pick?”
“Dunno. Perhaps she stole it earlier. She’s like a magpie, collecting bits and pieces of trash here and there. I often see the back door to Declan’s propped open when he’s got a delivery. Easy enough for her to slip inside and pocket it while he’s carting stuff down to the basement.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“On the other hand, there’s the son, Hunter. One, from what you said, his father seems to be making his life a living hell, and two, he probably stands to inherit some decent cash.” Alice ticked the reasons off on her fingers.
“He did leave the party early—right after that nasty remark his father made. I wonder if anyone knows where he went.”
“The fiancée maybe? Isn’t she one of your clients?”
“Yes. I suppose I could ask her a few questions,” Gigi said reluctantly. She hated quizzing people. It didn’t feel right. But if she didn’t, Mertz would continue to blame Declan and Pia would have a meltdown . . .
And even though she knew Declan was lying about something, she also knew he wasn’t a murderer.
• • •
When Gigi arrived with Madeline Stone’s lunch later that morning, she was told that Madeline had gone home sick.
“Although she didn’t look sick to me,” said the rabbity looking girl behind the reception desk. She was wearing a cheap navy blue suit that puckered at the shoulders.
“Not sick?” Gigi said casually.
The girl shook her head, and her nondescript brown hair swung back and forth. “More like upset if you ask me.”
“Did she say anything?
“To me?” The girl snorted. “No one talks to me. I just answer the phone. I’m like, you know, invisible.”
Gigi knew what she meant. She remembered her early days in New York, trying to make her mark, suffering through one low-paying job after another.
Gigi waved her Gourmet De-Lite container at the girl. “I guess I’ll deliver her lunch to her home address then.”
“Do you think the police coming by had anything to do with it?” the girl asked as Gigi was turning away.
Gigi turned back to the desk and set down Madeline’s lunch container. “The police?”
“Yes.” The girl’s face brightened. “This really hunky guy.” She gestured with her hand. “Tall with really blue eyes.”
Mertz!
Gigi thought to herself.
“Kind of stiff though,” the girl added.
Definitely Mertz,
Gigi thought.
“And he spoke to Madeline?”
“Yup. And it was shortly after that that Madeline came rushing downstairs saying she didn’t feel well and was going home.”
“I guess I’d better deliver her lunch to her house then.” Gigi brandished the container again.
“Do you need her address?” The girl jiggled the mouse next to her computer, and her screen came to life—it was filled with a picture of a beach in the background and, closer up, a fruity drink on an umbrella table.
“No, that’s okay. I already have it.”
Gigi’s mind was whirling as she exited Simpson and West. Why had Mertz gone to Madeline and what had he said to upset her enough that she had left work early for the day?
Hopefully Madeline would be willing to tell her.
Gigi headed toward the address Madeline had given her. It was a small town house complex on the north end of Woodstone. The units were brick-fronted with slate gray shutters and glossy black doors. Gigi found number 25 and gently tapped the polished brass door knocker.
She was about to knock again when the door was yanked open. Madeline was wearing a scruffy pair of gray sweats with University of Connecticut barely visible on one leg of the drawstring pants. She’d obviously been crying and had a tissue balled up in her right hand.
“I’m sorry. I forgot all about my lunch. Can you imagine? Me, forgetting about food?” She made a halfhearted attempt at a smile.
“The receptionist said you were sick,” Gigi said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
Madeline shook her head and held the door open wider. “Come on in.”
The town house
“Dunno. Perhaps she stole it earlier. She’s like a magpie, collecting bits and pieces of trash here and there. I often see the back door to Declan’s propped open when he’s got a delivery. Easy enough for her to slip inside and pocket it while he’s carting stuff down to the basement.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“On the other hand, there’s the son, Hunter. One, from what you said, his father seems to be making his life a living hell, and two, he probably stands to inherit some decent cash.” Alice ticked the reasons off on her fingers.
“He did leave the party early—right after that nasty remark his father made. I wonder if anyone knows where he went.”
“The fiancée maybe? Isn’t she one of your clients?”
“Yes. I suppose I could ask her a few questions,” Gigi said reluctantly. She hated quizzing people. It didn’t feel right. But if she didn’t, Mertz would continue to blame Declan and Pia would have a meltdown . . .
And even though she knew Declan was lying about something, she also knew he wasn’t a murderer.
• • •
When Gigi arrived with Madeline Stone’s lunch later that morning, she was told that Madeline had gone home sick.
“Although she didn’t look sick to me,” said the rabbity looking girl behind the reception desk. She was wearing a cheap navy blue suit that puckered at the shoulders.
“Not sick?” Gigi said casually.
The girl shook her head, and her nondescript brown hair swung back and forth. “More like upset if you ask me.”
“Did she say anything?
“To me?” The girl snorted. “No one talks to me. I just answer the phone. I’m like, you know, invisible.”
Gigi knew what she meant. She remembered her early days in New York, trying to make her mark, suffering through one low-paying job after another.
Gigi waved her Gourmet De-Lite container at the girl. “I guess I’ll deliver her lunch to her home address then.”
“Do you think the police coming by had anything to do with it?” the girl asked as Gigi was turning away.
Gigi turned back to the desk and set down Madeline’s lunch container. “The police?”
“Yes.” The girl’s face brightened. “This really hunky guy.” She gestured with her hand. “Tall with really blue eyes.”
Mertz!
Gigi thought to herself.
“Kind of stiff though,” the girl added.
Definitely Mertz,
Gigi thought.
“And he spoke to Madeline?”
“Yup. And it was shortly after that that Madeline came rushing downstairs saying she didn’t feel well and was going home.”
“I guess I’d better deliver her lunch to her house then.” Gigi brandished the container again.
“Do you need her address?” The girl jiggled the mouse next to her computer, and her screen came to life—it was filled with a picture of a beach in the background and, closer up, a fruity drink on an umbrella table.
“No, that’s okay. I already have it.”
Gigi’s mind was whirling as she exited Simpson and West. Why had Mertz gone to Madeline and what had he said to upset her enough that she had left work early for the day?
Hopefully Madeline would be willing to tell her.
Gigi headed toward the address Madeline had given her. It was a small town house complex on the north end of Woodstone. The units were brick-fronted with slate gray shutters and glossy black doors. Gigi found number 25 and gently tapped the polished brass door knocker.
She was about to knock again when the door was yanked open. Madeline was wearing a scruffy pair of gray sweats with University of Connecticut barely visible on one leg of the drawstring pants. She’d obviously been crying and had a tissue balled up in her right hand.
“I’m sorry. I forgot all about my lunch. Can you imagine? Me, forgetting about food?” She made a halfhearted attempt at a smile.
“The receptionist said you were sick,” Gigi said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
Madeline shook her head and held the door open wider. “Come on in.”
The town house
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