Diva 02 _ Diva Takes the Cake, The (8 page)
Read Diva 02 _ Diva Takes the Cake, The Online
Authors: Krista Davis
Tags: #Winston; Sophie (Fictitious Character), #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #Women Sleuths, #General, #Mystery Fiction, #Women Cooks, #Large Type Books, #Cookery, #Mystery, #Divorced Women, #Cooking, #Divorced Women - Crimes Against, #Weddings, #Crimes Against, #Sisters
His gentle eyes regarded me politely. “Let me help you with that.” He took the topiary in his arms. “Oof. Heavier than I thought.” I held the door for him and pointed him toward the dining room.
“This is a great house,” he said. “I’m a bit of a history buff and I’m really looking forward to the tour of Old Town tomorrow. That was a terrific idea.”
A history buff? This would be easier than I’d expected. “Why don’t you and Craig walk down to the Bayou Room for a beer? You can get a feel for Old Town, maybe stop in at Gadsby’s Tavern and have a look around the museum.”
Excitement lit Joel’s face. “Are you sure you don’t need us to help around here?”
“Of course not. You’re a guest. You should be out enjoying yourself. Go on, and take the groom-to-be with you.”
“That’s not a bad idea. I’d like to get to know Craig better. We only met once before.”
From the window over the kitchen sink, I watched Craig and Joel walk away to be sure Craig wouldn’t turn around for something. To be on the safe side, I stared at the clock and waited four minutes before tearing up the stairs, Mochie and Daisy scampering along at my side.
I’d put Craig in a guest room on the second floor. Decorated by Faye, it was decidedly unmasculine. A canopy bed took up too much space, but I’d kept it because it bestowed a colonial grace that Mars’s mother particularly liked.
Craig had left his suitcase next to the rocking chair by the window that overlooked the backyard. Generic gray Samsonite, it could have been purchased anywhere. I pulled it toward me and the chair tilted forward. Kneeling, I laid the bag on the floor and hit the latches on the front. They were locked.
I sat back on my heels and stared at it. Who locked a suitcase for a trip by car? I tried again with no luck.
Where would a man keep a suitcase key? In his wallet. And he’d surely taken it with him.
I rose and peeked in the closet, where I found an inexpensive gray hanging bag, the kind they give you when you buy a suit. I unzipped it and felt around inside. It didn’t contain much. A navy suit and the tuxedo he’d bought for the wedding.
Even though it was a long shot, I checked the pockets of the suit. Nothing. Not even a stick of gum. I pressed the fabric of the tuxedo between my hands. Nothing in the trouser pockets.
But when I pried at the lining of the tuxedo jacket for an inside pocket, I felt a little key.
Eureka! I pulled it out, but when I saw what hung on it, chills ran through me.
TEN
From
“The Live with Natasha Show”
:Weddings are the biggest event in our lives. You can sew and craft incredible things to make your wedding special. But this is the one time you ought to hire a professional, too. Don’t leave it up to your sister to run the show. No matter how good her intentions, a wedding can be a disaster in the hands of an amateur.
On the end of a delicate chain hung a sparkling diamond set in a ring of yellow gold. I staggered backward a step, my breath coming hard. It looked suspiciously like the one Emily wore when I’d met her that morning.
Lots of people owned diamond necklaces, I rationalized. I had no reason to believe that this particular one had circled Emily’s neck earlier in the day. I tried to remember if she wore it when I found her, but I had paid no attention to her neck other than to realize that a rope had cut her life short.
But if Craig had killed Emily and taken her necklace, wouldn’t he hide it in the locked suitcase? The diamond gleamed at me evilly. I was cramming it back into the inner breast pocket of the tuxedo when I heard shuffling at the door.
I whipped around, the damning key still in my hand.
Mom watched from the doorway. “What are you doing?”
Why hadn’t I prepared some clever lie? “Just . . . making sure he has everything he needs.”
“Sophie! You’re snooping.”
“Mom, he killed Emily.”
“We don’t know that for sure. What’s in your hand?”
Debating whether to mention the necklace, I opened my fingers and showed her the key in my palm. “I think it will open his suitcase.”
