The Diva Runs Out of Thyme

by Davis, Krista

  Natasha returned and tapped me on the back. “You forgot to put out the place cards.”

  “There aren’t any.”

  “You should always make place cards. How will we know where to sit?”

  “Until this morning, I thought there would be six of us. Didn’t seem like a major problem.”

  She explained, as if to a child. “Had you set out place cards you would have spared me the possible embarrassment of having to sit near June, whom I cannot abide at this moment since she burned down most of my house. I could have very discreetly switched them.”

  I couldn’t help snickering and turned away from her so she wouldn’t see. Was it June or me, the alleged murderer, whom she couldn’t abide?

  I collected myself enough to say, “Thank you, Natasha. I never realized place cards were for you to rearrange to suit yourself.”

  She ignored my sarcasm. “You should have prepared the leaves days ago. Don’t you watch my show? You have to place them between heavy books so they’ll dry flat.” She sighed. “I’ll just go out into your garden to see what I can use.”

  Just then Vicki sidled up to me and whispered, “I thought you should know that the cop from yesterday is hanging around outside.”

  “What?” I followed her to the dining-room window that fronted on the street.

  Sure enough, Wolf stood on the sidewalk, watching the house.

  “For pity’s sake.” I headed to the door.

  “Sophie,” she said, tugging at the collar of her silk blouse, “if he thinks you killed Simon, it’s probably not wise to confront him.”

  Hers was the voice of reason but I ignored her. I hadn’t killed anyone. I marched outside and straight up to Wolf. “If you’re going to work on Thanksgiving Day, you might as well come inside and eat with us. That way you can keep a closer eye on me. I have a ton of guests. Believe me, I’m not going anywhere.”

  He appeared speechless and I felt pleased to have knocked him off his stride a bit. Maybe he’d have to rethink his convictions about my involvement in the murders.

  He let out a warm laugh, as though releasing pent-up anxiety. “Are you sure you have enough food?”

  “We’ll make do.” I didn’t mention that I was beginning to think a twenty-five-pound turkey was mighty small.

  The aroma of roasting turkey filled the air when we walked into the house. I hung Wolf’s bulky leather jacket in the foyer closet and noticed that Vicki swiftly steered Andrew away from Wolf and into the living room with June. Craig scooted along behind them. But Bernie and Mars wasted no time asking Wolf questions about Simon’s murder. They disappeared into the sunroom with him.

  I didn’t have the luxury of hanging around to listen. I needed to figure out how to stretch the soup to accommodate fourteen people and I had to fit another place setting on the table.

  Natasha joined me in the kitchen, her hands full of moss and shriveled leaves. “Tell me you didn’t invite that detective to join us.”

  “You’d prefer to have Wolf standing outside?”

  She dumped the organic matter on a dish towel, wiped off her hands, and placed the tips of her fingers against her forehead in a dramatic gesture. “Simon’s murdered, June burns my house down, no place cards, and now this. Why does everything happen to me? You have to ask him to leave, Sophie. I won’t be able to eat a bite knowing that he’s watching us.”

  I’d never seen Natasha so unnerved.

  She grabbed a glass out of a cabinet, filled it with tap water, drank the whole thing, and held the glass against her forehead.

  When she regained her usual poise, she said, “Do not seat me near the detective or June, please. Where is your golden pen?”

  If I weren’t an event planner, I probably wouldn’t have owned a pen with gold ink. But I was and I kept one in my event emergency kit in my car and right about now, it was in a police impound lot somewhere. I didn’t bother to explain. “I don’t have one.”

  Natasha collected her towel of yard debris and headed for the sunroom. I could hear her ask if anyone had a golden pen.

  I had bigger problems at the moment, like stretching the soup.

  The pantry yielded just what I needed, though I had no idea how it would taste. I heated the contents of a box of organic roasted red pepper and tomato soup.

  Giggling, Mom and June returned from the sunroom.

  “What are you up to?” I asked.

  “He’s so handsome,” said Mom. “He’d turn my head if I weren’t married.”

  “Wolf?” He had a certain charm, though I thought he was a bit rugged in comparison to Mars’s polish.

  My question brought on more giggles. “We’re talking about the colonel,” Mom said. “He’s attractive but too young for us.”

  “But that military bearing,” June gushed.

  Mom added, “And a full head of silver hair. You don’t find that often at our age.”

  I shooed the swooners out of the kitchen with instructions to coax everyone to the dining room for dinner.

  Donning thick oven mitts, I pulled the turkey from the oven and set it on the counter. Juices hissed inside the roaster. Working quickly, I placed the turkey on a grooved cutting board and finished the gravy with the hot pan juices. I dipped a spoon in the gravy to see if I should add salt. Who needed potatoes? It was delicious on its own.

  Letting the turkey rest, I ladled creamy homemade pumpkin soup into bowls and poured a generous dollop of vivid red pepper soup in the middle of each. I inserted a knife into the top of each red dot and drew it through the silky pumpkin soup, creating a colorful heart. They looked gorgeous.

