Iced to Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

cheek deepened. “Which I most certainly didn’t do. Nowadays, you cure the salmon with salt, sugar, plenty of fresh dill, a bit of lemon peel . . . ” He stopped suddenly. “But then I imagine you already know that. But there is my secret ingredient.” He winked at Gigi. “A dash of the finest Irish whiskey—Kilbeggan—from the oldest distillery in the world.”
    Declan took a long, thin-bladed knife and began to cut slivers off the piece of salmon. He placed them on a tray alongside neatly arranged squares of buttered toast.
    The noise level from the restaurant had risen considerably. “Sounds like the guests are arriving.” Declan frowned and ran a hand through his hair, leaving his curls standing on end. “I feel terrible.” He touched Gigi’s shoulder. “You should be out there, dressed to the nines, enjoying yourself.”
    Gigi looked down at her faded jeans. She was a mess, and she knew it. She’d run her hands through her tangled auburn curls countless times during the course of the day. Even without looking, she could tell that her nose was shining, and her lips were pale since she’d bitten off the bit of colored lip gloss she’d put on long ago that morning.
    “Why don’t you go have a wee peek at the crowd. I imagine you’d like that.”
    Gigi smiled. Declan had guessed correctly—if she couldn’t be part of the party herself, she at least wanted to see who was there and what they were wearing.
    “Okay.” She took off her apron, balled it up and tossed it on the counter.
    “I expect a full report.” Declan grinned as his sharp-bladed knife slid through the piece of salmon.
    “Aye, aye, sir.”
    Gigi headed for the swinging door to the restaurant. She would hover in the back and spend a few minutes taking it all in.
    Most of the gathering had crowded into the bar area or stood, drinks in hand, between the artfully set tables. Waitresses circulated with trays of hors d’oeuvres, and the bartender, a seasoned-looking pro in his fifties, wielded a silver cocktail shaker as if it were a percussion instrument.
    Madeline looked radiant in a crimson wrap dress with a deep-V neckline and cap sleeves. Gigi had never met Hunter Simpson, but she picked him out easily enough. He had one arm around Madeline, and in the other, he brandished a glass of what looked like sparkling water. He was slim, with a halo of light brown curls, and bore a slight resemblance to his father.
    Bradley had the paunch and the smug, self-satisfied look so common to men of his age and stature. He was wearing a double-breasted navy blazer, gray slacks and a crisp white shirt open far enough to reveal the gray hair on his chest. Gigi recognized his wife Barbara Simpson because she had recently had a consultation with Gigi about becoming a client. Barbara hoped to start the plan as soon as the party was over, with the aim of losing twenty pounds before her son’s wedding. She had dark hair, cut short up over her ears, and she clutched a pashmina wrap that almost hid her stocky middle. Gigi thought she must have been quite attractive at one point in time, but now she looked like the typical middle-aged woman—slightly overweight and a touch masculine.
    The woman Madeline had identified earlier as Tiffany Morse, potential Simpson and West partner, stood in front of the bar, surrounded by a cadre of admiring men. Her black dress most decidedly deserved the term
little
—it had a hem so high and a neckline so low that they threatened to meet in the middle. Someone must have said something funny because she tossed back her head and laughed, exposing a long, white column of a neck that was accented by the sparkling sequins edging her plunging neckline.
    Gigi noticed Bradley Simpson glancing in her direction more than once. The third time he did it, she saw Barbara Simpson frown and whisper in his ear.
    Bradley threw back his shoulders and put his hands to his mouth creating a megaphone.
    “Hello, everyone,” he shouted above the