Iced to Death by Peg Cochran Page B

than she meant to. “I was worried about you.”
    Pia rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. You sound like Mom.”
    “Maybe I do, but I don’t enjoy spending my day thinking something might have happened to you.”
    “Look, if you’d rather I left, just say so.”
    “That’s not what I meant at all,” Gigi said, although a small part of her did wish her sister would at least find her own place. “It’s just that I worry when I don’t hear from you for so long.”
    Pia sighed. “Sorry,” she said begrudgingly. “I didn’t mean to worry you. But I am being careful.” She shivered. “I heard there was actually a murder in downtown Woodstone on Saturday night. Declan told me about it when I stopped by.” Pia gave a slightly hysterical laugh. “The guy had been truly iced. Stabbed with an ice pick.”
    “I know.” Gigi tried to block out the image that rose to her mind.
    “How did you know about it?”
    Gigi looked down at her feet. It was now or never. Pia would find out anyway. “I was there. I . . . I found the body.”
    “How horrible.” Pia rushed to put her arms around her sister. “But wait.” She pulled away. “Declan said it was really late. What were you doing there?”
    Gigi spread her hands out. “We started talking and . . .”
    “And?” Pia demanded.
    “And nothing. We just talked, and I lost track of time.”
    “Oh, sure.” Pia poked Gigi with her index finger. “You won’t admit it, but you do fancy Declan for yourself. Well, you can’t have him.”
    And for the second time in the short span she and Gigi had been living together, Pia flounced from the room, slamming the door to the guest bedroom so hard that it bounced back open again.
    • • •
    A subdued air hung over Simpson and West when Gigi arrived with Madeline Stone’s breakfast on Monday morning. The receptionist sported a grim expression, and people scurried about with their eyes focused on the ground. Gigi had the feeling, though, that underneath the surface things were bubbling and boiling like a witch’s cauldron. She sensed an aura of smug satisfaction hanging over the place. If Bradley treated his staff like he treated his family, then odds were he wasn’t very well liked, and he wasn’t going to be missed.
    Gigi took the elevator up to the third floor, where Madeline toiled in a small cubicle amidst a sea of similar cubes along with the other staff who didn’t yet rate a windowed office on the hushed confines of the second floor. Gigi remembered her meetings with Mr. West and the impressiveness of his wood-paneled, antique-filled corner office. It was what everyone at Simpson and West aspired to.
    The elevator jerked to a stop, and the door slowly opened. A small huddle of men in pin-striped suits hovered near the entrance to the break room, coffee cups in hand, voices low in conversation. A similar group of women in short skirts and variously colored sweaters stood around the water cooler, occasionally throwing glances over their shoulder, looking ready to scatter like a flock of birds if someone with authority came along.
    Gossip buzzed like electricity sparking along high-tension wires.
    Gigi noticed that Madeline’s eyes were puffy and red-rimmed as she handed over the breakfast Gourmet De-Lite container. Her cubicle was, as usual, piled high with folders, papers and various files. A silver-framed picture of Hunter Simpson, his light curls blowing in the wind, a smudge of blue water just visible in the background, stood in pride of place on Madeline’s desk.
    Madeline pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. “It isn’t as if I knew . . . Bradley . . . all that well,” she confided to Gigi. “But I feel so badly on Hunter’s account.” She gave a loud sniff.
    “He must be terribly upset.” Gigi couldn’t help wondering how Hunter really felt about his father’s death. She doubted there was much love lost between them. She remembered Bradley’s hurtful comments, and