Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

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.”

The ovens hadn’t fully cooled when I set them to preheat again. Then I stood in front of the refrigerator and handed Bernie one container after another.

“Any soup left?” he asked.

“Very funny.”

“I’m not joking. It tasted delicious.”

“We ate it all. The police officer had to take the bowls to get samples.”

“Too bad. I’d have enjoyed a bowl.”

I knew I hadn’t tampered with the soup and even I wouldn’t have dared take another bite now that we knew Mars had been poisoned.

Half an hour later, we gathered at the dining room table again. Those of us who hadn’t gone to the hospital picked at our favorites, but Bernie and June ate proper meals.

The colonel placed his hand on top of June’s. “Mars will be fine. He received prompt medical treatment and most likely won’t have any lingering effects.”

“You can’t imagine what it’s like to know someone wants to kill your son. And then to have the police suspect his own family—Andrew and Vicki and me. I never thought I would live to see anything like this.”

After dinner, Mom helped June up to bed. The gallant colonel whistled for MacArthur, collected his walking stick, and insisted he walk Francie home in the dark. With a coquettish smile, Francie took his arm and strolled into the night.

Humphrey offered to help with the dishes, but it had been a long and strange day for all of us and, frankly, I didn’t want to deal with his overtures. I assured him that he’d done more than his fair share of dishes and saw him to the door.

Hannah, Craig, and Dad retired to the family room.

Bernie and I made quick work of cleaning up the kitchen. I could barely keep my eyes open and headed for bed, but Bernie joined the others for a movie.

I slept restlessly, waking to think again about Mars and why anyone would poison him. At three in the morning, I padded down the stairs and found my mom and June in the kitchen. Daisy waited patiently for a crumb of crust from the pumpkin pie Mom sliced.

Mochie on her lap, June gabbed and as far as I could tell, Mom was ignoring her.

I nudged Mom. “June’s talking.”

“Sophie! I didn’t hear you come in. Before you know it, everyone will be up. We’re having hot milk. Want some?”

I poured more milk into the pot on the stove.

“Sweetheart, I’ve been trying to keep things light for Hannah’s sake. This weekend with Craig getting to know us is so important to her. But tomorrow, you have to do whatever you can to figure out who’s at the bottom of all this mayhem. I don’t want to worry your dad, but, honey, even if Wolf does have eyes for you, you’re a prime suspect. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Mom, you do realize that June’s talking?”

“Not to us. She’s talking with Faye.”

So much for Mars and me keeping that little secret. “Faye is dead. Don’t you think that’s unusual?”

“No, I talk to my father.”

“Do you hear him talk back?” I whispered.

“Lots of people talk to loved ones who have passed on. Who’s to say what’s normal in that respect? I know my father is with me in spirit. For all we know he could be standing right next to us.”

Between Faye and my deceased grandfather, the kitchen felt a little crowded.

Mochie leapt from June’s lap and pounced on a tiny wad of aluminum foil. He batted it with his paw and played kitty hockey by racing after it and giving it another whack.

Mom handed me a plate with a piece of pie, topped by a droplet of whipped cream. “Wolf likes to eat, so he probably doesn’t mind a few extra pounds on a woman, but, just the same, you ought to cut back a little bit before you get too chunky.”

Where was Hannah when I needed her to distract Mom? “There’s nothing going on between Wolf and me.”

“If we’d known Wolf would be here for dinner, we never would have called Humphrey.”

“We?”

“June and I.” The corners of her mouth twitched down. “I confess. I’m horrified about the fire at Natasha’s house, but the timing worked perfectly. June and I were conspiring to throw you and Mars together. We invited Humphrey because we needed someone to make Mars jealous.”

June joined Mom at the kitchen table. “Didn’t quite work out the way we planned.”

A killer was on the loose and these two were playing matchmaker? “You thought Mars would be jealous of Humphrey? You couldn’t pick someone with more sex appeal? Any appeal for that matter?” Heaven only knew what Mom had told Humphrey. That explained his mistaken impression that I had feelings for him.

“He’s very pale, isn’t he?” Mom addressed June. “His mother has that skin. Never spent a minute in the sun and looks ten years younger than the rest of us because of it.”

