I could almost breathe normally when I stared down into the backseat of her Lexus.
The contents on the seat took my breath away again.
A huge packet bearing the name of a local nursing home rested in the back. Poor June. The cheerful couple on the glossy cover didn’t make me feel any better. I wondered if Mars knew about it.
Nina made one last effort. “You may not have noticed him, but we’ve seen him following you twice now. You’re definitely being stalked and you’re a fool to ignore us.”
Natasha didn’t flinch. “Apparently I am being stalked—by you two.”
She slid into her car with an elegance I could never have mastered, especially in those heels. The engine purred and she drove away without a glance back.
Nina sputtered, “Can you believe that woman? We probably saved her life and she still doesn’t believe us.”
Natasha had spent her youth hiding feelings of inadequacy. She’d had plenty of practice covering up her emotions. But I couldn’t help thinking of her reaction to Wolf at Thanksgiving. She hadn’t been able to conceal her nervousness then. Whatever was going on, Natasha was up to her Audrey Hepburn-esque neck in it and I suspected she knew perfectly well that she was being stalked.
We walked back to our homes and I could see why Natasha longed for a house in Old Town. Front doors bore harvest wreaths, and pumpkins and gourds decorated front stoops. The graciousness of another era infused the old red brick of the houses and the sidewalk. Smoke from a fireplace perfumed the crisp air. I could hardly believe that we were caught up in some kind of murderous web.
Daisy met me when I opened my front door, her tail wagging in a happy circle. I bent for a giant dog hug and heard voices in the kitchen. I peeked in. June, Mars, and my parents chatted amiably.
“Sophie, sweetheart, you’re just in time for lunch. We thought we’d make turkey sandwiches and warm up your delicious stuffing.” Mom slid out of her chair next to Mars at the kitchen table and patted it. “Come join us.”
I wasn’t sure if I should bring up Natasha’s stalker in front of everyone. “Is anyone else here?”
Mom put the kettle on. “Bernie left quite early and Hannah and Craig went to see an exhibit on the evolution of the computer at the Smithsonian. The colonel will be coming for coffee with June around three.”
I perched on the chair next to Mars. “We have to talk.”
“Do you want us to leave?” asked June.
“We’re all in this together.” I looked into Mars’s eyes and said, “Natasha and I have had our issues, but please know that I’m not saying any of this out of malice or revenge or jealousy.”
Mars sat back, his eyes apprehensive.
I ticked items off on my fingers as I spoke. “Natasha hired Otis to do something for her. The turkey trophy, which I’m sure was the murder weapon, turned up in Natasha’s garden. And now someone is stalking Natasha.”
“What? How would you know that?” asked Mars.
“Nina and I have seen him following her twice. At least we think it’s the same guy. We’ve never gotten a good look at his face. We warned her about him, but she acts like we’re making it up.”
Mars rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his face. “That explains a lot. She can’t sleep and she has no appetite. No wonder. Poor kid probably thinks she’ll be the next victim.”
“She denies that she’s being followed. I’m very afraid for her,” I said.
June gently stroked Mochie on her lap. “Mars, son, I have thought and thought about the people who attended Thanksgiving dinner and no matter how I envision things, I always come back to Natasha—she’s the one who poisoned you.”
Mars groaned. “Mom, that makes no sense. Why would she do that?”
“Maybe she figured out that it’s you who leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor,” I said.
Mom tried to hide her smirk and Mars attempted to glare at me but couldn’t help laughing.
Something else had been bothering me and I decided this was a good time to bring it up. “About the fire . . . could Natasha have set her house on fire to cover up some kind of evidence?”
“I don’t think Natasha could ever bring herself to burn the home she worked on so hard.” Mars shook his head. “Someone else might have set the fire, though I don’t know why.”
“It wasn’t me!” June protested with such vehemence that Mochie sprang from her lap in alarm.
“Honey, I think it’s time you told Wolf all this.” Mom poured boiling water over a tea strainer on top of a Royal Worcester teapot.
“Not without your lawyer present,” insisted Dad.
“You’re lawyering up?” Mom asked, fear in her tone.
“Face it, Mom. I found both of the corpses. Had their blood on my clothes. And Mars was poisoned in my house. I’m right up there in contention for killer of the year with Natasha.”
“I guess the fire and moving to the hotel and then being poisoned distracted me,” said Mars. “We have to get to the bottom of this. We can’t take chances on one of us being the next victim. And the police won’t leave any of us alone until they have the killer.”
I recognized Mars’s expression. He wore the same determined look when his candidates’ popularity numbers tanked.
“Natasha and I are moving in with Andrew and Vicki today. Just until we find a place to live. Our hotel bill is growing astronomically. The move won’t be a big deal since almost everything we own has to be laundered and cleaned.” Mars’s eyes met mine. “As soon as we move, I promise I will make the murder priority number one.”
Mom set the remaining turkey in front of me. “Slice while you talk.”
Over an early lunch of Thanksgiving leftovers, we discussed various suspects and theories, none of which satisfied any of us.
When we finished, Mars and June left in a hurry to do some shopping before June’s sleuthing date with the colonel.
Mom loaded the dishwasher and I whipped up a cranberry spice Bundt cake to serve when the colonel arrived.
While it baked, I forced myself into the living room to be sure it wasn’t a wreck. If there was one domestic chore I hated, it was cleaning. I’d hired a service to clean before my parents arrived, but dust had begun to settle on tabletops again, and my most hated job, washing the kitchen floor, awaited.
I plumped up pillows and dusted the tabletops in the living room. Fortunately, I didn’t use the living room often and it stayed relatively serviceable.
The fireplace mantel and window moldings shone a glossy white when I turned on a couple of table lamps. A designer had suggested to Mars that yellow wasn’t just a power color in neck ties, so Mars insisted on buttery yellow walls. We argued for days over upholstery for the sofa and chairs. Mars won with a fabric the color of summer squash for the sofa. Blood orange pillows that coordinated with the yellow plaid I’d insisted on for the chairs interrupted the shades of yellow.
I should have vacuumed or run a dry mop around the hardwood floor but time didn’t permit. The dining room needed tidying, too. It connected to the living room through a twelve-foot-wide opening. Faye knew what she was doing when she built the addition. The living room and the dining room felt larger as a result of the opening between them and provided terrific flow for parties.
I returned to the kitchen, removed the cake from the oven, and placed it on a rack to cool while I walked Daisy. On our return, Mom flitted around the kitchen, as nervous as if the colonel were her suitor. She’d even turned the cake out of the pan for me while I was out.
I ground Viennese coffee beans that smelled heavenly. While the coffee brewed, I shook powered sugar into a small bowl and squeezed in a tiny amount of lemon juice. Using a miniature whisk, I mixed the two, adding a little more lemon juice until it reached a drizzling consistency. I scooped up a dollop with the whisk and let it ooze onto the top of the cake. It formed a white glaze on the top and dribbled down the sides. I cut a portion of the cake into slices and convinced myself that I really s
hould taste one. Moist, not too sweet, with just the right burst of tartness from the cranberries. I arranged the slices on a plate and took them into the living room.
I was returning to the kitchen when June arrived, breathless. “I had no idea it was so late.” She hurried to her bedroom to freshen up for her gentleman caller.
In the kitchen, Mom poured the coffee into the china pot that I so rarely used. She added it to a tray with sugar, cream, Battenberg lace napkins, and china.
The brass knocker sounded and Mom’s hands flew to her hair. She fluffed it and then flicked a quick hand over her outfit in case any crumbs or fuzzies clung to her.
I watched from the kitchen doorway when Mom received the colonel. She took his overcoat as June descended the stairs, her cheeks flushed.
“Sophie,” said Mom, “would you be a dear and fetch some Irish whiskey from the den?”
I snuck into the den through the sunroom and discovered Dad comfortably seated on the sofa, his sock-clad feet on the coffee table.
He held his forefinger up to his lips. The door to the living room remained slightly ajar and we could hear every word said between June and the colonel. My father had become a spy.
I shouldn’t have done it, but I listened, too. Their conversation about their dinner the night before would have bored anyone.
I found the liquor and returned to the kitchen. Mom poured a small amount into a petite crystal decanter and added it to the tray. I carried it all into the living room and set the tray on the table. June and the colonel sat on the sofa side by side. June poured coffee and Mom looked on from the dining room. I gently took Mom’s arm and escorted her into the foyer.
“They’re so sweet together,” she said.
“You can’t just stand there and watch them.” Apparently spying was in my genes. “I never knew you and Dad were so snoopy.”
“Where is your dad?”
“Spying in the den.”
“That sneak! What a great idea.” Mom hustled down the hallway toward the sunroom.
I was certain she didn’t want to miss another word.
I tidied the kitchen, glad that I didn’t have to cook dinner. When Mom announced I would be hosting Thanksgiving, I ordered tickets to the Ford’s Theatre production of A Christmas Carol. I hadn’t planned on June and Bernie, of course. Bernie would have to entertain himself and I’d gladly give my ticket to June. The theatergoers would be eating out and, to be honest, I looked forward to a quiet evening to catch up on my column.
Even though I wanted to take the high road and wait until June reported to us, the den pulled me like an impossibly strong magnet. I wandered to the sunroom and poked my head into the den.
Mom nestled against Dad on the sofa, her feet on the coffee table beside his, his arm around her shoulders. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought they were watching a movie on TV.
I could hear June saying, “That Simon must have been a horrible man. He cheated my Andrew out of millions of dollars.”
“Ruthless. The man had no scruples whatsoever,” the colonel responded. “There’s one fellow who paved his own path to hell.”
“Did you know him?” I marveled at the innocence in June’s voice.
At that moment, Daisy galloped along the hallway. I rushed through the sunroom to the foyer to see what was going on.
Bernie was hanging his coat in the hall closet. “Where is everyone? This place is as quiet as a tomb.”
“June is entertaining the colonel in the living room.” I was too embarrassed to admit that my parents were spying in the den. Besides, I had some careful questions of my own to craft. I needed to find out what Bernie was doing with Mrs. Pulchinski. “Come in the kitchen and I’ll make you an Irish coffee.”
Bernie followed me. “Splendid. What have you been up to all day?”
It was the opening I needed. “Funny you should ask.”
A soft banging distracted me.
“What is that?” asked Bernie.
I traced the sound to a kitchen cabinet. The door bounced open ever so slightly and shut again. “There’s something in there.”
“Must be a rat. Have you got an iron skillet?” asked Bernie.
“It’s in there with the rat.”
Bernie scanned the kitchen for a weapon. “How about a broom?”
I fetched one that hung on the wall of the basement stairwell.
“You open it and I’ll be ready.” Bernie gripped the broom tightly and held it up over his shoulder.
I flipped the door open and jumped back.
With a complaining mew, as though he were asking what took us so long, Mochie stalked out.
Bernie and I broke into laughter. This was definitely the cat everyone brought back to Mrs. Pulchinski. I scooped Mochie up and danced through the kitchen holding him in the air. The banging of the door knocker interrupted our gay relief. Still holding Mochie, I pranced into the foyer and opened the front door.
Wolf stood on the stoop and regarded me with a serious look. Not even the sight of Mochie broke his stern demeanor. “I need to speak to a Bernard Frei, who I believe is currently residing here.”
TWENTY-ONE
From “Ask Natasha” :
Dear Natasha,
I’m having a party Thanksgiving weekend and want to decorate the staircase in my small foyer. What can I do besides cheesy swags and bows?
—Harried in Herndon
Dear Harried,
One of my favorite decorations is simple and quick. Collect twenty or so colorful leaves from your yard and place them between the pages of an old book for a few days so they’ll dry flat. Buy enough clear glass votives to place one on each step of your staircase. Using rough twine, tie one of the pressed leaves around each glass. Some will be too large and stand taller than the glass but that’s okay. If you don’t have time to press the leaves, you can vary this by substituting berries or interesting twigs. Don’t worry about hiding the rough knot or bow, that’s part of the charm. Place a candle in each glass and light. When your guests arrive, they’ll enter to a seasonal cascade of festive lights.
—Natasha
“Bernie?” Fear clutched at me. I wanted to imagine there was a logical explanation for his brunch with Mrs. Pulchinski, but Wolf’s demand dampened that hope.
Bernie emerged from the kitchen.
I invited Wolf in and the two men shook hands.
“We’ll speak in your sunroom, if you don’t mind.” Wolf headed in that direction with Bernie behind him. Mochie ran ahead of them. My poor parents were stuck and would hear the conversations on both sides of them.
I should bring Wolf and Bernie something to drink. It was the hospitable thing to do and it wouldn’t hurt if I happened to overhear something while I carried it in to them.
Irish coffees were out of the question. Bernie needed to be sober when he answered Wolf’s questions and Wolf was clearly on duty. Working fast, I put on more of the Viennese coffee. While it brewed, I sidled along the hallway to eavesdrop.
I could hear Bernie saying, “I don’t see what’s so unusual about it. I was invited for Thanksgiving, not the days before. One doesn’t want to be the guest that smells like stinking fish. Besides, I had some banking to do in the city and I didn’t know quite how far away Natasha’s grand country estate might be.”
“What kind of banking?”
“Changing pounds to dollars. And I had a rather complicated transaction for my mum. She needed funds from an account in England wired to her in Shanghai.”
I hurried back to the kitchen, poured two mugs of coffee, quickly added sugar, cream, napkins, and spoons to a tray and carried it into the sunroom.
When I walked in, Wolf said, “Exactly when did you arrive in Washington?”
Bernie took a mug of coffee from me. “Thanks, Soph. I flew in the day before the contest. That would have been . . . Tuesday morning.”
“How did you choose the hotel?” When I held out a mug to Wolf, he waved me away. I set his mug on th
e glass-topped wrought-iron side table next to him and left the tray on the oversized ottoman I used as a coffee table.
“When I talked to Mars on the phone, he mentioned the stuffing contest. I saw an article about it in the Miami Herald and thought it would be most expedient to stay in that hotel Tuesday night. Mars and Natasha would be there on Wednesday and I could follow them back to Natasha’s place in my rental car. Frankly, Detective, I don’t see why any of this matters.”
I assumed I wasn’t supposed to be present and feared Wolf would throw me out any minute, so I backed slowly to the door.
The Diva Runs Out of Thyme Page 17
