Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

We found a table in the back, under shelves decorated with empty ale bottles bearing British labels. As we shed our coats, Humphrey pleaded with us to leave. In truth, the clientele of the Stag’s Inn didn’t seem all that different from the people patronizing the classier bars on King Street. They probably didn’t receive invitations to White House dinners, but then neither did I.

A stout waiter who could easily lift any one, or possibly two, of us and toss us out the front door, took our order. Nina and I opted for Whitbread India Pale Ale. Humphrey asked for chamomile tea until I gave him a little kick.

The stout man didn’t return. Instead, a man with a week’s beard growth plopped three glasses of Whitbread on our table. He pulled up a chair, turned it around, and straddled it. Ignoring Humphrey, he asked, “You ladies new in town?”

I figured Nina could handle him, and I rose to do my own sleuthing, but Humphrey seized the sleeve of my sweater.

“Where are you going?”

There was probably only one place he wouldn’t go. “The ladies’ room.”

He released his grip. “I’m going to time you. If you’re not back soon, I’ll break down the door.”

I didn’t think that would be necessary. Out of Humphrey’s view I ambled to the bar, trying to look casual. The bartender plunked a coaster in front of me.

“I’m looking for an Englishman named Bernie.”

He didn’t seem perturbed by my quest. In a British accent he said, “Haven’t seen him tonight. Harold, ’ave you seen Bernie?”

I heard someone say no, but the bartender had the courtesy to tell me, “He hasn’t come in yet.”

Two bar stools down, a woman swiveled in my direction. “What do you want with Bernie? He’s already got a girl if that’s what you have in mind.”

She didn’t sound British. Deep South, I thought, Louisiana maybe. In comparison to the low cut of her dress, my sexy sweater seemed tame enough for Sunday school.

“Shut up, Brandee.”

I wasn’t sure who said that until she playfully smacked the arm of the man next to her.

He spoke with his back to me, hunched forward, his elbows on the bar. “Don’t mind her; she’s been chasing Bernie since he arrived in town.”

No question that he was a Brit.

“Do you know when that was?”

The bartender squinted. “Otis was killed Tuesday. I think Bernie showed up on Friday. Hasn’t been in Alexandria long.”

“You knew Otis?” I asked.

“Sure. All the regulars knew Otis.” The bartender wiped a glass.

“Who . . . who do you think killed him?”

The Brit with his back to me rotated to eye me. “You a cop?”

A cop would be inept to ask such a blatant question. “No, a friend of Bernie’s.”

“A friend of Bernie’s who knew Otis.” He scratched a sideburn that would have been at home on Elvis Presley. “You know Otis well?”

The woman with the dipping neckline giggled. “She’s not his type.”

“Only in passing,” I said.

The Brit spewed beer from his nose. He wiped his face with his sleeve. “You must be a friend of Bernie’s, that’s what Bernie said about Simon Greer.”

I felt like a cold wave hit me. “What exactly did he say about Simon?”

“That he hadn’t really met him, which is bullocks.”

TWENTY-FOUR

From “Ask Natasha” :

Dear Natasha,

When my husband’s friends visit for an afternoon of football viewing, our home theater looks like a junkyard in minutes. It makes me want to pull out my hair. How can I get these guys to clean up their act?

—Tech Fan in Toms Brook

Dear Tech Fan,

Banish beer cans. Buy a set of pilsner glasses and pour the first round yourself. Don’t allow bags and plastic containers to migrate out of the kitchen. Serve the chips in silver bowls and dips in hollowed-out artichokes or boules. If you surprise them with elegant hors d’oeuvres served on proper platters, they’ll have fun and you’ll be the hostess they remember.

—Natasha

I wasn’t sure what bullocks meant but I gathered the British guy didn’t buy Bernie’s denial of knowing Simon. “Why is that bullocks?”

“It’s a well-known fact that Bernie’s stepfather killed himself.”

I was stunned. Bernie had never mentioned anything of the sort. “You must know Bernie very well.”

“Naw. Bernie’s stepfather was a highly respected gentleman. The circumstances of his death were quite well known in certain circles.” He took another swig of beer.

“What circumstances?”