Diva 01 _ Diva Runs Out of Thyme, The Read Online Free PDF Page B

Surely not. I stood still, listening.

    Was Craig sneaking around the house at night? I’d spent a whopping twenty minutes with Dr. Craig Beacham and it wasn’t fair of me to jump to conclusions, but there was something about him that I didn’t like. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but he gave me the willies.

    I was being ridiculous. Finding Otis’s body had me on edge and now I was inventing things. I picked up Mochie and walked into the kitchen. Before I switched on the light, I could have sworn I heard a door close somewhere in the house. But in the stillness that followed I wasn’t sure.

    Berating myself for imagining things, I concluded that someone might have been using the bathroom. There was certainly nothing wrong with that.

    I collected the items I needed for the stuffing competition and placed them in boxes. Mochie roamed around sniffing everything. Crouching low inside a box, he wiggled his tiny bottom and jumped up at me when I neared.

    I rearranged the contents of the refrigerator again, replaced the shelf and set the brined turkey inside on a rack to dry off so the skin would crisp up nicely.

    At six o’clock, I put on a pot of coffee, poured organic orange juice, and set the table for breakfast. The heavenly scent of baking bread soon filled the kitchen.

    I had to put Otis out of my mind. I hadn’t done anything wrong. If I let his murder get to me, I wouldn’t be able to focus on the competition today.

    Since no one was up yet, I took advantage of the quiet to draft Thanksgiving Day advice for “The Good Life.” Satisfied with my scribbles, I e-mailed the column to Mr. Coswell.

    The ancient hardwood floors upstairs creaked and I heard water running. I made a quick list of things I needed to do after the contest in preparation for Thanksgiving. I should have baked the pies and made the stuffing yesterday, but a dead man got in the way. I’d have to catch up tonight.

    Keeping an eye on Nina’s house, I rinsed serving dishes that I would need for Thanksgiving but hadn’t been used since last year. With my car, Nike on Wheels, impounded by the police, I needed a ride to the contest. The hotel where it was being held was walking distance from my house but I had too many ingredients to carry. Nina had planned to go anyway, so I didn’t think I’d be imposing on her if I asked for a ride. That way, Hannah or my parents would be free to come to the contest late or leave early if they wanted.

    When Nina stepped out to fetch the morning paper, I dashed across the street, spilled the entire story about Otis, and asked if she would mind giving me a lift to the contest.

    At eight o’clock, Nina’s low-slung Jaguar purred in front of my house. Almost before I buckled my seat belt, Nina started in on me. “Sophie, sugar, first thing you do is throw Natasha off her stride. I bet you a latte and a chocolate croissant that she says something ugly to you while you’re cookin’. You better be ready to laugh in her face.”

    I took a deep breath and released it. Nina was right. I needed to be prepared to let Natasha’s barbs float past me.

    “You go right in there and say somethin’ that’ll get her goat.”

    That wasn’t my style. “I’m not playing dirty. Besides, the results will hinge on whose stuffing is best.”

    “Honey, I wasn’t the college tennis champ for four years without knowing a thing or two about psyching out the competition. Trust me on this.”

    Nina pulled her Jaguar up to the entrance of a fancy hotel on North Fairfax Street. My pulse quickened with anticipation.

    The Stupendous Stuffing Shakedown began in the summer with a staggering two hundred contestants. They were whittled down to one hundred amateur cooks, like me, who prepared our stuffings for a panel of judges. My Crusty Country Bread, Bacon, and Herb Stuffing had made the final three. Then the sponsors invited three local celebrities to compete in the finals, Natasha among them.

    The contest was the