The Diva Cooks up a Storm

by Krista Davis

  “It’s going to swing farther out to sea,” Nina insisted. “I grew up in North Carolina, it happened all the time.”

  “You’re deceiving yourself, sugar.” Francie waved her forefinger back and forth. “Geographically speaking, North Carolina juts out and that storm is headed right for it.”

  “Has there been an update on the tracking?” I asked.

  “No,” Nina growled. “The stupid thing is picking up speed, though.”

  Francie tsked. “Well, I hope you girls get to go to the beach, but I can tell you from experience that I’ll be gathering my candles and making a run to the store for nonperishable foods.” She scooted out of the banquette. “See you tonight.” After checking for stray bees, Francie ambled out the kitchen door.

  Nina groaned. “I will be so doggoned mad if Hurricane Dorian spoils our plans! We should have booked flights to Paris.”

  “With our luck, the hurricane would have delayed our flight. Maybe it will peter out. I’m going to pack anyway so we’ll be ready to take off early tomorrow morning as planned.”

  Still grumbling, Nina left, and I set out for the library.

  Cindy Haberman, Hollis’s ex-wife, stood at the desk and greeted me warmly. “Sophie! I was just going to call you. The library book sale is on Saturday. I was hoping you might be willing to help us out?”

  Willowy, with fair skin that was so unwrinkled it put the rest of us to shame, Cindy was best known for her mane of hair. Thick black tresses rippled from her part down her back. They didn’t look like contrived beach waves to me. I suspected her hair would be very curly if she wore it in a short cut.

  “I’d love to help out, but Nina and I are planning a trip to the beach. We won’t be in town.”

  Cindy stared at me for a long moment. In a whisper, she said, “Honestly, I wish I could go with you. A vacation at the beach with girlfriends sounds perfect to me. Margaritas, toes in the sand—it would be heaven. After all I’ve been through . . .”

  I assumed she meant the divorce. “Is Gavin okay?”

  She massaged her temple. “He’s fourteen and ready to rule the world without a clue. They tell me the teen years are hard so we won’t miss them when they leave for college. If you ask me, it’s nature’s way of being cruel to parents.”

  Gavin had walked Daisy and mowed my yard from time to time when he was younger. “But Gavin’s such a sweet kid!”

  “Mmm. He’s still adorable when he’s sleeping.”

  Someone walked up beside me and asked a question, so I wandered to the mystery section and nabbed a few books to take to the beach.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon getting the house ready for Mars. When we divorced, neither of us could bear to give up sweet Daisy, so we worked out a sharing arrangement. While I was at the beach, Mars would be staying at my house with Daisy and Mochie, my Ocicat.

  We had inherited the house from Mars’s aunt Faye, who loved to entertain. She had expanded the house with a grand dining room and living room that could accommodate her lavish parties in the 1960s. When Mars and I divorced, I bought out Mars fair and square. The mortgage was hefty, but I loved the old place, creaking floors and all.

  A portrait of Aunt Faye hung in my kitchen. Mars’s mother dropped by sometimes to talk with her deceased sister, an oddity that came close to landing her in a nursing home. She sat in one of the chairs next to the fireplace in the kitchen and had conversations with . . . no one. Not anyone that I could see or hear, anyway. I was a little skeptical about her ability to speak with the dead, but who was I to determine what other people might be able to do? At worst, she probably got some worries off her mind.

  In the late afternoon, I showered and slid into a sleeveless dress—white with a sunflower pattern. We would be walking over to the dinner, which meant high heels were out of the question. My white FitFlops were ideal for the brick sidewalks.

  Shortly before six in the afternoon, my current beau, Alex German, arrived to pick me up. Now a lawyer in Old Town, Alex had served in the military and still had that amazing straight-shouldered bearing. He was, without fail, the tidiest man I had ever met. Sometimes I ruffled his neatly trimmed dark brown hair a little bit, but it always fell back precisely into place.

  “Think it’s okay if I wear shorts to this thing? It’s hot enough to melt a person.”

