Nina rubbed her arms to warm up. “She started in the colonel’s yard. I saw her creeping around in the back. By the time I ran downstairs, she’d snuck out the old service alley and crossed the street.”
Francie raised her chin defiantly. “So what if I did?”
My anger subsided as I watched Francie, a pathetic figure, her hair mussed into spikes from the hat, her face weathered like an old sailor’s. In spite of her brave front, she came across as small and withered.
“You’ve been the Peeping Tom all along, haven’t you?”
She started to answer but Nina interrupted her. Pointing a finger at Francie, she said, “Don’t give us any of the baloney you told the cops.”
“There really was a Peeping Tom. Honest. I don’t know who it was but it wasn’t me.”
Daisy placed her head in Francie’s lap and Francie stroked her gently. Nina took the kettle off the burner and brewed three mugs of tea while I commenced with the interrogation. I pulled a kitchen chair in front of Francie’s and sat down. “What were you doing?”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “Taking a shortcut.”
“A shortcut that involved staring into my sunroom?”
Nina handed us steaming mugs of tea spiced with cinnamon and cloves and sat in the other fireside chair. “Okay, out with it or I’ll call the cops the next time.”
Francie flicked her hand at Nina, indicating she wasn’t intimidated by Nina’s threat.
I sipped the tea to warm up. The last time we caught Francie in my backyard she’d been dressed for Thanksgiving dinner. This time she wore loose, shabby clothing and a hat to hide her face. She wanted anyone who saw her to think she could be the original Peeping Tom. What did she want in my sunroom? Had she been checking to be sure no one was home?
Remembering how she’d barely taken her eyes off the colonel at Thanksgiving, I plotted a way to get her to talk.
I stood up and addressed Nina. “I guess I’ll call the colonel and tell him. He has a right to know that Francie has been prowling in his backyard and down his service alley.”
The scowl on Francie’s face turned to horror. “No! Don’t involve him. I’ll . . . I’ll tell you the truth. But only if you promise me you won’t tell the colonel.”
Nina and I agreed to keep mum.
“I’ve been following him.”
Nina burst out laughing. “You’ve been stalking the colonel?”
“I prefer to think of it as observing. Honestly, you girls are old enough to know you can’t catch a man by just batting your eyelashes at him.”
Nina covered her mouth with her fingers and I knew why. I didn’t dare let our eyes meet. Suppressing a grin, I asked, “How does it help to observe him?”
“You’d be surprised what you can find out about a person. He sends out all of his laundry. Even his underwear. A cleaning woman arrives every Monday morning. He’s very neat, though. I imagine that’s from his military days.”
“Francie,” I said, “wouldn’t it be easier to invite him over for dinner? You’d learn so much more about him that way.”
“Not necessarily.”
“That explains why you were in his yard poking around, but what were you doing looking in my windows?”
“I lost track of him. I thought I saw him walk over here. I went upstairs to change my clothes, but when I came down, I couldn’t find him anymore. I didn’t know where he went. I checked his house but he didn’t appear to be home. The light in his mudroom was on; he always leaves it on when he goes out. Since I’d last seen him crossing to your house, I thought maybe you had invited him over for drinks.”
My heart went out to Francie. I couldn’t imagine being so lonely and desperate.
“The colonel has never caught you?” asked Nina.
Francie glowered at her. “Give me a little credit. Besides, the original Peeping Tom made it easier for me. If anyone saw me, they’d think it was the real guy back again.” She looked around. “So where is he?”
I didn’t dare tell her the colonel invited June to dinner. I couldn’t break her heart that way. “He went out. He just stopped by for a minute.”
“Where’d he go?”
At least I didn’t have to lie. “I don’t know exactly.”
The knocker on the front door banged. Nina looked out the bay window. “That’s my dinner.” She rose to answer the door.
Francie’s eyes roamed the kitchen. “Where’s June?”
I chose my words carefully. “She went out.”
Francie leapt from her chair. “Together! They went out together.”
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 finge
red 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.
“C
ould 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.”
The Diva Runs Out of Thyme Page 14