The Diva Runs Out Of Thyme Part 6

Dear Anxious,

Thanksgiving is one of those holidays when people want traditional fare. Your wife doesn't have to knock herself out coming up with new gourmet twists. Turkey, cranberries, stuffing, and pie. The basics are what most people yearn for. And a lot of those can be prepared in advance.

Besides, no one will remember the perfect Thanksgiving anyway. Five and ten years from now, family and friends will be laughing over the time the turkey burned and you had to order in Chinese food. Or the impossibly hard biscuits Aunt Beth insisted on making every year. All the perfect food will be long forgotten.

Your wife should relax and enjoy herself. It's the mishaps and the funny incidents that create the best memories.

-Sophie

"Daisy?" I whispered.

More scratching.

Had I been alone I would have been more cowardly about opening the door. All sorts of dire thoughts ran through my head. Maybe Mars had grabbed Daisy and run away from Natasha, too. Maybe the Peeping Tom was back. Or maybe someone had kidnapped Daisy and wanted a ransom. None seemed likely.

I opened the door a crack and Daisy barged in with hound-style enthusiasm, wagging her tail, which in turn wagged her entire back end. She rushed at me, pawing the air.

I grabbed her wriggling body in a big dog hug. To my complete surprise, Mars's old college chum, Bernie, stood in the doorway.

"Is everything okay?" I asked. "It's the middle of the night."

In his delightful British accent he replied, "Natasha was trying to impress some stuffed s.h.i.+rts tonight, and I believe she was trying to hide me. So I snagged the other mongrel without the right pedigree and here we are."

I'd always liked Bernie, but he was a bit of a wild card. Bawdy, likely to blurt the thing everyone was thinking but was too polite to say, and generally unemployed. His sandy hair was always tousled and he usually looked as though he'd just rolled out of bed or left a pub after a rowdy night of drinking.

I grinned. Bernie probably didn't realize that Natasha didn't have much of a snazzy pedigree herself. Her father abandoned the family when Natasha was only seven, leaving her mother to support them by working long days at the local diner in our hometown.

"Daisy offered to share her dog bed with me if I'd bring her home to you." He tilted his head like a questioning puppy.

"No need to share. That tiny bedroom on the third floor is still available or you can bunk on the pullout sofa in Mars's old den."

"The den by all means. Mars didn't happen to leave any good Scotch in there, did he?"

Mochie scampered into the kitchen.

"Good G.o.ds. A kitten!"

It was too late to lunge for Daisy. Bernie and I froze, waiting for hissing, barking, and the inevitable chase that would wake everyone.

Mochie lifted his tiny head to sniff Daisy's saggy hound jowls. Daisy stepped back, unsure what to think of the little interloper.

When Daisy didn't pose a threat, Mochie jumped up onto the table to investigate Bernie.

"What a scamp. I've only known one cat who wasn't afraid of dogs. My mother's fourth husband owned a farm in England and there was a yellow barn cat who bossed the dogs around. Amazing to watch, really." He scratched Mochie under the chin. "I bet you wouldn't even be afraid of Natasha."

I brought Bernie towels and linens and he took to Mars's old den as though he planned to stay awhile.

Mochie and Daisy followed me to my second-floor bedroom and curled up on the bed, albeit on opposite ends.

On Thanksgiving morning, I slept later than I should have for a person with a house full of guests. Neither Daisy nor Mochie was in the bedroom when I woke. I showered in a rush and pulled on a pumpkin-colored sleeveless turtleneck, beige trousers, and a sweater embroidered with fall leaves. The kitchen would be hot today with both ovens going. I figured I could shed the leafy sweater to keep cool.

I found my guests in the sunroom, which had heated nicely in spite of the crisp weather. The brick floor warmed my feet.

Daisy stretched out next to Bernie, whose bare calves jutted out from under a flannel bathrobe. Daisy didn't bother to get up but her tail flapped on the floor when she saw me. I bent to tickle her tummy.

Mom was relaxing with a mug of coffee, her feet on a footstool. "There's a ham and asparagus frittata keeping warm in the oven, sleepyhead. Bernie's been regaling us with tales of his mother's many marriages."

Hannah blushed and I wondered if that was an intentional jab by Mom. Craig would be Hannah's third husband, but if I recalled correctly, Bernie's mom had made the trip down the aisle seven or eight times.

I headed to the kitchen for coffee but paused when I heard voices. One voice, actually.

June was talking in the kitchen. I paused for a moment, wondering who wasn't in the sunroom.

"I couldn't agree more," she said. "You made the right decision. And I love what they did with the kitchen."

I peeked in. June sat by the fire, knitting. Only Mochie kept her company.

"Good morning." Had she been speaking to the kitten? I slid the frittata out of the oven and offered June a piece.

"I've eaten, thanks. It was quite good. And your mother was so cute pretending Hannah cooked it." She giggled. "Your sister doesn't share your culinary skills."

Food had never been one of Hannah's interests. "She has very impressive computer abilities, though. It's a good thing she's honest because she'd make a heck of a hacker."

"I was just telling Faye how glad I am that you own the house. It's so cozy and inviting."

Faye? Faye was dead.

I glanced up at the photo of Faye over the fireplace. It hung straight. No odd drafts today.

June reached out to stroke Mochie.

Maybe I'd heard her wrong. "Could I get you some more coffee?"

"No, dear. I'm fine as I am. Just having a lovely chat."

"With the kitten?" I held my breath, hoping I'd misunderstood about Faye.

"With my sister. She adores Mochie. Faye always had a cat and she's so pleased that there's a little one in residence now."

Was June losing her mind? Suddenly I had new appreciation for Natasha's need to protect her mattress. Maybe June wasn't well.

