The Diva Spices It Up Read online

  Krista Davis is the author of:

  The Domestic Diva Mysteries:

  The Diva Cooks Up a Storm

  The Diva Sweetens the Pie

  The Diva Spices It Up

  The Pen & Ink Mysteries:

  Color Me Murder

  The Coloring Crook

  The Diva Spices It Up

  Krista Davis

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Cast of Characters

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Recipes

  Bonus Recipe! - Frankenstein Marshmallows

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Krista Davis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019953558

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-1474-9

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: May 2020

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-1476-3 (e-book)

  ISBN-10: 1-4967-1476-8 (e-book)

  To my dad.

  Acknowledgments

  The incident with the red soda can actually happened to me. If the man hadn’t been about my age and very cute, I probably wouldn’t have been watching him. Like Sophie, I stopped in the middle of the street. I was with a friend who didn’t notice anything! We were in Washington, DC, at the time, and I was very tempted to follow him down into the metro where he had disappeared. Sanity prevailed and I went on to lunch with my friend. But I never forgot about that guy. I suspect it’s a rarity to actually catch someone in the middle of a dead drop.

  I hope you’ll enjoy the recipes. Now that I know how easy it is to make a Pumpkin Spice Latte at home, I have a feeling I’ll be drinking more of them.

  Diane Alice Tucker calls herself a country cook. I loved watching her whip up dishes with ease and the confidence that only comes with experience. Diane was kind enough to share her recipe for meatloaf with me. You’ll find it in this book under the name Wesley’s Favorite Meatloaf. Thank you so much, Diane!

  I have to thank my editor, Wendy McCurdy, and assistant editor, Norma Perez-Hernandez, for their patience and kindness, and their sharp eagle eyes! This wasn’t the easiest manuscript to edit, so thanks also go to the nameless copy editor for navigating the maze of codes.

  As always, my lovely agent, Jessica Faust, continues to be a source of inspiration and strength. Many thanks, Jessica!

  Cast of Characters

  Tilly Stratford

  Wesley Winthrop, her husband

  Briley, her daughter

  Mia Hendrickson

  Dr. Pierce Hendrickson, her husband

  Schuyler, her daughter

  Abby Bergeron, previous ghostwriter

  Benton Bergeron, her ex-husband

  Charlene Smith

  Fred Conway, her boyfriend

  Eunice Crenshaw

  Francine Vanderhoosen, Sophie’s neighbor

  Nina Reid Norwood, Sophie’s friend and neighbor

  Mars Winston, Sophie’s ex-husband

  Natasha

  Chapter 1

  Dear Sophie,

  My mother-in-law takes great pride in her cooking. But it’s so hot that I can’t eat it. Seriously, my tongue goes numb. I watch the others eat with gusto. Do you think she’s adding something to my plate so I won’t come to dinner at her house?

  Mrs. Numb Tongue in Hazardville, Connecticut

  Dear Mrs. Numb Tongue,

  Next time, surreptitiously swap plates with your husband. I think you’ll have your answer soon enough.

  Sophie

  Daisy, my hound mix, sniffed along the bank of the Potomac River following her nose. She wore a halter and a long leash so she could wander in the park. I let her investigate scents that I couldn’t smell and trailed along after her.

  A breeze blew off the Potomac. The summer humidity was beginning to abate, and the air already held the promise of brisk days ahead. Sun glinted off the water as it rippled with the wind.

  Daisy had stayed with my ex-husband, Mars, for the last four weeks. I had promised her a long walk and a visit to the river as soon as I wrapped up a marathon of events. As a self-employed event planner, I realized that I had scheduled myself non-stop, without so much as a hint of a breather, but when you work for yourself, sometimes you just have to keep going while the opportunity is there.

  Mars had thoughtfully brought Daisy to my house earlier in the day. When I arrived home in the afternoon, sweet Daisy had been waiting for me. I had quickly swapped my suit for stretchy jeans and taken her for that long-promised stroll while I wound down.

  A shout from the pier alarmed both of us. On this beautiful Sunday afternoon in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia, quite a few people were out walking or fishing. Daisy tugged me in the direction of the pier, and I went willingly, thinking someone might need help.

  “I’ve caught something huge!” The man was a stranger to me, into retirement age and well fed. “Must be a catfish. It’s fighting like the dickens! Here, can you hold on to my fishing rod? Good and tight now. That’s my lucky one.”

  I took it from his hands and immediately felt the pressure of the fish. The rod bent precariously. I hoped it wouldn’t snap in two. “This is really heavy. Can the fishing line take this much pressure?”

  “I sure hope so. He’s a big one. Keep reeling in. I’ll try to snag it with my fishing net. . . .”

