Steamed to Death

by Peg Cochran

  She pulled her collar up, then stuck her hand into the bag to invert it. A piece of paper was trapped inside. Gigi pulled it out. It appeared to be a receipt from Bon Appétit. She looked at it more closely. It was for $5.59 and special diuretic tea blend was noted on it in Evelyn’s bold handwriting. She had also signed and dated it—Evelyn still liked to do things the old-fashioned way. Gigi folded the paper in half and carefully tucked it into her pocket. Anja must have missed it when she put the bag away and might need it for reimbursement later.

  Gigi thought about the clipping as she drove home after finishing the dinner prep for Winchel. Maybe she could find someone to translate it.

  The recollection that someone had tried to stop her from snooping altogether by loosening her tire brought her up short. She remembered her panic as she lost control of the car and felt it veering toward the left. Whoever had done that was serious. They’d meant to warn her off . . . or kill her. Gigi’s mouth went dry, and she gulped. She looked around the interior of Alice’s Taurus, but she’d forgotten to pack any bottles of water.

  The snow had turned to pelting rain by the time Gigi got back to her cottage. She parked the car and ran for the door, pulling her jacket up over her head. She switched on the lights in the kitchen, then rummaged in the refrigerator for something to eat. She hadn’t felt like eating earlier. She found the remains of some chicken, mushroom and wild rice soup and put the container in the microwave to heat.

  Meanwhile, she booted up her computer and did a search for nearby community colleges. Hopefully they would have professors proficient in several languages. The closest was Brookcrest Community College, approximately twenty miles away. Gigi made a note of the telephone number, and by then the timer on the microwave had pinged.

  Gigi ate her soup quickly, then dug her cell phone from her purse. She dialed the number she’d jotted down for Brookcrest Community College. It only took being put on hold for a total of thirty minutes, being redirected to eight different extensions and four voice mails, and being forced to redial after one dropped call to discover that a professor by the name of Hendrik Nissen, who taught art history, also had an interest in Scandinavian languages.

  Gigi arranged to meet with him and show him the clipping.

  Chapter 26

  At one time Gigi had been a passionate New Yorker who never wanted to leave the city, but somehow, after her move to Connecticut, she had managed to avoid going into the city even once. But if she was going to talk to the people at the Vandenberg Gallery about the check they’d given Vanessa Huff, she was going to have to take the bull by the horns. She checked the train schedule for the third time and decided that she would take the eight forty-five train into Grand Central Station.

  The biggest problem was—what to wear? Gigi dove into her closet for the third time and emerged with her former go-to outfit: a black pantsuit. She blew the dust off the shoulders and pulled it off the hanger. She would wear her new blouse with the ruffles down the front and add a colorful scarf. Scarves were practically de rigueur for women in the city no matter what the weather or temperature. It would add a note of sophistication to an otherwise bland outfit.

  She laid the suit, blouse and scarf on the chair in her bedroom along with her good high-heeled leather boots and a tote bag for reading material and a pair of tennis shoes in case her feet gave out. She pawed through her jewelry box and selected a pair of—real—gold earrings, a gold bangle her mother had given her for college graduation and a thin gold chain she’d bought herself when she’d landed her first job. She thought of the fantastic diamond tennis bracelet Vanessa had treated herself to and felt completely belittled. But there was nothing she could do about it. This was all she had to work with.

  The eight forty-five pulled into Grand Central Station barely more than five minutes behind schedule. Gigi followed the dozen passengers out of the car and toward the steps leading to the main level.

  Vandenberg’s gallery was in a home built by his ancestors back when horses and carriages were the main means of transport up and down Fifth Avenue. It was located in the Murray Hill section of New York City—the area roughly bounded by Fortieth and Thirty-fourth Streets north and south, between Madison and Third Avenues. Gigi planned on walking the short distance from the train station. The rain had finally stopped, and it was a perfect fall day with a crisp breeze and blue skies.

