The Diva Runs Out of Thyme

by Davis, Krista

  Obviously pleased with himself, he handed out foam boxes containing French fries and roast beef sandwiches. He dug in his pocket and pulled out packets of ketchup. “Hope I got enough for all of us.”

  Hannah and Mom gushed appreciation but I wondered where he’d bought the food. No one else in the ballroom held foam boxes.

  A pink flush crept up the sides of his face and culminated in red cheeks reminiscent of someone who’d been out in the cold. He wore a black, long-sleeved polo and jeans, not enough to keep warm outside. I spotted the sleeve of his bomber jacket hanging from the pile of coats we’d left on a chair.

  Hannah dug into the French fries. “Yum—they need salt, though. Sophie, do you have any salt in your cooking ingredients?”

  Of course I did. I found the salt and offered it to her.

  She sprinkled a heavy dose on her fries and took a bite. “Ugh. Are you trying to kill me, too?”

  Dad’s face looked like it did when we were kids and didn’t know when to stop pushing his buttons. “Hannah, your sister didn’t kill anyone. You cannot say things like that. I don’t think you understand how serious this situation is for Sophie.”

  “It’s always about Sophie. This weekend was supposed to be about me and Craig. Besides, taste this.”

  Dad took one of her fries and bit into it. “Sugar.”

  I shook out a pinch of salt and tasted it. Definitely sugar.

  “Hey, Wendy,” I called, “do me a favor and taste your salt.”

  “Oh, my gosh,” she cried, “it’s sugar. Someone was doing everything possible to sabotage the contest.”

  Thinking that the saboteur wouldn’t have tampered with his or her own ingredients, I was tempted to demand a check of everyone’s ingredients. But a young police officer arrived to escort me to be questioned.

  Not quite sure what would happen, I bent over my father’s shoulder and said, “Don’t worry about me. You go shopping and I’ll meet you at home.”

  I hated the fear etched on his face and as I walked away, I heard my mother say, “For heaven’s sake, Paul, they’re just going to ask her questions.”

  Detective Kenner met me in the ballroom lobby and took me aside to grill me. Across the room, I could see Wolf questioning Natasha.

  Kenner asked me the same questions in different ways. When I stuck to my boring story about finding Simon’s body and picking up the turkey with blood on it, Kenner’s nostrils flared.

  I worked at remaining calm as his rage rose. His voice grew louder but I didn’t allow him to intimidate me.

  Wolf, busy across the lobby, watched us periodically.

  Kenner’s face turned a shade of purple that suggested high-blood-pressure issues. He squinted at me and hovered too close for my comfort. “You may think that you’ve suckered Wolf into believing your lies, but you don’t fool me for a second.”

  His face inches from mine, he snapped his fingers and yelled, “Take her to the station.”

  SEVEN

  From “Ask Natasha” :

  Dear Natasha,

  My in-laws are arriving in droves and they expect to stay with us. I have to work and don’t have time for all the extra meals and laundry. What to do?

  —Crowded in Cranston

  Dear Crowded,

  Everyone deserves fresh 1,000-count Egyptian cotton sheets and fluffy down pillows. A gracious hostess pampers her guests. Get up a few hours early to make breakfast and clean. The extra effort will be worth it. If you have to be gone during the day, hire a limousine to show them around in style.

  —Natasha

  Was I being arrested? I looked over at Wolf. He made no effort to help me. The young officer didn’t handcuff me, though, he merely showed me out the side door of the hotel to the backseat of a police cruiser.

  When he climbed into the front seat, I asked, “Am I under arrest?”

  In a polite southern accent, he said, “Why, no, ma’am. You just need to give your bloody clothes as evidence.”

  By the time a cop drove me home, all I wanted was a nap. I unlocked the front door of my house and listened. The others must still be out. But something wasn’t right. Where was Mochie?

  I slid off the jacket that hadn’t been warm enough for the November chill and called Mochie’s name repeatedly. When I hung the jacket in the hall closet, I heard pathetic mewing. I found Mochie in the living room, looking down at me from the top of the grandfather clock.

  “You managed to get up there, you little rascal; are you sure you need help getting down?”

  He continued meowing and watched me with those big eyes. I fetched a ladder from the basement and set it next to the clock. I hadn’t even climbed to the midpoint of the ladder when the scamp leapt onto my shoulder and clung to my police-issued T-shirt. I patted him to reassure him. He crawled next to my ear and thanked me with heavy purring. But when my feet hit the floor, he sprang from my shoulder and raced through the house like a wildcat. He flew over furniture and in and out of rooms so fast that his paws barely touched the floor.

  I couldn’t help laughing at his joyous antics. He tore through the kitchen while I put away the ladder and raced ahead of me when I headed up the stairs for a much-needed shower.

  My hopes for a nap were dashed when I stepped out of the shower and heard voices and footsteps on the stairs. I dreaded the evening. I was dog tired and still had to make chicken broth for the soup and stuffing, not to mention two pies and a batch of my famous brownies. I thanked my lucky stars it would just be six of us for Thanksgiving dinner the next day and that, except for the colonel and Craig, it was really all just family. They’d understand if things weren’t perfect.

