The Diva Says Cheesecake!

Book 15: Domestic Diva Mystery

by Krista Davis

Genres: Animal Cozy Mysteries; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

In a delicious new Domestic Diva Mystery from New York Times bestselling author Krista Davis, entertaining guru Sophie Winston is faced with a midsummer nightmare when a celebration in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia, is the appetizer for murder . . .



Old Town's midsummer festivities are getting a tasty addition this year. To coincide with a public performance of Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream," Bobbie Sue Bodoin, the Queen of Cheesecake, has hired Sophie to organize a dinner with a dessert buffet on the waterfront. Bobbie Sue's homegrown company is thriving, and since her baking dish overfloweth, she wants to reward her employees.



Bobbie Sue has only one menu demand: no cheesecake! But her specialty isn't the only thing missing from the evening—Tate, Bobbie Sue's husband, is too, much to her annoyance. Next morning, however, Tate's dead body is discovered. Bobbie Sue insists she didn't kick her spouse to the curb, and begs for Sophie's help finding the real killer. Digging in, Sophie discovers an assortment of Old Town locals who all had reason to want a piece of Tate. Can she gather together the crumbs the killer left behind in time to prevent a second helping of murder?

Release date: May 31, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Reader says this book is...: action-packed (1) clever protagonist (1) entertaining story (1) escapist/easy read (1) female sleuth (1) realistic characters (1) red herrings (1) satisfying ending (1) unexpected twists (1) unputdownable (1) witty (1)

Sample

I stood under spotlights outside of a closed car dealership waiting for my ex-husband Mars to arrive and feeling like I had been through the wringer. I had spent a long weekend with my parents at their home in Berrysville, Virginia. On the way back, in the dark of night, my beloved car conked out on I-81. I called for a tow truck and while I was waiting, my ex-husband Mars, who had been staying at my house to dog and cat sit, had texted to find out why I wasn’t home yet. After what seemed an eternity of giant trucks barreling by me in the dark, my car had finally been towed to the dealership where Mars had promised to pick me up. I was initially leery when an alpine-white BMW rolled up and came to a full stop, the engine idling.

Bernie Frei stepped out and opened the passenger door for me with a playful bow. My hound mix, Daisy, leaped onto the pavement and danced around me in circles, pausing twice for a smooch.

“May we give you a lift?” Bernie asked teasingly in his delightful British accent.

“Thank you, kind sir,” I said, playing along. Daisy vaulted into the back seat and I settled on the leather passenger seat, relieved to be on my way home.

Bernie tossed my bags in the back. He slid into the driver’s seat and handed me a strawberry milkshake and a wrapped disposable spoon. “I thought you might be hungry or thirsty. I figured this would cover both.” Turning onto the road, he asked, “What happened?”

The milkshake was so thick I had to use the spoon. “The shake is perfect, Bernie. Just what I needed. I don’t know what happened to the car. The engine started sputtering and slowed. Thankfully, I was able to pull over and it just plain died on me. Thanks for picking me up. I thought Mars was coming. How did you get dragged into this?”

“No problem. I’m happy to pitch in. Mars was going to come but he got a last-minute call, so here I am.”

Bernie had been the best man at my wedding to Mars. Born and raised mostly in England, he had met Mars when they wound up as roommates at university. Bernie’s mother had married more times than Elizabeth Taylor, dragging him around the world when he was a child. At some point he’d had enough and returned to live with husband number three, who by all accounts was a wonderful father figure to Bernie, if a bit too outdoorsy and devoted to country life for Bernie’s mother’s taste.

No one expected footloose Bernie to settle in Old Town but he’d landed a job managing an upscale restaurant called The Laughing Hound for an absentee owner and had been enormously successful at it. The same absentee owner had purchased the mansion in which Bernie resided to keep an eye on it. Far too large for one person and three cats, when Mars ended his relationship with Natasha, he had joined Bernie in the mansion, which was beginning to resemble a comfortable man cave.

Bernie now guided the car over backroads to Old Town and we were home in no time. The lights were on in my house, and it had never seemed more welcoming. Bernie insisted on carrying my bags inside.

Mars held a phone to his ear as he opened the kitchen door for us. He had spent the weekend there while I was away.

My ocicat, Mochie, who had bullseyes on both sides of his body and fur that looked like necklaces and bracelets instead of the spots he was supposed to have, mewed like I had been gone forever. I swept him up into my arms. He tilted his head and rubbed it against my chin. All was well again in my world. If there was a second stroke of bad luck, it would likely come in the form of the repair bill for my car.

