Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

Daisy stretched out next to Bernie, whose bare calves jutted out from under a flannel bathrobe. Daisy didn’t bother to get up but her tail flapped on the floor when she saw me. I bent to tickle her tummy.

Mom was relaxing with a mug of coffee, her feet on a footstool. “There’s a ham and asparagus frittata keeping warm in the oven, sleepyhead. Bernie’s been regaling us with tales of his mother’s many marriages.”

Hannah blushed and I wondered if that was an intentional jab by Mom. Craig would be Hannah’s third husband, but if I recalled correctly, Bernie’s mom had made the trip down the aisle seven or eight times.

I headed to the kitchen for coffee but paused when I heard voices. One voice, actually.

June was talking in the kitchen. I paused for a moment, wondering who wasn’t in the sunroom.

“I couldn’t agree more,” she said. “You made the right decision. And I love what they did with the kitchen.”

I peeked in. June sat by the fire, knitting. Only Mochie kept her company.

“Good morning.” Had she been speaking to the kitten? I slid the frittata out of the oven and offered June a piece.

“I’ve eaten, thanks. It was quite good. And your mother was so cute pretending Hannah cooked it.” She giggled. “Your sister doesn’t share your culinary skills.”

Food had never been one of Hannah’s interests. “She has very impressive computer abilities, though. It’s a good thing she’s honest because she’d make a heck of a hacker.”

“I was just telling Faye how glad I am that you own the house. It’s so cozy and inviting.”

Faye? Faye was dead.

I glanced up at the photo of Faye over the fireplace. It hung straight. No odd drafts today.

June reached out to stroke Mochie.

Maybe I’d heard her wrong. “Could I get you some more coffee?”

“No, dear. I’m fine as I am. Just having a lovely chat.”

“With the kitten?” I held my breath, hoping I’d misunderstood about Faye.

“With my sister. She adores Mochie. Faye always had a cat and she’s so pleased that there’s a little one in residence now.”

Was June losing her mind? Suddenly I had new appreciation for Natasha’s need to protect her mattress. Maybe June wasn’t well.

Dad joined us from the foyer. I hadn’t seen him so worried since my brother, at the age of sixteen, bought a motorcycle from a friend for fifty dollars. He waved the newspaper at me. “Why didn’t you tell me this?”

Dad slid his reading glasses on and opened the paper. “According to reliable police sources, the person of interest in the slaying of Simon Greer is also a person of interest in the murder of Otis Pulchinski, a private investigator killed one day earlier.” He lowered his glasses and took a deep breath while fixing his eyes on me.

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Good job, Sophie. I’m worried now.”

“It’s all coincidence. Being in the wrong places at the wrong times. If I hadn’t beat her there by seconds, Natasha would have found Simon’s body.”

“Honey, you need a lawyer. Simon was a rich and influential man. They’re going to be under a lot of pressure to find his killer.”

“But I didn’t do anything. There can’t be any witnesses or anything tying me to either murder because I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Oh, Sophie!” June interjected. “Don’t be naive. Mars’s father always said most killers are convicted on circumstantial evidence.”

June didn’t sound delusional now. Mars’s father had been a judge. June probably knew a thing or two about trials.

Dad massaged his jaw. “Let’s not mention anything to your mother or Hannah yet. They’re in vacation mode and will be oblivious to the news for a few days. Tomorrow I want you to call a lawyer.”

June studied her knitting, a soft cream sweater with a thin thread of bronze Lurex shot through the wool. “Could Natasha have had time to kill Simon and wait for you to enter the room before raising the alarm?”

Given the way she’d been treated, I couldn’t blame June for disliking Natasha, but I honestly couldn’t imagine Natasha murdering Simon and trying to pin it on me. She prided herself on her own perfection and expected nothing less from others. While that made her seem starchy sometimes—okay, a lot of the time—I’d known her long enough to think it unlikely that she could be the killer.

On the other hand, June made a good point. Natasha knew I was looking for Simon. “I’m sure she could have. There were two back doors to a service corridor. Anyone could have slipped away quickly.”

I checked the time. If we were going to eat turkey, I would have to get moving.

Dad and June joined the others in the sunroom. As soon as they left the kitchen, I phoned an attorney I’d met in passing several times. I knew he wouldn’t answer since it was Thanksgiving but I left a detailed message anyway in the hope that he would be working on Friday.

I hung up, picked up the coffeepot, and realized that Craig was lurking in the kitchen behind me, listening. He wore running shoes, a Georgetown University sweatshirt, and shorts that showed off long muscular legs.