The Diva Runs Out Of Thyme Part 23

"I happened to be driving by and saw the police cars. Naturally, I was concerned. Thank goodness you're not hurt." Humphrey tucked his s.h.i.+rt in and straightened his overcoat. "What happened?"

Nina held out her hand to Humphrey. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Sophie's best friend, Nina."

Humphrey took her hand. "And I'm Sophie's beau. Oh, how I love saying that."

Wolf groaned. "You two can knock off the we've-never-met-before routine. I'm not that stupid."

"But," Humphrey stammered, "we haven't met before."

Wolf cast a disparaging look in my direction and stalked away.

I left Humphrey and Nina in the foyer and followed Wolf into the sunroom.

A third police officer must have arrived while we were upstairs. He dusted fine black powder over the door handle and the lock.

"You get the dining room yet?" asked Wolf.

"Loads of prints. A few good ones."

I tugged at Wolf's sleeve and towed him into the den. I switched on the desk lamp and shut the doors. My hands on my hips, I drew myself up as tall as a short person can and demanded, "What is your problem? You won't believe anything I say. You won't even believe Nina, who clearly isn't a suspect, or poor Humphrey, who barely has the moxie to look you in the eye. We can't all be the killer. What is wrong with you?"

Wolf studied me silently. He gripped my upper arms, pulled me to him, and kissed me. A long and surprisingly sensual kiss. And then he left the room. Just left me there, wanting more.

It took me a few seconds to recover. I floated out to the foyer and asked Nina and Humphrey, "Where's Wolf?"

Nina motioned toward the front door. "He took off."

I rushed out to the front stoop but the taillights on his car were already pinpoints in the night.

The uniformed officers came up behind me. One of them said, "We'll apprise you of the results. In the meantime, keep your doors and windows locked and call us if you see anything unusual."

I closed the door behind them.

Humphrey wiped his brow. "Can you imagine, that detective barged into the funeral home and frightened the staff half to death by asking questions about me. They think I'm some sort of crazed wild man now."

"I'm sorry you wound up involved in this mess, Humphrey." If Mom hadn't called him to make Mars jealous, he wouldn't have the police lurking around his place of business asking questions.

A shy smile lit up his face. "That's all right. I think most of them thought I invented you. When he showed up and started asking questions, at least they knew I wasn't making up stories about my love life."

Nina's eyebrows shot up and she looked at me with curiosity.

"What did you tell them?" I asked, afraid to hear his answer.

"How we've known each other since grade school and we had secret crushes and now, fate has intervened and thrown us together again and we're dating."

Fate, thy name is "mother." No wonder Wolf didn't believe me. A bunch of people I'd never met told him Humphrey and I were in a romantic relations.h.i.+p.

Humphrey slipped his car keys into his pocket and removed his coat. With dismay, I realized that he intended to stay awhile. Nina would go home and I would have to deal with Humphrey on my own. Why couldn't I be stuck with Wolf? On the other hand, Humphrey was better than nothing. I didn't relish the thought of being home alone at the moment. I'd interpret every squeak and thump as an intruder.

"Sophie," said Humphrey, "how well do you know this Bernie fellow?"

"He's an old friend."

"I've been doing a little checking up on him. Frankly, I'm not sure he's the sort of person you should invite to sleep over."

Sleep over? Did Humphrey think I was intimately involved with Bernie? I opened my mouth to deny any such thing, "It's not li . . ." and realized that Bernie might be just the ticket to discourage Humphrey. "He's stayed over many times."

"He's a bit unsavory, don't you think?"

Nina listened with an amused expression.

"Are you jealous?" I asked.

"Good heavens, no. I'm simply concerned about your welfare. Did you know that he spends his evenings at the Stag's Inn?"

Nina's forehead crinkled. "Where have I heard that recently?"

"Mrs. Pulchinski's desk. She had a coaster from the Stag's Inn."

A spark lit her eyes. "Quick, go change," said Nina, picking up the phone. "I'll do anything to get out of the house."

"What . . . you mean go down there?" asked Humphrey. "I hardly think that's advisable. It looks like a frightful establishment." I dashed upstairs to change clothes while listening to Humphrey trying to dissuade Nina.

Remembering Mom's advice, I pulled on a fluffy cuc.u.mber-green sweater with a deep V-neck in case we ran into Wolf. Humphrey wouldn't make a fly jealous but, all the same, it wouldn't hurt to look kissable. After Christmas, I would have to shed those extra pounds, but for now, trousers with an elastic waist would have to do. I ran a brush through my hair, added a smidge of lipstick, and I was ready.

Bundled against the chilly air, we walked along the ancient sidewalks past enticing restaurants and upscale bars. I sensed Humphrey's hesitation when we left King Street. The side street, though less busy and somewhat dimmer, was evocative of colonial times and quite charming. Four blocks down, we turned into an old alleyway.

Humphrey balked at the dark alley. Without bright street lights, it seemed dingy. I'd been by in the daylight, though, and it wasn't as shabby as it appeared when lit only by the few lamps on the back doors of the buildings. It added to the allure of the the Stag's Inn that the only entrance was through an alley.

"Couldn't we go to one of the nicer, clean places we pa.s.sed earlier?" asked Humphrey.

"We could." I took his elbow and propelled him along the cobbled pa.s.sageway. "But we wouldn't get the kind of information I want. You're the one who's worried about Bernie. Don't you want to find out what he does down here?"

