The Diva Takes the Cake
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
RECIPES & COOKING TIPS
PRAISE FOR The Diva Runs Out of Thyme
“[A] tricky whodunit laced with delectable food . . . [and] stuffed with suspects—and a reminder that nobody’s Thanksgiving is perfect.”
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
“[A] fun romp into the world of food, murder, and mayhem.”
—Armchair Interviews
“Filled with humor, delicious recipes, and holiday decorating tips, The Diva Runs Out of Thyme is . . . a must-read to prepare for the holiday season.”
—The Romance Readers Connection
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Krista Davis
THE DIVA RUNS OUT OF THYME
THE DIVA TAKES THE CAKE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
THE DIVA TAKES THE CAKE
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / June 2009
Copyright © 2009 by Cristina Ryplansky.
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For Elizabeth NINA Strickland
Susan REID Smith Erba
and Amy NORWOOD Wheeler
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I’m grateful to my mom, Marianne; and Janet Bolin, Daryl Wood Gerber, Betsy Strickland, and Susan Strickland, my invaluable first readers who cheerfully and patiently keep me on the right track. Many thanks to my editor, Sandra Harding, who is a constant delight and whose editorial advice is always dead on, and to my agent, the charming Jacky Sach.
Thanks to Captain Scott Ogden of the Alexandria Police Department and Felicia Donovan, fellow author and law enforcement expert, for providing information about police procedures. Any errors are my own.
Special thanks to Rachel Ann Hollis for patiently mixing drinks until she arrived at the delicious Wedded Blitz Martini. Also to Terry and Harry Hoover for their helpful knowledge about the syndication of newspaper columns. Laurie Petty at dazzlingice.com was wonderful to share her expertise on ice bars, for which I’m very thankful.
And last, but not least, much gratitude to the unsung heroine, Teresa Fasolino, the artist who always provides such beautiful covers for the Domestic Diva Mysteries.
GUEST LIST
Hannah
Paul and Inga Bauer
Sophie Bauer Winston (maid of honor)
and Wolf Fleishman
Jen Bauer (flower girl)
Phoebe Ferguson (bridesmaid)
and Joel Yancey
Mars Winston
and Natasha Smith
Wanda Smith
Bernie Frei
Humphrey Brown
Tucker Hensley V
Mordecai Artemus
Craig
Kevin Pointer
Robert Beacham (best man)
Stan Beacham
Darby Beacham
ONE
From “THE GOOD LIFE”:
Dear Sophie,
My fiancé’s former girlfriend showed up at our engagement party uninvited and released four dozen white mice. I’m worried sick about what she might do at our wedding. How do we stop her?
—No More Mice in Morristown
Dear No More Mice,
Choose a venue with a security department, like a hotel. Alert your vendors and wedding planner and plant some teenage relatives at strategic entrances to be on the lookout for the big rat.
—Sophie
As I trudged along the brick sidewalk carrying shopping bags of gifts for the bridal party, I realized a woman was standing across the street from my house studying it. Although I’d lived in a historic house in Old Town Alexandria for years, I’d never gotten used to the strangers parading through the ancient streets admiring the quaint buildings.
Pausing to catch my breath, I tried to see my home with fresh eyes. In a nod to my sister’s wedding colors, the begonias, ranunculus, and Wave petunias spilling liberally fro
m the window boxes were a happy mix of soft pinks and a color we were calling cherry, since the groom had an aversion to fuchsia.
Hand-trimming the boxwoods had been a chore, but they presented a neat border along the red brick. Additional pots of pink flowers graced the front stoop. Pressured by my mother, who had been inspired by a TV episode featuring the local domestic diva, Natasha, I’d made a living wreath for the front door out of variegated ivy. If I didn’t forget to water it, it might last through the wedding.
A gracious oval plaque of bronze next to the front door designated my home as a historic building. It was more than a hundred years old, the floors canted and creaked, and odd things happened that I couldn’t quite explain, but I adored the place. I continued walking, flicking my gaze from the woman to my house.
“Excuse me?” The woman approached me. Attractive and close to my age, in her early forties, I guessed. Her dress revealed far too much bosom for early morning in Old Town and her high heels were a mistake on the uneven sidewalks. Clearly a tourist.
She smiled at me and held out a sheet of paper that appeared to have been taken off the Internet. In a New Jersey twang she said, “I can’t seem to find this address.”
My hands full of bags, I tilted my head to look at the paper. Her fuchsia fingernail in a long, squared-off manicure pointed to—my address!
I jerked involuntarily. On the upper corner of the paper was a picture of my sister, Hannah, and her fiancé, Craig. The middle section listed every wedding event we had planned—the dessert party for out-of-town guests, a walking tour of Old Town, the rehearsal dinner, the ceremony, the reception, and brunch the following day. Times, addresses, and even directions to each venue were also included.
“You’re here for the wedding?” I mumbled. Even though I’d been tapped as the unpaid wedding planner, worked on it for months, and had taken time off from my event-planning business this week, the stranger’s presence was a wake-up call. The guests had begun to arrive.
“I’m an old friend of the groom and was hoping I could catch up with him for a visit.” She shuffled papers. “But this address is different.”
She showed me another wedding page from the Internet. It featured a different picture of Hannah and Craig, and whoever had entered the information had mistyped my house number.
I’d never thought about Craig having friends. Truth be told, I’d disliked Hannah’s fiancé from the moment we met. Recently I’d mellowed a little. I even felt sorry for him when I realized that none of his relatives had been invited to the big event. But this real, live, breathing, and apparently nice woman made Craig seem more like a regular guy.
