“No woman wants a man like that. He’s definitely not the gentleman we all thought.” Mom settled into a love seat next to Dad. “I don’t blame you one bit for being upset.”
“What did Mars want so late?” asked Hannah.
I shot her a grateful smile for changing the subject. The sooner we distracted June, the better. And then I remembered that Natasha might be having an affair. That would distract June but not in a good way.
“He brought me a Taser.” That wasn’t a complete lie. I didn’t like misleading anyone, but this time I thought it more important to cheer up June. “For the nights when I come home late from work.”
I scored. My simple lie generated a lively discussion between Mom and June on how they could throw Mars and me together more often. Before long Craig and Hannah drifted up to bed, followed shortly by my parents and June. Daisy had stretched out in the sunroom with us, but I hadn’t seen Mochie in a while. I found him in the kitchen, sitting on the bench in the bay window looking out as a hearse drove by.
TWENTY-SIX
From “THE GOOD LIFE”:
Dear Sophie,
My mother-in-law complains that my Thanksgiving decor looks too much like Halloween. Must be those rotting pumpkins by the front door. What can I do that will please her?
—Desperate in Dumfries
Dear Desperate,
Instead of hiding your favorite photos in scrapbooks, make duplicates of pictures with an autumn theme. A memorable hike to see the leaves changing, the kids playing in piles of raked leaves, a beautiful garden of colorful squashes and pumpkins ready to be harvested, even a photo of dear mother-in-law visiting. Put them in frames that carry out the seasonal theme and bring them out each year after Halloween. Cluster them on a sideboard or entry hall table for an instant decoration and a lovely reminder of fun times that you can add to each year.
—Sophie
I watched the hearse drive away, hoping it wasn’t some sort of horrible omen. Carrying Mochie, I returned to the sunroom. Bernie had decided to watch the tiny TV in the den. Since he didn’t intend to sleep yet, I joined him and began downloading photographs of the stuffing competition from Dad’s camera. I knew it was a long shot, but he might have caught something of interest. Like Natasha kissing Clyde.
Thumbprint-sized images showed immediately. I scanned through them. Mom and Hannah at a bridal salon. Picture after picture of bridal gowns. I assumed Hannah wanted to remember the dresses and asked Dad to snap photos. Finally, a picture of the Stupendous Stuffing Shakedown banner that hung across the entrance to the hotel.
I viewed picture upon picture of Mom and Hannah. Craig showed up in a couple of them, but both times he’d turned his head and was barely recognizable. Dad had also taken some shots of Natasha, her creative baskets of ingredients behind her, and a few of Wendy and Emma and their work spaces as well.
If only Dad had been photographing the Washington Room or one of its entrances. Even though I hadn’t expected to find anything earthshaking, I couldn’t help being disappointed. I printed out two sheets of tiny thumbnails to examine in the morning when I’d be more alert.
The printer hummed and I looked over at Bernie. Snuggled in a down comforter, he snoozed peacefully with a snoring Daisy next to him. I put the computer to sleep, turned off the TV and the sole light on the desk. I left the thumbnails on the kitchen table and tiptoed up to bed with Mochie racing ahead.
In spite of a sleepless night, I rose early on Sunday. The rich aroma of coffee wafted to me as I walked downstairs to the kitchen. June sat by the fireplace, pouches under her eyes. I suspected she hadn’t slept well after the colonel’s middle-of-the-night date stopped by.
She muttered, “I never expected this of him.”
Wearing a silky robe, Mom studied the thumbnails I’d left on the table. I tapped her shoulder and whispered, “Is June talking to Faye?”
Mom nodded. “And check out Mochie.”
The kitten sat in front of the stone wall, staring at it as though listening to something. I shivered. “You don’t think he can hear Faye?”
Mom shrugged. “Who knows?”
I poured a mug of coffee for June. She needed a jolt of caffeine. She took it with a smile but continued to mutter.
“I’m glad you’re up early,” said Mom. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
I poured coffee into a mug, added milk, and when her back was turned, plopped in sugar. I didn’t need any more lectures about my weight. “What’s up?” I asked, sitting down next to her.
She glanced at June and whispered to me, “I saw Vicki embracing a man at the stuffing contest.”
I hadn’t expected that. “What did he look like?”
“Nice enough. Brown hair. At the time I thought it might be that driver of Simon’s, but I’m not sure. Oh, honey, do you think that has anything to do with the murders? I should have mentioned it sooner, but with all that’s happened, it went right out of my mind.”
Clyde? Did Vicki know about Natasha’s affair? “What kind of hug was it?”
“Friendly, but there was something odd about it, like they didn’t want anyone to see them.”
“Maybe it was an old client. Someone she met through her marriage counseling service?” Loads of people hugged at the contest. Vicki knew a lot of people, had counseled hundreds.
A knock at the kitchen door caught us off guard.
To my utter surprise, Francie walked inside and presented me with a white bakery box tied with a glittery gold ribbon.
“I brought muffins for brunch. Cranberry nutmeg, walnut mincemeat, and pumpkin spice.” She plunked the Sunday edition of the local paper on the kitchen table and removed her jacket. “Are you the only ones up?” She moseyed toward the coffee and poured herself a cup. Looking out the window over the sink, she said, “Sure is dead out there this morning.”
Brunch? I didn’t remember planning a brunch. The mere mention of it reminded me that I had ignored my company. Normally, I’d have planned all the meals in advance and even prepared a few dishes that I could pop in the oven so I wouldn’t have to abandon my guests to prepare them.
We could pull together eggs and bacon and whip up apple-cinnamon French toast. Thank heaven the freezer and pantry were well stocked. Could Mom have mentioned brunch to Francie?
Wearing sweats, Dad ambled in and stopped short. “Didn’t realize that we’re having company. Pardon me while I change.”
Mom and June followed suit, but Francie didn’t mind. She tossed kindling in the fire, lit it, and made herself at home in a fireside chair, her nose buried in the paper. At least I didn’t have to worry about entertaining her.
I found a basket big enough for the muffins, lined it with a white lace-edged napkin, and placed the muffins inside. While Francie read, I peeled and sliced firm Granny Smith apples and melted butter in a large pan. The apples plopped into the melting butter with a sizzle. I added a liberal dose of brown sugar, sprinkled cinnamon over the top, and gave the entire mixture a few good turns to blend it all. With the burner on low, I put the lid on and left the apples to simmer while I set the dining-room table.