  Bernie and Wolf helped me carry the soup bowls into the dining room.

  I sank into a chair, thankful to finally have everyone present and everything under control. Amid a chorus of “how prettys,” Natasha muttered, “You’re not serving my menu.”

  Humphrey sat halfway down the table. He stared at me with such intensity I wondered if he’d noticed that soup had been served. I averted my eyes and ignored him.

  Natasha’s face brightened. “You couldn’t get squab. That’s why you’re not serving my soup.” To the collected group she announced proudly, “Because of my recipe there’s a shortage of squab.”

  Before I could try my daring mixture of soups, a series of crashes and thumps rumbled through the house and MacArthur barked nonstop.

  “MacArthur and Mochie!” I jumped from my chair and rushed to the sunroom with Wolf on my heels. I’d forgotten about Mochie and had no idea how MacArthur would react to him.

  Like little angels, Mochie sat between Daisy’s front paws. A frustrated MacArthur barked at Mochie but the brave kitten didn’t budge. With a one-word command, “Quiet!” the colonel silenced MacArthur.

  But the odd thumping noises continued.

  Hannah nudged me. “Do you know that woman?” She pointed to my neighbor, Francie, who was methodically tipping over my flowerpots and banging a stick against the side of my house.

  “I’ll take care of this.” Wolf headed for the door.

  “Let me see what’s going on first.” I ventured out into the cold, hoping she wouldn’t use the stick on me.

  “Francie, what are you doing?”

  She straightened up and pushed straw-like hair off her weather-beaten face. “I saw a rat.”

  And I smelled one. “Are you the Peeping Tom?”

  “There really was a Peeping Tom. I don’t know why no one wants to believe that. They ought to. There’ve been two murders in town in the last two days.”

  I wondered if she had any idea that she was talking to the prime suspect in those murders.

  I put my arm around her shoulders. “A big, strong police detective happens to be eating with us. How about you come in and join us?”

  “I don’t want to be a bother.”

  If she only knew the half of it. I wouldn’t even notice one more person.

  I steered her inside. “We’re just sitting down to soup.”

  “
I hope it’s not that crummy broth Natasha’s been spouting about on TV.”

  Everyone filtered back to the table and made room for Francie next to Wolf. I couldn’t help noticing that Natasha had switched places with Mars so she wouldn’t have to sit opposite June. Soup bowls, wineglasses, and spoons passed between guests as everyone chose new seats. So much for the place cards Natasha had crafted from leaves.

  While they rearranged everything, I hurried to the kitchen and scraped the pots to make Francie a bowl of soup. I placed it in front of her and urged the others to eat before the soup was completely cold.

  Within minutes I realized what was going on with Francie. She only had eyes for the colonel. And she wore a fussy blouse with a bow at the neck and a tapestry vest over top of it. She’d dressed for dinner. But she had to compete with my mom and June, who had engaged the colonel in an animated discussion about his charity work in Africa. I’d felt sorry for him, and then it turned out the man was a magnet for women over sixty-five.

  My soup mixture went over big, which was a huge relief. When everyone was finished, Vicki and Hannah cleared the soup dishes and carried in creamy buttered mashed potatoes, green beans with crunchy almond slivers and jewel-like bits of roasted red pepper, crusty bacon-herb stuffing, cranberries spiked with a hint of Grand Marnier, and the gooey marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes Mom made specially for Craig. And last I brought in the turkey, which, in spite of Mom’s surreptitious basting, was roasted to a crispy golden brown.

  For the first time, I felt awkward and nostalgic about Mars’s presence. In the past, Mars carved the turkey. I paused and glanced at him, wondering what to do.

  He seemed thoroughly uncomfortable, which wasn’t like him at all. Unflappable Mars took everything in stride. But he had unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and was using his napkin to dab his forehead. I stole a glance at Natasha, who seemed oblivious to Mars’s discomfort, nattering on about a program she did on mushrooms.

  Dad would have to carve the turkey this year. I hoped Mars wouldn’t mind.

  I flashed him a reassuring smile. But the color had drained from his face and he appeared dazed. He wasn’t upset about being here for Thanksgiving. Something was seriously wrong.

  “Mars?” I said.

  Before I could set the turkey on the sideboard, Mars rose slightly from his chair. With sweat beading on his forehead, he coughed once and then collapsed.

  ELEVEN

  From “THE GOOD LIFE”:

  Dear Sophie,

  I love crispy turkey skin. It always looks wonderful when it comes out of the oven but somehow when my wife serves it, the skin is limp and unappealing.

  —Crispless in Crimora

  Dear Crispless,

  I’d bet your wife covers the turkey with aluminum foil to keep it warm while you eat your soup. Covering the hot bird causes moisture to collect and the skin to lose its crispness. Just leave the bird uncovered and it will be as crisp as can be.

  —Sophie

  Natasha kneeled to tend to Mars. “Sophie, how could you?”

  Mom shrieked, “Craig, Humphrey, do something!”

