Diva 02 _ Diva Takes the Cake, The (11 page)

Read Diva 02 _ Diva Takes the Cake, The Online

Authors: Krista Davis

Tags: #Winston; Sophie (Fictitious Character), #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #Women Sleuths, #General, #Mystery Fiction, #Women Cooks, #Large Type Books, #Cookery, #Mystery, #Divorced Women, #Cooking, #Divorced Women - Crimes Against, #Weddings, #Crimes Against, #Sisters

BOOK: Diva 02 _ Diva Takes the Cake, The
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“That must be inconvenient.”
“Sometimes it can be a little aggravating. Like when it’s raining and I have to lug groceries inside, but it’s one of the minor inconveniences we put up with to live in Old Town.”
“You have the most adorable southern accents. I swear you, your sister, and Natasha sound just alike.”
When we reached the kitchen, she didn’t hang around to chat and she didn’t ask about a ladies’ room, either. Instead of putting out desserts as I should have, I hurried into the sunroom that overlooked the backyard, but hung back where I wouldn’t be so obvious if Darby looked my way.
She returned to the table and said something to Robert. I wished I could have heard what she told him. He didn’t laugh or seem surprised.
A few people headed for the house so I hustled to the kitchen, started the coffee perking, and put on the kettle for tea. I cleaned up a bit, tossing crumpled paper napkins into the trash. And that’s when I saw them.
Delicate Fairy roses peeked out from behind a wad of napkins. Horror built in me as I retrieved them and stood them in water glasses. If they were in the trash, then—
I ran to the dining room. My peonies and lilies had vanished. And my linens had disappeared, along with my samovar and my grandfather’s trophy.
The dining room had been transformed into a black-and-brown wonderland. Natasha’s complicated linens dressed the table, complete with gauzy overlays accented with gold sparkles, swags, and bows. Her heart topiary still stood in the middle of the table, but sleek modern risers of glass had replaced my upside-down Christmas tins. Even the buffet sported a black cloth with gold squares around the edge. Two coffeepots, at least I assumed that’s what they were, looked like overgrown versions of cheap creamers, shiny and gold. I had a feeling they were supposed to be the latest thing.
I itched to open a window and pitch every last black and brown item out. But people poured into the house, oohing and aahing and helping themselves to the desserts already on the table, on square black plates, no less. I could hardly rip anything out from under them.
I could only smile politely and rush the rest of the desserts onto the table. Furious, I collected the coffeepots to fill them and carried them back to the kitchen. What had Natasha done with my samovar? If I could find it, I would use it, or maybe bonk her over the head with it. I clanked the coffeepots together carelessly. They had probably cost a fortune, but my old samovar had a burner underneath that would keep the coffee warm.
Natasha couldn’t have pulled off the switch by herself. She must have had an accomplice who’d hidden all my stuff. I leaned against the kitchen counter, the aroma of hazelnut coffee swirling near me. Mordecai, Kevin, or—oh, she wouldn’t have! Jen. Even if Jen hadn’t innocently assisted Natasha, she might know where the samovar had been stashed.
I found her in the sunroom with Kevin and Darby. As I approached their group, I overheard Kevin say, “I guess you knew Craig’s ex-wife pretty well?”
Darby blinked at him. “Oh, yes. Everybody loved her.”
“But you know she’s dead, right?”
“Dead?” Darby repeated. “His ex-wife is dead?”
“Oh, gee. I thought you knew. She was m-u-d-e-r-e-d across the street this morning.”
“I think you left out an
r
,” Jen corrected him, unperturbed.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Craig swivel in our direction. In a heartbeat, he had a bracing arm around Darby. “I’m sorry you heard about it this way.”
It appeared to me that he meant to steer her away, but Robert showed up and asked, “Who’s dead?”
Craig released Darby. “Jen Ba-ben, would you get Darby a cup of coffee?”
I gave him credit for getting rid of her so she wouldn’t hear the sordid details. But Jen asked, “Cream and sugar?”
That brought smiles to all the faces.
