The Diva Runs Out of Thyme

by Davis, Krista

  “Don’t protest, Sophie, you need this,” said Mars as he slid the package toward me. “I got one for Nat, too.”

  I unwrapped the brown paper to find a Taser.

  “They’re not easy to buy, but a client of mine came through for me. It’s like a stun gun. It won’t kill an adult, but it’ll incapacitate one long enough for you to get away.”

  Nina chirped up. “I want one, too. I’ll pay for it. Can you get me one?”

  I didn’t like guns, but I’d decided long ago that I should carry mace in my car since I regularly came home late at night after events. This was another step in the direction of a gun.

  “Sure. I think my source can procure one more. I want you to carry it with you, Sophie. Your folks will be going home soon and you’ll be here all by yourself. I don’t know what we’re up against, but strange things are happening around you and Nat. I knew neither of you would carry a gun. This is the best alternative I could come up with.”

  As if on cue, the front door opened and a cold draft floated through the kitchen. Judging from the lively chatter, the theatergoers were returning and had enjoyed their evening.

  Mars snatched the picture from the table and hid it in his jacket. “Don’t tell Mom. She already hates Nat.”

  I glanced toward the foyer to be sure June wasn’t in earshot. “Natasha’s pushing to put her in a home.”

  Mars couldn’t have looked more miserable. “She keeps telling me Mom can’t live alone anymore. That she’ll burn her own house down if I don’t have her put away.”

  “I don’t suppose she could move in with you and Nat?” I asked, only half teasing.

  He blanched. “I couldn’t take the two of them in the same house. Don’t you think there’ve been enough murders? C’mon, Nina. I’ll walk you out to be sure Humphrey doesn’t jump you.”

  Mars paused to peck June on the cheek before leaving with Nina.

  While the theatergoers changed clothes, I poured red wine and spices into a pot for a grog to warm them. On a baking sheet, I placed slices of Italian peasant bread and slid them into the oven to broil for a quick black bean bruschetta. Suspecting that June would like chocolate chip cookies, I prepared a tray of them from my freezer stash.

  Bernie came home in time to share our midnight snack by the blazing fire in the kitchen. While the others discussed the play, I thought about Bernie and his stepfather and Mrs. Pulchinski, and eyed him surreptitiously. He was listening to the conversation, his expression as animated as if he’d been there. At one point he turned his blue eyes on me, and caught me watching him, but instead of shying away, he flashed me a dazzling smile.

  I wanted to believe that someone with such easygoing charm couldn’t possibly kill anyone. That wasn’t true, of course. But by the time we turned in, I’d decided I didn’t need to worry. If Bernie intended to murder one of us, he’d had plenty of opportunities already.

  I woke to the thundering of the door knocker. Daisy whined and pawed at me and Mochie stood on the edge of my bed, alert. Whoever was banging the thing must have been trying to wake us for some time. I glanced at the clock—two thirty in the morning. I didn’t bother with a robe and ran down the stairs in my single-girl flannel pajamas. The person outside tried again.

  Bernie emerged from the den, yawning, and wearing only sweatpants. I could hear murmuring behind me and glanced back to see that the caller had awakened everyone. My parents, Craig, Hannah, and June watched from the second-floor landing. I unlocked the door and flung it open, afraid the killer had struck again and someone needed help.

  Instead, a bleached blonde wearing too much makeup stepped inside and dropped a shiny purple raincoat on the foyer floor. Posing seductively in black stockings, garters, and underwear that left nothing to the imagination, she arranged her long hair so it draped over her shoulders. She looked at Bernie and said, “So which one of you is the colonel?”

  “The colonel!” June cried, dismay in her voice.

  “I’m afraid you have the wrong house.” I picked up her coat and held it out to her.

  “No, I don’t.” She reached for the coat and withdrew a piece of paper from the pocket. “Right here. See?”

  What I saw was my address and the colonel’s name.

  I opened the door and pointed. “The colonel lives on the other side of the street.”

  Pulling on her coat, she giggled and said, “My bad.”

  After she left, June walked down the stairs and slammed the door behind the blonde. June hurried to the kitchen to look out the window and we all followed her. The blonde strutted across the street in heels that had to be five inches high. The raincoat couldn’t provide much warmth against the winter air. She must have been freezing.

  “He can’t be serious. The colonel is such a proper man.” June clenched her fists.

  I signaled my mom. “Since we’re all up, why don’t we go in the sunroom for a nightcap?” Mom took June’s arm and steered her away from the window. I shooed everyone else along behind them.

  I could hear June saying, “She was nothing but a tart. A common tramp. The kind you pay for services.” She had that right. I was sorry the tart had awakened everyone. If it had just been Bernie and me, we could have kept the colonel’s little secret.

  Bernie followed me into his sleeping quarters and pulled on his bathrobe. I handed him a bottle of sherry and another of Grand Marnier, one of Hannah’s favorite indulgences. Bernie picked out a bottle of Scotch and hauled them into the sunroom while I retrieved cut-crystal sherry glasses and colorful cordial glasses from the dining room.