She raised her chin, and I expected a well-deserved scolding. “You’d better hurry before he comes back.”
I fell to my knees by the suitcase, inserted the key into the lock, and twisted. The latch clicked open. I repeated the procedure on the other side.
Lifting carefully, I raised the top.
“Gracious, but he’s neat.”
I had to agree with Mom. I was a tidy suitcase packer, but I’d never seen anything like this. It appeared that he’d packed outfits together. A yellow polo shirt folded over navy shorts on the right. On the left, a white sweatshirt folded over exercise shorts, and a pair of white socks peeked out.
“If you touch it, he’ll know. You’ll never get it back the way he has it.”
Mom was right. Holding my fingers as straight as possible, I felt around the edges of the suitcase but found nothing. I pressed against the clothing and perceived lumps, but they could have been anything from a blow-dryer to shampoo or shoes.
“Inga? Sophie?” Dad’s voice called from a distance.
“I bet he’s back. Close the suitcase, Sophie. I’ll stall him as long as I can.” Mom hurried out while I slammed the suitcase shut and locked it.
I could hear voices downstairs. As fast as possible, I slipped the key into the tuxedo pocket where I’d found it and zipped up the garment bag.
And then I stared, for what seemed an eternity, at the closet door. Had it been open? Closed? Partially open? Rats. I had to start noticing details. No time to waver. I shut it. A man who packed such a neat suitcase would surely close the door.
The suitcase! I’d forgotten to stand it up near the rocker. Even though I tiptoed, it seemed like I hit every squeaky floorboard. Sweat broke out on my upper lip. I righted the suitcase and shoved it near the rocking chair.
I leaped around the bed and out the door. Panting, I edged toward the top of the stairs so I could see who had arrived.
Old friends of my parents and distant relatives crowded my foyer. With a huge sigh of relief, I joined them and saved Jen from a woman who couldn’t stop pinching her cheek. Claiming I needed Jen’s assistance, I steered her into the kitchen. I could hear Mom and Dad starting to give a tour of my house.
Meanwhile, Jen helped me toss fresh shrimp, still in the shells, into a boiling mixture of water, vinegar, and Old Bay Seasoning to steam. The spicy aroma reminded me of summertime at the beach.
The shrimp turned bright pink, making me sorry that Natasha wasn’t there to see a pink food being served. I transferred them to a colander and shook it to get rid of the excess water. Jen poured our favorite shrimp cocktail sauce into a bowl and set it in the middle of a larger bowl of ice. Working fast, we piled the steaming shrimp on top of the ice in a decorative pattern. By the time the tour came through the kitchen, the shrimp were on the table, along with a crab dip I’d made in advance, a pesto torte, marinated mozzarella, and a sliced loaf of rosemary bread.
Midafternoon seemed a bit early for cocktails, and after the long drive, everyone preferred the raspberry iced tea I’d made the day before. Talk turned to the murder, and I thought I’d better remove my impressionable niece. “Jen,” I said to the munchkin who held a shrimp in each hand, “would you mind helping me set up the dining room and the tables outside?”
She helped me carry linens, round bowls of crackled glass, and rustic curved hurricanes with white pillar candles to the backyard. In minutes, cheerful pink gingham tablecloths transformed the utilitarian tables.
While Jen played with Daisy, I cut lush rose and white peonies, their heads so full that three filled a bowl. Next I snipped stargazer lilies. Hannah loved the fragrant flowers so much that she’d planned her wedding around them. We’d based the cherry and pink colors of the wedding on their vivid pink centers, and I had planted them by the dozens for this day. For contrast, I added a few vibrant purple-blue delphiniums and solid white lilies as well. After I added clusters of tiny pink roses, my tall tin French market buckets spilled with blooms and I headed for the potting shed.
Located in a back corner of my yard, the little square building looked like it came straight from Williamsburg. Mars and his friend Bernie had installed a moon and star weathervane on top of the cupola. I opened the arched double doors. Inside, someone had whitewashed an ancient stone wall years ago. Mars and I theorized it might have been part of a summer kitchen once. The chipping paint complemented shabby chic weathered cabinets. Flecks of green and brown hinted at the colors they’d been before the cream paint that covered them now.
