Diva 01 _ Diva Runs Out of Thyme, The by Krista Davis Page A

take care of this.” Wolf headed for the door.

    “Let me see what’s going on first.” I ventured out into the cold, hoping she wouldn’t use the stick on me.

    “Francie, what are you doing?”

    She straightened up and pushed straw-like hair off her weather-beaten face. “I saw a rat.”

    And I smelled one. “Are you the Peeping Tom?”

    “There really was a Peeping Tom. I don’t know why no one wants to believe that. They ought to. There’ve been two murders in town in the last two days.”

    I wondered if she had any idea that she was talking to the prime suspect in those murders.

    I put my arm around her shoulders. “A big, strong police detective happens to be eating with us. How about you come in and join us?”

    “I don’t want to be a bother.”

    If she only knew the half of it. I wouldn’t even notice one more person.

    I steered her inside. “We’re just sitting down to soup.”

    “I hope it’s not that crummy broth Natasha’s been spouting about on TV.”

    Everyone filtered back to the table and made room for Francie next to Wolf. I couldn’t help noticing that Natasha had switched places with Mars so she wouldn’t have to sit opposite June. Soup bowls, wineglasses, and spoons passed between guests as everyone chose new seats. So much for the place cards Natasha had crafted from leaves.

    While they rearranged everything, I hurried to the kitchen and scraped the pots to make Francie a bowl of soup. I placed it in front of her and urged the others to eat before the soup was completely cold.

    Within minutes I realized what was going on with Francie. She only had eyes for the colonel. And she wore a fussy blouse with a bow at the neck and a tapestry vest over top of it. She’d dressed for dinner. But she had to compete with my mom and June, who had engaged the colonel in an animated discussion about his charity work in Africa. I’d felt sorry for him, and then it turned out the man was a magnet for women over sixty-five.

    My soup mixture went over big, which was a huge relief. When everyone was finished, Vicki and Hannah cleared the soup dishes and carried in creamy buttered mashed potatoes, green beans with crunchy almond slivers and jewel-like bits of roasted red pepper, crusty bacon-herb stuffing, cranberries spiked with a hint of Grand Marnier, and the gooey marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes Mom made specially for Craig. And last I brought in the turkey, which, in spite of Mom’s surreptitious basting, was roasted to a crispy golden brown.

    For the first time, I felt awkward and nostalgic about Mars’s presence. In the past, Mars carved the turkey. I paused and glanced at him, wondering what to do.

    He seemed thoroughly uncomfortable, which wasn’t like him at all. Unflappable Mars took everything in stride. But he had unbuttoned the collar of his shirt and was using his napkin to dab his forehead. I stole a glance at Natasha, who seemed oblivious to Mars’s discomfort, nattering on about a program she did on mushrooms.

    Dad would have to carve the turkey this year. I hoped Mars wouldn’t mind.

    I flashed him a reassuring smile. But the color had drained from his face and he appeared dazed. He wasn’t upset about being here for Thanksgiving. Something was seriously wrong.

    “Mars?” I said.

    Before I could set the turkey on the sideboard, Mars rose slightly from his chair. With sweat beading on his forehead, he coughed once and then collapsed.

ELEVEN

    From “THE GOOD LIFE”:

    Dear Sophie,

    I love crispy turkey skin. It always looks wonderful when it comes out of the oven but somehow when my wife serves it, the skin is limp and unappealing.

    —Crispless in Crimora

    Dear Crispless,

    I’d bet your wife covers the turkey with aluminum foil to keep it warm while you eat your soup. Covering the hot bird causes moisture to collect and the skin to lose its crispness. Just leave the bird uncovered and it will be as crisp as can be.

    —Sophie

    Natasha kneeled to