Steamed to Death

by Peg Cochran

  “I have to start getting the hors d’oeuvres plated,” Gigi said as she watched Anja swing a teakettle under the faucet. “Can you show me where the serving platters are?”

  Anja pursed her lips. “First, I must get Madam’s tea, okay?”

  “I’ll do that.” Alice put out a hand for the kettle. “You help Gigi with the hors d’oeuvres.”

  For a moment Anja looked doubtful, but then she gave a curt nod. “Use one heaping spoon of tea,” she admonished over her shoulder as she began opening cupboards and drawers.

  Alice took a delicate bone china cup and saucer from the glass-fronted cupboard, spooned in the correct amount of tea and as soon as the water had boiled, poured it over the loose tea leaves. She wrinkled her nose. “It smells like someone’s front lawn.”

  “But it is good for the water,” Anja reassured her.

  “Maybe I’ll try it,” Alice said as she placed the tea on a small silver tray. “Felicity’s room is . . .?”

  “Second floor, end of the hallway,” Anja said.

  Gigi had filled several small crystal bowls with spiced nuts to sustain Felicity’s houseguests until the other guests arrived. She carried one in each hand toward the living room.

  The living room ran the length of the house and had large windows at either end. An enormous marble fireplace dominated one wall, and a fire had been laid in the grate in preparation for the party. Flowers were everywhere—large arrangements on the occasional tables, small ones on the coffee tables. Candles were placed strategically around the room waiting to be lit. Gigi paused for a moment and took it all in. It was like something out of one of those fancy decorating magazines. Even the air smelled good, perfumed by bowls of expensive potpourri, the subtle aroma of furniture polish and the scent of the bouquets.

  She put the nuts out on the coffee tables. Reggie and Tabitha had been secured in the kitchen so there was no worry of their disturbing the food or annoying the guests. Gigi had secured two juicy bones from the butcher to mollify them in their exile.

  Gigi was heading toward the kitchen when she heard a strange, high-pitched noise coming from upstairs. She turned and moved swiftly toward the enormous sweeping staircase that rose from the foyer to the second-floor landing. The unidentifiable noise grew louder until it slowly resolved itself into a scream. A very high-pitched, feminine scream.

  Before Gigi could mount the first step, Alice came barreling down the staircase, her blue eyes as bulging as a spooked horse’s, her mouth still stretched wide in a scream. She collided with Gigi, uttering a loud ouf. Her scream tapered off, and she started sobbing hysterically.

  “Alice, what is it? What’s wrong?” Gigi put her hands on Alice’s shoulders and tried to steady her.

  Alice took a huge shuddering breath and made an almost superhuman effort to control herself. “It’s Felicity,” she panted.

  “What about her?” By this time Anja had come out of the kitchen and stood staring at Alice.

  “It’s terrible,” Alice gasped, still trying to catch her breath.

  “You must tell us what has happened,” Anja demanded.

  Gigi put her arm around Alice protectively. She felt Alice sag against her.

  “I think,” Alice began, “I think, Felicity is . . . dead.”

  Chapter 4

  Gigi’s knees turned to rubber, but she took a deep breath to steady herself. “Alice”—she gave the woman a quick hug—“are you sure? Maybe she only looked—”

  Alice was already shaking her head, her gray curls bobbing around her face, her eyes still bulging in terror.

  “What’s going on?” Winchel came out of his study, his cell phone in one hand, an unlit Cuban cigar in the other.

  “Apparently, something has . . . happened . . . to Felicity,” Gigi said, not wanting to alarm everyone until she knew the full scope of what was going on.

  “Better check it out now.” Winchel stuck the cigar in his mouth and bit down. “I’ve got important guests expected shortly.”

  Gigi raised her eyebrows at Alice, but Alice shook her head.

  “No thanks. I don’t want to go up there again.”

  Alice sat down on the bottom step as the rest of them began mounting the staircase. They had reached the second-floor landing when Vanessa drifted out of her room. “What’s this? A parade?” She nibbled at the edge of a fingernail. Gigi noticed that they were all bitten to the quick.