  I carried them on a silver tray and almost stumbled over my own feet in the hallway. Someone had turned off all the lights. I understood why when I reached the sunroom. Mom had lit candles and Dad had plugged in the lights he’d helped Mars and me install years ago. The tiny Christmas lights twinkled on the arched glass ceiling like stars.

  The romantic mood didn’t comfort June, though. “I thought the colonel was a respectable man, like my dear husband. I’m overwhelmed with disgust when I contemplate what’s going on at his house this very minute.”

  “We’re all surprised.” Mom handed June a glass of sherry. “It’s just as well that you found out now. You could have gone on for years not knowing the truth about him.”

  “It’s so repulsive to think of him ordering that girl like a . . . a side of beef.” June tugged her lavender bathrobe closed around her neck and held it there with one hand.

  “No woman wants a man like that. He’s definitely not the gentleman we all thought.” Mom settled into a love seat next to Dad. “I don’t blame you one bit for being upset.”

  “What did Mars want so late?” asked Hannah.

  I shot her a grateful smile for changing the subject. The sooner we distracted June, the better. And then I remembered that Natasha might be having an affair. That would distract June but not in a good way.

  “He brought me a Taser.” That wasn’t a complete lie. I didn’t like misleading anyone, but this time I thought it more important to cheer up June. “For the nights when I come home late from work.”

  I scored. My simple lie generated a lively discussion between Mom and June on how they could throw Mars and me together more often. Before long Craig and Hannah drifted up to bed, followed shortly by my parents and June. Daisy had stretched out in the sunroom with us, but I hadn’t seen Mochie in a while. I found him in the kitchen, sitting on the bench in the bay window looking out as a hearse drove by.

  TWENTY-SIX

  From “THE GOOD LIFE”:

  Dear Sophie,

  My mother-in-law complains that my Thanksgiving decor looks too much like Halloween. Must be those rotting pumpkins by the front door. What can I do that will please her?

  —Desperate in Dumfries

  Dear Desperate,

  Instead of hiding your favorite photos in scrapbooks, make duplicates of pictures with an autumn theme. A memorable hike to see the leaves changing, the kids playing in piles of raked le
aves, a beautiful garden of colorful squashes and pumpkins ready to be harvested, even a photo of dear mother-in-law visiting. Put them in frames that carry out the seasonal theme and bring them out each year after Halloween. Cluster them on a sideboard or entry hall table for an instant decoration and a lovely reminder of fun times that you can add to each year.

  —Sophie

  I watched the hearse drive away, hoping it wasn’t some sort of horrible omen. Carrying Mochie, I returned to the sunroom. Bernie had decided to watch the tiny TV in the den. Since he didn’t intend to sleep yet, I joined him and began downloading photographs of the stuffing competition from Dad’s camera. I knew it was a long shot, but he might have caught something of interest. Like Natasha kissing Clyde.

  Thumbprint-sized images showed immediately. I scanned through them. Mom and Hannah at a bridal salon. Picture after picture of bridal gowns. I assumed Hannah wanted to remember the dresses and asked Dad to snap photos. Finally, a picture of the Stupendous Stuffing Shakedown banner that hung across the entrance to the hotel.

  I viewed picture upon picture of Mom and Hannah. Craig showed up in a couple of them, but both times he’d turned his head and was barely recognizable. Dad had also taken some shots of Natasha, her creative baskets of ingredients behind her, and a few of Wendy and Emma and their work spaces as well.

  If only Dad had been photographing the Washington Room or one of its entrances. Even though I hadn’t expected to find anything earthshaking, I couldn’t help being disappointed. I printed out two sheets of tiny thumbnails to examine in the morning when I’d be more alert.

  The printer hummed and I looked over at Bernie. Snuggled in a down comforter, he snoozed peacefully with a snoring Daisy next to him. I put the computer to sleep, turned off the TV and the sole light on the desk. I left the thumbnails on the kitchen table and tiptoed up to bed with Mochie racing ahead.

  In spite of a sleepless night, I rose early on Sunday. The rich aroma of coffee wafted to me as I walked downstairs to the kitchen. June sat by the fireplace, pouches under her eyes. I suspected she hadn’t slept well after the colonel’s middle-of-the-night date stopped by.

  She muttered, “I never expected this of him.”

  Wearing a silky robe, Mom studied the thumbnails I’d left on the table. I tapped her shoulder and whispered, “Is June talking to Faye?”

  Mom nodded. “And check out Mochie.”

  The kitten sat in front of the stone wall, staring at it as though listening to something. I shivered. “You don’t think he can hear Faye?”

  Mom shrugged. “Who knows?”

  I poured a mug of coffee for June. She needed a jolt of caffeine. She took it with a smile but continued to mutter.

  “I’m glad you’re up early,” said Mom. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

  I poured coffee into a mug, added milk, and when her back was turned, plopped in sugar. I didn’t need any more lectures about my weight. “What’s up?” I asked, sitting down next to her.

  She glanced at June and whispered to me, “I saw Vicki embracing a man at the stuffing contest.”

  I hadn’t expected that. “What did he look like?”

