The Diva Runs Out of Thyme Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  RECIPES & COOKING TIPS

  Skewered

  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.”

  Was he trying to scare me? “I didn’t do anything. The store videos will back that up.”

  “Then how do you explain the blood on your sweater?”

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  THE DIVA RUNS OUT OF THYME

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / October 2008

  Copyright © 2008 by Christina Ryplansky.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-1-436-28083-9

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For my mom, Marianne,

  my friend and my biggest fan,

  who has always encouraged me,

  even when I decided to become a writer.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to my agent, Jacky Sach, and my editor, Sandra Harding, without whom the divas would not exist. Special thanks to Janet Bolin, Daryl Wood Gerber, and Sandra Parshall, who read, critiqued, and offered insights with humor and patience. Thanks also to my valuable first reader, Betsy Strickland, as well as Susan Erba and Amy Wheeler, who showed me true friendship by enduring the ups and downs of my life over the past few years. And special appreciation to Trudy Wheeler, who knew just how a Frenchman might express disdain.

  Finally, endless thanks to the Guppies for cheering me on and urging me to persevere. You are far too many to mention but you are undoubtedly the best friends I’ve never met.

  To the residents of Old Town, I apologize for taking liberties with your beautiful city. Sophie’s home and several other locations are blends of various places and are not based on any particular existing structure.

  ONE

  Live on Good Morning Washington!

  Special guest in the Washington, DC,

  television studio: Natasha

  “My very favorite holiday is Thanksgiving. No other day is so much about family and friends and fabulous food. By now, I hope everyone has sent out their invitations. We crafted these darling ones by ripping recycled natural-colored paper into the shapes of maple leaves. Don’t cut them or you won’t get this lovely soft frayed effect. Glue each leaf to a square of darker linen. Ours has a slight golden cast to it that says autumn. Then, with a calligraphy pen, handwrite a special note to each guest. Don’t forget to make matching envelopes out of the recycled paper.”

  Natasha’s velvety voice drifted up the stairs. I clenched my teeth at the sound. In sixth grade she started a rumor that I wet the bed at her slumber party. That scandalous lie had followed me to graduation.

  I didn’t actually hate her but found her annoying in the way perfect people so often are. Even though I felt fairly content with my life, Natasha had a tendency to pop up and make me feel inadequate, like an embarrassed sixth-grader again.

  We’d competed against each other for almost everything when we were in school—sports, grades, honors. Competition became the norm for us. I fought it but Natasha loved to act superior, which brought out the worst in me. I never entered her world of beauty pageants, though. She did quite well, but I took some satisfaction in the knowledge that she never won a Miss Congeniality title.

  Who’d have imagined that Natasha would have her own lifestyle TV show on a local cable channel in Washington, DC, not to mention a lifestyle advice column? And now that my ex-husband, Mars, had set up housekeeping with her, the sound of her voice made me boil. It seemed like she was turning up everywhere lately. But not in my house!

  I pounde
d down to the family room off my kitchen. My mother immediately changed the channel.

  My sister, Hannah, reached for the remote. “Mom! I was watching that!”

  Dad leaned against the doorway to the sunroom, a mug of coffee in his hand. “I warned them. You shouldn’t be subjected to that woman in your own home.”

  “It’s been two years since Mars and Sophie split. She told me she’s moved on. Besides, it’s not like Natasha had anything to do with their divorce.” Hannah tugged the remote from Mom and switched the TV back to Natasha’s show.

  The baby in the family, Hannah wore her blonde hair long and loose like a teenager and still thought the world revolved around her even though she was about to turn forty.

  My brother and I headed for Northern Virginia, just outside of Washington, DC, after college. But Hannah married two losers in a row and remained in Berrysville, Virginia. Fortunately, she turned out to have an uncanny knack for computers, but I wondered if living in the same small town as my parents had sheltered her too much.

  I stifled a sigh of frustration and headed for coffee. Less than twenty-four hours with my parents and sister and I already felt like a child again. I was forty-four, a competent, self-sufficient woman. How did they do that to me?

  A fire crackled in the stone fireplace in the kitchen, dispelling the November chill. My dad must have lit it. Just being in my kitchen made me feel better.

  Antiqued cream-colored Old World cabinets with plenty of glass doors had replaced drab brown ones. The new hardwood floor still gleamed, as did the Madura Gold granite countertops. But the very best part was the stone wall we uncovered when we renovated. Most likely part of the original house, the rough stones were thought to be ballast stones, used to weigh down ships crossing the Atlantic, then discarded in the streets in colonial times. A four-foot-tall fireplace with hooks for kettles made the wall the best feature in the room.

  Built in 1825, my house retained its original Federal-style exterior with red brick walls and tall windows. But when Mars and I inherited it from his aunt Faye, the interior had been authentic 1960s flower power. Twiggy would have been at home in the kitchen with orange countertops and faded mod daisy wallpaper.

  The heavenly aroma of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon wafted to me, and Mom joined me. I flashed her a grateful smile as I poured coffee into a Spode mug. I couldn’t remember the last time someone else had fixed breakfast.

  “Well, anyone can see you’re single again,” she said. “Married women don’t wear flannel pajamas.”

  Ah. I’d been married long enough to have forgotten her rules for catching men. I leaned against the kitchen counter and dumped an extra spoonful of sugar into my coffee along with nonfat milk.

  Mom, petite and trim, moved the sugar bowl away from me. “Now that you’re single again, you can’t afford to keep eating this way. That sugar will settle right on your hips.”

