Diva 01 _ Diva Runs Out of Thyme, The (8 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’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?”
Mochie scampered into the kitchen.
“Good gods. A kitten!”
It was too late to lunge for Daisy. Bernie and I froze, waiting for hissing, barking, and the inevitable chase that would wake everyone.
Mochie lifted his tiny head to sniff Daisy’s saggy hound jowls. Daisy stepped back, unsure what to think of the little interloper.
When Daisy didn’t pose a threat, Mochie jumped up onto the table to investigate Bernie.
“What a scamp. I’ve only known one cat who wasn’t afraid of dogs. My mother’s fourth husband owned a farm in England and there was a yellow barn cat who bossed the dogs around. Amazing to watch, really.” He scratched Mochie under the chin. “I bet you wouldn’t even be afraid of Natasha.”
I brought Bernie towels and linens and he took to Mars’s old den as though he planned to stay awhile.
Mochie and Daisy followed me to my second-floor bedroom and curled up on the bed, albeit on opposite ends.
On Thanksgiving morning, I slept later than I should have for a person with a house full of guests. Neither Daisy nor Mochie was in the bedroom when I woke. I showered in a rush and pulled on a pumpkin-colored sleeveless turtleneck, beige trousers, and a sweater embroidered with fall leaves. The kitchen would be hot today with both ovens going. I figured I could shed the leafy sweater to keep cool.
I found my guests in the sunroom, which had heated nicely in spite of the crisp weather. The brick floor warmed my feet.
Daisy stretched out next to Bernie, whose bare calves jutted out from under a flannel bathrobe. Daisy didn’t bother to get up but her tail flapped on the floor when she saw me. I bent to tickle her tummy.
Mom was relaxing with a mug of coffee, her feet on a footstool. “There’s a ham and asparagus frittata keeping warm in the oven, sleepyhead. Bernie’s been regaling us with tales of his mother’s many marriages.”
Hannah blushed and I wondered if that was an intentional jab by Mom. Craig would be Hannah’s third husband, but if I recalled correctly, Bernie’s mom had made the trip down the aisle seven or eight times.

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