Allergic to Death

by Peg Cochran

  “You stay here.” Gigi knelt down and tied Reg’s leash to a parking meter along High Street. “I doubt they allow dogs inside.” She gave him a pat, and he sat obediently, his attention focused on a woman and a brown miniature poodle headed their way.

  Gigi gave one last, backward glance, then pushed open the door to Abigail’s. She’d peered through the windows but had never ventured inside before. She knew, without even turning over a single tag, that the prices were out of her league.

  Although she doubted that Barbie would have killed Martha just to get some fancy-schmancy necklace, it was quite possible that Barbie was after more than that. Like a wholesale shopping spree and lifestyle upgrade. She figured Abigail’s was as good a place as any to start investigating.

  “May I help you?” A saleswoman glided forward, her forehead creased into a slight frown, as if she wondered at Gigi’s nerve on entering the sanctity of her shop. Her hipbones protruded through the simple but expensive white linen sheath she wore, and her black hair was twisted into an elaborate knot at her neck. She had a black cashmere cardigan draped loosely around her shoulders and an enormous cocktail ring on her right hand. Her gold name tag read Deirdre in fancy script.

  Gigi stammered a greeting. “I’m just looking, thanks.”

  “Anything in particular?” The clerk positioned herself adroitly between Gigi and the nearest rack of dresses.

  “Er…no…not really.” Gigi spotted a flash of pink sleeve on the rack behind her. “Pink. I was thinking of something pink.”

  “With your coloring?” Deirdre shrugged and began clicking through the hangers. Each garment had its own padded hanger, and there was a plastic sleeve over the shoulders to keep off the dust.

  Gigi began to sweat even though the shop was well air-conditioned. How was she going to get out of this? She got a glimpse of the tag, and there were way too many zeros for her extremely meager budget.

  With a stiff back, the saleswoman started toward the back of the store.

  She spun around abruptly, and Gigi nearly crashed into her. “How did you come to find us?”

  Well, you’re right in the middle of Woodstone’s main street, was Gigi’s first thought, but she bit her tongue and managed to resist that little bit of sarcasm, satisfying though it would have been. “Mrs. Bernhardt recommended you. Barbie Bernhardt.”

  The saleswoman nodded solemnly. “Mrs. Bernhardt is an excellent customer,” she intoned with the deepest respect.

  Gigi wondered how much you had to spend to earn that appellation. More than she was prepared to, that was for sure.

  “Now, if you’ll follow me.” The clerk opened a door with a flourish and snapped on a light.

  The dressing room was bigger than Gigi’s bedroom, with walls papered in red toile and a gold brocade bench in the corner. The clerk hung a number of garments from an ornate hook in the wall. She gestured toward the clothes. “I’ve chosen a few things that I think will work for you.” She looked Gigi up and down. “Size eight, I believe?” She arched her thin, black brows.

  Gigi nodded.

  “This color would suit you better than the pink.” She brandished a watery blue-green silk dress at Gigi. “Of course if you insist on the pink, that’s up to you.”

  Gigi supposed that was her own version of “the customer is always right.”

  The clerk pulled the door closed behind her, and Gigi was left standing in the dressing room with thousands of dollars’ worth of dresses she couldn’t possibly afford. A handkerchief, maybe, but certainly not a whole dress.

  She pulled off her T-shirt and slid out of her denim skirt. Her underwear, the kind that came six to a pack, looked tatty in such regal surroundings, even though she’d bought them at the grocery store just last week. She sighed and freed the blue-green dress from its hanger and plastic cover. It really was pretty. She held it up to her and looked in the mirror. The color brought depth to her eyes and made her hair shine. She wondered what Carlo would think if he saw her…

  She wouldn’t think about that. She couldn’t. Gigi slid the dress over her head. It probably wasn’t going to fit, and if it did, it would look terrible. She pulled the garment into place, and the silk floated coolly around her bare legs. She risked a glance in the mirror.

  It was perfect. Absolutely perfect. She had to give the arrogant Deirdre her due—she knew her clothes.

  She wondered if just maybe, if she really cut down her expenses—nonessential things like food, electricity, toilet paper and the like—if there was any way she could possibly afford such a heavenly piece of clothing. She peeked at the price tag with one eye half closed, as if that would lessen the shock.

