I ground Viennese coffee beans that smelled heavenly. While the coffee brewed, I shook powered sugar into a small bowl and squeezed in a tiny amount of lemon juice. Using a miniature whisk, I mixed the two, adding a little more lemon juice until it reached a drizzling consistency. I scooped up a dollop with the whisk and let it ooze onto the top of the cake. It formed a white glaze on the top and dribbled down the sides. I cut a portion of the cake into slices and convinced myself that I really should taste one. Moist, not too sweet, with just the right burst of tartness from the cranberries. I arranged the slices on a plate and took them into the living room.
I was returning to the kitchen when June arrived, breathless. “I had no idea it was so late.” She hurried to her bedroom to freshen up for her gentleman caller.
In the kitchen, Mom poured the coffee into the china pot that I so rarely used. She added it to a tray with sugar, cream, Battenberg lace napkins, and china.
The brass knocker sounded and Mom’s hands flew to her hair. She fluffed it and then flicked a quick hand over her outfit in case any crumbs or fuzzies clung to her.
I watched from the kitchen doorway when Mom received the colonel. She took his overcoat as June descended the stairs, her cheeks flushed.
“Sophie,” said Mom, “would you be a dear and fetch some Irish whiskey from the den?”
I snuck into the den through the sunroom and discovered Dad comfortably seated on the sofa, his sock-clad feet on the coffee table.
He held his forefinger up to his lips. The door to the living room remained slightly ajar and we could hear every word said between June and the colonel. My father had become a spy.
I shouldn’t have done it, but I listened, too. Their conversation about their dinner the night before would have bored anyone.
I found the liquor and returned to the kitchen. Mom poured a small amount into a petite crystal decanter and added it to the tray. I carried it all into the living room and set the tray on the table. June and the colonel sat on the sofa side by side. June poured coffee and Mom looked on from the dining room. I gently took Mom’s arm and escorted her into the foyer.
“They’re so sweet together,” she said.
“You can’t just stand there and watch them.” Apparently spying was in my genes. “I never knew you and Dad were so snoopy.”
“Where is your dad?”
“Spying in the den.”
“That sneak! What a great idea.” Mom hustled down the hallway toward the sunroom.
I was certain she didn’t want to miss another word.
I tidied the kitchen, glad that I didn’t have to cook dinner. When Mom announced I would be hosting Thanksgiving, I ordered tickets to the Ford’s Theatre production of
A Christmas Carol.
I hadn’t planned on June and Bernie, of course. Bernie would have to entertain himself and I’d gladly give my ticket to June. The theatergoers would be eating out and, to be honest, I looked forward to a quiet evening to catch up on my column.
Even though I wanted to take the high road and wait until June reported to us, the den pulled me like an impossibly strong magnet. I wandered to the sunroom and poked my head into the den.
Mom nestled against Dad on the sofa, her feet on the coffee table beside his, his arm around her shoulders. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought they were watching a movie on TV.
I could hear June saying, “That Simon must have been a horrible man. He cheated my Andrew out of millions of dollars.”
“Ruthless. The man had no scruples whatsoever,” the colonel responded. “There’s one fellow who paved his own path to hell.”
“Did you know him?” I marveled at the innocence in June’s voice.
At that moment, Daisy galloped along the hallway. I rushed through the sunroom to the foyer to see what was going on.
Bernie was hanging his coat in the hall closet. “Where is everyone? This place is as quiet as a tomb.”
“June is entertaining the colonel in the living room.” I was too embarrassed to admit that my parents were spying in the den. Besides, I had some careful questions of my own to craft. I needed to find out what Bernie was doing with Mrs. Pulchinski. “Come in the kitchen and I’ll make you an Irish coffee.”
Bernie followed me. “Splendid. What have you been up to all day?”
It was the opening I needed. “Funny you should ask.”
A soft banging distracted me.
“What is that?” asked Bernie.
I traced the sound to a kitchen cabinet. The door bounced open ever so slightly and shut again. “There’s something in there.”
“Must be a rat. Have you got an iron skillet?” asked Bernie.
“It’s in there with the rat.”
Bernie scanned the kitchen for a weapon. “How about a broom?”
I fetched one that hung on the wall of the basement stairwell.
“You open it and I’ll be ready.” Bernie gripped the broom tightly and held it up over his shoulder.
I flipped the door open and jumped back.
With a complaining mew, as though he were asking what took us so long, Mochie stalked out.
Bernie and I broke into laughter. This was definitely the cat everyone brought back to Mrs. Pulchinski. I scooped Mochie up and danced through the kitchen holding him in the air. The banging of the door knocker interrupted our gay relief. Still holding Mochie, I pranced into the foyer and opened the front door.
Wolf stood on the stoop and regarded me with a serious look. Not even the sight of Mochie broke his stern demeanor. “I need to speak to a Bernard Frei, who I believe is currently residing here.”
TWENTY-ONE
From
“Ask Natasha”
:
Dear Natasha,
I’m having a party Thanksgiving weekend and want to decorate the staircase in my small foyer. What can I do besides cheesy swags and bows?
—Harried in Herndon
Dear Harried,
One of my favorite decorations is simple and quick. Collect twenty or so colorful leaves from your yard and place them between the pages of an old book for a few days so they’ll dry flat. Buy enough clear glass votives to place one on each step of your staircase. Using rough twine, tie one of the pressed leaves around each glass. Some will be too large and stand taller than the glass but that’s okay. If you don’t have time to press the leaves, you can vary this by substituting berries or interesting twigs. Don’t worry about hiding the rough knot or bow, that’s part of the charm. Place a
candle in each glass and light. When your guests arrive, they’ll enter to a seasonal cascade of festive lights.