  I’d anticipated being too tired to cook after the contest and had prepared a vegetable lasagna on Monday, before my parents arrived. When I joined everyone in the kitchen, the heady scents of oregano and garlic already mingled in the air as the lasagna heated. The others set the table for dinner while I quartered an onion, peeled six carrots, and washed celery. I popped them all into a stockpot along with a whole chicken, a large bay leaf, and four cloves of garlic. Dad built a fire while Mom cooked sweet potatoes for a dish she’d promised Craig. Except for my exhaustion and the fact that I’d found two dead men, everything seemed almost normal.

  After dinner, I brewed a pot of strong French vanilla coffee to drink with the leftover Bourbon Pecan Pie. In spite of the caffeine, I felt myself relaxing. The fire crackled and bathed the kitchen in a warm light. My family bantered in a friendly way, evoking laughter and sly grins. Maybe the worst was behind me.

  Craig and Hannah insisted on cleaning up, although I couldn’t recall the last time Hannah washed dishes without complaining. They were playful and sweet, teasing each other gently. Maybe I hadn’t given Craig a fair chance. After all, he seemed far different from the drop-dead gorgeous, girl-in-every-port types she usually lusted after.

  But there was still something about Craig that made me keep my distance. It wasn’t the bad comb-over. That was unfortunate but not off-putting. And it wasn’t his looks. Tall and broad-shouldered, he’d been blessed with good bone structure, high, defined cheekbones, and a strong jawline. I was baffled, and returned to my Thanksgiving meal prep.

  I chopped carrots and celery for the stuffing and asked, “So where did you lovebirds meet?”

  Hannah giggled. “Don’t tell Mom and Dad, okay? On the internet.”

  I swung around and stared at Hannah. She was serious.

  “You should try it.” Craig handed Hannah a goblet to dry. “We could help you fill out the questionnaire.”

  I wanted to snap at Hannah. Did she know anything about him? I’d spent part of the day with him and I knew nothing. “What’s your specialty?”

  “I’m an internist.”

  Hannah beamed.

  It sounded impressive. But wouldn’t an internist have come to Simon’s aid today? Had Craig crowded into the room with the others?

  He nuzzled Hannah’s hair and I knew I couldn’t just come out
and ask a question like that without starting a sibling squabble.

  “At Berrysville Community Hospital?” I asked.

  “In West Virginia. Where do these go?” He held up serving spoons.

  I pointed to a drawer. “Where in West Virginia?”

  He shut the drawer. “Morgantown.”

  Had his voice grown tense? “Where did you go to med school?”

  Hannah tugged at him. “Let’s watch a movie. I’ll make some popcorn but would you be a sweetheart and get my pale pink sweater from the bedroom?”

  As soon as he left, she turned on me. “Stop it. You’re jealous because you don’t have Mars anymore. It’s your own fault for letting Natasha steal him. I’m finally happy and you’re being mean because Craig is wealthy and successful and handsome and you can’t stand it. This time it’s me who landed the great guy. Get used to it. You’re so obvious. He knows you don’t like him.”

  I longed to hug her to me, to protect her, but instead I twisted a dish towel in my hands. I knew she must be right. Craig hadn’t done anything to deserve my suspicion. “I’m sorry, Hannah. I’m on edge because of the murders.” I wanted to bite my own tongue off as soon as I said “murders.”

  But she didn’t notice. She shut the microwave door and set the timer.

  “Just try to be nice and stop grilling him. Is that too much to ask of you? After all, he’s going to be family.” The popping accelerated. She pushed the stop button, poured steaming popcorn into a bowl, and disappeared into the family room.

  “And Natasha didn’t steal Mars,” I muttered in her direction.

  By midnight, everyone except Mochie and me had gone to bed. A pecan pie cooled on a rack on the counter. The brownies rested in the fridge, next to the stuffing that was ready to be baked the next day. I’d cleaned and cut the green beans and toasted the almonds. I’d even found a few minutes to make a double recipe of cranberry sauce.

  I was taking a pumpkin pie out of the oven when I heard the purr of an engine and a knock at the front door.

  A lump formed in my throat. It could only be the police. They didn’t arrive at midnight with good news. They’d come to arrest me. Standing on my tiptoes, I peered through the peephole but couldn’t see anything. The knock came again, louder this time. Leaving the chain on the door, I pulled it open a hair. Mars’s mother stood on the stoop with a suitcase. I closed the door and unchained it as fast as I could.

  “June! What on earth are you doing here?”

  She picked up her bag and walked in.

  “Sophie? What’s going on?” I turned to see my mom and dad standing on the stairs.

  I shut the door against the cold night. June took off her coat, revealing a fuzzy lilac bathrobe. She hung her coat in the hall closet. “You don’t mind, do you, dear?” She looked up at my parents. “Hello, Inga, Paul.”