  Gigi gasped and put her hand to her mouth. She shouldn’t even be trying something like this on, let alone contemplating buying it. What if it ripped when she took it off? What if she accidentally drooled on it—not that she was in the habit of drooling, but you never knew. Very carefully, she pulled the dress over her head and placed it back on the hanger.

  “Can I help with anything?” The clerk’s snooty tones filtered through the door.

  “No, everything’s fine,” Gigi called back.

  “How was the blue silk? Did you like it?” The clerk swung open the door abruptly.

  Gigi grabbed her T-shirt and held it in front of her. “It’s very lovely. But I’m afraid it’s just a bit—”

  “Would you like me to hold it for you? You’re not going to find anything more perfect in Woodstone, I assure you. Unless, of course, you’re planning to shop in the city.” She said city as if it were a bad word.

  “No, no, it’s perfect. It’s lovely. It’s perfectly lovely,” Gigi stammered. She couldn’t possibly buy the dress. It was more than her rent for the month. For six months.

  “What name shall I put on it?” The clerk held a thin, gold pen poised above a tiny blue card with Abigail’s engraved across the top.

  “Gigi Fitzgerald. But I’m not—”

  “Don’t worry. This is the only one we have in stock in this style. You won’t be seeing yourself coming and going.”

  Did she really look as if she worried about that sort of thing? Gigi wondered. “And Mrs. Bernhardt—” Gigi blurted trying to turn the conversation back to Barbie.

  “Oh no, that dress wouldn’t suit her at all.”

  “She told me she had her eye on several things…” Gigi proffered, hoping Deirdre would take the bait.

  Deirdre sniffed haughtily. “Mrs. Bernhardt was in yesterday afternoon. She has excellent taste. We managed to completely flesh out her summer wardrobe. They are going to the south of France in August, and she needed the perfect things to take with her.” Deirdre’s mouth clamped shut suddenly as if she realized she shouldn’t be gossiping about her customers.

  “Oh, yes, that’s right. She mentioned that.” Gigi crossed her fingers behind her back.

  Putting the dress on hold couldn’t possibly commit her to its purchase, could it? Gigi wondered as she stumbled out of Abigail’s with a sigh of relief. At least her trip hadn’t been wasted.

  Barbie was off to Europe. With a suitcase full of new clothes that certainly had cost a small fortune. It sounded as if Winston and Barbie were throwing plenty of money around all of a sudden.

  Were they just lucky that Martha had died, or was it more sinister than that?

  Reg followed Gigi out to get the paper the next morning. She yawned and stretched her arms over her head. She was exhausted after tossing and turning all night, until even Reg got fed up and jumped off the bed. Gigi had heard him snuffling around the dog bed she’d bought him, which he had, up to now, ignored with a disdainful sniff.

  She couldn’t get Martha’s death out of her mind. If it wasn’t an accident, that meant it was on purpose—which was basically how the dictionary defined the term murder. It was a word Gigi was used to hearing on television or radio but certainly not in her everyday life.

  Gigi retrieved the Woodstone Times from the end of the driveway and walked back towa
rd the house, Reg trotting happily at her heels. The cottage was full of the aroma of coffee—her favorite, Sumatra Mandheling—and she inhaled appreciatively. She poured a cup and spread the newspaper open on the kitchen table. She was turning away to get her toast from the toaster when the lead article caught her eye. Her knees buckled, and she sank gratefully into one of the chairs. The headline was bold and black and nearly jumped off the page. “Local Restaurant Reviewer Felled by Peanut-Laced Food.”

  Gigi propped her elbows on the table, her coffee forgotten, as she read the story. They’d interviewed Detective Mertz, and he had told the reporter how Martha’s last known meal had come from Gigi’s Gourmet De-Lite. “We believe it was an accident,” he was quoted as saying. “Somehow peanut oil was mistakenly introduced into the production of Mrs. Bernhardt’s meal.”

  Gigi groaned. After this article, her business was toast. Burnt toast. Who would trust her to prepare a meal for them now? She flipped to Martha’s obituary on page thirty.

