Hannah pasted a smile on her face and sat up straight and I realized Craig must be on his way back.
Obviously pleased with himself, he handed out foam boxes containing French fries and roast beef sandwiches. He dug in his pocket and pulled out packets of ketchup. “Hope I got enough for all of us.”
Hannah and Mom gushed appreciation but I wondered where he’d bought the food. No one else in the ballroom held foam boxes.
A pink flush crept up the sides of his face and culminated in red cheeks reminiscent of someone who’d been out in the cold. He wore a black, long-sleeved polo and jeans, not enough to keep warm outside. I spotted the sleeve of his bomber jacket hanging from the pile of coats we’d left on a chair.
Hannah dug into the French fries. “Yum—they need salt, though. Sophie, do you have any salt in your cooking ingredients?”
Of course I did. I found the salt and offered it to her.
She sprinkled a heavy dose on her fries and took a bite. “Ugh. Are you trying to kill me, too?”
Dad’s face looked like it did when we were kids and didn’t know when to stop pushing his buttons. “Hannah, your sister didn’t kill anyone. You cannot say things like that. I don’t think you understand how serious this situation is for Sophie.”
“It’s always about Sophie. This weekend was supposed to be about me and Craig. Besides, taste this.”
Dad took one of her fries and bit into it. “Sugar.”
I shook out a pinch of salt and tasted it. Definitely sugar.
“Hey, Wendy,” I called, “do me a favor and taste your salt.”
“Oh, my gosh,” she cried, “it’s sugar. Someone was doing everything possible to sabotage the contest.”
Thinking that the saboteur wouldn’t have tampered with his or her own ingredients, I was tempted to demand a check of everyone’s ingredients. But a young police officer arrived to escort me to be questioned.
Not quite sure what would happen, I bent over my father’s shoulder and said, “Don’t worry about me. You go shopping and I’ll meet you at home.”
I hated the fear etched on his face and as I walked away, I heard my mother say, “For heaven’s sake, Paul, they’re just going to ask her questions.”
Detective Kenner met me in the ballroom lobby and took me aside to grill me. Across the room, I could see Wolf questioning Natasha.
Kenner asked me the same questions in different ways. When I stuck to my boring story about finding Simon’s body and picking up the turkey with blood on it, Kenner’s nostrils flared.
I worked at remaining calm as his rage rose. His voice grew louder but I didn’t allow him to intimidate me.
Wolf, busy across the lobby, watched us periodically.
Kenner’s face turned a shade of purple that suggested high-blood-pressure issues. He squinted at me and hovered too close for my comfort. “You may think that you’ve suckered Wolf into believing your lies, but you don’t fool me for a second.”
His face inches from mine, he snapped his fingers and yelled, “Take her to the station.”
SEVEN
From “Ask Natasha” :
Dear Natasha,
My in-laws are arriving in droves and they expect to stay with us. I have to work and don’t have time for all the extra meals and laundry. What to do?
—Crowded in Cranston
Dear Crowded,
Everyone deserves fresh 1,000-count Egyptian cotton sheets and fluffy down pillows. A gracious hostess pampers her guests. Get up a few hours early to make breakfast and clean. The extra effort will be worth it. If you have to be gone during the day, hire a limousine to show them around in style.
—Natasha
Was I being arrested? I looked over at Wolf. He made no effort to help me. The young officer didn’t handcuff me, though, he merely showed me out the side door of the hotel to the backseat of a police cruiser.
When he climbed into the front seat, I asked, “Am I under arrest?”
In a polite southern accent, he said, “Why, no, ma’am. You just need to give your bloody clothes as evidence.”
By the time a cop drove me home, all I wanted was a nap. I unlocked the front door of my house and listened. The others must still be out. But something wasn’t right. Where was Mochie?
I slid off the jacket that hadn’t been warm enough for the November chill and called Mochie’s name repeatedly. When I hung the jacket in the hall closet, I heard pathetic mewing. I found Mochie in the living room, looking down at me from the top of the grandfather clock.
“You managed to get up there, you little rascal; are you sure you need help getting down?”
He continued meowing and watched me with those big eyes. I fetched a ladder from the basement and set it next to the clock. I hadn’t even climbed to the midpoint of the ladder when the scamp leapt onto my shoulder and clung to my police-issued T-shirt. I patted him to reassure him. He crawled next to my ear and thanked me with heavy purring. But when my feet hit the floor, he sprang from my shoulder and raced through the house like a wildcat. He flew over furniture and in and out of rooms so fast that his paws barely touched the floor.
I couldn’t help laughing at his joyous antics. He tore through the kitchen while I put away the ladder and raced ahead of me when I headed up the stairs for a much-needed shower.
My hopes for a nap were dashed when I stepped out of the shower and heard voices and footsteps on the stairs. I dreaded the evening. I was dog tired and still had to make chicken broth for the soup and stuffing, not to mention two pies and a batch of my famous brownies. I thanked my lucky stars it would just be six of us for Thanksgiving dinner the next day and that, except for the colonel and Craig, it was really all just family. They’d understand if things weren’t perfect.
I’d anticipated being too tired to cook after the contest and had prepared a vegetable lasagna on Monday, before my parents arrived. When I joined everyone in the kitchen, the heady scents of oregano and garlic already mingled in the air as the lasagna heated. The others set the table for dinner while I quartered an onion, peeled six carrots, and washed celery. I popped them all into a stockpot along with a whole chicken, a large bay leaf, and four cloves of garlic. Dad built a fire while Mom cooked sweet potatoes for a dish she’d promised Craig. Except for my exhaustion and the fact that I’d found two dead men, everything seemed almost normal.
After dinner, I brewed a pot of strong French vanilla coffee to drink with the leftover Bourbon Pecan Pie. In spite of the caffeine, I felt myself relaxing. The fire crackled and bathed the kitchen in a warm light. My family bantered in a friendly way, evoking laughter and sly grins. Maybe the worst was behind me.
Craig and Hannah insisted on cleaning up, although I couldn’t recall the last time Hannah washed dishes without complaining. They were playful and sweet, teasing each other gently. Maybe I hadn’t given Craig a fair chance. After all, he seemed far different from the drop-dead gorgeous, girl-in-every-port types she usually lusted after.