The Diva Paints the Town 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

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  RECIPES & COOKING TIPS

  PRAISE FOR

  The Diva Takes the Cake

  “The Diva Takes the Cake does just that—takes the cake.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “Davis has devised a delightful romp, with engaging characters and a nicely crafted setting in which to place them. The author sets just the right tone to match her diva’s perfect centerpieces, tablescapes, and lighting effects.”

  —Shine

  The Diva Runs Out of Thyme

  “[A] tricky whodunit laced with delectable food . . . [and] stuffed with suspects—and a reminder that nobody’s Thanks-giving is perfect.”

  —The Richmond Times-Dispatch

  “[A] fun romp into the world of food, murder, and mayhem.”

  —Armchair Interviews

  “Filled with humor, delicious recipes, and holiday decorating tips, The Diva Runs Out of Thyme is . . . a must-read to prepare for the holiday season.”

  —The Romance Readers Connection

  “The Diva Runs Out of Thyme is as much comedy as mystery . . . A really good book . . . A series worth watching.”

  —Mysterious Reviews

  “An entertaining mystery novel with charming characters. The plot of the mystery is well drawn out . . . Davis is an excellent mystery author.”

  —MyShelf.com

  “Delivers a plethora of useful household tips and mouthwatering recipes immersed with a keep-you-guessing plot filled with suspicious-acting characters, and twists and turns around every corner. Davis’s smart writing style and engaging characters are sure to garner fans anxious to read future books in the series.”

  —AuthorsDen.com

  “The beginning of a good culinary cozy series with some interesting and different characters.”

  —Gumshoe Review

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Krista Davis

  THE DIVA RUNS OUT OF THYME

  THE DIVA TAKES THE CAKE

  THE DIVA PAINTS THE TOWN

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  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 PAINTS THE TOWN

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

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / February 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Cristina Ryplansky.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-18467-7

  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 PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For my dad, Anatol.

  He would have been very pleased.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to my wonderful critique partners, Janet Bolin and Daryl Wood Gerber, who not only are delightful friends, but keep me on track with humor and sage advice. I owe special thanks to my mom, Marianne, who patiently reads first drafts and offers astute suggestions.

  I am eternally grateful to my cheerful and understanding editor, Sandra Harding. I would be lost without her expertise. Thanks also to my agent, Jacky Sach, for all her help. And a special note of appreciation to talented Teresa Fasolino, who continues to create such gorgeous covers for the divas.

  I’m also very appreciative of my writing colleagues in The Guppies. Especially Anna Castle, Heidi Noroozy, Kathleen Marsh, Theresa de Valence, and Cathy Rogers, who, along with my dear friend, Betsy Strickland, helped me with Mordecai’s Latin. Special thanks to Christie Harris for helping me with an interior design term. Any errors are my own.

  Finally, thanks to Amy Wheeler, who sparked the idea for this plot and to Susan Erba, who patiently tested recipes and gave me a great hint for sweetening daiquiris!

  GUEST LIST

  Guests Invited to Mordecai’s Bequest Soiree

  Nolan DuPont

  Kurt Finkel

  Mike Osmanski

  Posey Powell

  Ted Wilcox

  Show House Officials

  Camille DuPont—Chairperson of the Design Guild

  Natasha—Co-chair of the Show House

  Iris Ledbetter—Co-chair of the Show House

  Team Natasha

  Natasha

  Beth FordTed Wilcox

  Mike Osmanski

  Team Iris

  Iris Ledbetter

  Bedelia Ledbetter

  Team Sophie

  Sophie Winston

  Bernie Frei

  Mars Winston

  Nina Reid Norwood

  Francie Vanderhoosen

  Humphrey Brown

  ONE

  From “ THE GOOD LIFE” :

  Dear Sophie,

  My miserable cousins have been pawing through Grand-pa’s house, claiming they’re there to spruce it up. Granted, the house does need painting, but I don’t see any improvements. How do I get them out of Grandpa’s hair?

  —Steamed in Frostproof

  Dear Steamed,

  With Grandpa’s consent, throw a painting party. Gather funky old hats to wear (maybe from Grandpa’s attic?), make fun drinks with umbrellas in them, and hand all the cousins paint brushes and rollers. Either they’ll leave, or they’ll paint.