  He had stopped talking, and I understood why. I didn’t know of any blue fish that came with a handle on top.

  He lay down on the pier, and as the object came within reach, he nabbed it with a bony hand.

  I kneeled on the rough wood and helped him pull a blue suitcase out of the water.

  The man looked at me with rheumy eyes. “I have no idea how to cook this.”

  I giggled. “Do you think it’s packed full or just waterlogged?”

  “We’re about to find out.” He clicked the latches and opened the top. “Mmm. This is a pretty skirt. But it’s not my size.”

  He was very cute. I found myself smiling even though I was wonder
ing why and how a woman’s suitcase had come to be in the Potomac River. “I think we’d better report this to the police.”

  He stared at me with obvious confusion. “I don’t think they’ll be interested.”

  “Don’t you find it odd that someone’s suitcase is in the river?”

  The fellow scratched his head. “Well, now that you mention it, I can’t think of a good reason for it to be there among the fishes.”

  I called the Old Town Alexandria police department on my cell phone and told them about the suitcase.

  “Ma’am,” said the 911 operator, “is this an emergency?”

  I winced. “No.”

  “No one is drowning?”

  “No. But why would someone lose a suitcase in the river?”

  The operator laughed aloud. “Why would there be garbage, motorcycles, or furniture? People are slobs. One lady dumped her husband’s golf clubs in the river to get back at him for seeing another woman.”

  Clearly, this was not a priority for them. “Thank you for your time.” I hung up. “I guess it’s yours if you want it.”

  The old fellow was peering into the water. “I can’t see anything. Do you think the owner is down there, too?”

  I hoped not.

  He stood up and held out his hand. “Sam Bamberger.”

  “Sophie Winston. Can I help you carry it to your car?”

  “Naw. I’m old, but I can still carry a lady’s suitcase. Even if it is drenched.”

  I said goodbye to the funny man and headed home, looking forward to a quiet evening.

  * * *

  The next morning, I fed Mochie, my Ocicat, who was supposed to have spots but instead had a fur pattern more like that of his American shorthair ancestors. In various shades from white to cream and dark brown, he had necklaces and bracelets. And on his sides, his coat colors created circles like bullseyes. In lieu of my usual routine, I suited up Daisy in her halter and headed to my favorite coffee specialty shop for a treat.

  The barista at the take-out window waved her hand at me, refusing my money.

  I squinted at her in confusion. “I’m not sure this is my order. There’s an extra drink and two chocolate croissants here.”

  “The gentleman paid for it.”

  Gentleman? I groaned inwardly. I hadn’t showered and wore no makeup. I had pulled on elastic waist stretchy jeans and an oversized top, feeling secure in the knowledge that the entire world was busy. It was ten o’clock on Monday morning. Why wasn’t everyone at work?

  Trying to hang on to Daisy’s leash without spilling my mocha latte and her Puppy Paw-Tea, I twisted around to see who the barista was talking about.

  My ex-husband, Mars, short for Marshall, came to the rescue. “It’s my two favorite girls!”

  Daisy made a fuss, wagging her tail and turning in circles at the sight of him. I was more subdued. Even though we had divorced, Mars and I got along well. Neither one of us could bear to give up Daisy, so we had arranged a schedule and she went back and forth, living with both of us. I didn’t have to worry about my appearance. He had seen me without makeup and in far worse clothes before. I relaxed. “Thanks for picking up the tab.”

  Mars took Daisy’s leash and led us to an outdoor table. Daisy didn’t know whether to be more excited about Mars or her Puppy Paw-Tea, a dog-safe scoop of ice cream with a bone-shaped cookie on top.

  “Are we celebrating something?” asked Mars.

  A chilling breeze blew, making me glad I had worn the cozy fleece pullover. I sipped my hot drink. “Four back-to-back medical conventions are over. I worked non-stop for a month. I’m looking forward to a break.”

  Mars held out his coffee in a toast and touched it to the latte I held. “A break. How fortuitous.”

  Fortuitous? Ugh. What was he up to?

  Mars smiled at me. “Soph, I need a big favor.”

  I never should have looked into his eyes. They crinkled at the outer edges and always softened any resolve I had to stay out of his business. A political consultant, Mars had been blessed with looks that could compete with his telegenic clients.

  “I’m taking a break,” I said very clearly, imagining that he probably needed me to arrange a party for five hundred people in two days.

  He ignored my protest. “The wife of one of my clients is writing a cookbook.”

  That wasn’t what I had expected. “Cool.”

  “Except she’s not really writing it, she’s using a ghostwriter.”

