The Diva Runs Out of Thyme

by Davis, Krista

When I turned around, I would have sworn Faye’s eyes glittered in approval.

  THIRTY-TWO

  SOPHIE’S TIP OF THE DAY:

  Dry herbs are more concentrated than their fresh counterparts. If you need to use dried herbs in a recipe that calls for fresh herbs, a good rule of thumb is to use about one-third as much. An easy way to remember is to use a teaspoon of dried herbs for every tablespoon of fresh herbs.

  After one more lingering kiss, Wolf took off to check on Andrew at the hospital.

  I wanted some answers, though, and no matter how angry it might make Hannah, I planned to get them. I joined the rest of my clan in the sunroom and helped myself to a turkey panini.

  “Craig,” I said, “now that we know that Vicki and Clyde were behind the killings, what were you doing over at the Washington Room the morning after Simon was killed?”

  I expected Hannah to scold me, but she frowned and said, “Is that true? You went over there?”

  “Of course not.” He looked me in the eye. “You must be mistaken.”

  “Andrew saw you,” I insisted.

  Craig blinked hard. “I did it for you, Sophie, and for your family. I could see how upset everyone was and, well, sorry, Bernie, but I thought if I dropped a clue it would throw suspicion off Sophie.”

  “Why are you apologizing to me, then?” asked Bernie.

  “I found your key card with the hotel logo on it in the den and sort of dropped it in the Washington Room for the cops to find. It was a stupid idea but I meant well.”

  If I hadn’t pushed him, he wouldn’t have admitted it. I was glad Hannah could see him for what he really was.

  Instead of being angry, she leaned against him and kissed his cheek. “You did that for us?” she cooed. Give me a break. I’d thought Hannah would finally see Craig’s slimy side. Craig smiled at her and it seemed adoring, but when he turned his smile toward me, it looked smug. I consoled myself by thinking the wedding wouldn’t be until June. Maybe Hannah would still come to her senses and dump Craig.

  “Bernie,” I said, “when you came back to the house tonight, where did you hide?”

  “In the foyer closet. I heard you come in through the sunroom. You couldn’t have been noisier when you opened that drawer. It’s a bloody good thing I wasn’t the killer. I could have jumped you right then and there.”

  The knocker on the front door sounded, but Mars didn’t wait for anyone to open it. He and June found us in the sunroom.

  Everyone talked at once.

  Mars held up his hands. “Andrew will be fine. He lost blood, but the bullet has been removed and he’ll be okay.”

  The colonel rose to his feet. “I, for one, am glad it’s over and we can get back to normalcy on this block.” He glared at Francie. “And there will be no more Peeping Toms.”

  June saw the colonel to the front door and I did my best to prevent Francie from following them.

  “I have to pick up Daisy from Nina’s house. How about I walk you home, Francie?” I asked.

  Nina brought us our coats and we deftly steered Francie out the sunroom door so we wouldn’t interrupt June and the colonel.

  Before the door closed, Humphrey slipped his hand into mine. “This has been the best weekend of my life.”

  That was a frightening thought.

  “I’ll see you at the stuffing contest tomorrow,” he said.

  What had my mother started by calling him? I was too tired to deal with him tonight. I snatched my hand back, said good night, and left with Francie and Nina.

  When Daisy and I came home, the police had left and everyone had gone up to bed. Only the light in the den still shone.

  I walked through the sunroom and tapped on the door to the den. Bernie’s clothes were still strewn about and he hadn’t pulled out the sofa bed yet.

  “I wanted to thank you, Bernie. If you hadn’t come back to the house tonight, things might have turned out quite differently.”

  “Glad to be of help. Don’t give it another thought.”

  “So,” I said, “are you moving in with Mrs. Pulchinski tomorrow?”

  “Mrs. Pulchinski?” he sputtered. “Blimy! Why would I do that?”

  “I thought you were dating her. I saw you with her in a restaurant.”

  His mouth curled up into that lopsided smile. “I was being a nosey parker, trying to find out what I could about her husband.”

  I felt awful. Bernie had been trying to find the killer and I’d suspected him of being the killer.

  “If you’re not moving in with her, where will you go when you move out?”

  “Back to the hotel.”

  He had saved my life. It was the least I could do to put him up a little longer. “I won’t hear of it. Tomorrow we’ll move you upstairs to a real bedroom. You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

  And if that happened to discourage Humphrey, it would only be a bonus!

  I trudged upstairs. After all we’d been through, Natasha and I would be exhausted tomorrow and not on top of our game. Daisy and Mochie jumped onto my bed and nestled together like they were old pals. I changed clothes and gratefully slipped under the comforter.

  Monday morning, none of her fans could have guessed that Natasha’s life was anything less than perfect. She had no place to call home, had lived in terror of a stalker intent on killing her, and almost lost Mars to poison. Once again, her gleaming hair flowed to her shoulders, her makeup was flawless, and if she had bags under her eyes like I did, she’d managed to camouflage them. I made a mental note to ask her how she did that.

