Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

Treat your mother-in-law as a treasured guest by entertaining her. I always have a delicious homemade treat on hand. If you bake a cake every Saturday morning, you’ll have a delicious dessert for dinner and extra to serve unexpected guests during the week. You never know who might drop by.

—Natasha

The kitten’s owner was sprawled faceup on heaps of discarded produce. A stain the color of pomegranate seeped across his white sweatshirt.

I jerked back, my heart pounding.

The kitten let out a shocked yowl and I realized that I was holding it too tight. I ran back to my car, jumped in, slammed the door shut, and hit the locks. Only when I released the kitten did I realize that my hands were shaking.

I fumbled in my purse for the cell phone. Whoever that man was, he needed help. I wasn’t tall enough to hoist myself into the Dumpster. Maybe he was just unconscious. But deep inside I suspected something worse.

Seconds after my call, sirens sounded behind me. A squad car must have been in the area. My heart still hammering in my chest, I opened the door, careful not to let the kitten out. Pouncing on prey that only he could see, he scrambled happily over grocery bags in the back of the car.

A young officer, surely fresh from training, greeted me with a serious face. My knees weak, I led him to the man. The pink flush drained from his cheeks and his voice broke when he called in on his radio. He jammed it back into its holster and tried to climb into the Dumpster. After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, he turned to me and asked, “Could you give me a boost?”

I formed a cradle with my hands and tried to help him over the edge. The Dumpster wasn’t impossibly high, just tall enough for most people to have trouble jumping in. He stepped on my shoulder and pushed off, crashing inside with a loud groan.

Peeking over the edge, I saw that he’d landed facedown on the bleeding man. I swallowed hard and a tremor ran through me. Was he lying across a corpse?

The paramedics arrived and I stood aside to make room for them. A slender red-haired woman stepped on the concrete block and hoisted herself into the Dumpster with the ease of a gymnast.

Her male counterpart watched.

“Is he alive?” I asked. It came out in a whisper.

A tall, lanky man with oddly large hands pushed past me. “What the devil is going on?”

The male paramedic stopped him from touching the Dumpster.

“I’m the manager of this store. I have a right to know what you’re doing here.” He stretched up and looked over into the green Dumpster.

We all observed him in silence.

He rubbed his forehead with a nervous hand. “What happened?”

At that precise moment, cars careened toward us on both sides of the narrow strip behind the store, blocking us in. Seconds later, police swarmed the area and the manager and I were pushed back, away from the Dumpster. When everyone was otherwise occupied and not paying me any attention, I snuck to my car and fetched the kitten. I didn’t want him overheating. Even though a cold wind blew, the sun would surely raise the temperature inside the car.

The turkey!

I felt guilty for thinking about my groceries when someone had probably died, but they would spoil if we were detained for a long period. I scanned the officials milling around.

A man in a tweed sport coat impressed me as calmer than the others. Not emotionless, just more experienced perhaps. The sun glinted off silver hair on his temples. Most important, he wasn’t a skinny runner type; this guy liked to eat. I sidled toward him.

After introducing myself, I explained that my Thanksgiving groceries were in my car. “And I’m in a stuffing competition tomorrow and I’d rather not poison the judges with tainted ingredients.”

“Farley!” he barked. “Get the groceries out of the SUV and put them in a cooler in the store.” In a pleasant but unmistakably authoritative tone, he said, “We’ll take care of it. Please stand back. Someone will be over to take your statement soon.”

I waited, holding the restless kitten and watching the store manager pace from officer to officer trying to get information. Press crews arrived, adding to the confusion.

After what seemed an eternity, a man with skin drawn tightly over the contours of his face flashed a badge at me and said he was Detective Kenner. I told him the whole story.

When I finished, he said, “You know the store has cameras. We’ll be able to verify what you’ve said.”

Of course. Why hadn’t I thought of that? “So you’ll be able to see who killed that guy and put him in the Dumpster.”

“How do you know he was murdered?”

“Most people don’t bleed spontaneously from the chest.”

His cold eyes narrowed. “You’re in a lot of trouble, Mrs. Winston. Being a wiseacre isn’t going to help any.”