  “That’s interesting. Why doesn’t she do it herself?”

  “She says all the celebrities use ghostwriters for their cookbooks.”

  “Celebrity?” I inquired.

  “She’s the wife of a congressman. Tilly Stratford. Her husband, Wesley Winthrop, is my client.”

  I’d heard the former TV star had moved to Old Town Alexandria. “No kidding!” Just to be sure we were talking about the same person, I asked, “The one who played the daughter in American Daughter?”

  “The very same.”

  I chomped into one of the chocolate croissants. The chocolate was still warm and soft inside. The favor Mars needed was becoming clearer. He probably wanted me to arrange a huge party for the debut of the cookbook. I might be an event planner, but most of the time I dealt with conventions and large events.

  “But the ghostwriter quit on Friday.” He sipped his drink and then said casually, “I was thinking maybe you’d be interested.”

  “In ghostwriting a cookbook? I don’t know the first thing about that.”

  “Nothing to it,” he said with way too much confidence for someone whose cooking expertise was limited to grilling meats and mixing cocktails. “And it pays very well.”

  “Is she difficult?” I asked out of curiosity.

  “Who?”

  “Tilly.”

  “Not at all. She’s very sweet. You’ll like her. She’s . . . a little intimidated by the congressional scene. She’s out of her element. But you’ll love her.”

  “Then why did the ghostwriter quit?”

  “We don’t know. She told Tilly she was sorry but she had to quit, and that was it. She walked out, leaving poor Tilly high and dry. No one has been able to reach her since Friday.”

  I tilted my head and gave him my best doubtful look. “Mars, that doesn’t make sense. People don’t take a job and quit in the middle of it.”

  “Are you kidding me? People do that all the time. One of my clients advertised a job and hired six people. Guess how many showed up on the first day of training.”

  It was clearly a trick question. “Three?”

  “Zero.” He made a zero with his thumb and forefinger. “Not the best example, but my point is that people don’t always come through with what they promise. I’m told that there has to be a personal connection between the ghostwriter and the chef. I feel a little guilty because I was the one who hooked her up with Abby Bergeron. She came highly recommended. Maybe they just didn’t mesh.”

  Daisy finished her Puppy Paw-Tea and then watched us, probably hoping we had another one hidden somewhere.

  Mars persisted. “Tilly is a sweetheart, Sophie. She’s so disappointed. It would mean a lot to her if you could help out.”

  I slurped the remains of my mocha latte in a most unladylike manner.

  Mars wrote something on a napkin and slid it across the table to me.

  I took a look and felt my eyes widen. “Is that a dollar sign?”

  “I told you it paid well. They’re in a hurry to get it done and are willing to pay extra. The thing is”—he looked at me with his best imitation of Daisy’s puppy eyes—“I know you wouldn’t let them down.”

  He didn’t need to shower me with empty flattery. I was torn. The money would be nice, but I had been looking forward to some downtime. “Mars, thanks for thinking of me, but I’d really like to have a little time off. Besides, a cookbook is a huge project. We’d be working on it for a year, and I would need to get back to my real job soon.”

  “A
h! But the bulk of it is done.” He leaned toward me. “Tilly is very disappointed. This cookbook is a big deal for her, and”—Mars locked his eyes on mine—“I know I can depend on you. I don’t want some other highly recommended person coming in and making a mess of it or walking away.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I scowled at him. “In spite of your assurances that it’s easy, I don’t know what’s involved in ghostwriting a cookbook.”

  “There’s nothing to it. You write down recipes. How hard could that be?”

  I stood up and collected Daisy’s leash. “I’ll let you know.”

  As I walked away, Mars called out to me, “You were my favorite wife!”

  I was his only wife. He had lived with our friend Natasha, but she never did manage to get him to walk down the aisle with her.

  Fall was my favorite time of year in Old Town. It was way too early for pumpkins, but they already decorated the front stoops of some historic homes. Others had lush wreaths on their doors, featuring dried flowers and giant sunflowers. The leaves on the trees that lined the streets were still green. It was that transitional time between summer and fall. School had started, and weekend beach trips had ended. Warm summery days were still the norm but they were interrupted by chilly days that reminded us fall weather was already on the way.

  Traffic had picked up, and people had begun to leave their offices in search of lunch. At an intersection with King Street, Daisy and I waited for the light to change and the line of cars to stop.

  A man paused near us. About my age with a neat appearance, he reminded me of my old beau, Alex. His brown hair was neatly trimmed. He wore a blue Oxford cloth button-down shirt with a striped yellow tie. Quintessential Old Town attire for gentlemen. He smiled at me, which made me totally self-conscious. He even reached down to pat Daisy.