  As they passed the open door to Vanessa’s room, Gigi saw someone moving about within. She didn’t see who it was, but she caught a glimpse of a dark jacket.

  “Felicity?” Winchel bellowed as they neared the end of the hall and the yawning door of the master bedroom.

  “I don’t think you want to—” Gigi began, but he ignored her and barged into the room.

  The king-size bed was already turned down for the night, and light from a crystal lamp glowed on the bedside table where a book and a pair of reading glasses were laid out. The room, however, was empty.

  Winchel strode toward an open door at the other end of the room and stuck his head around the edge. “Felicity, for heaven’s sake, what is the—” He stopped abruptly and pulled his head back as quickly as a turtle retreating from an enemy.

  “Oh my God.” He backed up until he was sitting on the edge of the satin-covered bed.

  Gigi didn’t want to look, but someone had to do something. She peeked around the edge of the door into the lavish master bathroom. The room was stiflingly hot and at first appeared empty. White marble gleamed under the recessed lights, and there were double sinks and a spa bathtub large enough for two people. Built into one wall was a sauna.

  The door was open, and Felicity was toppled half in and half out of the small, heated enclosure. She was the color of a boiled lobster and appeared to be quite dead.

  Gigi stuffed her fist into her mouth to stop the scream that rose in her throat. Vanessa and Anja had piled in behind her, and she heard Vanessa make a noise like a wounded kitten. Anja was quietly stoic, her face set in grave tones, her thin lips clenched tight.

  “Is she dead? Should we call nine-one-one?” Vanessa backed away from the sight on the bathroom floor.

  Gigi shook her head. “I don’t know. Someone needs to check for a pulse.”

  “I will do it.” Anja stepped forward calmly, knelt beside Felicity and placed her fingers against her employer’s neck.

  A moment later she stood and shook her head. “I am afraid she is gone.”

  They had to get the police, Gigi thought. Detective Bill Mertz came to mind, and the idea of his strong, solid presence made her feel considerably calmer. Mertz would take care of things. Gigi scrambled for the cordless phone on one of the bedside tables and punched in 9-1-1.

  They were about to leave the room when Don and Alex burst in. “What’s going on? What’s happened?” they chorused.

  “It’s Madam.” Anja stepped forward and blocked their entrance to the bathroom. “She has taken ill, and we are calling for the ambulance.”

  Don stuck his head around the corner of the bathroom. “Oh my God,” he burst out, much as Winchel had earlier.

  Alex looked too stricken to speak.

  “Maybe we should all go downstairs,” Gigi said, anxious to get away from the scene in the bathroom.

  The peal of the front doorbell sounded throughout the house, and they all looked at each other with expressions of horror.

  “The guests!” Gigi groaned.

  • • •

  Fortunately it was only Sienna standing on the doorstep when Gigi flung open the front door. Gigi was surprised to see her given how angry she had been with Felicity yesterday.

  “What’s wrong?” Sienna asked as she stepped into the foyer. She put a hand on either of Gigi’s shoulders. “Have you had some sort of culinary disaster?”

  Gigi shook her head mutely.

  Sienna smiled. “I didn’t think so. You’re too much of an expert to let that happen.” She glanced at Gigi’s face again. “But somethi
ng’s wrong.”

  Gigi found her tongue. “It’s Felicity. She’s . . . she’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Sienna repeated, her face going white. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. We’re waiting for the police to arrive.”

  “The police?” Sienna looked alarmed. “Why? Does it look like—” She sank down onto the bottom step of the sweeping staircase.

  “I don’t know,” Gigi repeated. “I guess whenever death is sudden . . .”

  Gigi brushed ineffectually at her flour-bedecked jeans and T-shirt, sorry she hadn’t had the opportunity to change into her black dress.

  Sienna was outfitted for the party in a flowing caftan embellished with beads, sequins and tiny mirrored disks. The fabric puddled around her ankles as she sat huddled on the stairs. Her long blond hair was down and flowed around her shoulders.

  “Where’s Oliver?” Gigi asked.

  A strange look crossed Sienna’s face. “He’ll be here . . . later.”

