The Diva Runs Out of Thyme

by Davis, Krista

  Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of that? “So you’ll be able to see who killed that guy and put him in the Dumpster.”

  “How do you know he was murdered?”

  “Most people don’t bleed spontaneously from the chest.”

  His cold eyes narrowed. “You’re in a lot of trouble, Mrs. Winston. Being a wiseacre isn’t going to help any.”

  Was he trying to scare me? “I didn’t do anything. The store videos will back that up.”

  “Then how do you explain the blood on your sweater?”

  Huh? I looked down. Sure enough, thin streaks of dried blood ran underneath my right arm. At least it sure looked like blood. Above it, toward my shoulder, was an enormous dusty dirty spot. Instinctively I brushed at it.

  He caught my wrist midair. “We’ll be taking your sweater as evidence. I don’t appreciate your sassiness. A man is dead and it looks like you were the last person to see him alive.”

  Was that supposed to be some kind of absurd warning? “The store cameras will back up my story.”

  “Believe me, we’ll be taking a very close look at those tapes.”

  I was losing my patience with him. “Oh, this is absurd.”

  “Not in my line of business. People don’t just pull over to Dumpsters and happen to find corpses. I consider that extremely odd behavior on your part.”

  Moments later I was seated in the back of a squad car and being driven to police headquarters. Once there I was surprised that no one objected to the presence of the kitten. While I was fingerprinted, surrendered my sweater, and put on the T-shirt they gave me, a female officer played with him.

  It was late afternoon by the time they drove me home. The warmth and familiarity of my kitchen had never felt so reassuring. I placed the kitten on the floor and let him explore. Luckily I found a piece of leftover chicken breast in the refrigerator. He wolfed the diced meat but ignored the water I set out.

  The discovery of the dead man shook me more than I wanted to admit. I put the kettle on and plopped a bag of organic English Breakfast tea into my favorite mug. What had happened to that guy while I was in the store? Granted, it must have taken me about an hour to do all the shopping, but who would kill someone in a grocery store parking lot when there were so many people around? His truck had been parked by the Dumpster. Had that been his fatal mistake? The back of the store was eerily quiet and unobserved. Trees and brush separated it from the lot behind it.

  The kettle whistled. I poured boiling water into my mug and looked for the kitten. He was valiantly trying to climb the chair next to the fireplace. I lifted him to the seat and after adding sugar and milk to my tea, sank into the other chair. He was already curled up in a fat little ball.

  As I watched the kitten sleep, I couldn’t help wondering if the man had been killed because of the kitten. But if that was the case, wouldn’t the person have taken the kitten with him?

  The brass acorn knocker on my front door banged briskly. Reluctantly I pried myself from my comfy chair, shuffled through the kitchen to the front door, and peered through the peephole. The policeman with the silver temples stood on my stoop.

  I opened the door with dread. Wasn’t I through with this yet? I hadn’t even had a chance to change out of my police-issued T-shirt.

  He smiled at me and offered a bag of groceries. “I thought you’d be needing these.”

  I’d forgotten all about the groceries. I took the bag from him. “Thank you so much!”

  He nodded. “I’ll get the rest.”

  I unloaded them almost as fast as he brought them in. Everything appeared to be in good shape. And, as if by magic, six cans of kitten food and a bag of kitten kibble appeared among the groceries.

  “Did you add the kitten food?” I asked, staring at him in wonder.

  He set two carryout cups on the kitchen counter. “Yeah, figured you might be in a bind without a car.”

  I offered to pay for it but he waved me off. “I took the liberty of bringing some mocha lattes.”

  Uh-oh. He brought me my groceries, kitten food, and mocha lattes? Either he was too good to be true or this was some kind of good-cop, bad-cop routine. I poured the lattes into mugs and popped them in the microwave to warm them up. The refrigerator was getting a little bit crowded so I took out the leftover Bourbon Pecan Pie and cut two pieces for us.

  He placed them on the kitchen table along with the mugs of latte.

  This guy was no dummy. He intended to make me feel comfortable and relaxed so I would spill information. It had the opposite effect. Foreboding welled in my chest.

  We sat down and he tasted the pie. “This is amazing.” His gaze stopped at my untouched plate. “Your first body, huh? You never forget your first murder.”

  “How was he killed?”

  The detective paused as though he was constructing a careful response. “Stabbed. The knife was in the Dumpster with him.”

  I swallowed hard. It all happened so fast. One minute he was trying to give away a kitten and the next he was gone. A question had been tugging at me and I finally decided to bring things out in the open. “Am I a suspect?”

  I couldn’t read his expression.

  He studied me quietly. “Kenner thinks so. But he also thinks he’s Clint Eastwood and that everyone is guilty.”

  “I don’t even know your name,” I blurted.

  He grinned. “Detective Fleishman. Wolf, they call me Wolf.”

  “What about my sweater? The blood on it must belong to the dead guy.”