  Gigi stood on the sidewalk and took a deep breath. People rushed past her on all sides, and it took her a moment to get into the stream of pedestrian traffic. She started walking, feeling the return of her “city legs” with every step. She came to a traffic light and stood impatiently, waiting for it to turn to Walk. She had to remind herself not to flinch as the traffic went roaring past spewing exhaust and other noxious fumes.

  Vandenberg House, as it was known, was visible from several blocks away. A dark, brooding building, it dwarfed everything around it. Gigi stood on the sidewalk and stared up at the mullioned windows, rounded turrets and miniature gargoyles. There were multiple doors, and she had no idea which was which until she noticed a small, discreet sign announcing Vandenberg House Gallery.

  Gigi pushed open the glass door. An ornate, antique desk was in the entryway, and the girl behind it was dressed all in black with gold chandelier earrings that brushed her shoulders when she moved her head.

  Gigi felt her mouth dry up at the prospect of approaching her, and she had to remind herself that she was doing this to save Sienna from jail. The girl turned out to be very friendly—they didn’t get many visitors since Mr. Vandenberg didn’t approve of anything so crass as advertising. She invited Gigi to have a look around.

  Gigi rounded the corner indicated by the receptionist and found herself in an enormous room lined with glass cases. She supposed it must have been the ballroom when the house was originally built. Between the cases she noticed fleur-de-lis wallpaper and gilt sconces dripping with crystals.

  The cases contained all the television memorabilia Vandenberg had collected over the years—props, costumes, original scripts. Gigi made her way around the room marveling at the different items—everything from the kitchen table and chairs from the sparse set of The Honeymooners to one of the harem outfits worn on I Dream of Jeannie.

  Gigi turned the corner and came face-to-face with a case housing a high table—it resembled an altar—on which a statue rested. She moved in for a closer look. It wasn’t an ordinary statue—it was an Emmy award. Squinting, she was able to read the name on it: Felicity Davenport.

  Gigi turned on her heel and headed back toward the reception desk.

  “Excuse me.”

  The receptionist swiveled her chair from her computer monitor toward Gigi. “Yes?”

  Gigi wet her lips nervously. “I noticed you have an Emmy that belongs . . . I mean . . . belonged to Felicity Davenport.”

  The receptionist smiled. “That’s one of our latest additions. Mr. Vandenberg has been most anxious to secure one for his collection, but until recently, he hadn’t been successful. When that one became available, he cleared out one of his displays—I believe it was the reins and bridle that belonged to Mr. Ed.” She shrugged. “Never heard of the show myself.”

  Gigi sidled closer to the desk and wet her lips again. “How did Mr. Vandenberg come by Miss Davenport’s Emmy? Did she give it to him for his collection?”

  The blonde shook her head, and her long, dangly earrings whipped back and forth briskly. “Oh, no. He bought it from someone. She came in with it in an old Saks Fifth Avenue bag, and he bought it from her on the spot.”

  Gigi wondered if the blonde even realized that Felicity was dead. Did she even watch television? “You don’t happen to know who that was, do you?”

  She nodded briskly, sending the earrings spinning. “Yes. Mr. Vandenberg was dreadfully excited because the girl was on some famous soap opera.” She rolled her eyes. “I can’t imagine wasting time on them myself. It’s not like they’re real or anything.”

  Gigi guessed her
typical television fare was the spate of reality shows that had sprung up in recent years. The soaps probably seemed tame and old-fashioned to her. “Did she just show up, or did she have an appointment?”

  “Oh, Mr. Vandenberg doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. He’s a little peculiar, if you ask me.” She made small circles around the side of her head with her finger. “He has very set hours and doesn’t see anyone who hasn’t called in advance.”

  “Even someone with an Emmy statue for sale?”

  The girl shrugged. “I don’t know about that, but this woman did call ahead for an appointment.”

  “Is there any way you can find out what day she came in with the Emmy?” Gigi wracked her brain for a reason to substantiate her question, but the girl wasn’t in the least bit concerned.

