Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

TWENTY-SIX

From “THE GOOD LIFE”:

Dear Sophie,

My mother-in-law complains that my Thanksgiving decor looks too much like Halloween. Must be those rotting pumpkins by the front door. What can I do that will please her?

—Desperate in Dumfries

Dear Desperate,

Instead of hiding your favorite photos in scrapbooks, make duplicates of pictures with an autumn theme. A memorable hike to see the leaves changing, the kids playing in piles of raked leaves, a beautiful garden of colorful squashes and pumpkins ready to be harvested, even a photo of dear mother-in-law visiting. Put them in frames that carry out the seasonal theme and bring them out each year after Halloween. Cluster them on a sideboard or entry hall table for an instant decoration and a lovely reminder of fun times that you can add to each year.

—Sophie

I watched the hearse drive away, hoping it wasn’t some sort of horrible omen. Carrying Mochie, I returned to the sunroom. Bernie had decided to watch the tiny TV in the den. Since he didn’t intend to sleep yet, I joined him and began downloading photographs of the stuffing competition from Dad’s camera. I knew it was a long shot, but he might have caught something of interest. Like Natasha kissing Clyde.

Thumbprint-sized images showed immediately. I scanned through them. Mom and Hannah at a bridal salon. Picture after picture of bridal gowns. I assumed Hannah wanted to remember the dresses and asked Dad to snap photos. Finally, a picture of the Stupendous Stuffing Shakedown banner that hung across the entrance to the hotel.

I viewed picture upon picture of Mom and Hannah. Craig showed up in a couple of them, but both times he’d turned his head and was barely recognizable. Dad had also taken some shots of Natasha, her creative baskets of ingredients behind her, and a few of Wendy and Emma and their work spaces as well.

If only Dad had been photographing the Washington Room or one of its entrances. Even though I hadn’t expected to find anything earthshaking, I couldn’t help being disappointed. I printed out two sheets of tiny thumbnails to examine in the morning when I’d be more alert.

The printer hummed and I looked over at Bernie. Snuggled in a down comforter, he snoozed peacefully with a snoring Daisy next to him. I put the computer to sleep, turned off the TV and the sole light on the desk. I left the thumbnails on the kitchen table and tiptoed up to bed with Mochie racing ahead.

In spite of a sleepless night, I rose early on Sunday. The rich aroma of coffee wafted to me as I walked downstairs to the kitchen. June sat by the fireplace, pouches under her eyes. I suspected she hadn’t slept well after the colonel’s middle-of-the-night date stopped by.

She muttered, “I never expected this of him.”

Wearing a silky robe, Mom studied the thumbnails I’d left on the table. I tapped her shoulder and whispered, “Is June talking to Faye?”

Mom nodded. “And check out Mochie.”

The kitten sat in front of the stone wall, staring at it as though listening to something. I shivered. “You don’t think he can hear Faye?”

Mom shrugged. “Who knows?”

I poured a mug of coffee for June. She needed a jolt of caffeine. She took it with a smile but continued to mutter.

“I’m glad you’re up early,” said Mom. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

I poured coffee into a mug, added milk, and when her back was turned, plopped in sugar. I didn’t need any more lectures about my weight. “What’s up?” I asked, sitting down next to her.

She glanced at June and whispered to me, “I saw Vicki embracing a man at the stuffing contest.”

I hadn’t expected that. “What did he look like?”

“Nice enough. Brown hair. At the time I thought it might be that driver of Simon’s, but I’m not sure. Oh, honey, do you think that has anything to do with the murders? I should have mentioned it sooner, but with all that’s happened, it went right out of my mind.”

Clyde? Did Vicki know about Natasha’s affair? “What kind of hug was it?”

“Friendly, but there was something odd about it, like they didn’t want anyone to see them.”

“Maybe it was an old client. Someone she met through her marriage counseling service?” Loads of people hugged at the contest. Vicki knew a lot of people, had counseled hundreds.

A knock at the kitchen door caught us off guard.

To my utter surprise, Francie walked inside and presented me with a white bakery box tied with a glittery gold ribbon.

