Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

FOUR

From the Live with Natasha show:

Don’t skip the all-important step of brining your turkey. It needs to sit in salt water for four to eight hours. Wash thoroughly, then let it rest on a roasting rack, uncovered, in your refrigerator for twenty-four hours before you roast it.

“He had my picture?” I shivered as though a cold fall wind had blown.

Wolf watched me from the stoop, his brown eyes narrowed.

“But that doesn’t make any sense. Do you think he brought the kitten as a lure? Like people who want to kidnap children?”

Wolf’s eyebrows shot up.

I clutched the door frame. “Do you think someone hired him to hurt me?”

“Does someone want to hurt you?”

“No!” It came out too loud. “Not that I know of.”

Wolf gave up his bad-guy stance and patted my arm. “Relax. It’s probably nothing quite so sinister. Otis was a private detective. A little on the sleazy side, but I don’t think he ever operated as a hit man.”

“Hit man?” That was worse than I’d thought. “But what would a private investigator want with me? And why bring the kitten? And then get killed?”

“Precisely.” He turned and walked toward his car. Looking back, he said, “Thanks for the pie. I’ll be in touch.”

It was the polite thing to say, yet I felt an ominous undercurrent, like this wasn’t the end of my involvement with Wolf or Otis.

I closed the door behind me and leaned against it, wondering why Otis had been looking for me. Dr. Craig Beacham stood ten feet away. He quickly averted his eyes and disappeared into the kitchen. I could have sworn he’d been listening.

I trailed after him and found my parents making a fuss over Mochie. I kept my explanation about his presence brief, saying only that I’d found him in the grocery store parking lot. No point in worrying them about the murdered private investigator and his troubling interest in me.

To my immense relief, that evening Hannah and her fiancé walked down to King Street for a romantic dinner. I remained at home with my parents, listening to my mother talk at great length about wedding gowns and doctors. All the while, I went through the motions expected of me in a daze.

I measured flour and dumped it into the bread machine along with water, a knob of butter, salt, and yeast. Barely paying attention, I set the timer so we would have fresh bread for breakfast.

No wonder the police thought I had something to do with the murder. Would the videotapes of the parking lot help me? There wouldn’t be any audio. The police might assume that Otis said something threatening to me. Had he meant to? Had he brought the kitten as a diversion in case anyone saw him talking to me?

“Sophie!” Mom practically shouted into my ear. “Did you hear me? You need to brine the turkey tonight.”

I didn’t have the energy. “It’ll be just as good without brining.” The scandalized look on Mom’s face forced me to debate which would be worse—a lengthy argument about the benefits of brining or actually brining the turkey. I didn’t think I had the strength for an argument.

I rearranged the contents of the refrigerator and removed a shelf to accommodate the brining tub. Once the turkey rested safely in salted water, I used the stuffing competition as an excuse to go to bed early.

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.

She waved vigorously at someone. “Mars will be here; I hope that won’t be too emotional for you.” She clutched her hands to her chest. “Oh, poor Sophie. The holidays are always so difficult when you’re alone, aren’t they?”

Two parents, my sister, and her fiancé didn’t qualify as being alone in my book. “I’m not exactly alone.”

“You have a boyfriend? How wonderful. What a relief to know that love handles don’t deter all men. You’re an inspiration to us all.”

Was Natasha trying to psyche me out exactly as Nina predicted? I recalled Nina’s advice and tried to serve Natasha a little of her own medicine. “I see you’re making Oyster Stuffing. Mars detests oysters and mussels, you know.”

For one long second, I thought I had her. But she came back fast. “Not the way I make it.”

She turned quickly and resumed her pose in front of her counter. I couldn’t help gloating a little bit. Obviously, she didn’t know about Mars’s aversion to oysters.

Simon Greer ambled toward us, a sly grin on his face. A crowd gathered behind him.

Wendy, the amateur contender on my other side, ran her fingers through her short, curly hair, and mock whispered, “He’s so gorgeous. Wish he were the prize.”

Simon wasn’t tall but he cut an imposing figure anyway. Sharply creased khaki trousers and a cashmere hunter-green sweater showed off a well-toned physique. Wavy hair in a controlled tumble only emphasized his boyish charm. No wonder women fawned over him. He had looks and gobs of money. Every step seemed to ooze the confidence of wealth. He prided himself on being a self-made man, though Nina, who kept up with celebrity doings, told me his wealth originated with early cell phone technology deals that had since been made illegal. He parlayed those millions into a national cable network and a magazine publishing empire.

I’d met him in passing at some of the bigger charity events I’d handled but this was the first time I could ever remember seeing Simon without a tuxedo. And today the women drooling over him were a little older and chubbier than the usual line of gold diggers that trailed him.

He kissed Natasha on the cheek and thanked her for participating. She flushed despite her flawless makeup. Clearly used to publicity, he put his arm around Natasha and offered a practiced grin for photographs.

A chestnut-haired man slightly taller than Simon, fit but not brawny, moved with him. At first I thought he might be a friend of Simon’s but he appeared to be scanning the people around Simon. He wore a bored Secret Service agent expression. A bodyguard? If so, he didn’t seem to sense any urgency.

Natasha was still talking to Simon when he broke away and swung easily into my work space.

I held out my hand but he ignored it and leaned in to kiss me. If I hadn’t turned my head fast, he’d have planted one right on my lips.

Up close, tiny laugh crinkles around his eyes made him even more enchanting. Loud enough for everyone to hear, he said, “So good to see you again. Good luck today, Sophie.” And then he lowered his voice. “I have tickets to The Nutcracker at the Kennedy Center for Saturday. My driver, Clyde, will pick you up at seven.”

Did he just ask me out? His bored shadow gave me a curt nod so I assumed he must be Clyde.

Simon winked at me and strode away to welcome Wendy.

She drifted over to me when he moved on. “I can’t believe that just happened. I couldn’t be more excited if he’d asked me for a date. It’s . . . it’s like going out with a movie star, only better.”

“Better?”

“Are you kidding? Do you know what he’s worth? I’d dump my sweet, fat old Marvin any day for Simon.” She paused, waved, and called out, “Hi, honey!”

A portly guy sitting in the front row of spectator chairs waved back.

Maybe she had a point, but the whole thing left a sour taste in my mouth. It wasn’t an invitation, it was . . . a command. As though he assumed I’d love to go with him. Was he so used to women agreeing that he didn’t bother asking?

Wendy watched me with a dreamy expression. “What I wouldn’t give to have Simon Greer interested in me.”

Stupid Simon. He was a judge. What had he done? Didn’t he realize the position he put me in by asking me out? He couldn’t wait a few hours until after they announced the winner?

Natasha rushed over, the color drained from her face. “Did I hear that right?” She reprimanded me like an angry schoolteacher. “I never expected this from you. Sleeping with a judge to win? It can’t be easy for you to continually be an also-ran, but, Sophie, this is practically prostitution. What will your new boyfriend think?” She emitted a small gasping sound like something terrible had occurred to her. “Simon’s your new beau. You’ve rigged the contest!”