Diva 01 _ Diva Runs Out of Thyme, The (18 page)

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Authors: Krista Davis

Tags: #Murder, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #Women Sleuths, #General, #Murder - Investigation, #Investigation, #Mystery Fiction, #Women Cooks, #Large Type Books, #Cookery, #Crime, #Entertaining, #Thanksgiving Day

BOOK: Diva 01 _ Diva Runs Out of Thyme, The
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I didn’t deny it. I couldn’t.
Nina carried a pile of party-sized take-out containers into the kitchen. “Okay if I borrow some of your pots and pans so the monster-in-law will think it’s homemade?”
“Of course.”
Francie paced. “I’ve invested so much time. Then June arrives in town and boom, he’s smitten with her immediately. How could this happen?” Francie’s fingers curled into little balls. “Nobody trifles with Francine Vanderhoosen. Nobody. That . . . that . . . man!”
“Francie, calm down. It’s just dinner,” I said.
“Just dinner? When I think about the way I’ve been treated. Ooo. He’ll rue the day he did this to me. I’m not keeping his secrets anymore.”
Nina swung around. “Secrets? Do tell.”
“I’ll tell you something the police don’t even know. The colonel went to see Simon the day he was murdered. And the colonel was there when Simon was killed.”
SEVENTEEN
From “THE GOOD LIFE”:
Dear Sophie,
The holidays are upon us and what with decorating, writing cards, and going to school pageants, I have less time than normal. But family and friends expect more than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner. Any suggestions for something fast and festive?
—Frazzled in Fredericksburg
Dear Frazzled,
Pork tenderloins to the rescue. They’re like the filet mignon of pork, delicious and easy to make. Better still, they go well with a variety of nuts and fruits if you feel like dressing them up. A whole tenderloin cooks in twenty to thirty minutes. Don’t overcook them! They should be a little bit pink in the middle. You can pop them in the oven or cook them on the stove top. If you opt for a pan on the stove top, brown them first in olive oil and be sure to add some liquid like chicken broth or apple juice and cover tightly.
Need to speed up dinner? Cut the tenderloin into half-inch slices and cook on the grill or in a pan.
—Sophie
“How do you know the colonel was at the hotel the day Simon was murdered?” I asked.
“Haven’t you been listening?” asked Francie, her expression incredulous. “I followed him.”
“So you were there, too.”
“Obviously.”
“But why wouldn’t the police know? They corralled us all in the ballroom.”
“The colonel isn’t an idiot. He left when word broke about the murder. Simply walked through the main lobby and out the front entrance. No one tried to stop either of us.”
“Maybe he went to the hotel for another reason,” suggested Nina.
“Not a chance. He knew exactly where he was going. Waited until that driver of Simon’s left his side and then the colonel paid Simon a visit in the Washington Room.”
I thought I caught an implausibility in her story. “If that were the case, Natasha would have seen the colonel coming or going.”
“Not if she went in the back way. I would have seen her if she had come down the main hallway.”
I frowned at her. “Then why didn’t I see you?”
“I guess we had moved on by the time you found Simon. I was lurking behind a potted plant but I’d have noticed you or Natasha going into the Washington Room.”
Nina appraised Francie with admiration. “Francie, how’d you like to come over for dinner? My monster-in-law would love company.”
Francie fingered the oversized sweater she’d worn under her jacket. “Dressed like this?”
“Go home and change first.”
They headed for my front door.
“But one word about this being take-out and I’ll spill everything to the colonel,” warned Nina.
I followed them to the foyer and as they walked out into the early darkness I heard Francie say, “Deal.”
I shut the door and returned to the kitchen to start dinner. After rinsing the meat and patting it dry, I seasoned it with salt, pepper, and thyme. The day I’d found Otis’s body I’d bought fresh rosemary sprigs. I snipped the tiny leaves with scissors, enjoying the slightly piney scent. After sprinkling the meat with the rosemary bits, I rubbed the seasonings across the pork loins. Since the entire gang hadn’t yet returned, I covered the two pork tenderloins with plastic wrap and placed them in the fridge. They wouldn’t take long to cook. I’d wait until everyone had returned before starting them so they wouldn’t dry out.