“I brought muffins for brunch. Cranberry nutmeg, walnut mincemeat, and pumpkin spice.” She plunked the Sunday edition of the local paper on the kitchen table and removed her jacket. “Are you the only ones up?” She moseyed toward the coffee and poured herself a cup. Looking out the window over the sink, she said, “Sure is dead out there this morning.”

Brunch? I didn’t remember planning a brunch. The mere mention of it reminded me that I had ignored my company. Normally, I’d have planned all the meals in advance and even prepared a few dishes that I could pop in the oven so I wouldn’t have to abandon my guests to prepare them.

We could pull together eggs and bacon and whip up apple-cinnamon French toast. Thank heaven the freezer and pantry were well stocked. Could Mom have mentioned brunch to Francie?

Wearing sweats, Dad ambled in and stopped short. “Didn’t realize that we’re having company. Pardon me while I change.”

Mom and June followed suit, but Francie didn’t mind. She tossed kindling in the fire, lit it, and made herself at home in a fireside chair, her nose buried in the paper. At least I didn’t have to worry about entertaining her.

I found a basket big enough for the muffins, lined it with a white lace-edged napkin, and placed the muffins inside. While Francie read, I peeled and sliced firm Granny Smith apples and melted butter in a large pan. The apples plopped into the melting butter with a sizzle. I added a liberal dose of brown sugar, sprinkled cinnamon over the top, and gave the entire mixture a few good turns to blend it all. With the burner on low, I put the lid on and left the apples to simmer while I set the dining-room table.

Mochie zoomed past me into the living room. Daisy followed cautiously, as if she expected Mochie to change direction any second. Instead he jumped onto the sofa, gazed around, and then flew back toward Daisy and me in the dining room. I spread my arms and blocked the table, hoping to discourage Mochie from leaping on top of it. But at the last moment he veered to the right and halted abruptly in front of the buffet.

His bottom raised, Mochie flattened his chest to the floor and struggled to reach something under the buffet. I decided a mouse would run from him so I let him entertain himself by trying to bat out what was probably a major dust bunny while I set square white plates on an apricot tablecloth.

Natasha’s pumpkin wreath had started to cave in on itself. I carried it into the kitchen and tossed it in the trash. I retrieved a large rustic basket made of twigs, filled it with hard ruby pomegranates and rosy pears, and carried it, along with a bag of assorted nuts in the shells, to the dining table. I placed the basket in the center, ripped the bag open, and scattered nuts around the basket, throwing a generous handful on top of the fruit.

Something rattled as it spun across the floor. Daisy pranced after it. Mochie squeezed out from under the buffet, his belly flat, his whiskers white with dust-bunny fuzz. He ran to his new toy, which Daisy sniffed cautiously. Mochie batted it across the room, where it spun before rolling to the outer wall, raising the excitement level of his game. I spoiled his fun by retrieving it for a closer look.

Made of some sort of brassy metal, the cylindrical object measured about two and a half inches long and less than an inch in diameter. Both ends were rounded. Whatever it was, it had not been made to stand on end. Highly polished stones decorated it in between swirls of tiny golden beads.

I detected a thin line near one end and gave it a twist. It opened easily to reveal a hollow compartment. A creepy feeling came over me. My dread grew when I realized that Mochie was staring at something behind me. I whipped around in time to see Craig watching me again. I closed my hand over the object so he wouldn’t see it and suppressed my initial instinct to ask him, not very nicely, why he liked to spy on me.

Choking back my annoyance, I asked, “Hungry?”

“Sure smells good. Can I help you with anything?”

I would have sworn his eyes focused on my clenched hand when he asked. Mostly I wanted to get rid of him so I could close the little vial and cram it in my pocket away from His Nosiness.

“Would you bring the basket of muffins from the kitchen?”

He didn’t comply immediately. I suspected he knew I’d found something and that I was hiding it. My blood pressure rose in the few seconds that passed with us in a standoff. I had the upper hand, though. No matter what he’d seen, he couldn’t exactly tackle me and wrestle it from my hand with everyone else in the house.

