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

Daisy met me when I opened my front door, her tail wagging in a happy circle. I bent for a giant dog hug and heard voices in the kitchen. I peeked in. June, Mars, and my parents chatted amiably.

“Sophie, sweetheart, you’re just in time for lunch. We thought we’d make turkey sandwiches and warm up your delicious stuffing.” Mom slid out of her chair next to Mars at the kitchen table and patted it. “Come join us.”

I wasn’t sure if I should bring up Natasha’s stalker in front of everyone. “Is anyone else here?”

Mom put the kettle on. “Bernie left quite early and Hannah and Craig went to see an exhibit on the evolution of the computer at the Smithsonian. The colonel will be coming for coffee with June around three.”

I perched on the chair next to Mars. “We have to talk.”

“Do you want us to leave?” asked June.

“We’re all in this together.” I looked into Mars’s eyes and said, “Natasha and I have had our issues, but please know that I’m not saying any of this out of malice or revenge or jealousy.”

Mars sat back, his eyes apprehensive.

I ticked items off on my fingers as I spoke. “Natasha hired Otis to do something for her. The turkey trophy, which I’m sure was the murder weapon, turned up in Natasha’s garden. And now someone is stalking Natasha.”

“What? How would you know that?” asked Mars.

“Nina and I have seen him following her twice. At least we think it’s the same guy. We’ve never gotten a good look at his face. We warned her about him, but she acts like we’re making it up.”

Mars rested his elbows on the table and rubbed his face. “That explains a lot. She can’t sleep and she has no appetite. No wonder. Poor kid probably thinks she’ll be the next victim.”

“She denies that she’s being followed. I’m very afraid for her,” I said.

June gently stroked Mochie on her lap. “Mars, son, I have thought and thought about the people who attended Thanksgiving dinner and no matter how I envision things, I always come back to Natasha—she’s the one who poisoned you.”

Mars groaned. “Mom, that makes no sense. Why would she do that?”

“Maybe she figured out that it’s you who leaves wet towels on the bathroom floor,” I said.

Mom tried to hide her smirk and Mars attempted to glare at me but couldn’t help laughing.

Something else had been bothering me and I decided this was a good time to bring it up. “About the fire . . . could Natasha have set her house on fire to cover up some kind of evidence?”

“I don’t think Natasha could ever bring herself to burn the home she worked on so hard.” Mars shook his head. “Someone else might have set the fire, though I don’t know why.”

“It wasn’t me!” June protested with such vehemence that Mochie sprang from her lap in alarm.

“Honey, I think it’s time you told Wolf all this.” Mom poured boiling water over a tea strainer on top of a Royal Worcester teapot.

“Not without your lawyer present,” insisted Dad.

“You’re lawyering up?” Mom asked, fear in her tone.

“Face it, Mom. I found both of the corpses. Had their blood on my clothes. And Mars was poisoned in my house. I’m right up there in contention for killer of the year with Natasha.”

“I guess the fire and moving to the hotel and then being poisoned distracted me,” said Mars. “We have to get to the bottom of this. We can’t take chances on one of us being the next victim. And the police won’t leave any of us alone until they have the killer.”

I recognized Mars’s expression. He wore the same determined look when his candidates’ popularity numbers tanked.

“Natasha and I are moving in with Andrew and Vicki today. Just until we find a place to live. Our hotel bill is growing astronomically. The move won’t be a big deal since almost everything we own has to be laundered and cleaned.” Mars’s eyes met mine. “As soon as we move, I promise I will make the murder priority number one.”

Mom set the remaining turkey in front of me. “Slice while you talk.”

Over an early lunch of Thanksgiving leftovers, we discussed various suspects and theories, none of which satisfied any of us.

When we finished, Mars and June left in a hurry to do some shopping before June’s sleuthing date with the colonel.

Mom loaded the dishwasher and I whipped up a cranberry spice Bundt cake to serve when the colonel arrived.

While it baked, I forced myself into the living room to be sure it wasn’t a wreck. If there was one domestic chore I hated, it was cleaning. I’d hired a service to clean before my parents arrived, but dust had begun to settle on tabletops again, and my most hated job, washing the kitchen floor, awaited.

I plumped up pillows and dusted the tabletops in the living room. Fortunately, I didn’t use the living room often and it stayed relatively serviceable.

The fireplace mantel and window moldings shone a glossy white when I turned on a couple of table lamps. A designer had suggested to Mars that yellow wasn’t just a power color in neck ties, so Mars insisted on buttery yellow walls. We argued for days over upholstery for the sofa and chairs. Mars won with a fabric the color of summer squash for the sofa. Blood orange pillows that coordinated with the yellow plaid I’d insisted on for the chairs interrupted the shades of yellow.

I should have vacuumed or run a dry mop around the hardwood floor but time didn’t permit. The dining room needed tidying, too. It connected to the living room through a twelve-foot-wide opening. Faye knew what she was doing when she built the addition. The living room and the dining room felt larger as a result of the opening between them and provided terrific flow for parties.

I returned to the kitchen, removed the cake from the oven, and placed it on a rack to cool while I walked Daisy. On our return, Mom flitted around the kitchen, as nervous as if the colonel were her suitor. She’d even turned the cake out of the pan for me while I was out.

I ground Viennese coffee beans that smelled heavenly. While the coffee brewed, I shook powered sugar into a small bowl and squeezed in a tiny amount of lemon juice. Using a miniature whisk, I mixed the two, adding a little more lemon juice until it reached a drizzling consistency. I scooped up a dollop with the whisk and let it ooze onto the top of the cake. It formed a white glaze on the top and dribbled down the sides. I cut a portion of the cake into slices and convinced myself that I really should taste one. Moist, not too sweet, with just the right burst of tartness from the cranberries. I arranged the slices on a plate and took them into the living room.

I was returning to the kitchen when June arrived, breathless. “I had no idea it was so late.” She hurried to her bedroom to freshen up for her gentleman caller.

In the kitchen, Mom poured the coffee into the china pot that I so rarely used. She added it to a tray with sugar, cream, Battenberg lace napkins, and china.

The brass knocker sounded and Mom’s hands flew to her hair. She fluffed it and then flicked a quick hand over her outfit in case any crumbs or fuzzies clung to her.

I watched from the kitchen doorway when Mom received the colonel. She took his overcoat as June descended the stairs, her cheeks flushed.

“Sophie,” said Mom, “would you be a dear and fetch some Irish whiskey from the den?”

I snuck into the den through the sunroom and discovered Dad comfortably seated on the sofa, his sock-clad feet on the coffee table.

He held his forefinger up to his lips. The door to the living room remained slightly ajar and we could hear every word said between June and the colonel. My father had become a spy.

I shouldn’t have done it, but I listened, too. Their conversation about their dinner the night before would have bored anyone.