  According to the article, Martha had been born in Bronxville, New York, an upper-class village less than half an hour from Grand Central Terminal and Midtown Manhattan. She’d attended Bryn Mawr and married Winston Bernhardt shortly after graduation. Her career had been varied—newspaper reporter; book, theater and restaurant reviewer; director of a nonprofit and animal-rights activist.

  The picture with the article was of a slightly younger Martha with longer hair and a softer expression. Gigi sighed and closed the paper. Even though she knew she wasn’t responsible for Martha’s death, she still felt guilty. As if she had failed Martha somehow. Maybe if she found the person who really did it, she’d feel better.

  Gigi cleaned up her breakfast dishes, put some fresh water in Reg’s bowl, exchanged her pajamas for a pair of jeans and a bateau-necked top and tucked her grocery list into her purse. She had to make a trip to the Shop and Save just outside of town but her first stop would be Bon Appétit. She needed a few things she wouldn’t find anywhere else like black truffle oil and a new tart pan. And, even more importantly, the owner, Evelyn Fishko, was near neighbors with Martha Bernhardt. Who knew what gossip she might be persuaded to share?

  Evelyn was behind the counter when Gigi pushed open the door to Bon Appétit. A small bell announced her arrival with a melodic tinkle. Evelyn looked up from the jar of lemon curd she was wrapping in tissue paper and glanced at Gigi over the top of her glasses. She had an apron with Bon Appétit! in scrawling black script fastened around her middle and a black cardigan tied loosely over her shoulders.

  She nodded at Gigi as she lowered the jar into a glossy white bag with Bon Appétit in the same black script. She pushed it to one side and leaned on the counter. “Morning. What can I get you?”

  She knew Gigi always came in with a list and was an efficient shopper, unlike so many of the housewives who trolled the aisles for an hour and left empty-handed.

  Gigi pulled the piece of paper from her purse. “Some truffle oil to start.”

  Evelyn pushed off from the counter and went to a well-stocked display to the right of the checkout. She ran her finger along the shelves until she found what she was looking for. “This do?” She adjusted the glasses on her nose and peered at the label. “It’s the Sabatino Tartufi from Italy. I’ve only got the smaller size.” She glanced at Gigi over her shoulder.

  “That’s fine,” Gigi reassured her. “I only need the slightest bit.” The last thing she planned to do was drown her clients’ food in hundreds of calories of expensive oil. She wouldn’t use more than the barest drop—just enough to provide the maximum flavor with the minimum of calories.

  Evelyn put the bottle of oil on the counter and stood poised with her hands on her hips.

  “Do you have a nine-inch tart pan? Preferably nonstick?”

  Evelyn snorted. “Of course I do. What kind of a cookery store would this be if I didn’t stock the most basic necessities?” She spun on her heel and disappeared into the warren of shelves opposite the cash register.

  Gigi wondered about a tart pan being a basic necessity. Most people these days did little more than take out, eat out or microwave.

  She glanced at the counter and noticed that Evelyn had received the day’s Woodstone Times. It was folded and still in its plastic wrapper. Obviously Evelyn hadn’t had a chance to read it yet. Gigi felt heat crawl from her feet to the top of her head. Once Evelyn—and everyone else in Woodstone—read about Martha’s Gourmet De-Lite meal and the peanut oil, she’d be ruined. She’d never be able to hold her head up again.

  Evelyn returned, brandishing the pewter-colored pan. She plunked it down on the counter. “What else?”

  “That’s it for today.” Gigi was itching to get out of there in case Evelyn had the only case of X-ray vision ever known and could see through the newspaper wrapper to the damning article inside on the front page. But that wouldn’t solve anything. If she was going to clear her name, she’d have to learn more about Martha, and Evelyn was a good place to start. She reached into her purse for her wallet.

  But how to introduce Martha into their nonexistent conversation? Perhaps she’d start with the usual pleasantries and find a way to weave it in. Surely Martha’s murder—she stumbled over the word, even in her own head—was on the tip of everyone’s tongue.

  “Nice day today.” Gigi slid her credit card across the wooden counter.

  Evelyn grunted. She fiddled with her glasses and squinted at the card before running it through the processing machine. “Shame about Martha Bernhardt.”

  “What?” Gigi was startled. Here she’d been searching for a way to bring up Martha’s name, and Evelyn had done it for her.