  —Sophie

  I momentarily forgot about the icy February rain when a light flashed in a dormer window of Mordecai Artemus’s house. In the many years I’d lived in Old Town, I’d never seen an inside light on. But the glimmer didn’t last long, and seconds later, I wondered if it could have been some kind of reflection. Droplets of water ran from my face down my neck. I shivered, huddled under my coat again, and hurried toward my home, thinking about poor old Mordecai.

  When he died two days ago, there were no hushed mentions of what a fine man he was or how much he would be missed. All anyone could talk about was getting into his mansion. I paused for a second and looked back, wondering if someone had managed to do just that. But the rambling house was still and dark in the night.

  Shaking off my thoughts, I continued on my way. I had worked late at Rooms and Blooms, Old Town Alexandria’s annual home and garden expo where two hundred builders, landscapers, interior designers, and companies selling home products had set up booths in the convention hall of a local hotel. It had been in full swing for a few days and would be winding down in a couple more, culminating with an awards banquet. I was glad for the work, but it was strenuous, and right now all I wanted was a mug of hot tea and to put my feet up.

  Mochie, my spunky Ocicat, met me at the door, mewing complaints about being left alone. He rubbed against my legs but aborted that maneuver quickly once he realized I was wet, and r
etreated to wash his coat with indignation.

  I hung my sopping clothes in the bathroom and slipped into a fuzzy bathrobe to warm up. Even though it was late, I lit a fire in the kitchen fireplace.

  But when I poured water into the kettle and looked out the window over the sink, I couldn’t help leaning forward to look at Mordecai’s house again. Long a recluse, he had kept the drapes closed downstairs, and if he had ever ventured upstairs, I didn’t know about it. I shut off the tap and stared at the dark dormer window, barely visible in the attic of his mansard roof. Had I imagined the light? The house looked as it always had at night—a giant, elegant ship of a house, faintly outlined by the streetlights.

  Mochie watched me with knowing eyes, waiting for the moment when I would settle down and he could jump into my lap. “Soon,” I assured him, filling his dish with food.

  But Mochie showed no interest in his food. His golden green eyes wide, he stared over my shoulder and semi-crouched, his muscles tense as though ready to flee.

  I looked around slowly, wondering what was agitating him. A gaunt face stared at us through the window of the kitchen door. Wet hair plastered the head of the man outside, and in the dark his head looked more like a skull than a living person. Raindrops on the glass distorted the image. A scream rose through my throat, drowned out by the shrill whistle of the kettle.

  My heart thundered as I realized it was too late to turn off the lights and pretend no one was home. Grabbing my cell phone off the table, I started backing away.

  “Sophie! Let me in out of the rain.” I felt a total fool when I recognized Humphrey’s voice.

  I took a closer look before I opened the door. “I’m sorry, Humphrey, I didn’t recognize you.”

  He stopped just inside, and water dripped off his black raincoat into a major puddle. But before I managed to shut the door, Nina Reid Norwood, my neighbor and best friend, barged past him, demanding, “Where have you been?”

  I retrieved towels and handed one to Humphrey.

  After I sopped up the water on the floor, I reached for his raincoat and stifled a laugh. Thin, pale Humphrey usually looked meek, but after being towel dried, his silvery blond hair stood up in spikes and he resembled a deranged punk rocker.

  Nina didn’t remove her coat. “I’m not that wet.”

  I hung Humphrey’s coat in the bathroom, and when I returned, I thought Mochie was stalking him. Low to the floor, he stretched out one foot slowly, like a panther.

  Awwk. A green head with a bright yellow patch on the back of its neck emerged from Nina’s coat. “She’s a witch!” the bird screamed at Mochie, who drew back in alarm.

  Nina shrugged off her coat and let the bird climb onto her shoulder. “Meet Hank.”

  Humphrey shrank back, as appalled as Mochie. “Hank?”

  “He sings Hank Williams songs. Someone found him on a park bench on King Street, and I’m fostering him because we’re not set up for big birds at the shelter. He’s a yellow-naped Amazon parrot. Apparently they’re big talkers.”