Dad joined us from the foyer. I hadn't seen him so worried since my brother, at the age of sixteen, bought a motorcycle from a friend for fifty dollars. He waved the newspaper at me. "Why didn't you tell me this?"

Dad slid his reading gla.s.ses on and opened the paper. "According to reliable police sources, the person of interest in the slaying of Simon Greer is also a person of interest in the murder of Otis Pulchinski, a private investigator killed one day earlier." He lowered his gla.s.ses and took a deep breath while fixing his eyes on me.

"I didn't want to worry you."

"Good job, Sophie. I'm worried now."

"It's all coincidence. Being in the wrong places at the wrong times. If I hadn't beat her there by seconds, Natasha would have found Simon's body."

"Honey, you need a lawyer. Simon was a rich and influential man. They're going to be under a lot of pressure to find his killer."

"But I didn't do anything. There can't be any witnesses or anything tying me to either murder because I didn't kill anyone."

"Oh, Sophie!" June interjected. "Don't be naive. Mars's father always said most killers are convicted on circ.u.mstantial evidence."

June didn't sound delusional now. Mars's father had been a judge. June probably knew a thing or two about trials.

Dad ma.s.saged his jaw. "Let's not mention anything to your mother or Hannah yet. They're in vacation mode and will be oblivious to the news for a few days. Tomorrow I want you to call a lawyer."

June studied her knitting, a soft cream sweater with a thin thread of bronze Lurex shot through the wool. "Could Natasha have had time to kill Simon and wait for you to enter the room before raising the alarm?"

Given the way she'd been treated, I couldn't blame June for disliking Natasha, but I honestly couldn't imagine Natasha murdering Simon and trying to pin it on me. She prided herself on her own perfection and expected nothing less from others. While that made her seem starchy sometimes-okay, a lot of the time-I'd known her long enough to think it unlikely that she could be the killer.

On the other hand, June made a good point. Natasha knew I was looking for Simon. "I'm sure she could have. There were two back doors to a service corridor. Anyone could have slipped away quickly."

I checked the time. If we were going to eat turkey, I would have to get moving.

Dad and June joined the others in the sunroom. As soon as they left the kitchen, I phoned an attorney I'd met in pa.s.sing several times. I knew he wouldn't answer since it was Thanksgiving but I left a detailed message anyway in the hope that he would be working on Friday.

I hung up, picked up the coffeepot, and realized that Craig was lurking in the kitchen behind me, listening. He wore running shoes, a Georgetown University sweats.h.i.+rt, and shorts that showed off long muscular legs.

I hated that he'd overheard my call. And his habit of sneaking around and eavesdropping didn't do anything to engender warm feelings for him. Mindful of Hannah's outburst the night before, I asked politely, "Coffee?"

He reached back with his left arm, grabbed his left foot, and stood one-legged while he stretched. "No, thanks. I'm going for a run."

An awkward moment pa.s.sed between us.

"If you're half the cook Hannah says you are, I'm certain I'll be overeating later." He flashed me a grin of perfect teeth. "Better work off some calories ahead of time."

It was a transparent effort to be nice but I gave him credit for trying. I followed him to the front door, opened it, and said, "Enjoy your run."

Laughter filtered in from the sunroom. I returned to the kitchen, set the oven to preheat and slid off my sweater, then took the coffeepot into the sunroom to see if anyone needed refills.

Bernie had stepped outside to use the phone. Through the gla.s.s, I could see his worried expression. Daisy roamed near him and sniffed at the overturned pots I'd forgotten to set straight.

While I poured coffee, Bernie returned, s.h.i.+vering.

"That was Mars. Bad news, I'm afraid," said Bernie. "They had a rather nasty fire in Natasha's kitchen last night."

June paled. "Was Mars hurt?"

Everyone asked questions at once.

Bernie motioned for quiet. "Mars and Natasha are fine but the house is uninhabitable. They've moved into a hotel and, of course, there will be no grand feast at Natasha's place today."

"You're welcome to join us," I offered. "We have plenty. I bought way too much anyway."

Mom rewarded me with a proud smile.

June looked down at the partially knitted sweater in her lap. "That's very kind of you, Sophie. I only wish I could spend some time with Mars. I had hoped to have some private time with him today while Natasha cooked."

"I know exactly how you feel." Mom placed a hand on June's shoulder. "It breaks my heart that my son and his family can't be here today."

My brother lived in Chantilly, a Was.h.i.+ngton, DC, suburb outside the Beltway. It wasn't too far as the crow flew, though it could be a good forty-five-minute haul in traffic. But this Thanksgiving, they'd driven to Connecticut to see his wife's family.

Hannah blurted out what I was thinking. "Give me a break, Mom; you just want to see Jen."

My brother's ten-year-old daughter was the only grandchild in our family and everyone doted on her.

Dad, always the voice of reason, chided gently, "Come now. You can't expect to see them every holiday. And don't forget, they'll be joining us for Christmas, which is more fun for a child anyway."

Mom seemed perilously close to pus.h.i.+ng back tears. "It's just that I never get to see them. They're always so busy. Sophie, you see them more often than I do." Her face brightened. "Why don't we invite Mar-"

Oh, no! "Mom," I interrupted, "could you help me in the kitchen?"

She nodded at June and followed me.

Whispering, I said, "Don't you dare invite Mars and Natasha to dinner."

"Honey, you saw how sad June was. Is it really so much to ask?"

"Do you honestly expect me to entertain my ex-husband and his new girlfriend-who, incidentally, accused me of murder-at Thanksgiving dinner?"

"Honey, this is your chance to steal Mars back."

"Natasha did not steal Mars."