Steamed to Death by Peg Cochran Page A

She was quite certain she would be having nightmares about it for years to come.
    Fortunately, her Irish and Italian ancestors had equipped her with a quick wit and even quicker tongue. As soon as she ceased her jet propulsion forward toward the dining table and had regained her balance, she asked in a perfectly calm voice, “Is there anything else I can get you?”
    “Perhaps some more coffee?” Alice gestured toward the pantry from which they had come.
    The startled look on Winchel’s face turned to one of dismissal, and he shook his head. “No, thank you. That will be all for now.”
    Gigi and Alice backed hastily into the butler’s pantry and breathed a collective sigh of relief when the door swung to in back of them. Then they burst into giggles and laughed until tears ran down their faces.
    When Gigi finally collected herself, she grabbed a tissue from the box on the counter and blew her nose. Alice dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her apron.
    “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe we did that.”
    “Neither can I,” Gigi said before turning serious. “But did you hear what Mertz told Felicity’s husband?”
    “No, I’m afraid I didn’t.”
    Gigi motioned for Alice to come closer. “The results of the autopsy came back. And Felicity was drugged before she was put in the sauna. Some kind of tranquilizer. Apparently it was her own prescription, but they found more than ten times the normal amount in her system.”
    “Enough to make her too drowsy to rescue herself from the sauna?”
    “It would seem so.”
    • • •
    Gigi thought about this latest nugget of news as she chopped and diced and roasted and stirred. The butternut squash soup was ready to be put on the sideboard so guests could help themselves. She would offer it with a dollop of Greek yogurt on top—far fewer calories than heavy cream or sour cream—and a sprinkle of candied pecans. She had a platter of chicken ready—breasts pounded thin and rolled around a stuffing of diced tomatoes, spinach sautéed with garlic, and feta cheese—along with an orzo salad tossed with lemon zest, olive oil and sliced black olives.
    Gigi tried to focus on what she was doing, but her mind kept circulating pictures of poor hapless Felicity asleep in the increasing heat of the sauna, unable to save herself. Then her thoughts turned to Sienna, and her stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. She knew Sienna hadn’t had anything to do with it. But how to convince Mertz of that?
    Alice was going to help Anja serve, but meanwhile she was taking a short break, her apron put aside, her feet up and her nose buried in the Woodstone Times . Gigi could hear the clink of silver and the occasional ping of china from the butler’s pantry where Anja was organizing the serving pieces for the lunch.
    Gigi was putting the chicken in the oven when a car turned into the drive, quickly followed by another and another. The service was over and the guests were arriving.
    Moments later, they heard the front door open, and Anja scuttled out of the pantry toward the foyer to help with coats. Drinks were being served in the formal living room, and Alice was going to help Anja with that, too.
    Gigi bent over the stove, making the final preparations. Putting together a multicourse meal was like conducting an orchestra—each dish coming together at the right moment and in tune with the others. The oven timer pinged, and Gigi removed the chicken and tented it with foil. In turn, she slid a pan of apple cake batter into the oven. It was a simple dessert that she would dress up with a side of crème anglaise.
    Gigi fanned her face with an oven mitt. With the burners going and both ovens lit, the kitchen was getting warm. She stepped into the hall briefly, which was still slightly chilly from the front door’s opening and closing. Winchel came down the corridor, a glass of amber-colored liquid in his hand.
    “Miss Fitzgerald. Why don’t you join us?”
    Gigi had no desire to face the