A diamond set in a circle of gold hung on a chain in the hollow of her neck and glittered in the sun. It was just big enough to make me wonder if it was real.
I felt shabby in my oversized white shirt and jeans that had fit once, but must surely have shrunk from being washed too many times. “I’m Sophie Winston,” I offered, “sister of the bride. If you want to give me your name and number, I can pass them along to Craig. He’s not here yet, but they’re scheduled to arrive soon.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’d like to surprise him. Which house is yours?”
I nodded in the direction of my front walk.
“Oh, the pretty house.”
Well! Who wouldn’t like this woman?
“I’ll stop by later, then. Thanks for your help.”
She strode away, or tried to, since she wobbled on her high heels with every step and her thighs pushed against the too-tight skirt of her dress.
“Who’s the tramp?”
I turned to find my across-the-street neighbor and best friend, Nina Reid Norwood, lowering her sunglasses for a better look.
“One of Craig’s friends.”
“Reeaaally.” She drawled it out in a deep North Carolina accent. It was pretty funny since Nina’s own deep V-necked T-shirt showed ample cleavage.
She snorted. “And he always acts so conservative. Everything ready for the big onslaught of family?”
“Almost.” I checked my watch. “Oh no. Time to put the pork on the grill.”
“Sophie, you won’t be eating dinner for a long time yet.”
“It’s pulled pork, has to slow-cook on the grill for hours. And I have to roll your grill over to my yard for the ribs. Why don’t you come early? You can help me get ready for the party tonight.”
“Yeah, like I’m such a domestic diva.”
Grinning because Nina was actually an anti-diva, I rushed up the walk to my house, unlocked the front door, and deposited the bags on the kitchen counter. I washed my hands, pulled two Boston butt roasts from the refrigerator, rubbed the raw meat with a grainy mixture of paprika, brown sugar, salt, and pepper, and wrapped each piece in aluminum foil.
But something wasn’t right. Where was Mochie? Not quite a year old, my rambunctious Ocicat with the M on his forehead always met me at the door. Though he was a purebred Ocicat, his fur bore the American Shorthair pattern instead of the trademark spots. But his lively personality was all his own, and there was no way he wouldn’t be interested in huge hunks of raw meat.
“Mochie?” Carrying the meat on a tray, I walked through the sunroom, calling his name. No sign of him. Where was that little devil?
I let myself out the side door and hurried around to the brick patio. In anticipation of parties and a house full of guests, I’d worked like a demented gardener to achieve a garden in full bloom for the wedding. My sunroom had taken on a jungle theme in the spring when I coaxed the plants into blooming early. With the help of my favorite nursery and the cooperation of the weather, pots of hibiscus and mandevilla bloomed like it was mid-July instead of the first week in June.
Hastily, I dampened mesquite and started the grill. But I couldn’t concentrate until I knew Mochie was all right. Leaving the pork on an outdoor table, I jogged into the house and called Mochie. I ran up to the second floor, which contained my bedroom and two others. From the landing, I could hear faint mewing.
On the third floor, the plaintive mew grew stronger. When I opened the closet door in the bedroom, Mochie marched out and wound around my ankles. I picked him up and held him close. He purred and head-butted my chin.
How could I have shut him in the closet? I’d been a bit crazed the last few days getting things ready for my houseguests, but I couldn’t remember being on the third floor this morning. And I did recall feeding Mochie when I snarfed a chocolate-iced Krispy Kreme doughnut for breakfast, rationalizing that I had to eat it before my mother arrived and told me to lose weight. I gazed around, but nothing seemed out of place.
Years ago, in an attempt to enlarge the house, someone had finished the attic. As a result, the ceilings were a decent height, slanting downward only at the outer edges of the room, although the windows sat flush on the floor, not at eye level where one would expect them. Fortunately, they were large windows in the colonial fashion and their odd location gave the room a fun, slightly off-kilter appearance.
Yesterday I’d turned down the bed and left a pot of coral begonias on the dresser for a splash of color. Hannah would be staying in the third floor room while Craig and my parents occupied the guest rooms on the second floor.
Carrying Mochie, I peeked into the teeny attic room next door. The daybed where my niece would sleep was made up as I’d left it. Faux diamond hair clips to fasten her crown of tiny roses sparkled on the round table next to a basket of purple petunias. They were a departure from Hannah’s pink, but Jen loved purple. Her fancy dress for the wedding hung in a dress bag on the back of the door.
Still totally confused about Mochie and his closet esca pade, I set him on the floor. He bounded downstairs and headed straight to the kitchen and his food. I returned to the grill wondering how he’d managed to get stuck in the closet, but with the party tonight and the wedding the day after tomorrow, I didn’t have time to figure it out.
The woody aroma of mesquite already perfumed the backyard. I plopped the
huge roasts, wrapped in foil, onto the grill, turned down the heat, and closed the cover, making sure the vents were open so the mesquite smoke could escape.
No sooner had I returned to the house than the kitchen door slammed.
“The wedding is off!” my sister, Hannah, proclaimed as she wrenched her engagement ring from her finger and threw it onto my kitchen table.
TWO
From “THE GOOD LIFE”:
Dear Sophie,
My fiancé’s family is coming from out of town and staying at a local hotel. His sister said she’s looking forward to the treats in her gift basket. I’ve never met some of these people. Am I expected to buy them gifts?