  “You’re keeping him in your home?” Humphrey didn’t disguise his distaste. “Birds are so dirty. How do you know he’s not carrying a disease?”

  Who knew Humphrey would be so finicky about a bird? “Excuse me, but as a mortician, don’t you embalm people who died from diseases?”

  “That’s entirely different. Birds belong in the wild.”

  “Someone must be looking for Hank,” I said. “There can’t be too many birds who sing country songs.”

  “That’s what I think.” Nina settled at the table, Hank still on her shoulder, Mochie eyeing him warily. “So where have you been? Why aren’t you answering your phone? Do you have any cheese pretzels? I need something comforting to eat—you will not believe what happened!”

  “I’ve been at Rooms and Blooms. Cell phones don’t work in the convention center of the hotel. Something about the steel and the way it’s constructed.” I poured soothing lavender chamomile tea into mugs and found a stash of my homemade pretzels in the freezer. After starting the oven, I placed the mugs on the table and noted that Humphrey sat as far away from Hank as he could.

  As I sliced strips of Asiago cheese, I glanced from Nina to Humphrey. It was closing in on eleven. What were they doing here, anyway? What was so important?

  Nina leaned forward. “I am so furious.”

  “She’s a witch! A witch!” cawed Hank.

  “Last fall my husband testified on a murder case involving insulin that made the news every day. As a result, he was asked to go on a cruise as an instructor.” She waved a hand carelessly. “I didn’t go because it’s business—he’s teaching a class to doctors. But I just found out that the woman who organized the course used to work with him and had the hots for him—and she’s on the ship!”

  “She’s a witch,” Hank announced.

  “She is a witch,” confirmed Nina.

  “He already picked that up from you? You better be careful what you say around that bird.” I popped the pretzels into the oven and sat down.

  Humphrey’s eyebrows raised, and I had a bad feeling he was assessing Nina as though she were now available. “You don’t think she set it up that way on purpose?”

  “Of course I do! He’s clearly the one who got away.”

  “Can you join the cruise somewhere?” I asked.

  “I thought about that. But there’s no one else to take care of Hank, and the cruise is in Asia. By the time I got there, it would almost be over.”

  “Are you really worried?” I asked. “You trust your husband, don’t you?”

  “I don’t trust her. If she’d go so far as to arrange this convenient cruise rendezvous, over Valentine’s Day no less, imagine what else she might do.”

  Humphrey cocked his head. “If I were married to someone like you, I would never be tempted by a conniving seductress.”

  Nina froze, and I was about to burst out laughing, so I quickly changed the topic. “And what are you doing out in this weather, Humphrey?”

  A flush of red rose in his cheeks. “I had some . . . business up this way. I hope you don’t mind. I saw you coming home.” He shivered. “It’s dismal outside.”

  Business? I glanced out the window for his hearse. “You don’t have a body out there, do you?”

  “Personal business.”

  “Did you happen to notice a light on in Mordecai’s house?”

  He frowned at me. “You do know he’s dead?”

  “That’s why the light caught my attention.” I got up to put the cheese on the pretzels. News of Mordecai’s death two days before had spread rapidly through Old Town. “No foul play, though, right?”

  “He died from natural causes. Nothing sinister about it,” Humphrey assured me.

  I laid the savory cheese slices on top of the pretzels and slid the tray back into the hot oven.

  “Maybe relatives have arrived and are staying there,” said Nina.

  A plausible theory.

  Humphrey rose, stood in front of the fire, and rubbed his hands together. “Sophie, do you remember Hannah’s wedding?”

  Of course. Who could forget that nightmare? There had even been a moment of attraction between my sister and Humphrey. I wondered if he still held a flame for her. If he could just meet someone who would return his attention. . . . A wave of apprehension swept over me as I suddenly knew where he was going with his question. At the wedding, I had promised to help him meet women. More specifically—a girlfriend. During our high school days, Humphrey had a crush on me. I hadn’t noticed, no doubt busy with my own teen angst. Unfortunately, my mother brought him back into my life, and he promptly pursued me in his own awkward way, then turned his interest to my sister, who, thank goodness, was now safely 150 miles away.