Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

She placed her palms over her flushed cheeks. “The colonel invited me to dinner. He’ll be here any minute to pick me up.”

June had a date? I couldn’t have been more delighted. She might talk with her deceased sister but I’d seen nothing else to indicate that June needed to live in a home for the infirm. The thought lifted my spirits and I gave her a hug.

“Did you see Wolf?” she asked. “He came with a search warrant for the backyard.”

I didn’t want to dampen her spirits with the news about the mushrooms he found so I just nodded. Through the bay window I saw Wolf and his crew get in their cars and depart.

“Where’s my purse?” she said. “I thought I had it. Sophie, I’m a nervous wreck. I haven’t been out with a man in a decade. Everyone goes dutch now, don’t they? How do I know how much to pay? Do I ask him for the check or will he tell me the amount?”

I found her purse on the console in the foyer. “Think of it as dinner with a girlfriend.”

“That’s a good idea. Yes, I’m feeling calmer already.” The doorbell rang and June cried, “I need a mirror. How’s my hair?”

I grasped her upper arms gently. “You look great. Have a wonderful time.”

I opened the door for the colonel. Dashing in a deep gray overcoat of fine wool, he handed June a peach rose. I was afraid the gesture might make her more nervous but she took it with gracious thanks and a flirtatious glance at the colonel.

When he helped her with her coat, I realized they made a striking couple, both with silvery hair, the colonel tall and authoritative in his bearing in contrast to June’s gentle roundness.

I watched from the stoop as they left. A cold wind kicked up as the colonel’s SUV drove away. Cloudy skies threatened to bring evening shadows early and I still hadn’t eaten lunch.

Daisy wagged her tail and moved in for a dog hug when I closed the door.

“It’s the first time we’ve had the house to ourselves in days, huh, girl?”

She followed me into the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator, so laden with leftovers that containers threatened to fall out. In looking for turkey to nibble on, I found two gorgeous pork tenderloins I’d meant to cook before Thanksgiving. I checked the dates on them. They were still good. Pork with cherry sauce, savory rice, and asparagus would be a wonderful break from Thanksgiving foods for my houseguests.

I took out the turkey, sliced off a few pieces, and shared my treat with Mochie and Daisy. The peace didn’t last long. From the kitchen window I saw Nina dashing across the street, waving her arms like a madman. I opened the door and leaned out. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“The Peeping Tom,” she panted. “He’s in your backyard.”

Daisy and I rushed outside. Daisy loped ahead into the increasingly dark backyard. Nina paused at the corner of the house. She peeked around the back. “He’s there! He’s looking in your sunroom.”

I wanted to see a Peeping Tom about as much as I wanted to see a snake. Nina stood back and I peered around the corner of my house. The Peeping Tom wore a shabby jacket and an old hat.

Nina whispered, “I’ll call the cops.”

“Not yet.” Something wasn’t right. Daisy sniffed around the Peeping Tom without so much as a growl. “It’s someone we know.”

I heard Nina suck in air. “The killer! I knew it was Natasha.”

I wasn’t so sure it was Natasha but I thought we should find out. “I’m going to run straight back and cross to the other side of the yard. I’ll stick to the shadows. It’s getting so dark, I think I can do it without being seen. Give me about two minutes, then we’ll sneak up on him from both sides.”

Nina seized the back of my shirt. “And then what? What if it’s not Natasha? We say, ‘Oh, please, Mr. Peeping Tom, don’t kill us’?”

She was right. We huddled by the side of the house. “You stay here,” I said. “I’ll get a fireplace poker.”

But just as I took one last look around the corner, I came face-to-face with the Peeping Tom.

SIXTEEN

From “THE GOOD LIFE”:

Dear Sophie,

My husband says I make horrible tea because I heat the water in the microwave. I’m making a spiced holiday tea for a family brunch next week and he insists that I boil the water on the stove. We have a little bet riding on this. I say it doesn’t make a difference. What do you think?

—Teetotaler in Troutdale

Dear Teetotaler,