond the occasional opening at the Silver Lining. She spent most of her day cooking in jeans and a T-shirt. She did enjoy dressing up from time to time, but it hadn’t been in the cards lately.

She thought about Abigail’s Dress Shop on High Street and all the delicious items in the window. Unfortunately the prices were stratospheric, and even though Deirdre, the saleswoman, was always willing to give her a deal, she really couldn’t afford to shop there.

But it wouldn’t hurt to look
, a little voice whispered in her ear.

The Auberge Rouge had opened only recently but had already been favorably reviewed by the
New York Times
. If Mertz was trying to impress her, it was working. Gigi stared in disgust at the things in her closet. None of them would quite do for Auberge Rouge.

She would check out Abigail’s later that afternoon. She sighed. If she didn’t find anything she could afford, she supposed she could wear her old standby black dress. But maybe she would treat herself to a pin to freshen it up.

• • •

It was noon by the time Gigi drove down High Street toward Abigail’s, thinking about dinner at Auberge Rouge and the gorgeous outfit she would wear to really make Mertz sit up and take notice. Then she remembered her budget, and her spirits plummeted to below sea level. She would have to depend on nothing but her native attractiveness. Which she knew from experience wasn’t going to get her very far.

Gigi dropped off a Gourmet De-Lite container of lunch for Madeline. For dinner, Madeline had a company function she couldn’t skip, and Gigi had advised her on smart food choices she could make in such situations to keep her on track. Gigi pulled the MINI into the lot between Declan’s and Gibson’s Hardware, averting her head as she drove past the large white sign that warned
Parking for Patrons of Declan’s Grille and Gibson’s Hardware ONLY
. If anyone said anything, she would claim that she was coming back to pick up some nails or screws.

But first . . . Abigail’s. She crossed her fingers that Deirdre would have something wonderful for her—in stock and on sale.

She was locking the doors of her MINI when she heard someone call her name. She froze. Was she busted already? Her parking excuse rose to her lips and then died when she turned around and saw who it was.

“Declan.”

“Hey.” He had a large plastic bag in one hand and was headed toward the Dumpster at the back of the restaurant. “I’ve been meaning to call you.”

Gigi froze. She swore her blood actually stopped flowing in her veins. Declan had meant to call
her
? He smiled the sort of crooked half smile that made women swoon.

“I’m developing a new menu for the upcoming season, and I hoped you’d give me some input.”

Gigi fumbled with her car keys, trying to stuff them into her purse without upending the contents all over the macadam. So Declan hadn’t meant to
call
her in the usual sense. Disappointment nibbled at her innards. But then her Irish and Italian genes stood at attention and whispered in her ear,
He’s only after a good time. Don’t waste your energy on him unless you’re sure you can handle that.

“I’d be happy to help you.” She tried to inject the right amount of warmth into the sentence—enough to let him know she was flattered but nothing more.

Declan gestured toward the restaurant. “The lunch crowd has gone, and I have a few minutes.” He raised an eyebrow in question.

“Sure.” Gigi devoutly wished she’d taken more time with her hair—done anything at all with it for that matter. It was flying around her face in untamed curls. She was wearing clean jeans at least, and her black turtleneck sweater was a great backdrop for her fair skin and auburn hair.

The restaurant was dim and quiet, the air permeated with earthy smells of roasted meats, pungent cheeses and yeasty ales. Declan immediately went behind the bar, and Gigi couldn’t help but eye his lean, muscular frame—more like that of a soccer player than a football player.

He grabbed two glasses off the shelf and held them toward Gigi. “Drink?”

“I don’t usually drink during the day,” Gigi stammered.

“Just a sip then?” Declan popped the cap off a bottle of beer. He held it toward Gigi. “Bitter and Twisted. A rather unappetizing name, but it’s very smooth with a nice lemon finish. Try it?”

“Okay.”

Declan poured some for Gigi and slightly more for himself. “Cheers.” He held his glass up to be tapped.

Gigi took a sip and wondered what on earth she was doing, drinking beer in the middle of the day, alone, with Declan McQuaid. The fact that it excited her more than scared her made her even more nervous.

“What do you think?” Declan tipped his glass toward the beer in Gigi’s hand.