  Gigi started to open her mouth then realized this was no time to bring up the newspaper and the picture of Oliver. She would have to ask Sienna about it later.

  Before they could move away from the door, it opened again and several more people spilled in. Anja rushed forward and began collecting coats. Gigi noticed they were flecked with water. The rain, which had been threatening all day, must have started. Gigi recognized one of the guests as Hunter Pierce, director of the Woodstone Players. More people followed until the living room was filled with chattering voices.

  It looked as if Felicity was going to have her party after all.

  Gigi hurried into the kitchen where Alice sat in a chair nursing a cup of tea. Her hand shook as she raised it to her lips.

  Gigi looked at her in concern. “Are you okay?”

  Alice nodded. “I heard the door. Are the police here?”

  Gigi opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bowl of ice cold crudités. “No, but some of the guests are. Winchel sent Derek out to warn the others away, but I’ve got to feed the ones who are already here.”

  “I’ll help you.” Alice rose from her chair decisively. “I’ll feel better if I keep busy. I keep seeing that poor woman . . .” She shook her head and started separating lace doilies for the silver serving trays.

  • • •

  Gigi had managed to dash upstairs to change into her dress and was circulating among the handful of guests with the tray of stuffed potatoes when the police arrived. A uniformed patrolman was first on the scene, but Mertz wasn’t far behind. Derek dragged in right after them, looking damp and sulky, his long hair plastered to his head.

  Gigi bolted for the kitchen to grab a fresh tray of hors d’oeuvres. When she arrived back to the assembled guests, Mertz was standing in the foyer speaking with Winchel. Winchel looked annoyed and kept gesturing toward the living room. Gigi noticed two men in the corner nursing tumblers of whiskey. They wore dark suits and serious expressions. Gigi supposed they were Winchel’s important guests from New York. Mertz looked equally annoyed and frustrated. He kept gesturing toward the crowd of people and running his hands through his short, dark blond hair.

  Don was deep in conversation with Hunter Pierce. The recessed lighting glanced off Pierce’s head, his scalp shining through the thin, black strands. As usual, he was wearing a tweed jacket with suede elbow patches. As Gigi drew closer, she heard Felicity’s name. She hovered nearby, pretending to rearrange the black bread with salmon slices on her tray.

  “I am devastated,” she heard Pierce say. “Felicity would have brought positively hordes of people out to the playhouse.”

  Gigi leaned closer. The Woodstone Theater had recently undergone a complete renovation. It had started life as a working barn and, sometime during the sixties, had been converted into a theater by an enterprising actor from New York City. Recently, a developer had erected an enclosed mall on the weedy fields that had once surrounded it. The theater itself had been gutted and rebuilt. Gigi hadn’t realized that Felicity had been planning on performing there during her self-imposed Connecticut exile.

  Sienna was sitting on the sofa with a plump, older woman Gigi recognized as the wife of the mayor of Woodstone. Sienna stifled a yawn as she nodded encouragingly at the older woman.

  Gigi motioned to her subtly, and Sienna excused herself and rose from the sofa.

  “Oh, thank goodness,” she said as she joined Gigi on the fringe of the crowd. “That woman is very nice but a terrible bore. I was wondering when I’d be able to make good my escape. I’d just wanted to sit for a moment; my ankles are beginning to swell.” She made a face and gestured toward her feet. She lifted the edge of her caftan, and Gigi saw she was wearing a pair of rubber-soled flats.

  “Heinous, aren’t they?” Sienna let her dress drop back into place. “But they’re the only pair I can get on at the moment.”

  Gigi put her tray down on the nearest table.

  “I just heard that Felicity was planning on appearing at the Woodstone Theater. Hunter Pierce was talking to Don Bartholomew about it.”

  Sienna gave a small smile that disappeared almost immediately. “Investigating already, are you?”

  Gigi started to protest, but Sienna put a hand on her arm. “Don convinced Felicity to agree to a small run in their next production. They often have actors out from New York or even traveling companies. He thought it would be good for her.” Sienna played with one of the mirrored disks on her dress. “At least it would have kept her mind off of food. The network powers-that-be were really beginning to grumble about Felicity’s weight gain. They wanted to move toward a younger image for the show. Don had a hell of a time negotiating her latest contract.”

