Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

We must have looked skeptical because she rambled on. “Dumb old Otis got himself killed just when his business was drawing big customers. Politicians’ wives take over when their husbands kick the bucket. I don’t see why I can’t carry on.”

Nina scooted forward on the sofa and bent toward Mrs. Pulchinski. “Of course, you can. You have all his files, know who his clients are. It’s a natural transition.”

“Stupid cops came in here looking for files. They took the computer with them but it won’t help them none. He wasn’t dumb enough to keep anything about his clients in writing. Otis understood privacy. That’s why they liked him.”

I took out my checkbook. “Mrs. Pulchinski, I can’t afford an eight-hundred-dollar cat, but maybe I can make a little donation to help you buy kitty kibble.”

“That’s right neighborly of you.” She lit another cigarette. “Pen’s on the desk.”

Dust marked the spot on the desk where the computer had been. A coaster bearing the logo of the Stag’s Head Inn, a dive I’d walked by, lay on the desk. She’d dumped her mail and, even though she wasn’t exactly a straight shooter, I felt sorry for her. Bills spilled from the heap of letters, and I didn’t see many hand-addressed envelopes in the way of condolences. She might be very alone in the world, except for her cats.

I found a pen in the top drawer and was making out a check when Nina leaned over my shoulder and gave the pile of mail a little push. Her unpolished fingernail tapped madly on a robin’s-egg blue envelope.

Natasha’s signature color.

FOURTEEN

From “Ask Natasha” :

Dear Natasha,

Due to my husband’s job, we move every year. I hate to waste money on embossed stationery that I can’t use up because it contains an old address. Is it totally horrible to make my own stationery on my computer?

—Computer Gal in Chilhowie

Dear Computer Gal,

Aren’t computers wonderful? They offer us so many possibilities for scrapbooking and card-making. It’s always most gracious to craft a card or note with your own personal message. I spend days working out my Christmas cards each year.

For those very few times when it isn’t possible to craft an original card, keep some paper stock and matching envelopes on hand in your signature color. Handwrite a heartfelt message and it will carry just as much panache as embossed stationery.

—Natasha

Nina tried to slide the contents out of the envelope.

I smacked her hand away. I wanted to know what was inside, too, but it was just plain wrong to read someone’s mail. My glare didn’t stop her.

I glanced over my shoulder at Mrs. Pulchinski. Oblivious to Nina’s shenanigans, she watched smoke rise from her cigarette.

Manipulating the envelope on the desk with one hand, Nina deftly flicked open a folded sheet of matching stationery. I recognized Natasha’s perfect script immediately. A check for one thousand dollars lay inside. As far as I knew, Natasha hadn’t bought any kittens lately. I had to give her credit, though. I never knew what to write on a card of condolence, but Natasha had written a gracious note praising Otis.

Nina’s hand waved under my nose and pointed to the memo line of the check.

Natasha had written, “payment in full.”

I left my meager check under the coaster so the cats wouldn’t dislodge it right away and relied on Nina to slip Natasha’s letter back in the envelope. I needn’t have worried about Mrs. Pulchinski observing us. She slumped on the couch, the only sign of life the hand that held a cigarette inches from her mouth.

“Have the police found your husband’s killer yet?” asked Nina.

I nearly choked. She might as well have introduced me as the number one suspect. Mrs. Pulchinski would catch on for sure and throw us out of her home.

“They think it’s some woman he was checking out, but I got my doubts. My Otis had smarts. Not many people ever fooled him. I think Otis come up against somebody as crafty as he was.”

Certain she would make the connection between me and the police suspect, I hurried to wind up our visit by promising to take good care of Mochie.

Mrs. Pulchinski walked us to the door. “Thank you for coming by. I don’t get many visitors. This meant a lot to me.”

The door shut behind us and I felt terrible. The poor woman was distraught and we’d come to snoop.