  “Everything is written down in the appointment book.” She pulled a large, leather-bound ledger toward her. “Mr. Vandenberg won’t let me keep track of things on the computer.” She gestured toward the sleek monitor and hard drive on her desk. “His family has used books like these for like, centuries, and he insists on doing the same.”

  She opened the enormous ledger, and, tongue between her teeth, began to flip through the pages. Finally, she stopped at a page and ran her finger down the columns. She looked up at Gigi.

  “I’ve got it all right here. Dates, times, everything.”

  She rattled off the information, and it took Gigi a moment to process it. “How long was the lady here?”

  The blonde shrugged. “She came in the morning for the appointment, like I’ve got written here. Then Mr. Vandenberg took her out to lunch. He doesn’t usually do that, but”—she shrugged again—“she was quite attractive, if you know what I mean.”

  Gigi nodded. “Yes, yes, I do know what you mean.”

  “They didn’t get back here till nearly four o’clock, and Mr. Vandenberg called his chauffeur to bring the car around and drive the lady to the train station. I think she was headed for Grand Central, but I can’t say for sure.”

  “Yes, that’s probably right.”

  Gigi did a few calculations in her head.

  If the blonde was right, Vanessa had spent the entire day in the city. It was the same day that Derek was found dead in his bed. She couldn’t possibly have murdered him.

  So . . . unless two separate murderers were loose in Woodstone, Vanessa most likely didn’t murder Felicity either. Which left everyone back at square one.

  • • •

  Exhausted by her unaccustomed trip into New York City, Gigi spent the weekend sleeping late, playing with Reg and resting in front of the television. By Monday morning, the clouds that had been threatening snow had been blown away by a vigorous wind, and the pale blue sky above was revealed as Gigi drove toward Brookcrest Community College for her meeting with Professor Nissen.

  Reggie obviously sensed they were going somewhere out of the ordinary, and he watched the passing scenery eagerly, his bright pink tongue lolling to one side. Gigi found the college easily enough. It wasn’t very large—a handful of brick buildings around an open square crisscrossed with walking paths. Gigi followed the signs to the visitor parking lot and pulled in. She hated leaving Reg in the car, but she knew that before she was even out of sight, he would be curled up on the seat, dozing happily.

  She locked the car, checked the address Professor Nissen had given her, and headed toward Wordsworth Hall. The classrooms were all empty and quiet. Gigi realized it must be the lunch break.

  Gigi climbed a narrow iron staircase to the third floor where she found herself facing a row of ancient oak doors with tarnished brass plates. A radiator at the end of the hall belched hot, moist air, and Gigi stopped to undo her coat.

  She found Professor Nissen’s office and knocked on the solid door. It was cracked open immediately, and Gigi found herself staring into the bluest eyes she had ever seen. Nissen was tall and thin, with a halo of fuzzy, washed-out blond hair.

  He invited Gigi into his office where files were stacked against every wall and mounds of paper were lying along the windowsill.

  “Sorry,” he said as he removed papers and folders from a worn and scarred wooden chair. “Please.” He gestured for Gigi to take a seat. He went behind the desk and collapsed into an ancient swivel chair with a tattered seatback. “What can I do for you?”

  Gigi fished the clipping from her purse and handed it to Nissen. “I was hoping you could translate this for me. I think it must be one of the Scandinavian languages, and I gather you have some proficiency in them.”

  “That is true,” Nissen said as he scanned the newspaper article. He put it down on his desk. “But this”—he poked a long, crooked index finger at the yellowing piece of paper—“is not one of the Scandinavian languages.”

  “No?” Gigi tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice.

  “No,” Nissen said decisively. “This is Finnish.”

  Gigi cleared her throat. Far be it from her to tell Nissen his business, but . . . “But isn’t that Scandinavian?”

  “No.” Nissen shook his head vigorously, and his mop of fuzzy blond curls swayed back and forth. “A lot of people make that mistake. Finnish is one of the Uralic languages, much closer to Hungarian than it is to Swedish or Danish.”

  “Oh,” Gigi said in a very small voice. “I don’t imagine you can help me, then.”