  How many times was she going to say “now that you’re single again”? Would that be her constant refrain?

  She handed me a plate with bacon and pancakes. A chunk of butter melted on the top pancake. I could eat this but wasn’t supposed to take sugar in my coffee?

  As though she could read my mind, she said, “They’re pumpkin spice pancakes.” Was the bacon made out of pumpkin, too?

  “Your aunt Melly made the boysenberry syrup that’s on the table. She was sorry she couldn’t drive up for Thanksgiving, but she and Uncle Fred will join us for Christmas.”

  I straightened the picture of Mars’s Aunt Faye that hung over the fireplace, poured syrup on the pancakes, and settled into my favorite armchair by the fire.

  Mom busied herself at the sink like the Energizer Bunny. “I didn’t get an invitation to Thanksgiving.”

  She was here, wasn’t she? “You’re the one who told me it would be at my house this year. I didn’t think an invitation was necessary.”

  “Do you have an extra one? I’d love to see them.”

  I didn’t want to spark an argument by telling her I hadn’t sent invitations. It was just family; it wasn’t like they didn’t know where I lived.

  “What kind of soup are you serving?”

  “Soup?”

  “Sophie! Haven’t you worked out a menu yet? You know everyone has high expectations because you throw parties.”

  “I don’t throw parties, I plan events.”

  “Natasha’s serving squab and leek consommé in hollowed-out acorn squashes.”

  “Squab? She’s serving pigeon broth?”

  “Not pigeon, squab. Don’t you watch her show? I think it’s very appropriate for Thanksgiving. Where does a person buy squab?”

  I had no idea and I didn’t care. The thought of cooking pigeons was revolting. Besides, could anyone really tell the difference between squab broth and chicken broth?

  “Natasha smokes her turkey. She did an entire episode on smoking meats.”

  Wonderful. Natasha probably had an entire kitchen staff on hand to do it all, too.

  “Her mother tells me that Natasha is dying to get her show on a national network. I’m sure it won’t be long before people in California love her as much as we do. That girl perseveres until she gets what she wants.” Mom frowned at me. “Do you always eat in that chair? Just because you’re alone doesn’t mean you should be sloppy.”

  I stuffed my mouth with pancake so I wouldn’t be tempted to snarl at her.

  “Hannah,” she called into the family room, “are you dressed yet?” She turned back to me. “We’re swinging by Saks because Hannah says they have gorgeous wedding gowns. We’re having lunch in Georgetown and in the afternoon we’ll pick up her fiancé at the airport.” She walked over to me and kissed my forehead. “I’m so glad to see you, sweetie. I know you’re busy with that stuffing contest coming up, but don’t you think you could find time to squeeze in a haircut?”

  My mother, the micromanager who’d have had Thanksgiving dinner planned a month in advance, didn’t wait for an answer. I watched her flounce from the kitchen and told myself not to be upset. She lived in a different world.

  Dad’s timing, as he settled in the other chair by the fire, made me suspect that he’d been waiting for her to leave. “Are you really over Mars or is that a line you gave your sister to shut her up?” His square brow furrowed in concern.

  Dad looked young for a retiree. His dark hair hadn’t thinned much and he’d kept himself in good shape.

  “It’s true.” I took a deep breath and mustered up a strong voice and a big grin. “I’ve moved on.”

  “You two finally come to a decision about the house?”

  “Thank goodness that’s over. It’s all mine now.” I wasn’t about to mention that my savings had dwindled and I’d given up my rights to Mars’s retirement funds. No point in worrying Dad. “I think Natasha still wants to buy it from me . . .”

  The picture of Aunt Faye that hung over the fireplace slid to a slant.

  Dad looked around. “That’s odd.”

  I swallowed the last bite of pancake. “Happens sometimes. Something about the draft from the fireplace, I think. Anyway, it’s not for sale and especially not to Natasha.” My home was the one thing she couldn’t have. I loved the creaky old place with odd drafts that made pictures move and original peg-and-groove floors that canted so anything dropped on the floor in the living or dining room rolled toward the outer wall. And I adored life in Old Town Alexandria, just across the river from Washington, DC. The historic houses and brick sidewalks made it feel like a village instead of a suburb.

  I would replenish my savings soon if I could resist the temptation to add a bathroom or renovate the existing one and a half baths. Who was the idiot that started the green-and-black-tile craze? It never was attractive.

  It wasn’t as though I didn’t have a decent income as an event planner for A Capital Affair, but I’d taken a hefty mortgage to buy out Mars’s interest in the house.

  In a flurry of questions about the best routes to Saks and the airpor
t, Mom reappeared with Hannah, collected Dad, and hurried them out the front door. I watched them from the stoop. A chilly fall wind blew colorful leaves up around them like an image in a snow globe.

  Dad’s blue Buick pulled away from the curb and Nina Reid Norwood, who lived across the street and one house over, jogged across to me.

  On the day Mars and I moved in, before the movers managed to bring in one piece of furniture, our new neighbor, Nina, barged in carrying a wriggling black-and-tan hound puppy. Mars and I immediately adored the puppy with one freckle on her nose who happily followed us up and down the stairs. We adopted sweet Daisy the next day. Nina later confessed that adoption had been her goal but she wanted to check us out first.

  Nina’s husband, a renowned forensic pathologist, traveled constantly, leaving her plenty of time to help homeless animals. The daughter of a professor of pathology, Nina met her husband at a backyard barbecue hosted by her parents. She claimed the serious young doctor was just the antidote for her first marriage to a man who never met a woman he didn’t like.