Krista Davis - Diva 01 _ Diva Runs Out of Thyme, The

I pulled port and brandy from the liquor cabinet. My arms full, I turned in time to see MacArthur digging in Bernie’s suitcase. I hissed at him but the bulldog kept after his quarry.

As I set down the bottles, MacArthur took off running with something sticking out of his mouth. Daisy and Mochie chased after him into the sunroom. Intending to cut them off by going the other way, I opened the door to the living room, where the rest of my guests chatted.

The clacking of dog toenails on the hardwood floors grew louder. MacArthur, still carrying something in his mouth, raced into the living room with Mochie riding on his back and Daisy in hot pursuit.

The colonel managed to catch the frantic MacArthur, and I hurried over to remove Mochie from the poor dog’s back. Mochie jumped off before I got there. He leapt onto an empty chair and groomed his front paws as though they smelled offensively of dog.

MacArthur displayed no signs of injury but I noted that he remained close to the colonel. The delicious treat that had started the wild chase turned out to be a Toblerone chocolate bar.

I took it into the kitchen where Humphrey and Hannah worked side by side and threw it into a trash bin that none of the animals could reach.

Worried that Bernie might have more than one chocolate bar in his suitcase, I returned to the den. On my knees, I pushed back the items MacArthur had dislodged. When I flipped the suitcase shut, a newspaper article flapped halfway out. I opened the top enough to pull the paper loose and couldn’t help noticing that it was about Simon. It was a short segment from the Miami Herald Food Section about the Stupendous Stuffing Shakedown and Simon’s involvement.

I’d assumed that Bernie had come to Virginia straight from England, but there wasn’t any real reason for my assumption. Still it disturbed me a little bit to think Bernie had known about the contest in advance and had bothered to keep the article. I stood up, irritated with myself for imagining that it meant anything. Bernie knew he was coming to town, saw the article, and ripped it out. Nothing sinister about that.

I collected the port and brandy and took them to the dining room where I kept the Waterford stemware Mars and I had received as wedding gifts. After serving everyone, I hustled to the kitchen to put on decaf organic Colombian coffee.

Hannah and Humphrey chuckled about something as though they were old buddies. But I had to give them credit, the kitchen counters sparkled and only a few items remained to be cleaned. Humphrey had even washed and dried the dreaded roaster and roasting rack.

At my request, he handed me a Rosenthal coffeepot that I kept in a high cabinet because I rarely had an opportunity to use it. I rinsed it out and poured in the hot coffee. In a matching bowl, I plopped a generous helping of whipped cream for those who felt they hadn’t been sufficiently indulged. The coordinating creamer, ironically filled with nonfat milk, and the sugar bowl went on a tray with them. Humphrey carried it all into the living room.

Hannah snagged my arm. “He’s very funny. Not much to look at, but you should think about going out with him. He’s crazy about you.”

If we’d been little, I’d have pulled her pigtail for saying such a thing. “You have to help me discourage him, Hannah. I’m not interested.”

She picked up half the cups and saucers and headed for the door. “Don’t be so hasty. I don’t see anyone else lining up outside.”

I followed her with the rest of the cups and saucers. Dad poked at a crackling fire in the living room fireplace. MacArthur, Daisy, and Mochie stretched out in front of it, but MacArthur kept an uneasy eye on Mochie.

I poured coffee for everyone and had just taken a seat when we heard the kitchen door bang open. Bernie and June appeared in the living room doorway, bundled up in winter coats.

“Where’s the turkey?” asked Bernie. “I’m starved.”

He helped June with her coat and led her to a seat. She grasped the arm of the chair and lowered herself unsteadily.

Something was terribly wrong.

Mom stirred sugar into coffee and held it out to her. “You need some sugar, June. Haven’t you eaten anything since you left?”

I couldn’t believe no one had asked the obvious. I blurted, “How’s Mars?”

June sipped at the coffee. Her shoulders sagged and she seemed to have aged twenty years.

I looked up at Bernie, who said simply, “Poison.”

THIRTEEN

From “THE GOOD LIFE”:

Dear Sophie,

It’s a tradition in my family to go shopping the day after Thanksgiving, then come home for yummy leftovers. But when I reheat the turkey, it’s dry and tough. Any suggestions?

—Masticating in Martinsville

Dear Masticating,

Reheating turkey dries the meat. Take a tip from restaurants. Instead of heating the meat, heat the gravy. Slice the cold turkey and place it on warmed plates. Just before serving, pour hot gravy over the meat. It will be almost as good as it was right out of the oven.

—Sophie

“How could that be?” I felt like a noose tightened around my throat. No wonder June didn’t feel well. Someone had poisoned her son.

“He’ll be fine. They’re keeping him overnight for observation, but the doctors said he would be okay.” Bernie slid his coat off and tossed it over a chair with June’s.

The colonel sat ramrod straight. “Rat poison?”

Bernie scratched the side of his face. “Actually, it turned out to be a nasty thing called muscarine. One of those odd coincidences. Because it’s a holiday and there were staffing issues, one of the ER doctors happened to be a pediatric specialist. Recognized the symptoms because he’d seen it in a few children.”

Francie smiled slyly. “Very clever. Poison mushrooms.”

The colonel raised his eyebrows. “You’re intimately acquainted with poisons?”

“You don’t get to our age without learning a few things along the way. We picked our own mushrooms when I was a girl. My cousin died from eating a beautiful red-capped mushroom. Looked like it came right out of a picture-book fairy tale.” Francie nodded her head. “Muscarine.”

“But Bernie said Mars will be okay,” I protested.

“Yes, by all means. He’ll be right as rain by tomorrow.” Bernie stood behind June’s chair and motioned to me with his hand.

I followed him to the kitchen. “Is June all right?”

“She’s as distressed as any good mum would be to learn someone tried to kill her son.”

“And even worse, it had to be one of us who was here for Thanksgiving dinner.”

Bernie frowned. “The doctor said it could have been in food he ate earlier in the day, at breakfast maybe.”

“Unless he had breakfast with a whole lot of people, that sort of narrows it down to Natasha, doesn’t it?” I felt guilty for even thinking it.

“She claims they ordered room service. Could have been poisoned in the kitchen or when it was being delivered.”

“Is Natasha showing any symptoms?”

Bernie snorted. “Hardly. She’s plenty nervous about something though.”

I’d noticed that, too. Had she been on edge because she slipped poison into Mars’s breakfast and was waiting for him to die? Natasha had her faults, but surely she wouldn’t poison Mars. Still, the circumstances pointed to her. “Did the doctor say how long it takes before a person reacts to the poison?”

“There’s the difficulty. Could be as little as half an hour or as much as six or eight hours. Depends on the dose and the variety.”

Mom rushed in. “Sweetheart, I think it’s time to unload the leftovers and serve a second go-round. Apparently the hospital dining service closed early because of the holiday.”