Jen brought round bowls to the rustic work table, and we sorted flowers into vases.
After setting bowls of peonies on the outdoor tables, we retreated to the house with the now shamefully incorrect pink blooms in a collection of mismatched silver, glass, and crystal vases.
Ignoring the cloths Natasha had given me, Jen and I spread a pink jacquard tablecloth over my banquet-sized table. I set Natasha’s gigantic heart topiary in the middle. I had planned to use a peony-filled sterling silver trophy of my grandfather’s there, but reluctantly relinquished that honor to the topiary and found a place for the trophy in the living room.
The knocker sounded on the front door, and I hurried to the foyer in time to see Jen open it for Tucker.
“Now that you’re grown up, you probably don’t like Gummi Bears anymore.” He pulled a package from his pocket, and Jen pounced on them.
While I arranged cups and saucers on either side of a vintage silver samovar, Jen told Tucker all about her new dress for the wedding. She continued chattering and placed tiny glass vases of delicate pink roses among the cups.
Meanwhile, I clustered an assortment of liquors on a brass tray for those who wanted to spike their after-dinner coffees.
Tucker was about to help himself to Grand Marnier when Joel ambled by. He cried, “Joel!” and embraced Phoebe’s boyfriend, clapping him on the back like a long-lost friend. “I heard about your father. I’m really sorry.”
It was the first sincere thing I’d ever heard him say. “How could you two possibly know each other?” I asked.
Tucker’s arm hung around Joel’s shoulders. “I was married to your sister, dimwit. How do you think Joel and Phoebe met?”
Flashing Tucker a dirty look, I fetched a couple of footed cake stands and positioned one on each side of the heart topiary, then added three empty Christmas cookie tins of different heights, all slightly shorter than the cake stands. They didn’t match in size, but that would provide additional interest.
“This guy’s father got me out of more than one jam in Atlantic City,” Tucker said. “Sold me three or four engagement rings, too.”
“Three or four?” said Jen.
“They didn’t all work out, sweetheart.”
“Where’s Craig?” I asked. The first meeting between Craig and Tucker might be interesting.
“We split up when we left the bar.” Joel took sunglasses off the top of his head and shoved them into his pocket. “I wanted to go over to the apothecary where George Washington shopped. Have you been there? It’s so cool.”
I tuned him out and concentrated on the table. To disguise the cookie tins, I draped them with white napkins and added smaller pinkish ones shot through with metallic thread for a punch of color. When I brought out the dessert goodies later on, the upside-down tins would provide large stable surfaces to hold the plates.
Moving a tall crystal vase of long-stemmed pink and white lilies, I arranged it on the bombe-style commode in the foyer as Joel disappeared to the half bath at the end of the hall.
“His father was a great guy,” Tucker said sadly.
“What happened?”
Whispering, he said, “They owned a snazzy jewelry store. High roller kind of stuff. A bit of bad luck resulted in Joel’s family losing the store. The stress of it all caused his father to have a heart attack that killed him. A real tragedy for everyone.”
After a last look at the dining room, Jen and I high-fived and returned to the kitchen, where the guests seemed to be in shock. I wasn’t quite sure if they were more stunned by Tucker’s presence or the news of Emily’s murder.
Tucker very kindly introduced Joel to everyone, and the two of them disappeared to the sunroom while I started dinner. I rubbed the ribs with a mixture of cayenne pepper, paprika, white pepper, brown sugar, kosher salt, and powdered garlic and onion, then moved the now reddish bronze ribs onto a tray to carry out to the grill. The three chickens I planned to roast needed nothing but a quick wash, removal of the gizzards, and salt spread on the skin for a nice crunch.
The front door banged open. Seconds later Hannah and Phoebe burst into the kitchen, and everyone spoke at once. Amid hugs and kisses, Hannah slid a long dress bag onto one of the chairs by the fireplace.
I busied myself making Wedded Blitz Martinis, the signature drink we had concocted for the wedding—in the now offensive wedding color of pink. As the bride, Hannah tasted the first one and approved. She’d just taken a second swig when Tucker waltzed into the kitchen and gushed, “Darling!”
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