Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

Sure enough, on the fourth floor of the garage sat the blue Lexus with license plates that read NATASHA. At least she made it easy for us to know we found the correct car.

Nina parked in a nearby spot where we could watch the elevator doors as well as the Lexus. An hour later we’d eaten all the croissants, made a substantial dent in the cheese puffs, and had only sips of coffee left. Surveillance, even with your best buddy, was boring.

“Maybe she walked.” Nina smacked the dashboard. “We should have parked outside.”

Another fifteen minutes went by before the elevator doors opened and Natasha strode out. She wore three-inch heels, a camel turtleneck, and a matching skirt with a persimmon-colored cape draped loosely over her shoulders. She intended to impress someone.

Nina started the engine. “She stills struts like a beauty queen. Just watching her be so perfect makes me itch all over.”

I was afraid Natasha might notice us, but she didn’t pay us any attention at all as she stepped into her car and pulled out of her parking spot.

In the garage Nina hung back a good distance, making me wonder if she’d done this before. But as soon as Natasha passed through the gate at the entrance, Nina hit the gas pedal. She paid for parking in one swift motion as the Lexus turned left. In hot pursuit, Nina swung onto the street, but a khaki-colored, soft-top Jeep pulled out in front of us.

Nina hit the brakes hard. “What’s your hurry, buster? At least his stupid car will block Natasha’s view of us.”

Parade-style, the robin’s-egg blue Lexus, the beige Jeep, and the dark green Jaguar drove slowly through King Street, the heart of Old Town. Tourists strolled along the sidewalks, stopping to gaze in store windows. Brunching diners inside restaurants looked out over passersby.

Including Bernie.

I craned my neck to see better. It was Bernie, for sure.

“Nina.” I grabbed her arm. “Is that who I think it is with Bernie?”

Heedless of the traffic, Nina slammed the brakes and stopped in the middle of the street. “Mrs. Pulchinski. Oh, that can’t be good. How could Bernie know Mrs. Pulchinski?”

Good question. One that produced goose bumps on my arms. How long had they known each other? Did he know Otis, too?

Nina pressed the gas and hurried to catch up to the Jeep. In a few blocks, we would be close to home. “You don’t suppose they’re having an affair?” she asked.

In all the times Bernie visited, he’d never brought a girlfriend. Somehow I imagined him with a more sophisticated type than Mrs. Pulchinski. She wasn’t much older than us, but she wasn’t the type I’d have picked for Bernie. On the other hand, Bernie, in spite of all his international travels, drifted from one job to another and was definitely a beer-and-pretzels kind of guy. Maybe Mrs. Pulchinski was his type.

I didn’t like what I was thinking. But I couldn’t find any other explanation for Bernie and the dead PI’s wife to be having brunch together. Were they romantically involved? Or was their meeting a business transaction related to murder? Could he have killed her husband? But he didn’t have any reason to kill Simon. Maybe the two murders weren’t related. Not Bernie!

Nina winced. “It’s not easy when the suspects are people you know. How could Bernie have possibly met her?” She drew in a sharp breath of air. “Do you think Mrs. Pulchinski was at the stuffing contest? Maybe she killed her husband and Simon.”

Nina was right about one thing: I wanted to think that a stranger like Mrs. Pulchinski committed the murders. It was too upsetting to imagine Natasha or Bernie could have been involved in anything so heinous.

“Will you look at this?” Nina said. “We could have stayed in your kitchen and waited for Natasha to cruise by.”

We drove by our homes but Natasha didn’t stop. At the corner of our block, she took a left. The Jeep zoomed straight ahead.

Nina slowed down the Jag and hung back. “Now that we could use the cover of the Jeep, it’s abandoned us.” We turned and drove at crawling speed to keep Natasha at a distance.

Natasha parked around the corner from our block, prompting Nina to mutter, “What’s she doing?”

Her head down, Natasha concentrated on something inside her car when we drove past and slid into a parking space farther down the block.

Nina drummed the dashboard. “I don’t think she saw us.”

“Wouldn’t matter if she did. We live here. We have every right to happen to be in the neighborhood.”

Nina adjusted the rearview mirror so she could watch Natasha. “She’s getting out.”

I opened the car door and crept out, ready to follow her. I peeked over the roof of the car.

Natasha’s heels clacked along the uneven brick sidewalk. Not the best place for three-inch heels. I’d have twisted my ankle in ten seconds. She walked past the alley that ran along the rear of Nina’s and the colonel’s properties and turned the corner onto our street.

“Do you think she came to spy on us?” asked Nina. “Maybe she’s the Peeping Tom.”

“Not a chance. She’s not wearing burglar chic.”