As I stared him down, it occurred to me that he rarely showed emotion. He acted sweet and endearing around Hannah, but he must be a great poker player because he never displayed anger or frustration or any negative feelings. No matter how much he wanted to fit in and be accepted by our family, it didn’t account for his amazing self-control. I didn’t trust him and I didn’t like him.

At long last he left, presumably to fetch the muffins. I turned my back in case he was trying to fool me, twisted the top onto the peculiar vial, wrapped it in a napkin, and stuck it in my pocket.

Although I still found an occasional item from the days when Faye had owned the house, it seemed unlikely that the vial could have lain on the floor all these years without being noticed. But what a perfect little poison container. It fit easily in my pocket. No one would have noticed it in the palm of a killer’s hand. Or was I leaping to conclusions?

When Craig returned, I had finished setting the table. I smiled nicely, thanked him for his help, and rushed back to the kitchen so I wouldn’t have to be alone with him. Mom had the French toast under control, so I opened two packages of preservative-free bacon and laid the slices on the griddle. The mouthwatering aroma of crispy bacon would surely rouse Bernie.

I struggled to act normal but I couldn’t help watching Craig. Had he intended to look for something in the dining room? Did the vial belong to him? Did he have a reason to poison Mars?

Ten minutes later, the entire household gathered for brunch in the dining room. But the phone rang before I could take my first bite. I chose not to answer. The machine could pick up and we would all enjoy a peaceful brunch.

The knock on the door a few minutes later was more difficult to ignore. When I opened it, Nina burst in. She hadn’t bothered to wear a coat over her dressing gown.

“You won’t believe this—my monster-in-law saw the colonel being loaded into a hearse last night.”

“Did we hear that right?” Dad asked from the dining room.

It was too late to hide it from June. Nina bustled into the dining room and I followed.

“I’m still in shock,” she said.

I watched June. Would she be able to deal with another blow?

“Good Lord! The man must have had a heart attack last night when his tart visited,” said Mom.

“Or someone killed him.”

“Sophie, why would you even think that?” Mom asked.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit much to be coincidental? We know he was at the stuffing challenge. He spent Thanksgiving Day with us. Whoever killed Otis and Simon must have killed him, too.”

Dad murmured, “I’d rather believe the tart did him in.”

June looked down at her fingers, folding and unfolding her napkin.

Francie lowered her forehead to a quivering hand. “This can’t be happening.”

“The hearse!” I said. “Before I went to bed last night I saw a hearse driving down the street. The tart must have found his body.”

Nina picked up a piece of bacon and chewed on it, “What tart?”

I set a place for Nina while Hannah explained about the tart’s arrival during the night.

“That old codger. Who’da thought it?” Nina helped herself to French toast and apples.

Francie slumped against the back of her chair. “No! It can’t be. It’s not possible.”

“What about MacArthur?” I asked Nina. What had the tart done with him last night when the colonel was taken to the morgue? Had he been left alone in the house? “Francie, do you know how to get into the colonel’s house?”

Francie pursed her lips as she gazed around the table, evidently debating how she should answer. “I’ll go with you.”

We pulled on coats and walked somberly across the street.

The sun shone, the cold air felt clean and crisp, and it was impossible to imagine that the colonel wasn’t with us anymore. We opened the gate to the service alley and rounded the back of the house. Francie lifted a terra-cotta flowerpot and slid a key out from underneath it.

I unlocked the door and found MacArthur waiting eagerly inside. A leash hung on a hook next to the door. The colonel’s collection of walking sticks stood underneath in an umbrella stand. I winced at the sight of his favorite with a bronze bulldog’s head as the handle. The colonel wouldn’t be needing that again.

When I clasped the leash onto MacArthur’s collar, he burst out into his yard as though he was overdue for a morning walk.

Francie locked up and hid the key. “Should . . . should we go in and look around?”

I wrapped an arm around her. “There’s nothing to look for anymore, Francie. I’m sorry.”

We returned to my house, where Francie all but collapsed into her seat at the dining table. While Mom encouraged her to eat something, I took MacArthur into the kitchen and fed the dogs and Mochie a snack.