  “On the contrary. My maternal grandmother was from Finland, and I have something of a working knowledge of the language.” He peered at the clipping again.

  It didn’t take him long to decipher it.

  It was an obituary as Gigi had suspected. And Anja was a relative of the woman pictured.

  As a matter of fact, Anja was listed as her sister.

  By the time Gigi got back to her car, she had a pounding headache from the close heat in Nissen’s office as well as from all the information swirling around in her mind. She let Reg out of the car and walked him briefly around the small square, hoping the fresh air would clear her head.

  Gigi headed back to Woodstone and High Street. Alice had called Gigi’s cell to say that she was ready to be picked up. Gigi pulled over to the curb in front of the police station to wait for her. She was leaning back in her seat, with her head against the headrest, when someone tapped on her window.

  Gigi jumped. It was Sienna. Gigi quickly rolled down her window.

  “Waiting for Alice?” Sienna leaned an arm on the windowsill.

  “Yes. She should be out any minute now.”

  They heard the clacking of heels against the pavement and both turned to see Alice rushing toward the car.

  “Hi, girls,” Alice said slightly breathlessly. “What say we all go down to Declan’s and get a drink.” She turned toward Sienna and gently tapped her stomach. “Nonalcoholic for you, of course.”

  Gigi was surprised. “I didn’t think you’d want to . . .” She trailed off, hoping Alice would fill in the blanks.

  Alice looked Gigi right in the eye. “I want to check things out for myself. Make him a little uncomfortable, you know? If he’s seeing my Stacy, I’m not going to stay away and make it easy for him.”

  “Gotcha,” Gigi said.

  Far from looking uncomfortable when the three of them pushed open the door to his restaurant, Declan looked delighted to see them. He rushed forward to greet them.

  “Ladies, what can I do for you? Are you here for dinner or just a drink?”

  “Just a drink,” Alice said, her tones as frosty as a north wind.

  Declan either didn’t notice Alice’s frigid demeanor or decided to ignore it. He immediately showed them to a small, round table in front of a fire, which cast a mellow light onto the paneled walls. The table was ringed with comfortable, corduroy-covered club chairs. Gigi took a seat closest to the fire and held her hands out toward the warm flames.

  Most of the tables were still empty—it was early for dinner—but a smattering of people perched on the tall stools around the bar, and the three other table
s surrounded by club chairs were full. Gigi glanced around but didn’t recognize anyone.

  Declan himself came to take their order. Sienna opted for seltzer with lemon, Alice a Chardonnay, and Gigi a glass of Merlot.

  “Can I tempt you ladies with dinner?” Declan gave a smile that Gigi thought was more tempting than anything that could possibly be on the menu. “I’m doing roast quail with fresh figs tonight.”

  They regretfully shook their heads, and Declan headed toward the bar with their order.

  Alice watched him go. “He really is terribly good-looking. No wonder Stacy . . .” She sat up straighter and squared her shoulders. “Still. It isn’t right.”

  A few minutes later, a waitress in an old-fashioned barmaid’s uniform approached their table. She slipped glasses in front of each of them along with a dish of olives and a bowl of Marcona almonds. She smiled. “Anything else I can get you?” The ladies all shook their heads in response.

  Alice watched as she walked away. “You won’t believe what I just heard,” she burst out as soon as the waitress was out of earshot.

  “What?” Gigi and Sienna chorused.

  “The police have arrested Vanessa Huff!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “At least she’s been brought in for questioning, but I’m guessing an arrest is next.”

  “No!” Gigi and Sienna said in unison.

  Alice nodded her head, setting her gray curls bobbing. She lowered her voice. “I don’t know too much about it on account of Joe not being at the station at the moment, but one of the gals told me about it.”

  “Vanessa?” Gigi exclaimed, her glass of wine halfway to her mouth.

  “You did say she was making a big play for Winchel.” Sienna ran her finger around and around the ring of moisture her glass had left on the table. “Maybe they think she wanted to get Felicity out of the way.”