  “Nice enough. Brown hair. At the time I thought it might be that driver of Simon’s, but I’m not sure. Oh, honey, do you think that has anything to do with the murders? I should have mentioned it sooner, but with all that’s happened, it went right out of my mind.”

  Clyde? Did Vicki know about Natasha’s affair? “What kind of hug was it?”

  “Friendly, but there was something odd about it, like they didn’t want anyone to see them.”

  “Maybe it was an old client. Someone she met through her marriage counseling service?” Loads of people hugged at the contest. Vicki knew a lot of people, had counseled hundreds.

  A knock at the kitchen door caught us off guard.

  To my utter surprise, Francie walked inside and presented me with a white bakery box tied with a glittery gold ribbon.

  “I brought muffins for brunch. Cranberry nutmeg, walnut mincemeat, and pumpkin spice.” She plunked the Sunday edition of the local paper on the kitchen table and removed her jacket. “Are you the only ones up?” She moseyed toward the coffee and poured herself a cup. Looking out the window over the sink, she said, “Sure is dead out there this morning.”

  Brunch? I didn’t remember planning a brunch. The mere mention of it reminded me that I had ignored my company. Normally, I’d have planned all the meals in advance and even prepared a few dishes that I could pop in the oven so I wouldn’t have to abandon my guests to prepare them.

  We could pull together eggs and bacon and whip up apple-cinnamon French toast. Thank heaven the freezer and pantry were well stocked. Could Mom have mentioned brunch to Francie?

  Wearing sweats, Dad ambled in and stopped short. “Didn’t realize that we’re having company. Pardon me while I change.”

  Mom and June followed suit, but Francie didn’t mind. She tossed kindling in the fire, lit it, and made herself at home in a fireside chair, her nose buried in the paper. At least I didn’t have to worry about entertaining her.

  I found a basket big enough for the muffins, lined it with a white lace-edged napkin, and placed the muffins inside. While Francie read, I peeled and sliced firm Granny Smith apples and melted butter in a large pan. The apples plopped into the melting butter with a sizzle. I added a liberal dose of brown sugar, sprinkled cinnamon over the top, and gave the entire mixture a few good turns to blend it all. With the burner on low, I put the lid on and left the apples to simmer while I set the dining-room table.

  Mochie zoomed past me into the living room. Daisy followed cautiously, as if she expected Mochie to change direction any second. Instead he jumped onto the sofa, gazed around, and then flew back toward Daisy and me in the dining room. I spread my arms and blocked the table, hoping to discourage Mochie from leaping on top of it. But at the last moment he veered to the right and halted abruptly in front of the buffet.

  His bottom raised, Mochie flattened his chest to the floor and struggled to reach something under the buffet. I decided a mouse would run from him so I let him entertain himself by trying to bat out what was probably a major dust bunny while I set square white plates on an apricot tablecloth.

  Natasha’s pumpkin wreath had started to cave in on itself. I carried it into the kitchen and tossed it in the trash. I retrieved a large rustic basket made of twigs, filled it with hard ruby pomegranates and rosy pears, and carried it, along with a bag of assorted nuts in the shells, to the dining table. I placed the basket in the center, ripped the bag open, and scattered nuts around the basket, throwing a generous handful on top of the fruit.

  Something rattled as it spun across the floor. Daisy pranced after it. Mochie squeezed out from under the buffet, his belly flat, his whiskers white with dust-bunny fuzz. He ran to his new toy, which Daisy sniffed cautiously. Mochie batted it across the room, where it spun before rolling to the outer wall, raising the excitement level of his game. I spoiled his fun by retrieving it for a closer look.

  Made of some sort of brassy metal, the cylindrical object measured about two and a half inches long and less than an inch in diameter. Both ends were rounded. Whatever it was, it had not been made to stand on end. Highly polished stones decorated it in between swirls of tiny golden beads.

  I detected a thin line near one end and gave it a twist. It opened easily to reveal a hollow compartment. A creepy feeling came over me. My dread grew when I realized that Mochie was staring at something behind me. I whipped around in time to see Craig watching me again. I closed my hand over the object so he wouldn’t see it and suppressed my initial instinct to ask him, not very nicely, why he liked to spy on me.

  Choking back my annoyance, I asked, “Hungry?”

  “Sure smells good. Can I help you with anything?”

  I would have sworn his eyes focused on my clenched hand when he asked. Mostly I wanted to get rid of him so I could close the little vial and cram it in
my pocket away from His Nosiness.

  “Would you bring the basket of muffins from the kitchen?”

  He didn’t comply immediately. I suspected he knew I’d found something and that I was hiding it. My blood pressure rose in the few seconds that passed with us in a standoff. I had the upper hand, though. No matter what he’d seen, he couldn’t exactly tackle me and wrestle it from my hand with everyone else in the house.

  As I stared him down, it occurred to me that he rarely showed emotion. He acted sweet and endearing around Hannah, but he must be a great poker player because he never displayed anger or frustration or any negative feelings. No matter how much he wanted to fit in and be accepted by our family, it didn’t account for his amazing self-control. I didn’t trust him and I didn’t like him.