  Wolf skirted the table to help Mars. “Call nine-one-one. Looks like a food allergy to me.”

  Mars didn’t have any allergies. But even I could see he was suffering from something more serious than ordinary food poisoning. I set the turkey on the table, ran for the phone, and called an ambulance.

  When I returned, Mars moaned and curled into the fetal position. He hacked and appeared to have trouble swallowing.

  Natasha stroked Mars’s head. “Please, Vicki, get Sophie to tell you what she gave him. Please?”

  “You’re being absurd. I didn’t give him anything. If I had poisoned the soup, everyone would be sick.” I was horrified to see more than one scared face. I threw my hands up in a hopeless gesture. “I didn’t poison anything!”

  The wail of the ambulance siren grew in strength. I gave up hope that I could be of assistance, flung open the front door, and ran into the street to flag them down.

  The sight of another rescue squad raised goose bumps on my arms. Surely Mars wouldn’t die, too. How could this be happening?

  They brought a stretcher into the dining room and radioed the hospital. Wolf’s presence made things easier. He knew the rescue crew and provided succinct answers to their questions.

  When they asked Natasha if Mars had any allergies, she sheepishly turned to me. I shook my head. Within minutes they carried Mars out of the house and loaded him into the ambulance.

  Natasha seized my arm and hissed into my ear, “I don’t know why you would want to hurt Mars but make no mistake. I’ll do anything to protect him.” Throwing me an angry glance, she rushed out to follow the ambulance in her car. Bernie offered to drive June and bring her back later. Vicki apologized for having to leave and ran after a visibly shaken Andrew, who yelled for her to hurry.

  I gazed around the yard at my remaining guests. The colonel, lonely heart Francie, pale Humphrey, creepy Craig, suspicious Wolf, my parents, and my sister. I wanted to go to the hospital with the others, but knew I shouldn’t.

  Dad slung an arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “He’ll be all right. There’s nothing you can do to help Mars now.”

  “We might as well get back inside and enjoy the turkey,” I said with feigned enthusiasm. When we returned to the dining room, a police technician surveyed the scene. In the commotion, I hadn’t noticed him arrive. Mom ushered everyone into the living room to wait.

  Everyone except MacArthur and Daisy, who were whimpering at the table. Then I realized that Mochie had taken advantage of the chaos to jump up and help himself to turkey. Tiny as he was, he had chomped down on a wing and he pulled on it like a little tiger. I picked him up, along with the chewed-up wing, and called the dogs into the kitchen so they could share Mochie’s ill-gotten treat. Wolf followed the dogs.

  “Did you call your buddy to test for poison?” I asked.

  He took a deep breath. “Be glad Mars had his reaction before we ate anything else.” Wolf tugged loose a crusty piece of stuffing stuck to a pan and munched on it. “At least he only had to test the appetizers and the soup. Unless . . . did Mars come in here and taste anything while you were cooking?”

  I tried to remember. “I don’t think so.” Various people had floated in and out of the kitchen. But the only one I could remember for sure was Natasha because she had been driving me crazy. So much for her theory about the cops suspecting Mars. Even they wouldn’t think he’d poisoned himself.

  Wolf picked at the stuffing pan again. “That’s presuming he was poisoned at all. Could have had a reaction to something. Even something he ate hours ago for breakfast. The results will probably put you in the clear—for this one anyway.”

  I set Mochie on a chair and looked around. The cop, who had already investigated the kitchen, had been very neat. We’d stacked the empty soup bowls on the counter and they were now gone. Except for the smudge of a soup ring where bowls had been, I wouldn’t have known he’d been in the kitchen at all.

  After giving Mochie and the dogs their treats, I preheated the ovens to warm up the side dishes. They’d been sitting on the table cooling off for over an hour. The rest of my guests would probably get food poisoning.

  Wolf threw a log on the fire and asked if he could help.

  “Not unless you can speed up your cop friend.”

  He settled into a chair and Mochie jumped on his lap. “Do you invite your ex-husband and his family to all your holiday gatherings?”

  I poured each of us a glass of iced tea, handed him one, and sat down opposite him. “That was just a confluence of bizarre events. Actually, the last couple of days have been that way. Are we in a full moon?”

  In a very calm tone he said, “I don’t expect many ex-wives would invite the women who stole their husbands.”

  I looked at him in shock. He didn’t come right out and say it, but the implication hung in the air—only an ex-wife who was up to no
good would invite the woman who broke up her marriage. I gritted my teeth and groaned. “Natasha did not steal Mars.”

  The police officer taking samples called Wolf from the doorway. They stepped outside to talk and I couldn’t help spying on them from the kitchen window. Neither seemed worried or upset. If anything, they spoke calmly—business as usual.

  I carried the reheated stuffing back to the dining room, where Mom collected discarded wrappers left by the rescue squad. Guilt nagged at me as we removed place settings. Mars could die, yet the rest of us were going to feast as though nothing had happened. I returned to the kitchen with Humphrey tagging along behind me.