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.
I headed to the kitchen for coffee but paused when I heard voices. One voice, actually.
June was talking in the kitchen. I paused for a moment, wondering who wasn’t in the sunroom.
“I couldn’t agree more,” she said. “You made the right decision. And I love what they did with the kitchen.”
I peeked in. June sat by the fire, knitting. Only Mochie kept her company.
“Good morning.” Had she been speaking to the kitten? I slid the frittata out of the oven and offered June a piece.
“I’ve eaten, thanks. It was quite good. And your mother was so cute pretending Hannah cooked it.” She giggled. “Your sister doesn’t share your culinary skills.”
Food had never been one of Hannah’s interests. “She has very impressive computer abilities, though. It’s a good thing she’s honest because she’d make a heck of a hacker.”
“I was just telling Faye how glad I am that you own the house. It’s so cozy and inviting.”
Faye? Faye was dead.
I glanced up at the photo of Faye over the fireplace. It hung straight. No odd drafts today.
June reached out to stroke Mochie.
Maybe I’d heard her wrong. “Could I get you some more coffee?”
“No, dear. I’m fine as I am. Just having a lovely chat.”
“With the kitten?” I held my breath, hoping I’d misunderstood about Faye.
“With my sister. She adores Mochie. Faye always had a cat and she’s so pleased that there’s a little one in residence now.”
Was June losing her mind? Suddenly I had new appreciation for Natasha’s need to protect her mattress. Maybe June wasn’t well.
Dad joined us from the foyer. I hadn’t seen him so worried since my brother, at the age of sixteen, bought a motorcycle from a friend for fifty dollars. He waved the newspaper at me. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”
Dad slid his reading glasses on and opened the paper. “According to reliable police sources, the person of interest in the slaying of Simon Greer is also a person of interest in the murder of Otis Pulchinski, a private investigator killed one day earlier.” He lowered his glasses and took a deep breath while fixing his eyes on me.
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Good job, Sophie. I’m worried now.”
“It’s all coincidence. Being in the wrong places at the wrong times. If I hadn’t beat her there by seconds, Natasha would have found Simon’s body.”
“Honey, you need a lawyer. Simon was a rich and influential man. They’re going to be under a lot of pressure to find his killer.”
“But I didn’t do anything. There can’t be any witnesses or anything tying me to either murder because I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Oh, Sophie!” June interjected. “Don’t be naive. Mars’s father always said most killers are convicted on circumstantial evidence.”
June didn’t sound delusional now. Mars’s father had been a judge. June probably knew a thing or two about trials.
Dad massaged his jaw. “Let’s not mention anything to your mother or Hannah yet. They’re in vacation mode and will be oblivious to the news for a few days. Tomorrow I want you to call a lawyer.”
June studied her knitting, a soft cream sweater with a thin thread of bronze Lurex shot through the wool. “Could Natasha have had time to kill Simon and wait for you to enter the room before raising the alarm?”
Given the way she’d been treated, I couldn’t blame June for disliking Natasha, but I honestly couldn’t imagine Natasha murdering Simon and trying to pin it on me. She prided herself on her own perfection and expected nothing less from others. While that made her seem starchy sometimes—okay, a lot of the time—I’d known her long enough to think it unlikely that she could be the killer.
On the other hand, June made a good point. Natasha knew I was looking for Simon. “I’m sure she could have. There were two back doors to a service corridor. Anyone could have slipped away quickly.”
I checked the time. If we were going to eat turkey, I would have to get moving.
Dad and June joined the others in the sunroom. As soon as they left the kitchen, I phoned an attorney I’d met in passing several times. I knew he wouldn’t answer since it was Thanksgiving but I left a detailed message anyway in the hope that he would be working on Friday.
I hung up, picked up the coffeepot, and realized that Craig was lurking in the kitchen behind me, listening. He wore running shoes, a Georgetown University sweatshirt, and shorts that showed off long muscular legs.
I hated that he’d overheard my call. And his habit of sneaking around and eavesdropping didn’t do anything to engender warm feelings for him. Mindful of Hannah’s outburst the night before, I asked politely, “Coffee?”
He reached back with his left arm, grabbed his left foot, and stood one-legged while he stretched. “No, thanks. I’m going for a run.”
An awkward moment passed between us.