Daisy whimpered at the kitchen door. I reached for the handle to let her out when a soft knock surprised us.

I opened the door and my neighbor Nina barged in, shivering from the cold. “I saw the lights on and had to join your midnight snack. Brr, it’s cold out there. Got any of that Mozart liquor?”

“Chocolate liquor with pumpkin pie?” I said.

“Chocolate goes with everything,” she assured me.

I pointed at the round bottle wrapped in gold foil and she poured her own drink while I cut more pie.

“Lots of whipped cream, please,” she said. “I deserve it for putting up with my mother-in-law and her delusions that, since I’m a southerner, I ought to be another Natasha.”

After handing Nina a piece of pie, I plopped more cream on my slice and joined the others at the table.

“Natasha tried to kill Mars,” said June.

Nina’s fork fell out of her hand and clattered onto her plate.

We filled her in on what had transpired.

“I knew it. She’s too perky and perfect. Who’s like that? Nobody can build a dining set from scratch and serve a ten-course dinner in the same day.”

Mom spread a thin layer of cream across the top of her pie. “Natasha didn’t do it.” She gazed around at us. “You might not like Natasha and I’m sure you have your reasons, but that girl forged past all the terrible things that happened to her. She stayed focused on her career and deserves the success she’s had. She’s egocentric, I know, but I think a lot of successful people are.”

June scowled. “It had to be Natasha. You know Andrew, Vicki, and I wouldn’t poison Mars. And no one in your family would have reason to do so. That leaves Craig, the colonel, Francie, and Bernie. Not much of a lineup.”

“If the police think it’s related to the murders, then it all comes back to the dead PI that Sophie found,” said Nina.

So much for keeping that from Mom. I explained in detail how I’d obtained Mochie. Mom took it better than I expected. “Then that’s where you need to start. June and I will entertain everyone tomorrow. Nina, can you escape from your hostess duties?”

“I’d love nothing more.”

“In the morning, you two pay a visit to the widow and see what you can find out.”

After breakfast, I found Otis Pulchinski’s address by searching for ocicat breeders on the internet. Dean Coswell, my editor, had forwarded e-mailed questions for “The Good Life.” I answered enough to fill my column for the next few days.

We didn’t want to disturb Mrs. Pulchinski too early, so Nina and I lingered over a second cup of coffee with my parents and June before driving to the northwest part of town.

Otis had lived in a town house that was part of a cluster of recently built houses. Spent leaves littered the tiny front yard and rust crept up a white van parked in the driveway. Nina pulled the Jag in behind it.

No one answered when I rang the doorbell. Nina tried it a second time and we heard it chime inside the house. I stepped back, off the raised stoop, and searched the exterior of the house. It didn’t provide any clues about the owners. The red brick facade and Federal accents looked like all the other houses. But when I turned to go, I saw a curtain move in the window to the left of the door.

I motioned to Nina and knocked on the front door. “Mrs. Pulchinski? I . . . I have your cat.”

A voice answered from inside the house. “What cat?”

“The one Otis had with him when—” I stopped abruptly. Why hadn’t I prepared a way to say this?

The voice behind the door grew hysterical. “I’m not taking him back!”

Nina and I exchanged a look. She shrugged.

“I don’t want to give him back.”

With a creak, the door opened two inches. “Got him with you?”

“No.”

“You wouldn’t be lying, would you?” She swung the door open and eyed us with suspicion. A cloud of stale cigarette smoke enveloped us.

Ebony hair jutted from her head at odd angles and she’d applied a black eyebrow pencil with a heavy hand. A spandex-tight top and capri pants in a leopard print clung to her small frame. “That cat’s nothing but trouble. Sold him twice, gave him away once, and everybody brought him back. Well, don’t just stand there, doncha see I’ve got cats who’ll run out the door?”

I wondered if she was confused and had another cat in mind. On the other hand, I wanted to keep my little Mochie and wasn’t altogether unhappy that she didn’t want him back.