—Natasha
“Bernie?” Fear clutched at me. I wanted to imagine there was a logical explanation for his brunch with Mrs. Pulchinski, but Wolf’s demand dampened that hope.
Bernie emerged from the kitchen.
I invited Wolf in and the two men shook hands.
“We’ll speak in your sunroom, if you don’t mind.” Wolf headed in that direction with Bernie behind him. Mochie ran ahead of them. My poor parents were stuck and would hear the conversations on both sides of them.
I should bring Wolf and Bernie something to drink. It was the hospitable thing to do and it wouldn’t hurt if I happened to overhear something while I carried it in to them.
Irish coffees were out of the question. Bernie needed to be sober when he answered Wolf’s questions and Wolf was clearly on duty. Working fast, I put on more of the Viennese coffee. While it brewed, I sidled along the hallway to eavesdrop.
I could hear Bernie saying, “I don’t see what’s so unusual about it. I was invited for Thanksgiving, not the days before. One doesn’t want to be the guest that smells like stinking fish. Besides, I had some banking to do in the city and I didn’t know quite how far away Natasha’s grand country estate might be.”
“What kind of banking?”
“Changing pounds to dollars. And I had a rather complicated transaction for my mum. She needed funds from an account in England wired to her in Shanghai.”
I hurried back to the kitchen, poured two mugs of coffee, quickly added sugar, cream, napkins, and spoons to a tray and carried it into the sunroom.
When I walked in, Wolf said, “Exactly when did you arrive in Washington?”
Bernie took a mug of coffee from me. “Thanks, Soph. I flew in the day before the contest. That would have been . . . Tuesday morning.”
“How did you choose the hotel?” When I held out a mug to Wolf, he waved me away. I set his mug on the glass-topped wrought-iron side table next to him and left the tray on the oversized ottoman I used as a coffee table.
“When I talked to Mars on the phone, he mentioned the stuffing contest. I saw an article about it in the
Miami Herald
and thought it would be most expedient to stay in that hotel Tuesday night. Mars and Natasha would be there on Wednesday and I could follow them back to Natasha’s place in my rental car. Frankly, Detective, I don’t see why any of this matters.”
I assumed I wasn’t supposed to be present and feared Wolf would throw me out any minute, so I backed slowly to the door.
“Did you know Simon Greer?”
Bernie leaned back on the sofa and casually crossed a leg over his knee. “I never met the man.”
I lingered in the doorway, guilt banging at my conscience.
“Did you see him when he was dead?”
“That’s rather ghoulish, isn’t it?”
“Let me make this easy for you. Were you ever in the Washington Room?”
“I presume that’s the place Simon set up camp? No, I had no reason to hunt him down.”
“Even after he was dead?”
“What are you suggesting? That I mutilated his corpse? Tampered with evidence?”
Wolf’s back was to me. I wished I could see his expression.
He said, “The key card to your hotel room was found in the Washington Room.”
Bernie scratched the back of his neck. “Is this some absurd American method of prompting a confession? Because it’s not working.”
Good move, Bernie. Aggravate the man with the handcuffs.
I waved my hands at Bernie and shook my head in dismay.
Wolf didn’t miss the twisted grin on Bernie’s face or the fact that his eyes focused on me.
Without turning, Wolf said, “I’d appreciate some privacy, Sophie.”
Appropriately chastened, I slunk into the hallway.
My conscience worked overtime. Wolf clearly did not want me to listen. But if I remained completely quiet, I could hear from the hallway and he wouldn’t know about it. I should do the right thing and return to the kitchen. Or I could dust the pictures hanging in the hallway . . .
“Where is everybody?”
Mars! I scurried to the kitchen before he gave away my location.
Wearing black gloves and a leather bomber jacket that resembled Craig’s, he roughhoused with Daisy.
“Very snazzy. New duds?”
He peeled off the gloves. “Everything we own reeks of smoke. I had no idea that smoke alone could do so much damage.”
Mochie zoomed into the kitchen and flew onto the table, where he watched Mars. Mars tossed the new jacket over a chair, stroked Mochie, and turned his attention to the kitchen counter. “Is this the cranberry cake I like so much?”
I could take a hint. I cut a piece for him and poured coffee into two mugs. He didn’t bother to sit down. He retrieved a fork and ate while standing. “Is Bernie here? I want to borrow his rental.”
“Wolf is questioning him in the sunroom.”
“About what?”
“Where he was, what he did, and why the key card to his hotel room was found in the conference room where Simon was killed.”
Mars set his coffee down. “They’re desperate. When they question someone from England who didn’t even know the victims, they’re reaching.”
I hoped Mars was right. I hated to think that Bernie could be involved somehow. Between England, Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Miami, his world, like Simon’s, was much larger than mine. Unfortunately, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities that he’d hired Otis and come here for a specific reason.
Mars checked his watch. “I can’t hang around here long. Have you seen his car keys?”
“You can’t just steal his car.”
“It’s not stealing between Bernie and me.” Mars spied the jacket Bernie left in the kitchen. He took a long swig of coffee, picked up the jacket, and felt the pockets. “Aha!”
“What’s wrong with your car?”
“Nothing.” He fumbled in his pants pocket and tossed his keys onto the counter. “In case Bernie needs to go anywhere.” He reached for the last bite of cake.
I snatched it away and held it as a bribe. “What’s going on?”