  The kettle whistled and I ran to silence it before it woke anyone else.

  June and my parents followed me into the kitchen.

  “Perfect! It’s as though you knew I was coming,” June said. “Have any of your fresh chocolate chip cookies?”

  “Of course.” I hauled some out of the freezer, cut the dough into chunks, and popped them into the warm oven.

  Mom found china mugs and brewed a holiday tea scented with orange and cloves while Dad threw another log on the fire.

  June nestled into one of the fireside chairs and Mochie jumped into her lap. My parents watched her curiously.

  “You must think me audacious,” she said, “but I couldn’t stand another minute with that woman. Can you imagine, all I wanted was to put the kettle on for tea and she flew into a rage.”

  “Natasha?” asked my dad.

  “Every night I pray that Mars won’t marry her. Acted like I was an old coot who couldn’t do anything right. That kitchen of hers belongs in a restaurant. Cold. I think everything in it came from Italy. So many buttons and gauges you can’t tell what’s what. Not like this kitchen where you can settle in and get cozy. Everything about her is cold. Do you know she put plastic under my sheets because she thought I would wet the bed?”

  “That doesn’t sound like her at all. Natasha puts a lot of stock in being a gracious hostess,” said Mom.

  “You’re welcome to stay with us, June,” I assured her.

  “I told her I was going to a hotel, but I didn’t think you’d mind. I’m so much more comfortable in my sister’s home.”

  Her words stung even though I didn’t think that was her intent. It was her sister’s house. Maybe Mars should have bought me out and kept it in his family. Just because I liked it didn’t give me special rights to it.

  The cookies and tea calmed June. It was creeping up on one in the morning and we were all bushed. Everyone said good night and I carried June’s luggage up to a second-floor guest room with an antique canopy bed that was too big for it. As she sat on the bed, June ran her hands over the coverlet. “Faye always let me sleep in here. There’s something special about this room. Reminds me of a fancy bed-and-breakfast.”

  Bidding her good night, I tiptoed downstairs in the dark, trying to avoid squeaky spots on the stairs. With all the commotion, I thought I’d better check to be sure the fire had died down and that I had locked up. After hooking the chain securely on the front door, I shuffled into the kitchen.

  Golden embers glowed against the ashes like demonic eyes. In their fading light I made out a horrifying, misshapen face pressed against the window of the kitchen door.

  EIGHT

  From “THE GOOD LIFE”:

  Dear Sophie,

  Every year my wife is a basket case trying to make everything perfect for the holidays. Do you have any advice to help her?

  —Anxious in Alexandria

  Dear Anxious,

  Thanksgiving is one of those holidays when people want traditional fare. Your wife doesn’t have to knock herself out coming up with new gourmet twists. Turkey, cranberries, stuffing, and pie. The basics are what most people yearn for. And a lot of those can be prepared in advance.

  Besides, no one will remember the perfect Thanksgiving anyway. Five and ten years from now, family and friends will be laughing over the time the turkey burned and you had to order in Chinese food. Or the impossibly hard biscuits Aunt Beth insisted on making every year. All the perfect food will be long forgotten.

  Your wife should relax and enjoy herself. It’s the mishaps and the funny incidents that create the best memories.

  —Sophie

  It clawed at the door and released a mournful wail. I shrank from the sounds before I realized there was something familiar about them. Daisy. But whose face was pressed against the glass?

  “Daisy?” I whispered.

  More scratching.

  Had I been alone I would have been more cowardly about opening the door. All sorts of dire thoughts ran through my head. Maybe Mars had grabbed Daisy and run away from Natasha, too. Maybe the Peeping Tom was back. Or maybe someone had kidnapped Daisy and wanted a ransom. None seemed likely.

  I opened the door a crack and Daisy barged in with hound-style enthusiasm, wagging her tail, which in turn wagged her entire back end. She rushed at me, pawing the air.

  I grabbed her wriggling body in a big dog hug. To my complete surprise, Mars’s old college chum, Bernie, stood in the doorway.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked. “It’s the middle of the night.”

  In his delightful British accent he replied, “Natasha was trying to impress some stuffed shirts tonight, and I believe she was trying to hide me. So I snagged the other mongrel without the right pedigree and here we are.”

  I’d always liked Bernie, but he was a bit of a wild card. Bawdy, likely to blurt the thing everyone was thinking but was too polite to say, and generally unemployed. His sandy hair was always tousled and he usually looked as though he’d just rolled out of bed or left a pub after a rowdy night of drinking.

  I grinned. Bernie probably didn’t realize that Natasha didn’t have much of a snazzy
pedigree herself. Her father abandoned the family when Natasha was only seven, leaving her mother to support them by working long days at the local diner in our hometown.

  “Daisy offered to share her dog bed with me if I’d bring her home to you.” He tilted his head like a questioning puppy.

  “No need to share. That tiny bedroom on the third floor is still available or you can bunk on the pullout sofa in Mars’s old den.”

  “The den by all means. Mars didn’t happen to leave any good Scotch in there, did he?”