sometime.”
“So you have almost two months. A little fresh paint, some rearranging, and no one will recognize this place.”
Evelyn’s expression lifted slightly. “You know, I think you’re right. It’s been an age since I’ve done any sprucing up. Hey”—she put a hand on Gigi’s arm—“maybe you can give a cooking demonstration.”
Gigi thought for a moment. “Branston Foods is supposed to debut my line of frozen Gourmet De-Lite dinners soon. Perhaps they would hold the launch party here.” Gigi started to get excited. “And give you at least temporary exclusivity in carrying them.”
“That would be splendid!” Evelyn’s eyes had brightened considerably. “Now that we’ve got that settled, what can I get you?”
Gigi pulled out her shopping list.
“I don’t suppose you were at that party at Declan’s Saturday night?” Evelyn said as she plunked a bottle of aged balsamic vinegar down on the counter.
“Actually, I was.” Gigi said.
Evelyn shook her head. “I wonder if Barbara Simpson finally snapped and offed him.”
“I don’t think so. She left the party early because she wasn’t feeling well.”
“You mean she’d had too much to drink.” Evelyn reached for a jar of capers on the shelf behind her. “She’s been to some fancy rehab place twice now. For exhaustion.” Evelyn made air quotes. “One of those joints where you get your meals prepared for you, spend all day talking about yourself and have massages and do yoga. Sounds like a vacation to me.” Evelyn snorted. “Doesn’t seem to have done her any good though.”
Alice had hinted at something similar, Gigi remembered. But she was pretty certain Barbara had been sick the night of the party, not drunk.
Gigi pulled away from the curb in front of Bon Appétit and waved good-bye to Evelyn, who was standing in the doorway looking slightly happier than she had when Gigi arrived.
Gigi was half excited for and half dreading her next appointment—the same sort of feeling she remembered having in second grade before her first ballet recital. Victor Branston, founder and CEO of Branston Foods, had decided to run a series of radio commercials, and he wanted them to have a personal touch in keeping with the concept of Gigi’s Gourmet De-Lite—meaning he wanted Gigi to record the commercials herself. She had never done anything like it before, but the marketing manager for Branston’s, a very slick young man who bore a slight resemblance to a less down-home version of Elvis, assured her that there was nothing to it. Gigi wasn’t so sure about that, but she was in no position to disagree.
As she drove toward a small strip mall on the outskirts of Woodstone, she reminded herself that trying new things was good for you—it stretched you and made you grow. Still, if she hadn’t already agreed to it, she would have turned tail and run straight home.
The building she was looking for turned out to be a converted shop front with a small printed sign in the window that read
Keith’s Recording Studio
. Gigi pushed open the door reluctantly, Reg sticking close to her heels. Dusty album covers adorned the walls, and the carpet was faded and threadbare. A receptionist sat at a nicked and dented metal desk, her back to Gigi, the telephone clutched between her shoulder and her ear.
She turned around when she heard the door open and motioned Gigi toward one of two orange, molded plastic chairs. Gigi recognized her from Madeline Stone’s engagement party as the woman who had helped Barbara Simpson after she’d taken ill. Today she was wearing skintight jeans and a stretched-out brown T-shirt with
Keith’s Recording Studio
barely visible on it.
Reg hunkered down next to Gigi’s chair, and Gigi had just picked up a two-year-old copy of
Rolling Stone
when the door opened and the manager from Branston’s came in. Gigi watched as he hung his coat on a metal coat rack. He was handsome, if you liked the type, but there was something
“So you have almost two months. A little fresh paint, some rearranging, and no one will recognize this place.”
Evelyn’s expression lifted slightly. “You know, I think you’re right. It’s been an age since I’ve done any sprucing up. Hey”—she put a hand on Gigi’s arm—“maybe you can give a cooking demonstration.”
Gigi thought for a moment. “Branston Foods is supposed to debut my line of frozen Gourmet De-Lite dinners soon. Perhaps they would hold the launch party here.” Gigi started to get excited. “And give you at least temporary exclusivity in carrying them.”
“That would be splendid!” Evelyn’s eyes had brightened considerably. “Now that we’ve got that settled, what can I get you?”
Gigi pulled out her shopping list.
“I don’t suppose you were at that party at Declan’s Saturday night?” Evelyn said as she plunked a bottle of aged balsamic vinegar down on the counter.
“Actually, I was.” Gigi said.
Evelyn shook her head. “I wonder if Barbara Simpson finally snapped and offed him.”
“I don’t think so. She left the party early because she wasn’t feeling well.”
“You mean she’d had too much to drink.” Evelyn reached for a jar of capers on the shelf behind her. “She’s been to some fancy rehab place twice now. For exhaustion.” Evelyn made air quotes. “One of those joints where you get your meals prepared for you, spend all day talking about yourself and have massages and do yoga. Sounds like a vacation to me.” Evelyn snorted. “Doesn’t seem to have done her any good though.”
Alice had hinted at something similar, Gigi remembered. But she was pretty certain Barbara had been sick the night of the party, not drunk.
Gigi pulled away from the curb in front of Bon Appétit and waved good-bye to Evelyn, who was standing in the doorway looking slightly happier than she had when Gigi arrived.
Gigi was half excited for and half dreading her next appointment—the same sort of feeling she remembered having in second grade before her first ballet recital. Victor Branston, founder and CEO of Branston Foods, had decided to run a series of radio commercials, and he wanted them to have a personal touch in keeping with the concept of Gigi’s Gourmet De-Lite—meaning he wanted Gigi to record the commercials herself. She had never done anything like it before, but the marketing manager for Branston’s, a very slick young man who bore a slight resemblance to a less down-home version of Elvis, assured her that there was nothing to it. Gigi wasn’t so sure about that, but she was in no position to disagree.
As she drove toward a small strip mall on the outskirts of Woodstone, she reminded herself that trying new things was good for you—it stretched you and made you grow. Still, if she hadn’t already agreed to it, she would have turned tail and run straight home.
The building she was looking for turned out to be a converted shop front with a small printed sign in the window that read
Keith’s Recording Studio
. Gigi pushed open the door reluctantly, Reg sticking close to her heels. Dusty album covers adorned the walls, and the carpet was faded and threadbare. A receptionist sat at a nicked and dented metal desk, her back to Gigi, the telephone clutched between her shoulder and her ear.
She turned around when she heard the door open and motioned Gigi toward one of two orange, molded plastic chairs. Gigi recognized her from Madeline Stone’s engagement party as the woman who had helped Barbara Simpson after she’d taken ill. Today she was wearing skintight jeans and a stretched-out brown T-shirt with
Keith’s Recording Studio
barely visible on it.
Reg hunkered down next to Gigi’s chair, and Gigi had just picked up a two-year-old copy of
Rolling Stone
when the door opened and the manager from Branston’s came in. Gigi watched as he hung his coat on a metal coat rack. He was handsome, if you liked the type, but there was something
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