Mom set the remaining turkey in front of me. “Slice while you talk.”
Over an early lunch of Thanksgiving leftovers, we discussed various suspects and theories, none of which satisfied any of us.
When we finished, Mars and June left in a hurry to do some shopping before June’s sleuthing date with the colonel.
Mom loaded the dishwasher and I whipped up a cranberry spice Bundt cake to serve when the colonel arrived.
While it baked, I forced myself into the living room to be sure it wasn’t a wreck. If there was one domestic chore I hated, it was cleaning. I’d hired a service to clean before my parents arrived, but dust had begun to settle on tabletops again, and my most hated job, washing the kitchen floor, awaited.
I plumped up pillows and dusted the tabletops in the living room. Fortunately, I didn’t use the living room often and it stayed relatively serviceable.
The fireplace mantel and window moldings shone a glossy white when I turned on a couple of table lamps. A designer had suggested to Mars that yellow wasn’t just a power color in neck ties, so Mars insisted on buttery yellow walls. We argued for days over upholstery for the sofa and chairs. Mars won with a fabric the color of summer squash for the sofa. Blood orange pillows that coordinated with the yellow plaid I’d insisted on for the chairs interrupted the shades of yellow.
I should have vacuumed or run a dry mop around the hardwood floor but time didn’t permit. The dining room needed tidying, too. It connected to the living room through a twelve-foot-wide opening. Faye knew what she was doing when she built the addition. The living room and the dining room felt larger as a result of the opening between them and provided terrific flow for parties.
I returned to the kitchen, removed the cake from the oven, and placed it on a rack to cool while I walked Daisy. On our return, Mom flitted around the kitchen, as nervous as if the colonel were her suitor. She’d even turned the cake out of the pan for me while I was out.
I ground Viennese coffee beans that smelled heavenly. While the coffee brewed, I shook powered sugar into a small bowl and squeezed in a tiny amount of lemon juice. Using a miniature whisk, I mixed the two, adding a little more lemon juice until it reached a drizzling consistency. I scooped up a dollop with the whisk and let it ooze onto the top of the cake. It formed a white glaze on the top and dribbled down the sides. I cut a portion of the cake into slices and convinced myself that I really should taste one. Moist, not too sweet, with just the right burst of tartness from the cranberries. I arranged the slices on a plate and took them into the living room.
I was returning to the kitchen when June arrived, breathless. “I had no idea it was so late.” She hurried to her bedroom to freshen up for her gentleman caller.
In the kitchen, Mom poured the coffee into the china pot that I so rarely used. She added it to a tray with sugar, cream, Battenberg lace napkins, and china.
The brass knocker sounded and Mom’s hands flew to her hair. She fluffed it and then flicked a quick hand over her outfit in case any crumbs or fuzzies clung to her.
I watched from the kitchen doorway when Mom received the colonel. She took his overcoat as June descended the stairs, her cheeks flushed.
“Sophie,” said Mom, “would you be a dear and fetch some Irish whiskey from the den?”
I snuck into the den through the sunroom and discovered Dad comfortably seated on the sofa, his sock-clad feet on the coffee table.
He held his forefinger up to his lips. The door to the living room remained slightly ajar and we could hear every word said between June and the colonel. My father had become a spy.
I shouldn’t have done it, but I listened, too. Their conversation about their dinner the night before would have bored anyone.
I found the liquor and returned to the kitchen. Mom poured a small amount into a petite crystal decanter and added it to the tray. I carried it all into the living room and set the tray on the table. June and the colonel sat on the sofa side by side. June poured coffee and Mom looked on from the dining room. I gently took Mom’s arm and escorted her into the foyer.
“They’re so sweet together,” she said.
“You can’t just stand there and watch them.” Apparently spying was in my genes. “I never knew you and Dad were so snoopy.”
“Where is your dad?”
“Spying in the den.”
“That sneak! What a great idea.” Mom hustled down the hallway toward the sunroom.
I was certain she didn’t want to miss another word.
I tidied the kitchen, glad that I didn’t have to cook dinner. When Mom announced I would be hosting Thanksgiving, I ordered tickets to the Ford’s Theatre production of A Christmas Carol. I hadn’t planned on June and Bernie, of course. Bernie would have to entertain himself and I’d gladly give my ticket to June. The theatergoers would be eating out and, to be honest, I looked forward to a quiet evening to catch up on my column.
Even though I wanted to take the high road and wait until June reported to us, the den pulled me like an impossibly strong magnet. I wandered to the sunroom and poked my head into the den.
Mom nestled against Dad on the sofa, her feet on the coffee table beside his, his arm around her shoulders. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought they were watching a movie on TV.
I could hear June saying, “That Simon must have been a horrible man. He cheated my Andrew out of millions of dollars.”
“Ruthless. The man had no scruples whatsoever,” the colonel responded. “There’s one fellow who paved his own path to hell.”
“Did you know him?” I marveled at the innocence in June’s voice.
At that moment, Daisy galloped along the hallway. I rushed through the sunroom to the foyer to see what was going on.
Bernie was hanging his coat in the hall closet. “Where is everyone? This place is as quiet as a tomb.”
“June is entertaining the colonel in the living room.” I was too embarrassed to admit that my parents were spying in the den. Besides, I had some careful questions of my own to craft. I needed to find out what Bernie was doing with Mrs. Pulchinski. “Come in the kitchen and I’ll make you an Irish coffee.”
Bernie followed me. “Splendid. What have you been up to all day?”
It was the opening I needed. “Funny you should ask.”
A soft banging distracted me.
“What is that?” asked Bernie.
I traced the sound to a kitchen cabinet. The door bounced open ever so slightly and shut again. “There’s something in there.”
“Must be a rat. Have you got an iron skillet?” asked Bernie.
“It’s in there with the rat.”
Bernie scanned the kitchen for a weapon. “How about a broom?”
I fetched one that hung on the wall of the basement stairwell.
“You open it and I’ll be ready.” Bernie gripped the broom tightly and held it up over his shoulder.