I thanked Bernie profusely, and Mars, too. The two of them left for home in Bernie’s car, which made me smile because they lived, as my grandfather would have said, within spitting distance.

Tuesday morning loomed early but I was eager to get back to work. I had just finished my breakfast of a soft-boiled egg and toast when the car dealership phoned. It was great news. The part that had failed could be easily replaced for a reasonable amount of money and the car would be fine. The requisite part was being shipped to them as we spoke.

By eleven thirty, I was at Blackwell’s Tavern for a business lunch with Mrs. Hollingsworth-Smythe, which rhymed with tithe with a long I and a silent E, and her daughter, Dodie Kucharski. I had organized several major charity events for Mrs. Hollingsworth-Smythe and found it difficult to turn her down when she asked me to arrange a very large Fourth of July party overlooking the Potomac River.

Old Town Alexandria, Virginia, where I lived and worked as an event planner, was a hot spot for visitors because we were located across the river from Washington, DC. Old Town was a destination itself, with lovely historic homes, and charming shops and restaurants.

Favored by Mrs. Hollingsworth-Smythe and her friends, Blackwell’s Tavern was an upscale place, which had been around for many years. The food was good, but their cheesecake selection was outstanding. I happened to know that they were Bobbie Sue’s Cheesecake, the same cheesecake served by many restaurants in the DC area and across the country for that matter. But most restaurants offered only one flavor. Tate Bodoin, the owner of Blackwell’s Tavern, happened to be married to Bobbie Sue Bodoin, whose cheesecake baking business had grown into a small empire. She didn’t have a restaurant of her own because she sold directly to restaurants, but it did mean that her husband offered little else on his dessert menu.

Tate, a slightly pudgy man with graying light brown hair, glasses, and a substantial white mustache, stopped by the table to see how our lunch was and pitch cheesecake for dessert.

To my complete horror, Mrs. Hollingsworth-Smythe declined dessert because she was on a diet, and informed her fortyish-going-on-fifty daughter, Dodie, that she would not be having any cheesecake if she wanted to fit into a certain dress for their big bash. I couldn’t exactly pig out on a slice of raspberry chocolate cheesecake in front of them!

I gave Tate an apologetic look. “I’ll take four slices of cheesecake to go. You know Nina will want some. Surprise me.”

He patted my shoulder in a friendly way. “They don’t know what they’re missing,” he joked before ambling off.

“He’s such a gentleman,” said Mrs. Hollingsworth-Smythe. “Sophie, darling, please be sure that we offer an ample assortment of cheesecake on the dessert table at the fete.”

“Mother . . .” prompted Dodie.

“Oh, yes, Dodie. How could I possibly forget? Sophie, dear, I understand that you are friends with the man who runs The Laughing Hound. Please be sure that he receives an invitation. Dodie has her eyes on him. You know, after my first divorce, I went after a working man, too. He was something else. The love of my life!”

“Mother!” Dodie’s tone admonished her mother.

“Am I embarrassing you, Dodi? You know I was quite the looker in my day.”

“Mother!”

“Yes, well, perhaps enough said about that. But there is something very sensual about men who toil for a living.”

Well, well. Bernie would be surprised to hear about this!

Except for the lack of dessert, something I never turned down, the meeting had gone well. When I paid the check, I noticed an envelope in my purse. With two clients looking on, it wasn’t the time to empty my purse and examine the contents. After the requisite goodbyes, I collected my takeout cheesecake and headed straight to my home, which bore a coveted plaque next to the front door that designated it as a historic dwelling.

Mars and I had inherited it from his aunt, who had been an extraordinary hostess in her day. She had enlarged the dining room and living room to accommodate her parties. Mars liked the house but wasn’t particularly sentimental about it, so I had bought him out when we divorced. The mortgage put a mighty kink in my budget, but I loved the old place with the high windows and creaking floors.

After greeting Daisy and Mochie, who dutifully met me at the door, I hung my purse where I always did—on a hook in the coat closet, where I could grab it in an instant. My mother always emptied her purse entirely when she came home. I supposed that made it easier to switch purses to match her outfits, but it seemed like an extra chore to have to locate wallet, car keys, house keys, tissue, comb, and whatever else I needed.

Before I settled down to work, Nina Reid Norwood, my best friend and across-the-street neighbor, stopped by with her dog, Muppet, an energetic little white floof-ball whom she had adopted.