The second she left, Craig, with an ugly glance in my direction, said, “My ex-wife, Emily, was murdered this morning. She was hanged in a backyard across the street.”
In his weird slow way, Robert drawled, “Emily?”
“Dad.” Craig patiently prodded his memory. “You remember Emily. The woman who made your all-time favorite osso buco.”
Robert’s eyes widened. “What was she doing here?”
Darby clutched at Craig’s arm to steady herself. “She’s really dead? How? What happened?”
I excused myself from the stunned group. They still needed to break the news to Uncle Stan, and I felt like a terrible outsider, hanging on and watching their shock.
I’d forgotten all about the samovar until I reached the kitchen, where Jen bravely poured cup after cup of coffee from the pot for thirsty guests.
“We need more, Aunt Sophie.”
I scooted in to help her and put on another pot. “Do you know where Natasha put my big silver coffee urn?”
“The samovar? Sure. I wondered why it was on the desk chair in the den.”
Poor kid. She’d probably inherited the Bauer family snooping gene. “Would you get it for me?”
“I haven’t brought Darby her coffee yet.”
“I’m not sure she wants it anymore.”
No doubt glad to have a task, Jen ran past Darby, who drifted into the kitchen, zombie-like.
I pulled out a chair for her and brought her a glass of ice water. She gripped it with both hands as though she thought she might drop it.
“You must have been close to Emily.”
She raised her eyes to me, and I saw something I couldn’t quite grasp. No tears yet, but a strange look. “I hadn’t seen her in years, but we were once very close. Craig, Emily, and I—we’re all from the same neighborhood. Grew up together. Everybody knew everybody else’s business. I always thought we’d be friends again, you know?”
It wasn’t compassionate of me, but I squatted next to her and asked, “Why would anyone want to kill Emily?”
She locked her eyes on mine in horror. Her voice dropped to barely audible. “You think it was Craig. Of course, you would.”
“You know him much better than we do. Do you think he’s capable of—”
Darby set the water down and hid her face in her hands. “She adored Craig. Emily’s dad was a hard man. You know the kind? Whacks his wife and kids when he comes home drunk? When we got into trouble, Craig used to take the blame for Emily to protect her.” Darby’s hands slid down over her mouth. “He wouldn’t kill her. But then . . .” She stopped herself and blinked at me. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”
That seemed to end the conversation. Jen skidded into the kitchen carrying the samovar. I thanked her, picked up the coffee carafe, and juggled them both through the cluster of people in my foyer and to the dining room.
I set the samovar on the buffet and poured coffee into it. In sharp contrast to the drama in my kitchen, guests milled about, enjoying themselves. I could hear Hannah laughing somewhere and spotted Wanda making eyes at Uncle Stan,
the other doctor
.
Natasha observed me warily from the living room. If she thought I would make a big stink in front of everyone, she was sorely mistaken. But I’d get even. I had put up with her self-important attitude one time too many, and when an opportunity presented itself, I would pounce. With claws extended.
Hoping to irritate Natasha by not demonstrating my ire, I ignored her and wandered to the sunroom to switch on the tiny lights strung across the glass ceiling. Daisy and Hermione, who still wouldn’t let me pet her, followed me out to the backyard. I turned on the battery-operated candles on the tables. In the dark, I couldn’t differentiate between them and the flickering of real candles.
A voice behind me whispered, “I’m hiding from Natasha.”
I couldn’t place the voice and turned to find Kevin, Craig’s best man. Maybe I could pump him for information.
“How do you know Craig?” I asked.
“We work out together. Go for a beer or watch a game once in a while.”
“Kevin!” There was no mistaking Natasha’s trill.
He grabbed my arm. “Save me. Please. I thought it would be fun to stay with a TV star. My mother adores her. But the woman is all over me. Please, just help me hide for ten minutes.”
I was headed to the shed to turn on the cute outside light anyway. “Okay, follow me.” We hurried across the yard, Natasha still trilling his name. But when I opened the door to the shed, I looked back and a figure in a window of my house stopped me.
