Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

I carried the reheated stuffing back to the dining room, where Mom collected discarded wrappers left by the rescue squad. Guilt nagged at me as we removed place settings. Mars could die, yet the rest of us were going to feast as though nothing had happened. I returned to the kitchen with Humphrey tagging along behind me.

“Thank you for inviting me.”

I thought about telling him I didn’t know he was invited, but that would have been unnecessarily rude. He seemed so frail and ghostlike with his pale skin and platinum hair. If I exhaled too hard, it might knock him over. “Glad to have you.”

He reached out tentatively and placed cold fingers on top of mine.

It took all my willpower not to snatch my hand away.

He giggled. “I guess you’ll think I’m silly, but I had such a crush on you when we were kids. I’m amazed you remember me. There were times I wasn’t sure you knew I was alive.”

I withdrew my hand fast and pretended to slap it to my chest in a completely stupid effort to appear surprised. “Kids! We were all so insecure back then.” I struggled to recall details about him. “You were so good at . . . at . . .”

He stepped into my personal space, closer than I’d have liked, and bit at my bait. “Dissecting frogs.”

I edged back, still trying to be friendly. “And look at you now. What is it you do for a living?”

“I’m a mortician.”

It figured. Humphrey looked like he had stepped out of a blond Addams Family cartoon.

“You know, Sophie, I’ve always been so shy. I was never able to tell you how I felt, and now, to learn that you feel the same is like a miracle.”

Where did he get that idea?

Wolf coughed, undoubtedly to let us know he stood in the doorway.

Humphrey’s confidence melted and he shuffled out of the room, his head hanging down in embarrassment.

Wolf picked up the dish of sweet potatoes.

I wasn’t sure how much he’d seen, but part of me wanted to be sure he knew that Humphrey got my feelings all wrong. “That probably wasn’t what it looked like.”

“Murder someone and it’s my business. Your love life is your own business.” He carried the casserole of sweet potatoes and marshmallows toward the dining room and I heard him mutter, “Though I can’t see the attraction myself.”

What did he mean by that? That he couldn’t see Humphrey being attracted to me or me being attracted to Humphrey? I dashed after him but a dining room full of family and guests, including Humphrey, didn’t seem the right place to question him.

For the third time, we sat down to eat. Dad carved the turkey and for a few minutes of passing and loading plates, we acted like a normal group of family and friends enjoying a holiday feast.

“Wolf, do you think Mars’s poisoning has anything to do with Simon’s murder?” Hannah brought us back to reality.

The soft clinking of silverware halted as we all froze.

Her question hung in the air, taunting me. If there were a connection, the killer had made a serious error. Wolf’s field of hundreds of suspects at the stuffing contest would have been narrowed down dramatically.

Craig broke the awkward silence. “It’s not a preposterous question. Mars’s brother certainly doesn’t make a secret of his feelings about Simon. And I understand Simon and Mars hated each other as well. Mars’s whole family is suspect if you ask me.”

“If the murders are related, then I guess Mars is off the hook for Simon’s murder.” Hannah speared a piece of turkey with her fork. “I mean, he wouldn’t have poisoned himself. It must be one of the others. It can’t be Natasha, so that leaves June, Andrew, and Vicki. Oh! And that Bernie fellow.”

I watched Wolf. He was no dummy. He hadn’t said a word but he observed the rest of us.

“My money’s on Natasha.” If she’d been younger, the brittleness of Francie’s voice would have been chalked up to cheerleading. But at her age, it sounded grumpy and as though she’d had one Scotch too many. “Andrew isn’t smart enough to do the dirty deed and deflect suspicion by being open about his disdain for the man. And June wouldn’t poison her own son.”

The colonel fed MacArthur a piece of turkey under the table. “Well, Detective? Do you have a suspect?”

Dad promptly knocked over his wineglass. I rushed to his aid and sopped up the wine with napkins. While I dabbed at the carpet, Wolf’s cell phone rang.

He excused himself from the table but returned within seconds. His jaw had tightened. “I apologize for my abrupt departure but there’s been a development in Simon’s murder.” His gaze shot to Francie. “They’ve found the suspected murder weapon.”

TWELVE

From “Ask Natasha” :

Dear Natasha,

Last year I spent hours on Thanksgiving Day polishing the silver. By Christmas it was tarnished again. Isn’t there a shortcut to cleaning silver?

—Tarnished in Tappahannock

Dear Tarnished,