  “Sounds like this could be a wonderful opportunity for our resident ingénue, Vanessa.”

  Sienna snorted. “Indeed. Vanessa is doing everything she should to score a bigger part on the show—and lots of things she shouldn’t.”

  “Alex did drop a few hints along those lines.” She wondered if this was a good opportunity to bring up the newspaper and Oliver’s picture. “I saw the New York Post,” Gigi began.

  Sienna shook her head tersely. “That ridiculous thing! Felicity wasn’t content to leave the publicity campaign in my hands but decided to come up with that absurd story to get her name back in the gossip columns.” Sienna smiled sadly. “Silly woman.”

  “Where is Oliver?”

  “Oh, Gigi.” Sienna looked at her with wide eyes. “You don’t think for a minute that I believed that stupid story, do you? Oliver is absolutely furious with Felicity. At first he refused to come to the party tonight, but I convinced him that would only stir up more rumors. I guess when he ran to the Shop and Save to pick up some milk for me, people were staring at him and pointing. He was mortified.”

  Sienna ran a hand over her belly. “But I told him he can’t bury his head in the sand. He should be along shortly, although I doubt the police will let him in.”

  Gigi glanced at the foyer out of the corner of her eye. Mertz was still speaking with Winchel, whose posture was getting stiffer by the minute. Even from a distance, she could sense his impatience at being told what to do when he was usually the one doing the telling.

  “I’m going to sneak off to the kitchen and put my feet up,” Sienna whispered to Gigi.

  “Go ahead. There’s a pitcher of iced tea in the refrigerator. Help yourself.”

  Gigi was turning around when Alex came up behind her.

  “Mind if I sneak one of those?” He reached out and snatched one of the salmon hors d’oeuvres off the tray Gigi had set on the table. He inclined his head toward the foyer. “I don’t know why the police don’t ring for the ambulance to come get the body and let the rest of us go about our business.”

  “I guess when a death is even remotely suspicious—”

  Alex’s laugh cut her off. “I think the police have been watching too many television shows. I’m sure it was just a sad, sad accident.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “D
o you suppose they’ll question us? Ask us where we were this afternoon and all that?”

  He laughed, but Gigi had the distinct feeling that he was nervous. And that he very much didn’t want the police asking any questions.

  A flash of bright red caught Gigi’s eye. Vanessa was deep in conversation with Don. Gigi picked up the tray and used it as an excuse to sidle closer.

  She caught the word policy before Vanessa whirled around.

  “Hors d’oeuvres! I’m starved!” Vanessa smiled, but her eyes were shadowed.

  Vanessa helped herself and began nibbling at the bread like a rabbit. Don waved the tray away with a pained look. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of antacids. He popped one into his mouth, hesitated, then popped in another.

  Gigi’s tray was almost empty. She made her way through the crowd toward the foyer. She noticed that Winchel had joined his important New York visitors, but she didn’t see Detective Mertz anywhere. A patrolman was standing at the door, shoulders back, spine straight. Gigi shivered. She supposed he’d been stationed there to keep them from leaving.

  Alice was in the kitchen arranging a new tray of hors d’oeuvres. She was subdued, but Gigi was glad to see that some of her usual ruddy color had returned.

  “Here you go.” She handed Gigi the tray.

  “I’m going to sit for a minute.” Gigi pulled out a chair opposite Sienna, plopped into it and stretched out her legs.

  “Want me to take this around?” Alice brandished the canapés.

  Gigi shook her head. “I think everyone has had enough for now.”

  Gigi turned to Sienna. “Any news from Oliver?”

  “He texted me that the police wouldn’t let him in.” She was silent for a moment. “This is all so odd.” She inclined her head in the direction of the living room. “Everyone eating and drinking as if this were a real party, as if Felicity wasn’t upstairs . . . dead.”

  “I do wish the ambulance would get here,” Alice said. “It seems wrong leaving her there like that.”