  He wore navy blue shorts with a button-down white shirt, the sleeves rolled back, and brown leather Top-Siders. The outfit was nearly an Old Town uniform for men’s casual wear, with a golf shirt an acceptable alternative. “I’m sure you won’t be the only one dressed that way.”

  Francie and Nina met us at the curb.

  “Nina, I thought your husband was coming this time?” said Alex.

  A forensic pathologist, Nina’s husband spent more time out of town than at home.

  “He’s still in San Diego because the trial ran long. I gave his ticket to Jay Charles.”

  The four of us walked over to the Garrett house, with Nina still scolding me about having kept the location of the underground dinner a secret.

  Months ago, when there was still snow on the ground, Nina had been contacted by Madison Jenkins, who was planning the underground dinner. She had everything lined up, but couldn’t find a location. That wasn’t surprising, even with Madison’s influential friends. Old Town Alexandria, Virginia, was a coveted site for weddings and other festivities. The quaint brick sidewalks and Federal-style houses dating back to the days of George Washington were as popular with locals as they were with tourists. Even a year out was barely enough time to schedule the most desirable venues.

  Nina had sent Madison to me. As an event planner, I often dealt with the lack of available venues. I had turned to private homes as a possibility. Million-dollar price tags on houses in Old Town weren’t unusual, but I’d had a hunch that a historic home with a heftier than normal price tag might not move fast. The property dated back to the 1700s, although the existing structure was built in the mid-1800s. From the outside, the only clue to its significance was the oval plaque denoting it a historical building.

  Red brick clad the first two floors. A third floor featured dormer windows in the roof. The modest black front door and matching shutters weren’t noteworthy, but an observant eye might catch the original bubble glass in some of the windows. To the left was a generous parking pad paved with brick, where everyone now gathered to show their tickets to the underground dinner. A white gate led to the garden and guesthouse in back.

  A teenager stood alone on the parking pad, out of his element. At $200 a plate, no one else had brought kids. He held a phone in one hand, a book in the other, and stared shamelessly at Kelsey Haberman.

  Chapter 3

  Dear Natasha,

  I was invited to a pop-up dinner, which I understand is similar to an underground dinner. Except I was expected to bring a dish and my own chair! I thought chefs were supposed to cook fabulous dinners at these things.

  Confused in Beer Bottle Crossing, Idaho

  Dear Confused,

  What you are describing has long been known as a picnic. Read the details carefully next time to be sure you understand what the pop-up includes.

  Natasha

  I wasn’t surprised. Kelsey Haberman had caught the attention of most of the men. Her dress in shades of blue hugged her curves, and the neckline plunged so wide and deep that I held my breath in anticipation of an imminent wardrobe malfunction.

  I’d never spoken to her, but I had seen her at events.

  “There’s always one,” muttered Francie. “When I was young, showing your knees was enough to mark you as a tramp. That skirt’s so short she might as well have worn a bikini. Can you imagine having that woman as your stepmother?”

  The word stepmother gave me pause. “Is that Gavin Haberman?” I whispered in reference to the teen. I took a closer look. He had grown like crazy since I’d seen him last.

  Francie nodded. “Poor kid. His parents’ divorce turned his life upside down. I see him
at the library sometimes, waiting for his mom to get off work.”

  When Alex excused himself to speak to someone, Trula Dixon sidled up to me and elbowed me gently. “You’ve solved a lot of murders, Sophie. What’s the best way to get rid of a strumpet without getting caught?”

  I knew she was joking so I smiled, but that kind of talk was dangerous. “You don’t mean that, Trula.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Half the women in attendance would like to remove that little coquette from our circles.” A chunky silver bracelet slid along her tanned arm when Trula patted her short bob. “Her hair isn’t even frizzing in the heat. Of course, we’d all be cooler if we were showing as much flesh as she is.” She tilted her head. “On the other hand, that dress must be one hundred percent spandex to hug her that tight. Oof. Cotton and silk are the only ways to go when it’s this hot.”