  Even though Natasha had been up as late as I had, she’d found the time to decorate her work space with handmade snowflakes. Exactly like real snowflakes, no two were the same and many glittered as they swirled. She signed autographs, smiling and murmuring gracious thanks to her fans.

  A reporter shouted, “How did you identify the killer?” She turned her head slightly, chin up, for his cameraman.

  “It was nothing any domestic diva wouldn’t have figured out. Everyone knows meringues should remain in the oven after turning it off, especially on a rainy day.”

  A second reporter asked, “How do you feel about competing with Sophie today?”

  Natasha turned in my direction. She winked at me before saying, “Oh, darlin’, Sophie’s little herb recipe can’t begin to compare with my oyster stuffing. And I know that for sure because I’ve tried hers. Oysters are so much more sophisticated for today’s palate. It’s not even going to be a close call. You know oysters are aphrodisiacs—”

  I put her fighting words out of my mind and looked over at Wendy’s work space. She must have been on a bathroom break because her husband, Marvin, edged slowly inside.

  I slid the incriminating photograph of the hand on my thyme bottle out of a manila envelope. Pulling the curtain aside, I caught Marvin with his hand on Wendy’s thyme.

  “Drop the thyme, buster,” I growled.

  He jumped back but recovered his composure quickly. “This . . . this is my wife’s.”

  I flipped the photo of his hand in front of him. His pudgy face registered shock.

  “Why’d you do it, Marvin?”

  “That’s nothing but a picture of a hand. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “May I see your left hand?”

  “His attempt at glibness faded and he reluctantly held up his hand. The wedding ring on his finger matched the one in the photo. “Have you seen her?” he asked.

  “Wendy? Sure.”

  “Isn’t she beautiful? So much warmer and more charming than her.” He pointed to Natasha. “Wendy’s everything to me. If she wins, our lives will change. I won’t be good enough for her anymore.”

  “So you sabotaged her?”

  “I just switched a few things around. Then I didn’t want it to be so obvious that she was the only one, so I monkeyed with your ingredients, too.” He seemed truly contrite when he muttered, “Sorry.”

  His worried eyes caught something be
hind me and he stiffened. I turned to see Wendy trundling toward us, her broad face without a hint of makeup, revealing freckles and hot red cheeks. Any hint of a waist had long disappeared.

  I seized Marvin’s hand. “You will never do this again. Promise me.”

  The skin under his chin wobbled when he shook his head. “Never. I promise.”

  Wendy joined him inside her work space. “That Natasha makes me so darned mad. She had the nerve to tell the press that my wild rice stuffing should be eliminated because I used a can of commercial soup in it. There’s nothing about that in the rules. She’s such a snob. Maybe she’d have been happier if I picked the mushrooms myself? What hogwash. If she keeps it up, she might just get an earful of my opinion of her slimy oysters. Why does she think she’s the queen diva? How do you put up with her?”

  I sensed a new Natasha rival in the making and suppressed a smile. “She just does that for the press. You’ll note they’re all over at her station. Look at it this way—she did you a favor because she just got you a little publicity.”

  “It doesn’t upset you?”

  I couldn’t lie to her. “Sometimes.” She didn’t need to know how much Natasha aggravated me. Even though I felt generous toward Natasha right now, I suspected that would fade with time as Natasha got on her high horse again.

  Wendy asked Marvin, “Did you protect my ingredients? Did any suspicious people stop by to tamper with them? Like Natasha, for instance?”

  The color drained from his face and he looked to me.

  “No one stopped by,” I said. “You’re very lucky to have a husband who is so crazy about you, Wendy.”

  She smiled and planted a kiss on his cheek. “I think I’ll keep him.”

  I wished her luck and let the curtain drop. I could only hope that I had scared Marvin into helping Wendy instead of ruining her chances.

  “Sophie?”

  I turned and found Mr. Coswell, my editor, standing on the other side of my counter. He shook my hand. “I came by to offer my support to our newest star. Your advice has been a hit. My wife even quotes you.”

  I thanked him for his kind words. “I’ve been a little busy, but I plan to work on that website this week.”

  “Not to worry. I would have been here on Wednesday, but I was quite shaken when Otis was murdered. I’d known him for years. He met me, well, he met me at the grocery store, the same day I ran into you there. He’d just given me his report about you and when he was leaving, he was killed. But you know more about that than I do.”

  I blinked at him, wondering if I’d heard right. “You hired Otis Pulchinski to check me out?”

  “We have to check on everyone. It was nothing personal. You wouldn’t believe the false credentials people claim. He gave you a very good report.”

  “I guess you didn’t tell the cops you hired him to find out about me?”

