Read Diva 01 _ Diva Runs Out of Thyme, The Online

Authors: Krista Davis

Tags: #Murder, #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #Women Sleuths, #General, #Murder - Investigation, #Investigation, #Mystery Fiction, #Women Cooks, #Large Type Books, #Cookery, #Crime, #Entertaining, #Thanksgiving Day

Diva 01 _ Diva Runs Out of Thyme, The (3 page)

BOOK: Diva 01 _ Diva Runs Out of Thyme, The

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With that off my mind I was able to concentrate and checked my lists—one for the stuffing contest and the other for Thanksgiving dinner. I was picking out a chicken for stock when Tamera Turner, a local news anchor, cornered me.

“Sophie, they don’t have squab and they’re out of acorn squashes. Where are you going to get yours?”

A well-fed, bespectacled man leaned over the poultry selection as though he was trying to listen in. A fan of Tamera’s?

“I’m not doing Natasha’s dinner.”

“You’re not?” Tamera placed her hand on my arm. “What are you making? My Thanksgiving is already a disaster. I have to work. I don’t have time for this.”

“Mostly family, right? Are you having a formal sit-down dinner or will the guys be watching football?”

“My husband made a deal with me. As long as he can watch all the football he wants, he’ll smoke the turkey. I thought I’d set up a buffet.”

“Then why are you serving broth? You know all they want is turkey, stuffing, and potatoes. Maybe a little pie for later. Besides, it wouldn’t be practical for your guests to carry around acorn squashes with soup in them.”

Tamera smacked her forehead. “You’re so right. What was I thinking?” She thanked me and bustled off, relief evident on her face.

The pudgy man smiled at me. “Are you Sophie Winston?”

I assumed the gentleman had an event in mind and handed him one of my business cards.

He reached out to shake my hand. “Dean Coswell. How very fortunate that I ran into you. I was going to give you a call this afternoon. Your ex-husband, Mars, thought you might be the right person for a project I have in mind.” He adjusted his glasses with his thumb and middle finger. “My wife wasted yesterday looking for squab and acorn squash. This morning I had to take her to the emergency room because she mangled her finger with the electric drill trying to make a nut garland. Can you imagine—she was their seventh nut garland victim this morning. Anyway, it occurs to me that despite Natasha’s popularity, a lot of people dislike her. My newspaper is planning a column called “The Good Life.” Think you could bring back some good sense to the good life?”

“Me? Write a column?” It was like a dream come true. I didn’t even care if they paid me. The opportunity to vie with Natasha would be cathartic. “Yes!”

Coswell raised his arms and cheered, “I’ve found my anti-Natasha! Could you have something ready for the Thanksgiving edition?”

Why was it always like this in life? I’d taken time off work so I could prepare for my family’s visit. One day would be eaten up by the Stupendous Stuffing Shakedown and now, already pressed for time, I was committing to another project. But this was important to me. I agreed to write something to ease his overstressed wife and he handed me a card with his e-mail address scribbled on the back.

I waited in line for fresh loaves of crusty country bread for my stuffing, amazed by my good fortune. Mars had recommended me? We might be divorced but no matter how I looked at it, he was still a good guy.

When I left the store, I searched the parking lot for any sign of the man with the kitten. I didn’t see him anywhere and guessed he’d moved on. A kitten was the last thing I needed, but I still felt a tiny twinge of disappointment. I just hoped the kitten would be okay.

I loaded the groceries and backed the car out but was blocked by an elderly woman who could barely see over the steering wheel of her ancient boat-sized Cadillac. She was having trouble maneuvering and somehow managed to stop traffic in the parking lot. There weren’t a lot of choices. To give her room, I eased backward toward the rear of the store.

A dark blue pickup truck idled next to a Dumpster, a banana box on the hood. My stomach churned. Surely that man hadn’t tossed the poor kitten? Driving too fast, I slid alongside the truck.

The insistent wind blew mercilessly and the box threatened to tumble. I hopped out, raced for it, and caught it before the wind could sweep it away. Inside, the tiny kitten stretched toward me. I couldn’t mistake the huge curious eyes. I scooped it up and held it close, immediately rewarded by baby purrs.

I could feel my face turning scarlet with anger. What kind of person would throw out a kitten? Where was that jerk?

Outraged, I assured the little guy I would take care of him. He mewed and I realized I would have to go back for kitten food. He was probably starved.

I didn’t want to put him back in the box. It seemed like a symbol of the horrible man’s callous treatment. Steaming mad, I picked up the box, stepped over to the Dumpster, and threw it in.

And then I saw it. A trail of glistening blood on the asphalt. A crimson smudge on the rim of the Dumpster. I stepped on a concrete block and peered over the edge.

THREE

From
“Ask Natasha”
:

Dear Natasha,

My mother-in-law loves to drop by for inspection. If I want to stay married, I can’t tell her not to visit. What can I do?

—Constantly Cleaning in Clarksville

Dear Constantly Cleaning,

Treat your mother-in-law as a treasured guest by entertaining her. I always have a delicious homemade treat on hand. If you bake a cake every Saturday morning, you’ll have a delicious dessert for dinner and extra to serve unexpected guests during the week. You never know who might drop by.

—Natasha

The kitten’s owner was sprawled faceup on heaps of discarded produce. A stain the color of pomegranate seeped across his white sweatshirt.

I jerked back, my heart pounding.

The kitten let out a shocked yowl and I realized that I was holding it too tight. I ran back to my car, jumped in, slammed the door shut, and hit the locks. Only when I released the kitten did I realize that my hands were shaking.

I fumbled in my purse for the cell phone. Whoever that man was, he needed help. I wasn’t tall enough to hoist myself into the Dumpster. Maybe he was just unconscious. But deep inside I suspected something worse.

Seconds after my call, sirens sounded behind me. A squad car must have been in the area. My heart still hammering in my chest, I opened the door, careful not to let the kitten out. Pouncing on prey that only he could see, he scrambled happily over grocery bags in the back of the car.

A young officer, surely fresh from training, greeted me with a serious face. My knees weak, I led him to the man. The pink flush drained from his cheeks and his voice broke when he called in on his radio. He jammed it back into its holster and tried to climb into the Dumpster. After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, he turned to me and asked, “Could you give me a boost?”

I formed a cradle with my hands and tried to help him over the edge. The Dumpster wasn’t impossibly high, just tall enough for most people to have trouble jumping in. He stepped on my shoulder and pushed off, crashing inside with a loud groan.

Peeking over the edge, I saw that he’d landed facedown on the bleeding man. I swallowed hard and a tremor ran through me. Was he lying across a corpse?

The paramedics arrived and I stood aside to make room for them. A slender red-haired woman stepped on the concrete block and hoisted herself into the Dumpster with the ease of a gymnast.

Her male counterpart watched.

“Is he alive?” I asked. It came out in a whisper.

A tall, lanky man with oddly large hands pushed past me. “What the devil is going on?”

The male paramedic stopped him from touching the Dumpster.

“I’m the manager of this store. I have a right to know what you’re doing here.” He stretched up and looked over into the green Dumpster.

We all observed him in silence.

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.”

BOOK: Diva 01 _ Diva Runs Out of Thyme, The

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