Nina toddled into the kitchen. “Your mom says to put on another pot of coffee.” She leaned over to pat MacArthur. “This is just terrible. Do you really think it’s connected to the murders? Maybe he, you know, got frisky with the tart and it was too much for him.”

I glanced at the kitchen door to be sure no one would overhear. “Mochie found this in the dining room.” I pulled the napkin from my pocket, dropped the cylindrical vial into a clear plastic bag, and sealed it shut.

Nina frowned as she examined it. “They sold these last year at the Christmas Bazaar. You can put perfume inside. They weren’t cheap but they’re not worth burglarizing a house for.” Her eyes widened. “You think the killer brought the poison in this!”

“It would have been easy to carry in a pocket. I can’t think of any other reason it would be in my dining room.”

Nina held it up to the light. “This must be what the intruder wanted. Either he knew he dropped it on Thanksgiving or he got home that night and realized he’d lost it.”

But why ransack Vicki and Andrew’s house? Unless he thought one of them or Natasha or Mars found it,” I mused. “When he didn’t locate it at their house, he came here.”

“Could any of them know who the killer is and be blackmailing him? Andrew always needs money. Or what if the killer thought the colonel had the little vial, broke into his house, and scared him so badly he had a heart attack last night?”

My phone rang and I answered reluctantly, unwilling to receive any more bad news.

“It’s your husband.” I handed the phone to Nina.

She groaned and said, “Be right there,” before hanging up. “I forgot all about lunch with the monster-in-law before they leave.”

“They?” I asked.

“She’s going home, my husband is off on another business trip, and someone adopted Duke yesterday. I have to hand him over on Monday. Soon I’ll have an empty house.”

Nina left while I brewed more coffee. MacArthur waggled his hind end at me as though he was sure I must have more treats. I fed him another dog biscuit because I felt terrible for him. Of course, Daisy ate another as well, and I gave Mochie a tiny bite of bacon. MacArthur didn’t appear particularly upset about being at my house. Later in the day when he couldn’t go home, he’d probably grow uneasy and miss the colonel.

“Empty house.” Nina’s words echoed in my mind. Her house would be empty, as would the colonel’s. If the killer thought my house would be empty, he might come back to search for the little vial.

Carrying the carafe of coffee, I returned to the gloomy group around my dining-room table. MacArthur, Daisy, and Mochie trotted along, no doubt hoping for more treats. If Francie or June had eaten anything, I couldn’t tell. Even Bernie moved food around his plate without interest.

“Dad,” said Hannah, “did you get a picture of the pink tablecloths that were bunched up in swags with coordinating bows?”

I couldn’t believe Hannah could be so unfeeling. Didn’t she ever think of anything except that ridiculous wedding?

Dad shrugged. “If you told me to take one, I probably did.”

Her voice devoid of enthusiasm, Mom said, “Sophie printed thumbnails last night. They’re in the kitchen.”

Francie jumped up. “I’m sorry, I have to go.” She didn’t bother with her coat and fled out the front door.

Mom wrapped her hand over Dad’s. “June, would you like to walk with us? Fresh air would do us all good before the rain sets in. We can take MacArthur and Daisy and maybe we can light a candle for the colonel at one of the churches.”

Craig leapt at the suggestion. “Excellent. I think I’ll go for a run.”

A little too eagerly, I thought. Running after eating? That didn’t sound right. Unlike the others, I noticed that Craig managed to eat everything on his plate. Ten minutes later, Bernie, Hannah, and I were left to clear the table and store the leftovers. Hannah carried a few dishes to the kitchen but soon settled at the table with the thumb-nail photos.

“How could Dad manage to take only two pictures of Craig?” she whined. “And both are so bad. He’ll have to take a lot of pictures today because I want some to frame.” She bent forward for a closer look. “Soph, do you have a magnifying glass?”

“In the desk in the den, top drawer.”

Hannah returned in less than a minute. She studied the photos and quietly said, “Soph, come here a second.”

Handing me the magnifier, she pointed a blush-pink fingernail at a tiny picture. “See your work space behind Craig? Move all the way over to the right. Anything strike you as odd?”