The heads of romaine in the refrigerator would provide a good base for a salad. I chopped crunchy pecans and tossed them with the washed and spun-dry lettuce. Using my favorite mini-whisk, I swirled together orange juice, rosemary, salt, freshly ground pepper, thyme, and olive oil for a vinaigrette but left it on the counter in its bowl. It would only take a second to dress the salad before we ate. If I dressed it now, the lettuce would wilt and become soggy. I chopped an onion and two cloves of garlic for the rice and set them aside. Next to them, I placed cottony dried sage, basmati rice, a knob of butter, and the pot. That would be ready to go in a flash.
Frozen cherries went into a small saucepan to which I added a little sugar, a splash of brandy, cinnamon, and ground cloves. The wintery scent of cinnamon mixing with cloves wafted into the air the minute the pot heated.
Bernie arrived home first. Daisy and Mochie clambered for his attention. He obliged them by kneeling on the kitchen floor. Daisy licked his face while little Mochie head-butted him.
When their excitement subsided, he stood and tossed his leather jacket on top of the jacket I hadn’t bothered to hang up.
“I like your Old Town Alexandria. Has character. Walked over to check on Mars and then spent the afternoon roaming around a bit. Never had the time when I visited before.”
I longed to ask him about the newspaper article I’d found. I stirred the thawing cherries and wondered how to steer the conversation to Miami. “Where’s home these days?”
“Was living in London but I’m seriously considering a change. Mars thinks there are opportunities around here.”
Rats, he didn’t take my bait. “So what began as a vacation might become a permanent residence?”
Bernie poured himself a glass of orange juice. “Yeah, maybe.”
I tried a different tack. “How’s your mom?” She traveled a lot. Maybe he’d visited her in Miami.
“Met some bloke she likes and went to Hong Kong. Last I heard they were in Shanghai on business. She’s likely to ring me any day now about another wedding. What’s for dinner?”
If he wouldn’t talk about Miami, I would have to be more obvious. “Miami Vice Rice and Pork Tenderloins.”
“You Americans have odd names for food. I stopped over in Miami on my way here. Lovely to catch some sun this time of year but I don’t recall seeing Miami Vice Rice on a menu.”
The kitchen door opened and Dad walked in. “It’s cold enough to snow!” He rubbed his hands briskly.
“Where are the others?” I asked.
He contorted his face in mock pain. “I begged them to drop me off. They had to see one more store.”
Dad’s coat landed on top of the jackets. The chair would topple soon. I swooped them up and hung them all in the foyer closet.
When I returned to the kitchen, Dad had settled into a chair. Mochie and Daisy demanded his attention but while he stroked them, he addressed Bernie.
“He’s a nice enough guy.” Dad didn’t sound convinced when he said it. “Very polite. But I’ve never known another man to be so interested in his wedding.”
“Craig?” I asked.
“Who else? I could understand if he planned the honeymoon, but over lunch today, the three of them discussed bows for the backs of chairs for forty-five minutes. I timed them.” Dad stretched out his legs and leaned his head back against the chair. “The wedding is seven months away. I’m not sure I’ll last that long if they keep this up.”
“He’s not macho enough for you?” asked Bernie.
Dad winced. “That wouldn’t bother me. It’s more like he’s a chameleon. Like he says what he thinks we want to hear. I’ve spent a couple of days around him now and except for the fact that he’s a doctor and he likes big droopy bows on the backs of chairs, I don’t know anything about the man. I don’t know if his parents are living or if he has siblings or what kind of car he drives or which sports he follows.”
“Maybe he’s trying hard to adapt, to please you,” said Bernie. “It can be difficult to join a family.”