  His grin turned into a chuckle. “Mrs. Winston, I’ve seen a lot of murders in my day. There are a few things I know without having to make a big study of it like Kenner. One, it is possible for a woman to throw a dead guy into a Dumpster. When that adrenaline gets pumping, people can do incredible things. Two, killers go to the trouble of putting victims in Dumpsters because they want to hide them. Very few call the police and wait around for them. Three, that knife is going to come up clean, no fingerprints. I guarantee it. Somebody wanted that guy dead.”

  “So I’m not a suspect?”

  He avoided my gaze and it didn’t escape me that he failed to answer my question.

  “How exactly did you know Otis?”

  “Otis? Was that his name?”

  He looked me straight in the eyes like he was trying to read me.

  As much as I wanted to avert my gaze, instinct forced me to meet him dead on. Guilty people and liars looked away, didn’t they? “I think I was very clear in the statement I gave earlier. The first time I ever saw him was when he offered me the kitten in the store parking lot.”

  “Otis Pulchinski. You sure that doesn’t ring any bells?” His smile had disappeared and while I didn’t think he meant to intimidate me, the serious expression on his face told me I was in more trouble than I thought. I sipped the mocha latte. Could I have known the guy? Over the years I’d met thousands of people at events I planned. I nearly choked on the latte at the thought.

  Pulling my shoulders up straight, I gave him the best answer I could. “The name isn’t familiar and if I ever met him before, it could only have been in passing. I certainly didn’t recognize him.”

  On the floor, the kitten wiggled his behind and sprang in two great leaps to a chair and onto the table. That stinker! He hadn’t needed my help to get on the chair earlier. I reached out to remove him but Wolf stopped me.

  “It’s okay. What are you going to call him?”

  “I don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl.”

  Wolf picked up the kitten under its arms. “Congratulations, Mrs. Winston, it’s a boy.”

  A smile crept to my face and eased the tension I’d felt. “Please call me Sophie.”

  Back on the table, the kitten promptly investigated Wolf’s mocha latte.

  Wolf stopped him. “Have a little milk? I don’t think the mocha would be good for him.”

  At the word “mocha,” the kitten turned his big eyes on Wolf.

  I fetched a tiny bit of
cream. While I was up, Wolf kept repeating the word “mocha.”

  “Hey, look at this.”

  Holding a saucer with a few drops of cream in my hand, I paused to watch.

  Every time Wolf said “mocha” the kitten looked at him.

  “He thinks his name is Mocha.” Wolf picked him up and placed him on the chair by the fireplace. He walked away from the kitten and called, “Mochie!”

  The kitten’s head swiveled around.

  “That’s silly.” It was cute but he probably responded that way to lots of words. “Ice cream!” I said as a test.

  The kitten ignored me.

  “Mochie!”

  By golly, the little guy turned his head immediately.

  Laughing, we settled at the table again. Mochie leaped onto the table and lapped cream while Wolf stroked him.

  He didn’t look like a Wolf. He didn’t have that sly, hungry look like Kenner. Wolf struck me as being more like a Great Dane, calm and confident with friendly brown eyes. Maybe that made him more dangerous. Lurking behind the amiable facade was a detective noting my every move. It would be easy to relax, to enjoy his company—to fall into some sort of horrible trap that might make me seem guilty.

  Wolf finished his slice of pie and settled back in the chair, too comfortably for my taste.

  My hands had grown cold. Even the latte couldn’t keep me warm.

  The front door opened and chatter filled the air. My family barged in and stopped in a cluster at the sight of us.

  A tall, fair man with a bad comb-over was with them. Hannah’s fiancé, I presumed. I introduced everyone to Wolf. When I said he was a detective, I thought I noticed a slight twitch of apprehension on the fiancé’s face.

  My mother took great pride in introducing him as Doctor Craig Beacham. He was unfailingly polite but when I shook his hand, a chill ran through me.

  Wolf distracted me by saying good-bye. I thanked him again for delivering my groceries, bringing kitten food, and for naming Mochie, too. At the front door, speaking softly, he said, “You seem like a decent person, Sophie, so I’m going to give you a little advice.” He leaned toward me. “Cops don’t like being lied to. It makes us very angry.” He sucked in a deep breath and his eyes narrowed. “Isn’t there something you’d like to come clean about?”

  My pulse quickened. He obviously thought I’d lied. “There’s nothing else to tell.”

  He shuffled his feet uncomfortably and crossed his arms over his chest. The nice cop of the latte and kitten food disappeared. “Really.” He fixed me with an unfriendly glare. “Suppose you explain why the dead man had your name and photograph on the front seat of his truck?”

  FOUR

  From the Live with Natasha show:

  Don’t skip the all-important step of brining your turkey. It needs to sit in salt water for four to eight hours. Wash thoroughly, then let it rest on a roasting rack, uncovered, in your refrigerator for twenty-four hours before you roast it.

