Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

I clean my sterling once a week. Use a soft cloth to rub it with a good-quality commercial silver cleaner. If you keep up with it by polishing it every week, it won’t be such a chore and will always be ready for use.

—Natasha

Wolf watched my reaction when he said, “Fire investigators discovered the turkey trophy buried in Natasha’s garden.”

Francie slapped the table. “I knew it!”

“That can’t be. There must be some mistake.” Mom dabbed her mouth with a napkin. She had always liked Natasha.

“Mars!” I jumped out of my chair, nearly knocking it over. What if Natasha was the one who had tried to harm Mars? “She’s with him in the hospital.”

Wolf held up his hands. “I’ve got him covered. An officer is keeping an eye on him.”

That was a relief. I hated that Wolf had to leave, though. He hadn’t had much of a Thanksgiving. I loaded a plate with sliced turkey and a couple of rolls. “Give me a second, Wolf.”

I hurried to the kitchen, found the mayo, and fixed turkey sandwiches, plopping a generous spoonful of cranberry sauce on each. In a rush, I folded waxed paper into small envelopes and slid the sandwiches inside so they wouldn’t drip.

I wrapped the whole package in foil and handed it to him in the foyer, saying, “I guess I’m off the hook now?”

“Takes more than a couple of sandwiches to bribe me.”

“You know what I mean. Now that the murder weapon was found at Natasha’s, doesn’t that mean I’m in the clear?”

He hefted the sandwiches in his hand. “I can’t clear anybody yet, Sophie. Not a single one of you.”

He opened the door and I watched him walk away. I’d hoped the matter would be resolved and that I might get to know Wolf a little better. But he’d just confirmed my worst fear. He thought the killer was one of us.

Could Natasha really have bashed Simon over the head with the turkey trophy? She’d certainly had the opportunity, but I couldn’t think of a reason. Did she imagine she was protecting Mars? That didn’t make sense. But if she didn’t kill Simon, why would she bury the trophy in her yard?

“I’m glad he had to go. You should have seen the difference in everyone once he left.”

I whipped around to find Humphrey holding the gravy boat. “Who? Wolf?”

“The second he was gone we all relaxed and started chatting. I volunteered to bring more gravy—just to get a moment alone with you.” In the kitchen, I took the gravy boat from Humphrey and refilled it, wondering the whole time what kind of white lie I could concoct to diminish his interest. He stood so close to me that I could feel his breath on my neck.

“I could hardly believe my good fortune when I saw you yesterday. You look just the way you did in high school. Natasha was popular but she always looked straight through me, like I wasn’t there. Nothing has changed, you know. She barely spoke to me today. You always smiled when we passed in the hall. And once you gave me your seat at lunch.”

High school? We were in our mid-forties. Humphrey was stuck in a serious time warp. I handed him the gravy boat and lied. “You misunderstood Natasha. You know how it is, the prettiest girl never has a date. She’s terribly shy.”

“Really? I never would have guessed it. I’ll have to make it up to her. Maybe at the stuffing contest. They will resume it, won’t they?”

I had no idea, but if Humphrey was going to chase Natasha, I hoped they would hold the competition. I grinned at the thought of it.

Humphrey had just passed through the doorway. I grabbed the beige wool of his sweater. “Wait a minute. Where did you see me yesterday?”

“At the Stupendous Stuffing Shakedown.”

I released his sleeve. He winked at me and walked to the dining room. I could hear my father asking Humphrey for gravy. In a fog, I crossed the foyer to the arched opening of the dining room and observed him. How long had he been watching me? Could Humphrey be the Peeping Tom? Would he have hired a private investigator to track me down?

“Sit and eat, Sophie.” Mom waved me in. “Everything is delicious.”

“And no one else has keeled over yet,” added Hannah.

Craig snickered but he didn’t hesitate to stuff his mouth with sweet potatoes.

I perched on my chair and sipped ice water. Halfway down the table, Humphrey ate daintily. Could someone so wan and meek be a killer?

“Humphrey,” I said in as casual a tone as I could muster, “did you know Simon personally?”

“Good heavens, no. I don’t meet celebrities until they’re about to meet their Maker.” Everyone else found his joke much funnier than I did. I felt tension leave my shoulders, though. He had no motive. I sat back, relaxed, and realized my remaining guests were enjoying themselves. Side dishes cluttered the table and conversation flowed. I helped myself to turkey and too many cranberries, one of my Thanksgiving favorites.