I placed a lid on the pot with the cherries and let them simmer. “I know what Dad means. I think he’s creepy. He’s been spying on me since he arrived. I keep turning around and finding him there, listening, like he’s gathering information.”
“Spying?” Bernie chuckled. “That’s the height of future in-law paranoia. Why would he do that?”
I was about to betray my sister, but I only had her welfare at heart. “Did you know they met through the internet?”
Dad’s face went ashen. “Hannah told us they met at a party.” He sprang from his chair. “Mind if I use your computer?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Bernie and I trailed behind him into the den.
After a few swift keystrokes, Dad sighed with relief. “Here he is. Craig Monroe Beacham, MD. Internist . . . not much information . . . valid medical license in West Virginia. Hasn’t been sued, went to medical school on the West Coast and did an internship in South Dakota. Nothing sinister.”
I slumped back on the sofa. So much for that. I would do my best to be happy for Hannah. On her third try, she’d found a relationship the rest of us dreamed of. The kind of relationship some of us, like Francie, still chased.
“Dad, when you talked with the colonel yesterday, did he say anything about Simon?”
“The subject didn’t come up. Mostly he told me about his efforts to bring medical care to underprivileged Africans.”
Bernie sprawled on the other end of the couch. “What gives, Soph?”
“Apparently the colonel happened to be at the hotel when Simon was murdered.”
The keyboard clicked as Dad’s fingers flew across it. “This is impressive stuff. The colonel’s received awards for his work. There are pages and pages about him.” The clicking of keys commenced again. “Okay, now I’ve got something. Uh-oh. Remember the girl who lost her leg on that show
Don’t You Dare
? Lots of allegations blaming the crew.”
“That’s reprehensible. Imagine being so sloppy that someone would lose a limb,” said Bernie.
“It gets worse. The girl who lost her leg is the colonel’s granddaughter.”
EIGHTEEN
From
“Ask Natasha”
:
Dear Natasha,
In spite of my admonishments, my rowdy teenage son is always coming home with blood on his clothes. I’ve tried all kinds of commercial products, but the stains are usually dried and set by the time he comes home and nothing seems to work. What do you recommend?
—Bloody in Blue Ridge
Dear Bloody,
The conventional wisdom is to soak the stain with salt. However, I take a cue from the professionals. Not the professional launderers, the professionals who get blood on their clothes at work—firefighters and police officers. Hydrogen peroxide works best. However, with any stain treatment, always test an inconspicuous area first to be sure the color doesn’t bleed.
—Natasha
“So the good colonel might not be such a splendid chap after all,” mused Bernie.
“Could he have killed Simon to avenge his granddaughter?” I asked.
Dad swung toward us in the desk chair. “If I thought someone rigged something to injure Jen, it might put me over the brink. That kind of thing can blur the lines of right and wrong and tamper with our natural inhibitions.”
“Could he be the one who tried to poison Mars?” I asked, sitting up straight, alarmed at the thought.
“Andrew came up with the idea for the TV show.” Bernie kicked off his shoes and removed his socks. “Perhaps the colonel meant to poison Andrew. That would have given him revenge against both of them.”
Dad tented his hands and tapped his forefingers together. “He didn’t say a word about being at the stuffing competition. Remember? At Thanksgiving when we all discussed the murder. Not a word.”
“And being former military, one would suppose he has some training in how to kill. He’d have known where to lodge the blow that ended Simon’s life. Did anyone else get the impression that the colonel was rather surprised by Francie’s knowledge about poison?” asked Bernie.
“June!” I jumped up. “He took her out to dinner.”
“Do you know where they went?” asked Dad.
“I haven’t a clue.” Why hadn’t I asked? “What if he poisons June? Mars survived because he’s young and strong, but June . . .”
Dad motioned for me to sit. “We’re getting carried away. The colonel has no reason to harm June. Besides, it would be stupid of him to hurt her on the heels of poisoning Mars. We don’t know that he killed Simon; we only know that he hid the fact that he was in the hotel when Simon was murdered.”

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