“If you’re half the cook Hannah says you are, I’m certain I’ll be overeating later.” He flashed me a grin of perfect teeth. “Better work off some calories ahead of time.”
It was a transparent effort to be nice but I gave him credit for trying. I followed him to the front door, opened it, and said, “Enjoy your run.”
Laughter filtered in from the sunroom. I returned to the kitchen, set the oven to preheat and slid off my sweater, then took the coffeepot into the sunroom to see if anyone needed refills.
Bernie had stepped outside to use the phone. Through the glass, I could see his worried expression. Daisy roamed near him and sniffed at the overturned pots I’d forgotten to set straight.
While I poured coffee, Bernie returned, shivering.
“That was Mars. Bad news, I’m afraid,” said Bernie. “They had a rather nasty fire in Natasha’s kitchen last night.”
June paled. “Was Mars hurt?”
Everyone asked ques
tions at once.
Bernie motioned for quiet. “Mars and Natasha are fine but the house is uninhabitable. They’ve moved into a hotel and, of course, there will be no grand feast at Natasha’s place today.”
“You’re welcome to join us,” I offered. “We have plenty. I bought way too much anyway.”
Mom rewarded me with a proud smile.
June looked down at the partially knitted sweater in her lap. “That’s very kind of you, Sophie. I only wish I could spend some time with Mars. I had hoped to have some private time with him today while Natasha cooked.”
“I know exactly how you feel.” Mom placed a hand on June’s shoulder. “It breaks my heart that my son and his family can’t be here today.”
My brother lived in Chantilly, a Washington, DC, suburb outside the Beltway. It wasn’t too far as the crow flew, though it could be a good forty-five-minute haul in traffic. But this Thanksgiving, they’d driven to Connecticut to see his wife’s family.
Hannah blurted out what I was thinking. “Give me a break, Mom; you just want to see Jen.”
My brother’s ten-year-old daughter was the only grandchild in our family and everyone doted on her.
Dad, always the voice of reason, chided gently, “Come now. You can’t expect to see them every holiday. And don’t forget, they’ll be joining us for Christmas, which is more fun for a child anyway.”
Mom seemed perilously close to pushing back tears. “It’s just that I never get to see them. They’re always so busy. Sophie, you see them more often than I do.” Her face brightened. “Why don’t we invite Mar—”
Oh, no! “Mom,” I interrupted, “could you help me in the kitchen?”
She nodded at June and followed me.
Whispering, I said, “Don’t you dare invite Mars and Natasha to dinner.”
“Honey, you saw how sad June was. Is it really so much to ask?”
“Do you honestly expect me to entertain my ex-husband and his new girlfriend—who, incidentally, accused me of murder—at Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Honey, this is your chance to steal Mars back.”
“Natasha did not steal Mars.”
Mom patted me as though she didn’t believe it. “There will be so many people you’ll hardly notice.” She sniffed. “And it will help me forget that Jen can’t be here.”
“No.”
“Well, I must say that I’m very disappointed in you, Sophie. Where is your compassion? Their house burned and you can’t even bring yourself to offer them one meal? I brought you up better than that. Besides, I have to see Natasha’s mother every week at the hospital auxiliary. It’s only good manners. If your kitchen burned down, I would expect Natasha to invite you.” She paused. “And what’s more, Natasha would do it because she has exquisite manners.”
I would not let myself be manipulated. “No.”
June poked her head into the kitchen. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but Bernie lent me his cute little phone to call Mars. They’ve accepted your generous invitation. Now I’m going to call Andrew and Vicki.”
June must have read the astonishment on my face because she added quickly, “They have nowhere else to go. Vicki’s only living relative is a brother in Hong Kong. We’ve never met him. He didn’t even come to their wedding.”
Mars’s brother and his wife, too? My eyes met Mom’s in desperation. All of my former in-laws would be coming for dinner.
Mom shrugged like it was out of our hands. But she looked far too happy about it.
NINE
From “A Natasha Thanksgiving”:
For a dramatic centerpiece, hollow out eight small pumpkins. Randomly make holes in all of them with an electric drill. Be sure you drill matching holes on the sides so they can be joined in a circle. Use screws and bolts to fasten the pumpkins into a circle. Place a votive candle in each pumpkin and you’ll have a sparkling showpiece for the center of your table or your buffet.