We scooted in, taking care not to step on any of the inquisitive kitties. They were everywhere. Lounging in bookcases, sitting on top of the TV, milling around our legs. Chocolate, cinnamon, silver, and fawn and every one of them spotted, like an ocelot.

As was the furniture. Leopard print throws, pillows, chairs, even the slipcovers on the sofas sported spots.

“What are you going to do with him?” She took a long drag on a cigarette. “Take him to the pound?”

“I planned to keep him.”

Mrs. Pulchinski couldn’t hide her surprise but she recovered quickly. “Did Otis tell you he’s a very valuable cat? Purebred ocicat.”

I didn’t think Nina was paying attention. She made no effort to hide her curiosity by taking in every detail of our surroundings. But she startled me by asking, “Then why doesn’t he have spots like these cats?”

Mrs. Pulchinski motioned us to the sofas. She sat down and six cats immediately jumped on her, vying for her attention. “That’s what makes him so expensive. He has the spots on his tummy but those stripes only appear once or twice in a dozen litters. The striped ones have”—she paused and considered her word choice—“outgoing personalities that make them very popular. I sell ’em for eight hundred dollars.”

Mrs. Pulchinski watched our reaction with crafty eyes. Did she think we were complete dolts? I changed the subject before she could demand payment for Mochie.

“I’m very sorry for your loss. Were you and Otis married long?” I wanted to keep the conversation moving. The cops must have told her a woman found her husband’s body. If she’d made the connection to me, she showed no sign of it.

“Spent fifteen years with the old coot.” She dabbed at her nose with a tissue. “I don’t know what I’m going to do for money. He had some big-shot clients and we were expecting the dough to roll in any day, but now all I have is my wonderful kittens. I hate to part with any of them but I have to live off something.”

“I thought you were a breeder.” I had expected to see photos of Otis, but all the framed pictures in the room featured spotted cats. Most of them professional photos of cats posed in front of becoming backdrops.

“I am. But it still breaks my heart to part with any of them. Especially that little sweetheart Otis gave you.”

Did I have “idiot” written across my forehead? “I can’t help wondering why he had the kitten with him the day he died,” I said.

She searched the room as though she was looking for an answer. “Vet. Was taking him to the vet.”

“Was he sick?” I asked. “Does he need medicine?”

This time she had a ready response. “Shots. Just needed his shots.” She examined us carefully and her gaze locked on Nina’s three-carat engagement ring. “You know, cats are much happier when they have a cat companion. You interested in buying a kitten?”

“No, thanks.” I had a very bad feeling that I was about to write a check for Mochie.

“How about a PI? Either of you need to spy on your husbands? I’ll give you a good price.”

“You worked with your husband?” Nina asked.

Mrs. Pulchinski stabbed the butt of her cigarette into a glass ashtray. “You know how it is, all wives work with their husbands.”

We must have looked skeptical because she rambled on. “Dumb old Otis got himself killed just when his business was drawing big customers. Politicians’ wives take over when their husbands kick the bucket. I don’t see why I can’t carry on.”

Nina scooted forward on the sofa and bent toward Mrs. Pulchinski. “Of course, you can. You have all his files, know who his clients are. It’s a natural transition.”

“Stupid cops came in here looking for files. They took the computer with them but it won’t help them none. He wasn’t dumb enough to keep anything about his clients in writing. Otis understood privacy. That’s why they liked him.”

I took out my checkbook. “Mrs. Pulchinski, I can’t afford an eight-hundred-dollar cat, but maybe I can make a little donation to help you buy kitty kibble.”

“That’s right neighborly of you.” She lit another cigarette. “Pen’s on the desk.”

Dust marked the spot on the desk where the computer had been. A coaster bearing the logo of the Stag’s Head Inn, a dive I’d walked by, lay on the desk. She’d dumped her mail and, even though she wasn’t exactly a straight shooter, I felt sorry for her. Bills spilled from the heap of letters, and I didn’t see many hand-addressed envelopes in the way of condolences. She might be very alone in the world, except for her cats.

I found a pen in the top drawer and was making out a check when Nina leaned over my shoulder and gave the pile of mail a little push. Her unpolished fingernail tapped madly on a robin’s-egg blue envelope.

Natasha’s signature color.