Winston had mentioned for the cottage. The thought had gnawed at her all the way home. Unless the deal from Branston Foods comes through , a little voice whispered inside her head. Of course, she hadn’t heard from Victor Branston since the opening at the Silver Lining. It seemed quite likely that he had changed his mind.
She would just have to resign herself to moving. There were plenty of apartment complexes in Crestfield, the next town over. It lacked the charm of Woodstone, but she couldn’t afford to be picky. It was still near enough to make delivery of her meals relatively easy. A thought suddenly struck her. What if she couldn’t take Reg? A lot of places only allowed cats, if that. She glanced down at where Reg lay at her feet, his glance faithful and trusting. She wasn’t giving him up, no matter what. She’d live in her car if necessary.
If she didn’t want to lose it all, she was going to have to figure out who killed Martha herself. Winston and Barbie had one of the oldest motives known to man—greed. Martha’s death was a windfall to them. They’d had opportunity, too. They could have easily gotten into Gigi’s car to doctor the food without being seen.
Gigi grabbed the bottle of extra virgin olive oil from the cupboard and measured half a cup into a bowl. Now that she thought about it, she realized that Martha’s murder couldn’t have been a spur of the moment decision. The murderer must have come prepared with the peanut oil. People didn’t generally run around with a bottle of it in their car or purse.
So that person, whoever it was, must have known Martha would be at the theater that day.
All she had to do was figure out who that person was.
Gigi pulled into the parking lot of the Woodstone Theater, the wheels of her MINI kicking up a splash of dust and gravel. She’d just delivered her clients’ breakfasts, and she had a few minutes to spare before she had to head home and start all over again. She maneuvered into a parking space and hauled herself out of the car. She was so tired! Her body ached, and her eyes felt as gritty as sandpaper.
The theater was empty when Gigi pushed open the door. Strange shapes loomed in the darkness that shrouded the stage. Gigi shivered, let the door close behind her, and made her way down the corridor toward Hunter Pierce’s office.
Light was visible behind the frosted pane of glass. Gigi knocked and waited. A deep rumble came from behind the closed door, which she took as an invitation to enter.
Pierce was seated in front of a desktop computer that looked incongruous among the jumble of dusty outmoded furniture that filled the office. He stared at Gigi over a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that perched halfway down his long, imperious nose.
“Can I help you?” His tone indicated that he thought it unlikely.
Familiar butterflies jostled for position in Gigi’s stomach. It didn’t feel right going around asking people questions, but if she was going to get to the bottom of Martha’s death, she had to do it. “I hope so. I was wondering what Martha Bernhardt was doing at the theater the day she had the accident. She didn’t normally spend time here, did she?”
“Spend time here?” Pierce reluctantly took his hand from the computer mouse and swiveled around to face Gigi. “Not really, no. But I believe she had an appointment of somesort. Although, apparently things went awry, and the fellow never showed.”
“What fellow?”
“A repairman of some sort. For the air conditioner, I believe. Martha was furious at having her time wasted like that.”
“Do you know his name?”
“His name?”
“The repairman.” Gigi squelched a sigh of impatience with difficulty.
“I’m afraid I don’t. Martha handled those sorts of things for the theater. It was her property, after all.” He gave a sniff as if to say that artistes like him were above such petty details.
“Is there an address book, a file or Rolodex or somewhere the name might be
She would just have to resign herself to moving. There were plenty of apartment complexes in Crestfield, the next town over. It lacked the charm of Woodstone, but she couldn’t afford to be picky. It was still near enough to make delivery of her meals relatively easy. A thought suddenly struck her. What if she couldn’t take Reg? A lot of places only allowed cats, if that. She glanced down at where Reg lay at her feet, his glance faithful and trusting. She wasn’t giving him up, no matter what. She’d live in her car if necessary.
If she didn’t want to lose it all, she was going to have to figure out who killed Martha herself. Winston and Barbie had one of the oldest motives known to man—greed. Martha’s death was a windfall to them. They’d had opportunity, too. They could have easily gotten into Gigi’s car to doctor the food without being seen.
Gigi grabbed the bottle of extra virgin olive oil from the cupboard and measured half a cup into a bowl. Now that she thought about it, she realized that Martha’s murder couldn’t have been a spur of the moment decision. The murderer must have come prepared with the peanut oil. People didn’t generally run around with a bottle of it in their car or purse.
So that person, whoever it was, must have known Martha would be at the theater that day.
All she had to do was figure out who that person was.
Gigi pulled into the parking lot of the Woodstone Theater, the wheels of her MINI kicking up a splash of dust and gravel. She’d just delivered her clients’ breakfasts, and she had a few minutes to spare before she had to head home and start all over again. She maneuvered into a parking space and hauled herself out of the car. She was so tired! Her body ached, and her eyes felt as gritty as sandpaper.
The theater was empty when Gigi pushed open the door. Strange shapes loomed in the darkness that shrouded the stage. Gigi shivered, let the door close behind her, and made her way down the corridor toward Hunter Pierce’s office.
Light was visible behind the frosted pane of glass. Gigi knocked and waited. A deep rumble came from behind the closed door, which she took as an invitation to enter.
Pierce was seated in front of a desktop computer that looked incongruous among the jumble of dusty outmoded furniture that filled the office. He stared at Gigi over a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that perched halfway down his long, imperious nose.
“Can I help you?” His tone indicated that he thought it unlikely.
Familiar butterflies jostled for position in Gigi’s stomach. It didn’t feel right going around asking people questions, but if she was going to get to the bottom of Martha’s death, she had to do it. “I hope so. I was wondering what Martha Bernhardt was doing at the theater the day she had the accident. She didn’t normally spend time here, did she?”
“Spend time here?” Pierce reluctantly took his hand from the computer mouse and swiveled around to face Gigi. “Not really, no. But I believe she had an appointment of somesort. Although, apparently things went awry, and the fellow never showed.”
“What fellow?”
“A repairman of some sort. For the air conditioner, I believe. Martha was furious at having her time wasted like that.”
“Do you know his name?”
“His name?”
“The repairman.” Gigi squelched a sigh of impatience with difficulty.
“I’m afraid I don’t. Martha handled those sorts of things for the theater. It was her property, after all.” He gave a sniff as if to say that artistes like him were above such petty details.
“Is there an address book, a file or Rolodex or somewhere the name might be
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