Hannah bounced into the kitchen, typically oblivious to the chaos in my life. “I’m taking a bath and doing my hair while Craig is out. Don’t want him to see me in hot curlers.”
I could have used some help, but if she was going to hog the only full bathroom for a while, she probably ought to do it now.
Dad grumbled a bit about Bernie having taken over the den. I gathered he’d planned to hide there with the newspaper. Instead, he and Daisy hit the brick sidewalks for a stroll.
Unlike Mars, who’d rather have died than spend the morning with three women in the kitchen, Bernie puttered about in his bathrobe, completely comfortable. He put on the kettle for tea, sampled cranberry sauce that had gelled, stirred roux for the gravy until it turned golden and smelled delicately nutty, and asked June about her sister.
I wondered if his unorthodox upbringing in so many different households had something to do with his ease and obvious desire to cozy up in the kitchen with us.
While she talked, June’s knitting needles flew like they were on autopilot. “In the forties, an elegant socialite named Perle Mesta hosted intimate dinner parties for select guests in Washington. Legend has it that more than one international deal was sealed at her dinner table. She knew who to put together, you see, in a gracious setting, so that political deals could be worked out.”
She paused to untangle Mochie’s paw from her yarn. “Given that group of pompous political wannabes Natasha had at the house last night, I’d say she aspires to Perle Mesta fame.” She tsked. “Explains why she had to sink her claws into Mars. Anyway, Faye never quite reached Perle’s stature but she entertained Washington glitterati here. Things were different then. Women wanted jobs and entered the workforce, and being a domestic diva lost its glamour for a good many years. But that never deterred Faye. She put on her orange miniskirt and tie-dyed tops and hosted everything from séances to elegant midnight dinners. That’s why the dining room is so large. She put the addition on the back of the house so she could accommodate big parties.”
A mug of tea in his hand, Bernie walked over to examine Faye’s picture. “We should hold a séance to see if we can contact her.”
I bit my lip and waited to see if June would mention talking to Faye.
June simply smiled and said, “She never was the prettiest girl at the party but she sure was the most fun.”
Time sped by with Mom and me arguing over whether basting a turkey actually makes a difference in moistness. I claimed it didn’t and that opening the oven to baste only dropped the temperature. Mom insisted that drizzling the top with juices made for moister meat.
With the side dishes well under way, I faced the challenge of Thanksgiving hors d’oeuvres. Some guests don’t want anything before the heavy meal but others choose to nibble. I mixed a batch of my light-as-air one-bite cheese puffs to bake in the oven as guests arrived. For those willing to eat a little bit more, I stuffed mushroom caps with a zesty crabmeat mixture.
All the dishes under control, I pulled on my sweater and popped out to the backyard with a basket and pruning shears. Though I hated to steal them from the birds, the orange pyracantha berries growing along the back fence would make a perfect centerpiece. Low enough for guests to see over, yet vibrant and cheery. I cut enough to fill several small vases. Natasha would have done something far more elaborate but I liked the simplicity of the berries. While I was out there, I righted the pots the Peeping Tom had knocked over.
Back inside, I pulled out one of Faye’s ultra-long tablecloths of woven green, amber, and pumpkin plaid. When we inherited her sizable collections of china patterns and silver, I wondered what we would do with it all. Now I was thrilled to have a dozen matching place settings to use.
I felt certain Natasha had planned to use fancy-schmancy china and was almost sure that was the reason I chose sage-green earthenware plates and soup bowls. I added inexpensive wine and water glasses that I had bought because I loved the iridescent amber glass of the goblets. I bunched berries in three-inch vases and arranged them in clusters down the center of the table, mixi
ng in colorful ceramic candlesticks.
Stepping back, I appraised the table. Festive and not at all stuffy. Perfect.
Mom peeked in the doorway. “It looks lovely, dear, but you need to add one more place setting.”
I did the math again in my head. “No, it’s an even dozen.”
Mom gave me that look I knew from my childhood when she had a secret.
“Mom!” She didn’t know anyone up here besides my brother, and he and his family were out of town. “Who did you invite?”
The doorbell rang. Perfect timing for Mom to avoid my question.
The Diva Runs Out of Thyme Page 7