  “He had my picture?” I shivered as though a cold fall wind had blown.

  Wolf watched me from the stoop, his brown eyes narrowed.

  “But that doesn’t make any sense. Do you think he brought the kitten as a lure? Like people who want to kidnap children?”

  Wolf’s eyebrows shot up.

  I clutched the door frame. “Do you think someone hired him to hurt me?”

  “Does someone want to hurt you?”

  “No!” It came out too loud. “Not that I know of.”

  Wolf gave up his bad-guy stance and patted my arm. “Relax. It’s probably nothing quite so sinister. Otis was a private detective. A little on the sleazy side, but I don’t think he ever operated as a hit man.”

  “Hit man?” That was worse than I’d thought. “But what would a private investigator want with me? And why bring the kitten? And then get killed?”

  “Precisely.” He turned and walked toward his car. Looking back, he said, “Thanks for the pie. I’ll be in touch.”

  It was the polite thing to say, yet I felt an ominous undercurrent, like this wasn’t the end of my involvement with Wolf or Otis.

  I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, wondering why Otis had been looking for me. Dr. Craig Beacham stood ten feet away. He quickly averted his eyes and disappeared into the kitchen. I could have sworn he’d been listening.

  I trailed after him and found my parents making a fuss over Mochie. I kept my explanation about his presence brief, saying only that I’d found him in the grocery store parking lot. No point in worrying them about the murdered private investigator and his troubling interest in me.

  To my immense relief, that evening Hannah and her fiancé walked down to King Street for a romantic dinner. I remained at home with my parents, listening to my mother talk at great length about wedding gowns and doctors. All the while, I went through the motions expected of me in a daze.

  I measured flour and dumped it into the bread machine along with water, a knob of butter, salt, and yeast. Barely paying attention, I set the timer so we would have fresh bread for breakfast.

  No wonder the police thought I had something to do with the murder. Would the videotapes of the parking lot help me? There wouldn’t be any audio. The police might assume that Otis said something threatening to me. Had he meant to? Had he brought the kitten as a diversion in case anyone saw him talking to me?

  “Sophie!” Mom practically shouted into my ear. “Did you hear me? You need to brine the turkey tonight.”

  I didn’t have the energy. “It’ll be just as good without brining.” The scandalized look on Mom’s face forced me to debate which would be worse—a lengthy argument about the benefits of brining or actually brining the turkey. I didn’t think I had the strength for an argument.

  I rearranged the contents of the refrigerator and removed a shelf to accommodate the brining tub. Once the turkey rested safely in salted water, I used the stuffing competition as an excuse to go to bed early.

  Lying in bed that night, I heard Hannah and her beau let themselves in and walk up to their third-floor bedroom. They whispered and carried on like teenagers, and I was glad that Hannah had found someone to share her life with.

  I drifted off into an uneasy slumber with Mochie nestled by my feet. At four in the morning I sat bolt upright in bed. How had Otis known I would be at the grocery store? He parked there before I did so he couldn’t have followed me.

  Finding the dead man had been bad enough, but knowing that he’d been looking for me scared me. Who would hire a private investigator to hunt me down? And why?

  Mars and I had settled everything in our divorce with relative ease. We’d had a few squabbles but they were behind us.

  Natasha and I had known each other for years. Surely she wouldn’t hire a private investigator. Ours had always been a friendly rivalry. Had her relationship with Mars changed that? She coveted my house but I couldn’t see how a private investigator would help her there. And though she was annoyingly perfect, Natasha wasn’t an evil person at heart.

  I was far too restless to sleep. Thinking back through names and faces of people I’d worked with, old friends, old not-so-friendly acquaintances, I picked my way down the ancient stairs, treading carefully to lessen creaks that might wake the others. Mochie scampered along ahead of me. I padded silently into the glass-roofed sunroom that overlooked the backyard, retrieved a throw, and curled up in a chair, tucking my feet underneath me. The moon illuminated the yard but the fence and plants cast eerie shadows. I still hadn’t righted the pots overturned by the Peeping Tom.

  Could the Peeping Tom have been Otis, the dead man? Why would he prowl around my house? What did he want from me? Who would have hired him to nose around?

  A stair groaned behind me. In the still house, the noise seemed amplified. Holding the throw around my shoulders, I ventured into the foyer.

  “Mom? Dad?” I whispered.

  The only response came from Mochie, who rubbed against my ankles. Could the kitten have caused th
at loud sound? Surely not. I stood still, listening.

  Was Craig sneaking around the house at night? I’d spent a whopping twenty minutes with Dr. Craig Beacham and it wasn’t fair of me to jump to conclusions, but there was something about him that I didn’t like. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but he gave me the willies.

  I was being ridiculous. Finding Otis’s body had me on edge and now I was inventing things. I picked up Mochie and walked into the kitchen. Before I switched on the light, I could have sworn I heard a door close somewhere in the house. But in the stillness that followed I wasn’t sure.