  Trula’s husband Parker, a thin bespeckled man, was among Kelsey’s admirers. Parker hailed from money. I guessed he might have been a bit of a nerd when he was Gavin’s age, but that had probably paid off. He was a founding partner in the law firm of Dixon, Haberman, and Jenkins. He was lean, but his golf shirt and gray shorts revealed an unathletic physique without well-defined muscles in his arms and legs. He sat on several boards, including that of the local library.

  I didn’t think Trula had anything to worry about, but then, Cindy Haberman probably hadn’t been concerned when Kelsey entered the scene, either. I did note, though, that not a single woman was chatting with Kelsey. Not even those her age. “We’ll be sitting down to eat soon,” I said. “I guess the trick is to find a seat far away from her.”

  “If Kelsey keels over, I guarantee a wife will be the villain,” muttered Trula.

  We showed our tickets to a man at the gate. He gestured for us to enter.

  The sheer size of the garden was amazing, especially for Old Town, where lots tended to the small size. The current occupant, one Gilmer Garrett, was a gardening aficionado. Well into his eighties, he still toiled in his beloved garden every day.

  “Are those grilled dates wrapped in bacon? Do you think they’re stuffed with something?” Trula hurried toward a waiter who served the delicacies from a tray.

  Flat slate stones formed a rectangular walkway that had been lined with dining tables. The lawn in the middle had been mowed as perfectly as a golf course. Beyond the walkway, a tall fence peeked through conifers, bushes, and aged trees. Purple hollyhocks, pink foxglove, golden sunflowers, brilliant red cardinal flowers, and masses of zinnias in reds, pinks, and yellows lined the outer edge of the walkway.

  Unlike the modest front, the rear of the house boasted modern glass walls that looked out on the stunning garden. Happily, the house also featured a chef’s kitchen. Doors were open on the detached guesthouse. A discreet sign directed people to use the restroom there.

  Gilmer had been thrilled with the idea of entertaining as long as someone else did all of the work. He didn’t get much company anymore, which meant he had few opportunities to share his beautiful garden. His Realtor had been delighted by the opportunity to show off the house to the well-heeled locals who would no doubt be in attendance.

  It had been a win-win situation. I had arranged for a backup location in case the house sold before the day of the dinner, but luck had been with us. My involvement had been limited to finding the site. For once I was a guest, just like the rest of my friends.

  A pretty waitress in her twenties presented a tray of olives to Francie and me. A tiny bit of orange on one end of each black olive had been carefully crafted to look like a flower. Francie and I each eagerly plucked one off the tray to sample. Not knowing exactly what it was, I bit into it with the slightest hesitation. The olive had been stuffed with smoked salmon in a tangy cream. The flower peeking out at the end was thinly sliced smoked salmon. It was delicious.

  Francie paused to catch up with a friend, and I walked over to Gavin.

  “Gavin, you’re so grown up that I didn’t recognize you.”

  “Hi, Mrs. Winston. Mom says I’m finally getting a big growth spurt. How’s Daisy?”

  “She’s doing great. She misses seeing you, though.”

  “I’d like to get a dog, but we’re renting a place now and the lease doesn’t permit dogs.”

  “You’re welcome to come by and take Daisy for a walk anytime you like.”

  “Thanks.” An odd expression came over his face. “Uh, excuse me. Nice talking to you.” He hurried off.

  Just then, Hollis ambled up to me and handed me a small white cooler. “It’s all in here.”

  I let out a nervous breath at the sight of him, glad to see him still alive. “Do you feel sick?”

  “Naw. I’m relieved I can eat dinner tonight without worrying about it. If I’m right, it’s being done very slowly. Death by a thousand little drops.”

  “Hollis, you need to go to the police. This is nothing to joke about.”

  “I have my reasons, Sophie.” He handed me the cooler. “Now remember, not a word to anyone. You know how quickly it would get around.”

  I had agreed to do this. Nevertheless, I scowled at him. “If anything turns up and you don’t report it, then I’m going to do it myself.”

