Diva Runs Out Of Thyme

His grin turned into a chuckle. “Mrs. Winston, I’ve seen a lot of murders in my day. There are a few things I know without having to make a big study of it like Kenner. One, it is possible for a woman to throw a dead guy into a Dumpster. When that adrenaline gets pumping, people can do incredible things. Two, killers go to the trouble of putting victims in Dumpsters because they want to hide them. Very few call the police and wait around for them. Three, that knife is going to come up clean, no fingerprints. I guarantee it. Somebody wanted that guy dead.”

“So I’m not a suspect?”

He avoided my gaze and it didn’t escape me that he failed to answer my question.

“How exactly did you know Otis?”

“Otis? Was that his name?”

He looked me straight in the eyes like he was trying to read me.

As much as I wanted to avert my gaze, instinct forced me to meet him dead on. Guilty people and liars looked away, didn’t they? “I think I was very clear in the statement I gave earlier. The first time I ever saw him was when he offered me the kitten in the store parking lot.”

“Otis Pulchinski. You sure that doesn’t ring any bells?” His smile had disappeared and while I didn’t think he meant to intimidate me, the serious expression on his face told me I was in more trouble than I thought. I sipped the mocha latte. Could I have known the guy? Over the years I’d met thousands of people at events I planned. I nearly choked on the latte at the thought.

Pulling my shoulders up straight, I gave him the best answer I could. “The name isn’t familiar and if I ever met him before, it could only have been in passing. I certainly didn’t recognize him.”

On the floor, the kitten wiggled his behind and sprang in two great leaps to a chair and onto the table. That stinker! He hadn’t needed my help to get on the chair earlier. I reached out to remove him but Wolf stopped me.

“It’s okay. What are you going to call him?”

“I don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl.”

Wolf picked up the kitten under its arms. “Congratulations, Mrs. Winston, it’s a boy.”

A smile crept to my face and eased the tension I’d felt. “Please call me Sophie.”

Back on the table, the kitten promptly investigated Wolf’s mocha latte.

Wolf stopped him. “Have a little milk? I don’t think the mocha would be good for him.”

At the word “mocha,” the kitten turned his big eyes on Wolf.

I fetched a tiny bit of cream. While I was up, Wolf kept repeating the word “mocha.”

“Hey, look at this.”

Holding a saucer with a few drops of cream in my hand, I paused to watch.

Every time Wolf said “mocha” the kitten looked at him.

“He thinks his name is Mocha.” Wolf picked him up and placed him on the chair by the fireplace. He walked away from the kitten and called, “Mochie!”

The kitten’s head swiveled around.

“That’s silly.” It was cute but he probably responded that way to lots of words. “Ice cream!” I said as a test.

The kitten ignored me.

“Mochie!”

By golly, the little guy turned his head immediately.

Laughing, we settled at the table again. Mochie leaped onto the table and lapped cream while Wolf stroked him.

He didn’t look like a Wolf. He didn’t have that sly, hungry look like Kenner. Wolf struck me as being more like a Great Dane, calm and confident with friendly brown eyes. Maybe that made him more dangerous. Lurking behind the amiable facade was a detective noting my every move. It would be easy to relax, to enjoy his company—to fall into some sort of horrible trap that might make me seem guilty.

Wolf finished his slice of pie and settled back in the chair, too comfortably for my taste.

My hands had grown cold. Even the latte couldn’t keep me warm.

The front door opened and chatter filled the air. My family barged in and stopped in a cluster at the sight of us.

A tall, fair man with a bad comb-over was with them. Hannah’s fiancé, I presumed. I introduced everyone to Wolf. When I said he was a detective, I thought I noticed a slight twitch of apprehension on the fiancé’s face.

My mother took great pride in introducing him as Doctor Craig Beacham. He was unfailingly polite but when I shook his hand, a chill ran through me.

Wolf distracted me by saying good-bye. I thanked him again for delivering my groceries, bringing kitten food, and for naming Mochie, too. At the front door, speaking softly, he said, “You seem like a decent person, Sophie, so I’m going to give you a little advice.” He leaned toward me. “Cops don’t like being lied to. It makes us very angry.” He sucked in a deep breath and his eyes narrowed. “Isn’t there something you’d like to come clean about?”

My pulse quickened. He obviously thought I’d lied. “There’s nothing else to tell.”

He shuffled his feet uncomfortably and crossed his arms over his chest. The nice cop of the latte and kitten food disappeared. “Really.” He fixed me with an unfriendly glare. “Suppose you explain why the dead man had your name and photograph on the front seat of his truck?”

FOUR

From the Live with Natasha show: