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

Lying in bed that night, I heard Hannah and her beau let themselves in and walk up to their third-floor bedroom. They whispered and carried on like teenagers, and I was glad that Hannah had found someone to share her life with.

I drifted off into an uneasy slumber with Mochie nestled by my feet. At four in the morning I sat bolt upright in bed. How had Otis known I would be at the grocery store? He parked there before I did so he couldn’t have followed me.

Finding the dead man had been bad enough, but knowing that he’d been looking for me scared me. Who would hire a private investigator to hunt me down? And why?

Mars and I had settled everything in our divorce with relative ease. We’d had a few squabbles but they were behind us.

Natasha and I had known each other for years. Surely she wouldn’t hire a private investigator. Ours had always been a friendly rivalry. Had her relationship with Mars changed that? She coveted my house but I couldn’t see how a private investigator would help her there. And though she was annoyingly perfect, Natasha wasn’t an evil person at heart.

I was far too restless to sleep. Thinking back through names and faces of people I’d worked with, old friends, old not-so-friendly acquaintances, I picked my way down the ancient stairs, treading carefully to lessen creaks that might wake the others. Mochie scampered along ahead of me. I padded silently into the glass-roofed sunroom that overlooked the backyard, retrieved a throw, and curled up in a chair, tucking my feet underneath me. The moon illuminated the yard but the fence and plants cast eerie shadows. I still hadn’t righted the pots overturned by the Peeping Tom.

Could the Peeping Tom have been Otis, the dead man? Why would he prowl around my house? What did he want from me? Who would have hired him to nose around?

A stair groaned behind me. In the still house, the noise seemed amplified. Holding the throw around my shoulders, I ventured into the foyer.

“Mom? Dad?” I whispered.

The only response came from Mochie, who rubbed against my ankles. Could the kitten have caused that loud sound? Surely not. I stood still, listening.

Was Craig sneaking around the house at night? I’d spent a whopping twenty minutes with Dr. Craig Beacham and it wasn’t fair of me to jump to conclusions, but there was something about him that I didn’t like. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but he gave me the willies.

I was being ridiculous. Finding Otis’s body had me on edge and now I was inventing things. I picked up Mochie and walked into the kitchen. Before I switched on the light, I could have sworn I heard a door close somewhere in the house. But in the stillness that followed I wasn’t sure.

Berating myself for imagining things, I concluded that someone might have been using the bathroom. There was certainly nothing wrong with that.

I collected the items I needed for the stuffing competition and placed them in boxes. Mochie roamed around sniffing everything. Crouching low inside a box, he wiggled his tiny bottom and jumped up at me when I neared.

I rearranged the contents of the refrigerator again, replaced the shelf and set the brined turkey inside on a rack to dry off so the skin would crisp up nicely.

At six o’clock, I put on a pot of coffee, poured organic orange juice, and set the table for breakfast. The heavenly scent of baking bread soon filled the kitchen.

I had to put Otis out of my mind. I hadn’t done anything wrong. If I let his murder get to me, I wouldn’t be able to focus on the competition today.

Since no one was up yet, I took advantage of the quiet to draft Thanksgiving Day advice for “The Good Life.” Satisfied with my scribbles, I e-mailed the column to Mr. Coswell.

The ancient hardwood floors upstairs creaked and I heard water running. I made a quick list of things I needed to do after the contest in preparation for Thanksgiving. I should have baked the pies and made the stuffing yesterday, but a dead man got in the way. I’d have to catch up tonight.

Keeping an eye on Nina’s house, I rinsed serving dishes that I would need for Thanksgiving but hadn’t been used since last year. With my car, Nike on Wheels, impounded by the police, I needed a ride to the contest. The hotel where it was being held was walking distance from my house but I had too many ingredients to carry. Nina had planned to go anyway, so I didn’t think I’d be imposing on her if I asked for a ride. That way, Hannah or my parents would be free to come to the contest late or leave early if they wanted.

When Nina stepped out to fetch the morning paper, I dashed across the street, spilled the entire story about Otis, and asked if she would mind giving me a lift to the contest.

At eight o’clock, Nina’s low-slung Jaguar purred in front of my house. Almost before I buckled my seat belt, Nina started in on me. “Sophie, sugar, first thing you do is throw Natasha off her stride. I bet you a latte and a chocolate croissant that she says something ugly to you while you’re cookin’. You better be ready to laugh in her face.”

I took a deep breath and released it. Nina was right. I needed to be prepared to let Natasha’s barbs float past me.

“You go right in there and say somethin’ that’ll get her goat.”

That wasn’t my style. “I’m not playing dirty. Besides, the results will hinge on whose stuffing is best.”

“Honey, I wasn’t the college tennis champ for four years without knowing a thing or two about psyching out the competition. Trust me on this.”

Nina pulled her Jaguar up to the entrance of a fancy hotel on North Fairfax Street. My pulse quickened with anticipation.

The Stupendous Stuffing Shakedown began in the summer with a staggering two hundred contestants. They were whittled down to one hundred amateur cooks, like me, who prepared our stuffings for a panel of judges. My Crusty Country Bread, Bacon, and Herb Stuffing had made the final three. Then the sponsors invited three local celebrities to compete in the finals, Natasha among them.

The contest was the brainstorm of media mogul Simon Greer, a self-confessed stuffing addict. Never one to overlook an opportunity to make money, his TV crew was already set up and filming when we entered the ballroom.

Each contestant was provided a small workspace equipped with a stovetop and two ovens. The bellman in tow with my boxes, I passed Emma Moosbacher and Wendy Schultz, the other two amateurs. Emma entered Chesapeake Cornbread Stuffing, and Wendy was a serious contender with her Cranberry Mushroom Wild Rice Stuffing.

The bellman led me to the workspace between Natasha and Wendy.

Natasha posed in front of her work counter, smiling and signing autographs. Her ebony hair gleamed under the harsh lights, every strand flowing perfectly onto her shoulders. Although she wore a simple robin’s-egg blue shirt tucked into matching trousers, they draped on her like they would on a model. She still maintained the beauty queen figure of her youth. Just seeing her made my own shirt and khakis feel tighter.

I tipped the bellman and unpacked my boxes, clustering ingredients on my work counter. I couldn’t help noticing that while I’d brought my ingredients in cardboard boxes rescued from the grocery store, Natasha’s items rested on her counter in baskets beautifully decorated with harvest ribbons and turkeys constructed of pine cones.

“Sophie!” Natasha elegantly picked her way past her fans to give me a hug. “Who’d have thought you would make it to the finals? The two gals from Berrysville all grown up and competing again.”

Fans clustered behind her, waiting patiently for autographs. Fans who aspired to the perfection she represented and served up to them each day on her show. No one could meet the expectations she created.