  Hollis grinned at me. “Fair enough.”

  I felt a little bit better about it. In a way, I did understand where he was coming from. Being married to someone twenty years his junior had to be somewhat stressful. I hoped the samples would turn up clean and ease his mind.

  Hollis shook his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with the women around here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at Kelsey. Only men will talk to her.”

  I was slightly amused by his interpretation of Kelsey’s admirers.

  “She told me she feels like Rudolph.”

  “The reindeer or Valentino?” I asked.

  “The reindeer. You know, he wasn’t allowed to play reindeer games. She feels like she’s not accepted by the wives of my friends.”

  “I’m sure they’ll grow to like her as they get to know her better.”

  “If they ever give her a chance. Excuse me, Sophie.”

  I watched as Hollis headed toward Parker.

  Humphrey and I spotted each other at the same time. We walked along the garden path to meet.

  “Sophie! Feels like forever since I’ve seen you.”

  I leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Same here.” I handed him the cooler. “Thanks for doing this.”

  “No problem.” He squinted at me. “Sophie, please tell me that you’re not the one being”—he gazed around and whispered—“poisoned.”

  “Definitely not.”

  Humphrey opened the cooler. “Oh good, it’s on ice. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll stash it in my car before we start to eat.”

  “Of course! Hurry back.” I made my way to the bar, where three drink combinations were being served. Francie opted for red wine sangria with peaches and berries. I chose mango iced tea.

  Our friend Bernie Frei, manager of the hottest restaurant in town, joined us and selected an Italian spritz. “We’ve started serving these at The Laughing Hound. Apparently, they’re all the rage in cocktails.”

  Bernie’s English accent made him sound like an authority no matter what he said. The best man at my wedding, Bernie had traveled the world and surprised us all when he settled in Old Town. His sandy hair always looked like he’d just rolled out of bed, and his nose had a kink in it from being punched, probably more than once. No one had expected him to turn a restaurant into a gold mine for the absentee owner, but it turned out he had a knack for the business.

  As the three of us clinked our glasses in a toast, a door flew open in the back of the house. Someone shouted, “Out! Out, out, out!”

  Two men wearing chef’s jackets had grasped a woman by her arms and were propelling her out the door. Behind them, a third man in a chef’s jacket waved a wicked-looking chef’s knife in the air.

  Chapter 4


  Dear Sophie,

  My husband is a self-confessed salt addict. He’s always coming into the kitchen and salting dishes while they’re cooking. I find them inedible then. He’ll listen to you. When does one salt dishes? At the beginning or at the end of the cooking?

  Hold the Salt, Please in Salt Lake City, Utah

  Dear Hold the Salt, Please,

  It’s generally best to layer salt, but sparingly. Tell hubby that soups and sauces often reduce to intensify the flavor. It’s best to salt them at the end.

  Sophie

  The woman who was being unceremoniously removed had perfectly coiffed, shoulder-length hair so dark that it verged on black. Her dress draped on her bony figure as perfectly as it would on a mannequin. The black sheath she wore had a round neckline, but a trapezoid was cut out at the top, revealing a touch of cleavage.

  It was actually quite elegant and caused me to feel inadequate in my simple summer dress, which was usually the case with our friend Natasha.

  “I should have known,” said Francie.

  “One of us should help her.” I had a bad feeling I knew who that would be.

  “Not me.” Bernie calmly sipped his spritz. “I refuse to rescue her from the situations she creates.”

  Bernie and Natasha had never cared for each other. Bernie didn’t kiss up to Natasha, and she resented that he didn’t jump at her command.

  I handed Bernie my drink and joined Madison in trying to make amends.

  “Chef Wurst! I am so sorry!” Madison apologized while reaching for the knife he wielded.

  “What did you do?” I hissed to Natasha.

  “He’s marvelous,” she said. “He cooks just like I do!”

  I certainly hoped not. Natasha was well-known for cooking with unlikely ingredients like hot peppers in chocolate chip cookies and squid ink in mashed potatoes.