Iced to Death by Peg Cochran Page A

gestures.
    Gigi slammed the phone down. She couldn’t do it.
    “You have to.” Pia grabbed the phone and handed it back to Gigi.
    Gigi dialed the number again with trembling fingers. She turned her back on Pia and listened as the phone rang. She closed her eyes, hoping that by some miracle no one would answer. But of course that was impossible.
    The receptionist’s voice came on the line.
    Gigi managed to find enough breath to ask for Mertz. Once again she closed her eyes and prayed that he was out on a case somewhere.
    No such luck.
    “Mertz,” he said economically. Gigi could hear the rustling of papers in the background and muted voices.
    “I . . . I hope I’m not disturbing you,” Gigi managed to squeak out, ready to hang the phone up immediately if he said he was busy.
    “Gigi!”
    Gigi had thought Mertz might sound annoyed, exasperated, angry, distant, but instead he sounded . . . pleased.
    Gigi gulped hard. “I was wondering if . . . if . . .” She turned around to see Pia urging her on. “I was wondering if you’d like to . . . um . . . come over for dinner.” Again Gigi hesitated, and Pia waved her on. “Tonight.”
    “I’d love to.” Mertz sighed. “But I’m going to a meeting out of town, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back. If it’s not too late, maybe I can just stop by, and we can have a cup of coffee?”
    “Sure. That would be fine.” Gigi heard voices in the background.
    “Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later and let you know how things are panning out, okay? Maybe I’ll be able to get away earlier.”
    “Great. Fine.” Gigi hung up the phone.
    “What did he say?” Pia demanded immediately.
    “He said he’d stop by if he can.” She explained about the out-of-town meeting.
    “You’ll need to be prepared.” Pia paced up and down the kitchen, an anxious look on her face. “What are you going to make?” Before Gigi could answer, she continued. “It would look odd if you had a complete dinner waiting for him . . . just in case. It might be best to have some ingredients on hand so you could whip up something simple like . . . I don’t know. You’re the chef.”
    “I think I can handle it,” Gigi said dryly.
    “And wine. Don’t forget to get a bottle of wine to relax him.”
    “It’s already on my mental list.”
    Pia threw her arms around her sister. “You’re the best.”
    Gigi sighed and returned the hug.
    Later that afternoon, as Gigi was driving through the darkening town after having delivered her dinner meals, a commercial came on the radio. She had tuned to a rock station she liked—if asked, she would deny it, but she had a penchant for cheesy pop songs and had been known to sing along at the top of her lungs while piloting the MINI through Woodstone.
    She’d just finished a rousing rendition of one of Britney Spears’s earlier songs when the music ended and the advertisement came on. Gigi had her finger on the button and was about to change the station when a familiar voice caught her attention.
Her
voice. Advertising Gigi’s frozen Gourmet De-Lite dinners. She nearly drove into a light post on High Street, she was so surprised. She supposed Branston was running the commercials now to create excitement over the launch of his new product—Gigi’s frozen diet entrées.
    It was strange hearing her voice emanating from the radio. Reg obviously thought so, too. He tilted his head, listening, occasionally turning to look at Gigi with a curious look on his face. He gave a confused howl as the commercial came to an end.
    “That’s okay, boy.” Gigi reached out and patted him on the head. “I’m here and not inside the radio.”
    He gave her another strange look and then, with a sigh, hunkered back down on the front passenger seat.
    As Gigi pulled into the driveway of her cottage, a feeling of relief swept over her. She’d left a few lights on, and they glowed warmly through the front windows. Pia had assured her she would be at her studio, so