Gigi licked the froth off the top of her lip. “It’s very good.”

Declan leaned in close. “Can you taste the lemon?”

Gigi rolled the liquid around and around in her mouth before swallowing. She frowned. “Yes. Yes, I can. It’s quite good,” she said with surprise.

“I import it myself. I like to be able to offer my customers something a little different.” His elbows were on the counter, and he leaned toward Gigi.

Gigi’s eyes met his, and she looked away quickly. “You mentioned developing a new menu?” she said to cover her awkwardness.

Declan tossed back a sizeable quaff of his beer and wiped a hand across his mouth. “I can’t compete with your American Thanksgiving, so I plan to embrace it. There’s a turkey farm not far from here for some fresh birds.” He stared into his beer for a moment, stirring the foam with his index finger. He looked up at Gigi with a strange expression on his face. “You know people come in here talking about how they wish Al Forno was still here.”

Gigi was startled. Declan’s parking lot was full whenever she went past, and the few times she’d been there, there had been a decent-size crowd.

“People don’t like change,” Gigi said. She had firsthand experience with that herself—she’d resisted moving on after Ted’s desertion until Sienna had dragged her kicking and screaming to her new life in Connecticut.

“I suppose you’re right.” Declan gave a sad approximation of a smile. “I will have to wow them with my food and the homey atmosphere and hope they forget that this wasn’t always Declan’s Grille.”

Gigi nodded. “People need to get to know you as a person. For instance, Emilio was involved in the local theater.” Gigi felt a lump rising in her throat and hastily swallowed it away.

“Can’t see myself doing that.” Declan gave his crooked smile again. “I’m a terrible actor.” He spread both hands out on the counter. “But I did have this idea . . .”

He ducked his head.

“Yes?”

“You know that fellow who fell off his ladder while painting his house . . . Joe something-or-other?”

Gigi nodded. “Yes, Joe Flanagan. His mother-in-law, Alice, is a friend of mine.”

“I saw it in the paper.” Declan gestured toward a folded issue of the
Woodstone Times
tucked next to the cash register. “About how he can’t work because of his injuries, and the family is getting into debt.”

“Alice is very worried about them.” Gigi often wondered if some of the money from Alice’s second job was going to help Joe and Stacy. “I gather Joe is on disability, but he’s used to taking on extra work to make ends meet, like providing security at parties, sporting events and the like.”

“Here’s my plan, then.” Declan took a big swig of his beer. “I’m going to do a whole American Thanksgiving dinner—turkey, stuffing, all the trimmings. And”—he leveled a finger at Gigi, his eyes sparkling—“I’m going to donate all the profits to help out Joe and his family.”

Gigi was speechless. She felt tears spring into her eyes at the thought of how relieved Alice would be when she heard.

“It’s brilliant, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Gigi stammered. “Absolutely brilliant.”

“I’m going to need some help, though.” Declan’s voice lowered to a dangerously seductive level.

Gigi inched slightly backward, in full-on self-protection mode. “I’ll do anything I can . . .”

“I’ll need some advice with the menu—not being a native myself.” Declan reached for another bottle of beer, uncapped it and held it over Gigi’s glass.

She shook her head, which was already swirling more than enough.

Declan poured himself another glass. “For instance . . .” He paused to take a sip. “Do you traditionally serve jacket potatoes or mash?” Gigi must have looked confused because Declan laughed and went on to explain. “We call them jacket potatoes, but I think you call them baked potatoes.”

“Oh, mashed, definitely.” Gigi’s mouth watered at the thought. “And lots of stuffing and gravy. And creamed onions and cranberry sauce.”

Declan smiled. “I knew you would be able to help me.”

• • •

Gigi left the restaurant with her head spinning from Declan’s presence as well as from the beer. She realized, as she hurried down the street toward Abigail’s, that she’d forgotten all about her evening dinner date with Mertz. She felt guilty as she pulled open the door to the boutique.

A blast of richly perfumed air greeted Gigi as she entered. The shop was hushed and appeared empty, although Gigi heard someone moving around in the back. The beaded curtains were pushed to one side and Deirdre came out. Her dark hair was pulled off her face into a tight bun, and she was wearing an amber-colored sheath with her gold name tag pinned to the bodice.