The light in Craig’s bedroom revealed a man with his back to me. Too short to be Craig. When he moved, I caught the distinct profile of Craig’s father, Robert. Was he taking a much-needed private moment with his son? Or snooping like Darby had been?
Natasha’s tone had turned to a screech, and Kevin must have panicked. Intent on evading Natasha, he tugged me. We stumbled into the dark shed and he yelped in pain.
FOURTEEN
From
“Ask Natasha”
:
Dear Natasha,
My wife and the wedding planner have arranged every detail from matches and cigars to jewelry and the honeymoon. I would love to surprise my daughter with something special, but they haven’t left anything for me to do.
—Left-Out Dad in Lenox Park
Dear Left-Out Dad,
Surprise everyone with a fireworks display. Your daughter and her guests will be thrilled. If it’s a daytime wedding, shoot off the fireworks the night before, right after the rehearsal dinner.
—Natasha
I didn’t think I’d stepped on his foot. I felt the wall in search of the light switch. When I flicked it, nothing happened. I could barely make out Kevin in the dim light from my house. As I squeezed past him and ran my hand over the work table for a flashlight I usually kept handy, something sharp sliced my finger. I cried out and snatched it back as though I’d been bitten.
“There you are.” Natasha’s dark shape loomed in the doorway, blocking what little light we had. “Sophie, everyone is looking for you. A hostess never leaves her guests unattended,” she scolded. “Oh! Is that Kevin with you?”
Parts of my hand felt wet, and a throbbing pain beat in my finger. I was in no mood to deal with Natasha.
“What are you two doing out here?”
I could hardly tell her we were hiding from her. “Kevin, are you bleeding?” I asked.
“Bleeding?” Natasha seized Kevin and propelled him out of the shed.
Sorry that Kevin had landed in Natasha’s clutches again, I followed them. As we drew closer to the lights of my house, I could see a dark stain on Kevin’s elbow.
Natasha ushered him into the house and upstairs to my ugly green and black tiled bathroom, leaving me at the kitchen sink to wash blood from my hand. A clean slit soon appeared on my finger, which I found a relief. At least it wasn’t two fang marks.
Bernie, who’d been the best man at my wedding to Mars, arrived via the kitchen door and insisted I clean the wound with rubbing alcohol. He wrapped a Band-Aid on my finger and accompanied me to the shed to figure out what happened.
Bernie grew up in England in a variety of households as his mother made her way through enough marriages to rival Elizabeth Taylor. He’d settled, temporarily, in the apartment above Natasha and Mars’s garage. He usually sported unruly sandy hair, and though he was well educated and had traveled the world with his globe-trotting mother, he drifted from one job to another, often paying his way by tending bar.
We walked across the lawn, Bernie carrying a flashlight so I could put pressure on my wound to stop the bleeding. He had lived in one of my guest rooms for a couple of months before moving to the apartment, so I knew him well enough to be myself and not pussyfoot around. “Were you home when Emily was killed?”
In his elegant British accent, he said, “Regretfully not. I’m no hero but I might have saved her had I been there. I’m afraid I was at the pub.”
“You went in early?”
“Mars didn’t tell you about my promotion? I’m the manager now. The place was bought by an ex-pat. An absentee owner, really. I run it. Practically live there.”
We stepped into the shed and Bernie trained the flashlight on the workbench. A three-inch knife with a stainless-steel handle gleamed in the light. “Kevin must have knocked it with his elbow.”
Bernie picked it up. “Doesn’t look like it could inflict that kind of damage.”
He tested the blade with his thumb as I cried, “No!”
A thin red line emerged immediately.
“It has a surgical blade. Razor sharp.” I muttered what he must have realized by now.
Bernie stuck his thumb in his mouth and mumbled, “It’s not like you to leave a knife exposed that way.”
“It’s not mine.” I was scrupulous about putting away knives and scissors that could hurt Mochie or Daisy. “It’s not supposed to be there. But Craig is giving knives like that to his groomsmen as gifts.”

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