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

He rubbed his forehead with a nervous hand. “What happened?”

At that precise moment, cars careened toward us on both sides of the narrow strip behind the store, blocking us in. Seconds later, police swarmed the area and the manager and I were pushed back, away from the Dumpster. When everyone was otherwise occupied and not paying me any attention, I snuck to my car and fetched the kitten. I didn’t want him overheating. Even though a cold wind blew, the sun would surely raise the temperature inside the car.

The turkey!

I felt guilty for thinking about my groceries when someone had probably died, but they would spoil if we were detained for a long period. I scanned the officials milling around.

A man in a tweed sport coat impressed me as calmer than the others. Not emotionless, just more experienced perhaps. The sun glinted off silver hair on his temples. Most important, he wasn’t a skinny runner type; this guy liked to eat. I sidled toward him.

After introducing myself, I explained that my Thanksgiving groceries were in my car. “And I’m in a stuffing competition tomorrow and I’d rather not poison the judges with tainted ingredients.”

“Farley!” he barked. “Get the groceries out of the SUV and put them in a cooler in the store.” In a pleasant but unmistakably authoritative tone, he said, “We’ll take care of it. Please stand back. Someone will be over to take your statement soon.”

I waited, holding the restless kitten and watching the store manager pace from officer to officer trying to get information. Press crews arrived, adding to the confusion.

After what seemed an eternity, a man with skin drawn tightly over the contours of his face flashed a badge at me and said he was Detective Kenner. I told him the whole story.

When I finished, he said, “You know the store has cameras. We’ll be able to verify what you’ve said.”

Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of that? “So you’ll be able to see who killed that guy and put him in the Dumpster.”

“How do you know he was murdered?”

“Most people don’t bleed spontaneously from the chest.”

His cold eyes narrowed. “You’re in a lot of trouble, Mrs. Winston. Being a wiseacre isn’t going to help any.”

Was he trying to scare me? “I didn’t do anything. The store videos will back that up.”

“Then how do you explain the blood on your sweater?”

Huh? I looked down. Sure enough, thin streaks of dried blood ran underneath my right arm. At least it sure looked like blood. Above it, toward my shoulder, was an enormous dusty dirty spot. Instinctively I brushed at it.

He caught my wrist midair. “We’ll be taking your sweater as evidence. I don’t appreciate your sassiness. A man is dead and it looks like you were the last person to see him alive.”

Was that supposed to be some kind of absurd warning? “The store cameras will back up my story.”

“Believe me, we’ll be taking a very close look at those tapes.”

I was losing my patience with him. “Oh, this is absurd.”

“Not in my line of business. People don’t just pull over to Dumpsters and happen to find corpses. I consider that extremely odd behavior on your part.”

Moments later I was seated in the back of a squad car and being driven to police headquarters. Once there I was surprised that no one objected to the presence of the kitten. While I was fingerprinted, surrendered my sweater, and put on the T-shirt they gave me, a female officer played with him.

It was late afternoon by the time they drove me home. The warmth and familiarity of my kitchen had never felt so reassuring. I placed the kitten on the floor and let him explore. Luckily I found a piece of leftover chicken breast in the refrigerator. He wolfed the diced meat but ignored the water I set out.

The discovery of the dead man shook me more than I wanted to admit. I put the kettle on and plopped a bag of organic English Breakfast tea into my favorite mug. What had happened to that guy while I was in the store? Granted, it must have taken me about an hour to do all the shopping, but who would kill someone in a grocery store parking lot when there were so many people around? His truck had been parked by the Dumpster. Had that been his fatal mistake? The back of the store was eerily quiet and unobserved. Trees and brush separated it from the lot behind it.

The kettle whistled. I poured boiling water into my mug and looked for the kitten. He was valiantly trying to climb the chair next to the fireplace. I lifted him to the seat and after adding sugar and milk to my tea, sank into the other chair. He was already curled up in a fat little ball.

As I watched the kitten sleep, I couldn’t help wondering if the man had been killed because of the kitten. But if that was the case, wouldn’t the person have taken the kitten with him?

The brass acorn knocker on my front door banged briskly. Reluctantly I pried myself from my comfy chair, shuffled through the kitchen to the front door, and peered through the peephole. The policeman with the silver temples stood on my stoop.

I opened the door with dread. Wasn’t I through with this yet? I hadn’t even had a chance to change out of my police-issued T-shirt.

He smiled at me and offered a bag of groceries. “I thought you’d be needing these.”

I’d forgotten all about the groceries. I took the bag from him. “Thank you so much!”

He nodded. “I’ll get the rest.”

I unloaded them almost as fast as he brought them in. Everything appeared to be in good shape. And, as if by magic, six cans of kitten food and a bag of kitten kibble appeared among the groceries.

“Did you add the kitten food?” I asked, staring at him in wonder.

He set two carryout cups on the kitchen counter. “Yeah, figured you might be in a bind without a car.”

I offered to pay for it but he waved me off. “I took the liberty of bringing some mocha lattes.”

Uh-oh. He brought me my groceries, kitten food, and mocha lattes? Either he was too good to be true or this was some kind of good-cop, bad-cop routine. I poured the lattes into mugs and popped them in the microwave to warm them up. The refrigerator was getting a little bit crowded so I took out the leftover Bourbon Pecan Pie and cut two pieces for us.

He placed them on the kitchen table along with the mugs of latte.

This guy was no dummy. He intended to make me feel comfortable and relaxed so I would spill information. It had the opposite effect. Foreboding welled in my chest.

We sat down and he tasted the pie. “This is amazing.” His gaze stopped at my untouched plate. “Your first body, huh? You never forget your first murder.”

“How was he killed?”

The detective paused as though he was constructing a careful response. “Stabbed. The knife was in the Dumpster with him.”

I swallowed hard. It all happened so fast. One minute he was trying to give away a kitten and the next he was gone. A question had been tugging at me and I finally decided to bring things out in the open. “Am I a suspect?”

I couldn’t read his expression.

He studied me quietly. “Kenner thinks so. But he also thinks he’s Clint Eastwood and that everyone is guilty.”

“I don’t even know your name,” I blurted.

He grinned. “Detective Fleishman. Wolf, they call me Wolf.”

“What about my sweater? The blood on it must belong to the dead guy.”

His grin turned into a chuckle. “Mrs. Winston, I’ve seen a lot of murders in my day. There are a few things I know without having to make a big study of it like Kenner. One, it is possible for a woman to throw a dead guy into a Dumpster. When that adrenaline gets pumping, people can do incredible things. Two, killers go to the trouble of putting victims in Dumpsters because they want to hide them. Very few call the police and wait around for them. Three, that knife is going to come up clean, no fingerprints. I guarantee it. Somebody wanted that guy dead.”