He stopped again in front of the pub.

A weathered door of wormy chestnut, braced by substantial forged-iron hinges, reminded me of medieval England. Black forged iron that matched the hinges formed the hook holding a lamp to the left of the door. Due to the thick bubbled gla.s.s, it provided little illumination. Growing impatient with Humphrey, I dropped his arm and followed Nina inside. I suspected he'd hate waiting in the alley more than entering the inn with us.

I hadn't expected the interior of the Stag's Inn to be murkier than the alleyway. While many of the chic bars and pubs of Old Town were in historic buildings, the interiors used the patina of age in an elegant manner or had been modernized. The owners of the Stag's Inn hadn't attempted either.

A low ceiling, ostensibly supported by heavy beams, gave it a slightly medieval flavor. The place might have a certain charm in a better light. It reminded me of the days when cigarette smoke created a haze in bars and I wondered if they sought that old atmosphere or if their electric wiring wasn't up to code and they didn't dare plug in more lights.

Small tables lined the right wall and an enormous bar spanned the left wall for a considerable distance. The bartender and a good number of patrons turned to check us out when we entered. I felt as though we'd walked through some kind of time-warp portal that had transported us to a different land.

Even brave Nina whispered, "This better be worth it."

We found a table in the back, under shelves decorated with empty ale bottles bearing British labels. As we shed our coats, Humphrey pleaded with us to leave. In truth, the clientele of the Stag's Inn didn't seem all that different from the people patronizing the cla.s.sier bars on King Street. They probably didn't receive invitations to White House dinners, but then neither did I.

A stout waiter who could easily lift any one, or possibly two, of us and toss us out the front door, took our order. Nina and I opted for Whitbread India Pale Ale. Humphrey asked for chamomile tea until I gave him a little kick.

The stout man didn't return. Instead, a man with a week's beard growth plopped three gla.s.ses of Whitbread on our table. He pulled up a chair, turned it around, and straddled it. Ignoring Humphrey, he asked, "You ladies new in town?"

I figured Nina could handle him, and I rose to do my own sleuthing, but Humphrey seized the sleeve of my sweater.

"Where are you going?"

There was probably only one place he wouldn't go. "The ladies' room."

He released his grip. "I'm going to time you. If you're not back soon, I'll break down the door."

I didn't think that would be necessary. Out of Humphrey's view I ambled to the bar, trying to look casual. The bartender plunked a coaster in front of me.

"I'm looking for an Englishman named Bernie."

He didn't seem perturbed by my quest. In a British accent he said, "Haven't seen him tonight. Harold, 'ave you seen Bernie?"

I heard someone say no, but the bartender had the courtesy to tell me, "He hasn't come in yet."

Two bar stools down, a woman swiveled in my direction. "What do you want with Bernie? He's already got a girl if that's what you have in mind."

She didn't sound British. Deep South, I thought, Louisiana maybe. In comparison to the low cut of her dress, my s.e.xy sweater seemed tame enough for Sunday school.

"Shut up, Brandee."

I wasn't sure who said that until she playfully smacked the arm of the man next to her.

He spoke with his back to me, hunched forward, his elbows on the bar. "Don't mind her; she's been chasing Bernie since he arrived in town."

No question that he was a Brit.

"Do you know when that was?"

The bartender squinted. "Otis was killed Tuesday. I think Bernie showed up on Friday. Hasn't been in Alexandria long."

"You knew Otis?" I asked.

"Sure. All the regulars knew Otis." The bartender wiped a gla.s.s.

"Who . . . who do you think killed him?"

The Brit with his back to me rotated to eye me. "You a cop?"

A cop would be inept to ask such a blatant question. "No, a friend of Bernie's."

"A friend of Bernie's who knew Otis." He scratched a sideburn that would have been at home on Elvis Presley. "You know Otis well?"

The woman with the dipping neckline giggled. "She's not his type."

"Only in pa.s.sing," I said.

The Brit spewed beer from his nose. He wiped his face with his sleeve. "You must be a friend of Bernie's, that's what Bernie said about Simon Greer."

I felt like a cold wave hit me. "What exactly did he say about Simon?"

"That he hadn't really met him, which is bullocks."

TWENTY-FOUR.

From "Ask Natasha" : Dear Natasha, When my husband's friends visit for an afternoon of football viewing, our home theater looks like a junkyard in minutes. It makes me want to pull out my hair. How can I get these guys to clean up their act?

-Tech Fan in Toms Brook

Dear Tech Fan,

Banish beer cans. Buy a set of pilsner gla.s.ses and pour the first round yourself. Don't allow bags and plastic containers to migrate out of the kitchen. Serve the chips in silver bowls and dips in hollowed-out artichokes or boules. If you surprise them with elegant hors d'oeuvres served on proper platters, they'll have fun and you'll be the hostess they remember.

-Natasha

I wasn't sure what bullocks meant but I gathered the British guy didn't buy Bernie's denial of knowing Simon. "Why is that bullocks?"

"It's a well-known fact that Bernie's stepfather killed himself."

I was stunned. Bernie had never mentioned anything of the sort. "You must know Bernie very well."

"Naw. Bernie's stepfather was a highly respected gentleman. The circ.u.mstances of his death were quite well known in certain circles." He took another swig of beer.

"What circ.u.mstances?"