  “She a client of yours?” Evelyn paused with the bottle of truffle oil half in and half out of a Bon Appétit shopping bag.

  Gigi hesitated. Had Evelyn heard about the peanut oil and Martha’s allergy? Maybe she’d already read the paper and then carefully folded it back up and put it back in its wrapper? Gigi could feel her face getting red.

  “Neighbor of mine,” Evelyn offered in her usual terse style. She pulled a sheet of tissue paper from a roll and carefully wrapped both pieces of the tart pan.

  The front bell tinkled, and Gigi groaned inwardly. Just when she might have gotten somewhere with Evelyn!

  A bright-eyed, middle-aged blond woman approached the counter. She wore white capris, a lime green T-shirt and matching lime green canvas shoes.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute.” Evelyn looked up from placing Gigi’s pan in the shopping bag.

  “Oh, that’s okay.” The woman waved a hand toward Evelyn. “I’m just looking.” But instead of moving toward the shelves of merchandise, she continued to hover near the counter.

  “Sure I can’t help you with anything?” Evelyn handed Gigi her credit card receipt.

  Gigi hesitated. Just when she’d gotten Evelyn talking! “It really is a shame about Martha,” she agreed with an emphatic nod.

  The blond woman approached the counter eagerly. “Is that the woman who died in the car accident?” She lowered her voice. “I heard her death wasn’t completely natural…that some are calling it foul play.” She looked back and forth between Gigi and Evelyn like a spectator at a tennis match.

  Evelyn pursed her thin lips. She leaned over the counter, closer to Gigi and the blond. “I’ve heard the same thing.” She looked over her shoulder briefly. “I heard that something caused her to have that accident.” She crooked her left brow. “And I don’t think it was a heart attack like they’d have us believe,” she finished triumphantly.

  “I heard she was only in her fifties.” The blond looked from Evelyn to Gigi. “I don’t know about you, but that’s not old enough for a heart attack in my book.” She laughed huskily and patted her chest in the region of her own heart.

  Evelyn fiddled with a ball of twine that was sitting out on the counter. “Martha lived two doors down from me. And she was always working in that garden of hers—hauling bags of fertilizer, mulch and top soil as
if they didn’t weigh a thing. Then she’d be off on a long hike up the hills, swinging that walking stick she always took with her.”

  “There you go, then.” The blonde shook her index finger at them. “She was in too good shape to have a heart attack.”

  “Unless it was all that arguing that did her in. Bad karma.” Evelyn drew her lips back over her horsey teeth and brayed loudly.

  Gigi’s ears perked up. “Arguing?”

  “Yup. Martha and her neighbor, that woman who’s running the old Woodstone Summer Theater…what is her name? Give me a minute, it’ll come to me.”

  “Adora Sands?” Gigi prompted.

  Evelyn snapped her fingers. “That’s it. She moved in alongside Martha about six months ago, and it’s been nonstop crabbing at each other ever since.”

  “Oh?”

  “Bicker, bicker, bicker, they’re always at it.” Evelyn said. “First it’s Martha’s dog doing its business in Adora’s yard, then it’s Adora’s cat chewing on Martha’s prize roses. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.” She looked at Gigi. “Not that Martha was all that easy to get along with, mind you. We had our fights, too. The time my Howard accidentally blew some snow onto her driveway…” She raised her eyes and threw her hands into the air.

  “Well, you want to know what I heard?” The blonde paused dramatically. “I heard it was something quite different that caused Martha’s accident.”

  And she turned and looked straight at Gigi.

  Gigi held her breath. Had she read the story in the day’s paper? Soon everyone would know, and she’d have to leave Woodstone…go back to the city. She panicked and for a moment didn’t realize what the blonde was saying.

  “I heard”—the blond paused dramatically—“that her car had been tampered with.”

  Gigi expelled her breath in a loud whoosh. She raised a hand to her forehead and realized it was shaking. She quickly shoved it into her pocket, hoping the others hadn’t noticed.

  “Really?” Evelyn breathed.

  The blond nodded. “Do you think maybe that neighbor of hers, what was her name—Adora? Do you think maybe she had something to do with it? Maybe she got tired of arguing with Martha and fiddled with her brakes or something?”