Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

At long last he left, presumably to fetch the muffins. I turned my back in case he was trying to fool me, twisted the top onto the peculiar vial, wrapped it in a napkin, and stuck it in my pocket.

Although I still found an occasional item from the days when Faye had owned the house, it seemed unlikely that the vial could have lain on the floor all these years without being noticed. But what a perfect little poison container. It fit easily in my pocket. No one would have noticed it in the palm of a killer’s hand. Or was I leaping to conclusions?

When Craig returned, I had finished setting the table. I smiled nicely, thanked him for his help, and rushed back to the kitchen so I wouldn’t have to be alone with him. Mom had the French toast under control, so I opened two packages of preservative-free bacon and laid the slices on the griddle. The mouthwatering aroma of crispy bacon would surely rouse Bernie.

I struggled to act normal but I couldn’t help watching Craig. Had he intended to look for something in the dining room? Did the vial belong to him? Did he have a reason to poison Mars?

Ten minutes later, the entire household gathered for brunch in the dining room. But the phone rang before I could take my first bite. I chose not to answer. The machine could pick up and we would all enjoy a peaceful brunch.

The knock on the door a few minutes later was more difficult to ignore. When I opened it, Nina burst in. She hadn’t bothered to wear a coat over her dressing gown.

“You won’t believe this—my monster-in-law saw the colonel being loaded into a hearse last night.”

“Did we hear that right?” Dad asked from the dining room.

It was too late to hide it from June. Nina bustled into the dining room and I followed.

“I’m still in shock,” she said.

I watched June. Would she be able to deal with another blow?

“Good Lord! The man must have had a heart attack last night when his tart visited,” said Mom.

“Or someone killed him.”

“Sophie, why would you even think that?” Mom asked.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit much to be coincidental? We know he was at the stuffing challenge. He spent Thanksgiving Day with us. Whoever killed Otis and Simon must have killed him, too.”

Dad murmured, “I’d rather believe the tart did him in.”

June looked down at her fingers, folding and unfolding her napkin.

Francie lowered her forehead to a quivering hand. “This can’t be happening.”

“The hearse!” I said. “Before I went to bed last night I saw a hearse driving down the street. The tart must have found his body.”

Nina picked up a piece of bacon and chewed on it, “What tart?”

I set a place for Nina while Hannah explained about the tart’s arrival during the night.

“That old codger. Who’da thought it?” Nina helped herself to French toast and apples.

Francie slumped against the back of her chair. “No! It can’t be. It’s not possible.”

“What about MacArthur?” I asked Nina. What had the tart done with him last night when the colonel was taken to the morgue? Had he been left alone in the house? “Francie, do you know how to get into the colonel’s house?”

Francie pursed her lips as she gazed around the table, evidently debating how she should answer. “I’ll go with you.”

We pulled on coats and walked somberly across the street.

The sun shone, the cold air felt clean and crisp, and it was impossible to imagine that the colonel wasn’t with us anymore. We opened the gate to the service alley and rounded the back of the house. Francie lifted a terra-cotta flowerpot and slid a key out from underneath it.

I unlocked the door and found MacArthur waiting eagerly inside. A leash hung on a hook next to the door. The colonel’s collection of walking sticks stood underneath in an umbrella stand. I winced at the sight of his favorite with a bronze bulldog’s head as the handle. The colonel wouldn’t be needing that again.

When I clasped the leash onto MacArthur’s collar, he burst out into his yard as though he was overdue for a morning walk.

Francie locked up and hid the key. “Should . . . should we go in and look around?”

I wrapped an arm around her. “There’s nothing to look for anymore, Francie. I’m sorry.”

We returned to my house, where Francie all but collapsed into her seat at the dining table. While Mom encouraged her to eat something, I took MacArthur into the kitchen and fed the dogs and Mochie a snack.

Nina toddled into the kitchen. “Your mom says to put on another pot of coffee.” She leaned over to pat MacArthur. “This is just terrible. Do you really think it’s connected to the murders? Maybe he, you know, got frisky with the tart and it was too much for him.”

I glanced at the kitchen door to be sure no one would overhear. “Mochie found this in the dining room.” I pulled the napkin from my pocket, dropped the cylindrical vial into a clear plastic bag, and sealed it shut.