  “Good heavens, no. The way things are these days, everything we do in personnel is confidential.” He lowered his voice, “Besides, Defective Kenner never gives me any information when I need it for an article in the paper.”

  Defective Kenner? Was that what locals called the stiff, unfriendly guy?

  Coswell grinned. “If he wanted to know why I met with Otis at the grocery store, he would have to subpoena that information. Besides, it wouldn’t have helped the cops to know Otis was impressed by your devotion to your dog. He really liked that you and your husband share custody. Said he was going to leave a homeless kitten on your doorstep because he knew you’d give it a good home.” He snorted. “Poor Otis. The cops said Clyde must have followed him and lured him behind the store.”

  The loudspeaker crackled. “Contestants, your time begins . . . now!”

  I waved to Coswell, preheated the oven, and started chopping celery.

  Aromas of thyme, sage, and bacon filled the air in the ballroom. With all the ovens going, our work spaces turned into saunas. I was thrilled when four hours had passed and we lined up for the announcement of the results.

  I should have been nervous, but this moment signaled the end of all the tension I’d been under. The killer was in custody and the stuffing competition was behind me.

  “And in third place, we proudly present this medal to local celebrity chef Pierre LaPlumme.”

  “Zut alors,” he muttered as he walked up to accept his medal.

  “In second place, for her Crusty Country Bread, Bacon, and Herb Stuffing, Sophie Winston.”

  A hoot went up from the crowd. My family and Mars’s applauded. Humphrey, Bernie, and Wolf stood front and center with Nina, cheering. I looked over at Natasha. They’d managed to find a duplicate of the original turkey trophy. Somehow, I didn’t think either one of us wanted it.

  “And the winner of the TV special and the magazine cover is Wendy Schultz!”

  Wendy glowed.

  Marvin screamed.

  I hoped he’d remember his promise. Wendy accepted the turkey trophy with unrestrained glee and said, “I am so flattered to have won over these distinguished cooks.” She looked straight at Natasha when she said, “This proves that plain old good cooking is never too ordinary. It doesn’t have be exotic to taste good and be a winner.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  From “Ask Natasha” :

  Dear Natasha,

  Everyone on my street decorates their houses for Christmas beautifully, except for one little old lady who does nothing. She’s a bit ornery and slammed her door in my face last year when I brought her a fruitcake. How can we convince her to put a wreath on her door and some lights in her windows?”

  —Christmas-Crazy in Christiansburg

  Dear Christmas-Crazy,

  Plan a decorating block party. Ask the city if you can block your street to traffic for one day. Set up a table outside with hot cider in a crockpot and serve homemade doughnuts. Perfume the air by roasting chestnuts. When the whole block gets together to decorate your street, she won’t be able to turn away the wreath you make especially for her or the lights that neighbors string on her home. She’ll be thrilled to be part of the holiday festivities.

  —Natasha

  “Sophie! It’s the worst . . . the worst possible nightmare!”

  I tightened the sash on my bathrobe and ran outside to see what was upsetting Nina. Wrapped in her silk bathrobe, she stood on Francie’s lawn. Francie, dressed in an enormous down bathrobe that doubled her girth, held the leash of a golden retriever. They faced the end of the block. A large truck bearing the arched logo of Alexandria Fine Antiques blocked the road in front of the Wesleys’ house. The front door stood open and men carried furniture up the stairs. Natasha supervised the process.

  “I can’t believe it. With all the houses in this town, she had to move into that one,” said Nina.

  “She better not start trying to tell us what to do,” growled Francie. “I’m not putting one of her tacky wreaths on my door. And I’m not planting topiary in urns, either.”

  I grinned at Francie. “Is that Duke?”

  “Yeah, I adopted him. What with all the Peeping Toms and murders, a single woman needs a dog.”

  “Francie,” I teased, “you were the Peeping Tom.”

  She looked annoyed. “Not all the time.”

  “Sophie!” Mom called to me from the sidewalk. Dad wedged around her and carried suitcases to their car.

  I trotted over to her.

  “We’re ready to go, sweetie. But I have wonderful news. Hannah and Craig had such fun that they’ve decided to be married here. We’ll check out places for the wedding when we come back for Christmas in a few weeks.”

  “I thought we were going to your house for Christmas.”

  “That’s all changed now. Oh, and June has promised to stay with us, too. It’ll be a big reunion.”

  Oh, swell.

  I walked Mom to the car and hugged my parents and Hannah. As much as I loved them, it would be good to get back to normal, even for a few weeks. I skipped the hug for Craig, though, stepped back, and wav
ed to them.

  As they drove away, Mom stuck her head and arm out of the window and shouted to me, “And I want to see the invitations and menu this time. Natasha’s serving goose!”

  RECIPES & COOKING TIPS

  First Murder Bourbon Pecan Pie

  3 tablespoons butter

  ½ teaspoon instant coffee (Sophie uses Sanka.)