Nina flopped into a chair by my fireplace, holding a box in her hands. She was generally energetic and upbeat. But today, she seemed glum.

“Tea and cheesecake?” I asked.

She perked up. “I need cheesecake right now. How did you know?”

I grinned and opened the box that I had set on the counter. Each of the four slices of cheesecake looked different. “I think you’d better choose.”

Leaving the box in the chair, Nina rose and looked at the selection. “Cherry topping is just boring. What do you suppose this one is?”

I examined the dark crumble on top. “Oreo?”

“I’ll have that one.” She walked over to the bay window and looked out. “Have you heard of early dementia?” she asked.

I nodded, placing her plate of cheesecake on the table and adding a napkin and fork. “Yes, it’s terrible.”

“I think there’s something seriously wrong with my husband.” She turned toward me, her expression grim.

A forensic pathologist, Nina’s husband traveled constantly and was rarely home. “Did something happen?”

She retrieved the box and heaved a great sigh. “Last week, a package arrived addressed to him. Naturally, I opened it.” She flicked open the box and pulled out a rubber chicken. “He ordered a chicken slingshot.”

It was hard not to laugh when she held up the limp rubbery form of a chicken.

“When I asked him about it, he claimed he never ordered it. I stashed it in the closet so I could show him when he came home. Today, this arrived.” Nina withdrew a plastic bag, prominently marked, INFLATABLE UNICORN.

I stared at it and tried very hard not to laugh. The picture on the bag showed a multicolored unicorn that might be a big hit at a children’s party but had no real function that I could see. “Clearly there has been a mistake.”

“My husband denies having ordered it. I thought the first one was an error. When the second one arrived, I thought they must be for someone with a similar name. Another person named Norwood, maybe. They came from the same company and we have an account with them, so I called to let them know. The man on the phone was very nice, but insists the shipment was to my husband. But he has no recollection of ordering any of these things.”

I brought our tea and my cherry cheesecake over to the table and sat down. “I don’t think that’s a sign of dementia. You know how easily things get mixed up. Unless there’s something else . . .” I hoped there wasn’t.

The cheesecake brightened Nina’s spirits and she was in a better mood when she left with her chicken and unicorn. But I knew she was still worried. Who wouldn’t be?

The rest of the day was spent outlining a schedule for the week-long conference of a research chefs organization, including tours of Washington and a night at the Kennedy Center. Consequently, my purse hung in the closet until Wednesday afternoon, when Nina popped in and asked if I felt like a stroll with the dogs down to our favorite coffee shop.

Daisy and I were ready for a break. I checked on Mochie, who was lounging in the sunroom, then suited up Daisy in her halter, and grabbed my purse off the handy hook. I didn’t always take the whole purse. Often, when I walked Daisy, I only tucked a cell phone with cash in my pocket. But for some reason, I took the whole thing, maybe because the turquoise color was so summery and happened to match my sleeveless blouse.

Consequently, it wasn’t until I took my wallet out to pay for my caramel latte that I noticed the envelope again. I frowned at it, upset with myself for forgetting about it. I paid for my latte and Daisy’s pup cup and joined Nina at a table overlooking the Potomac River.

I pulled out the envelope. It was lilac, the kind that came with a card or stationery, but it wasn’t addressed to anyone. It was sealed shut, though. That was odd. I didn’t recall placing it in my handbag.

“What’s that?” asked Nina.

“I have no idea.” I ripped it open and slid out a sheet of matching lilac paper. Daisy whined softly and touched my leg with her paw. “Sorry, sweetie, I didn’t forget you.” I held her pup cup in one hand and unfolded the letter with the other.

I read it to Nina in a soft voice, so no one would overhear.

“Poor kid!” she said. “There’s no name?”

I handed her the note and the envelope. “They match,” I observed. “The kind of thing you buy to write thank-you notes.”

“The violet color would probably indicate a girl,” said Nina.

“Could be. Any kid could have this or might have swiped it from a family member. But I’m betting on a girl. Summer jobs. Fourteen and over,” I mused.

“It doesn’t sound like she knows you,” said Nina.

“Good point. She’s probably not in college. A college student would have looked me up first and wouldn’t have bothered writing to me about a legal matter.”

Nina groused, “It’s so difficult with printers. If it had been handwritten, we might have been able to deduce something from the handwriting. Where did you get this?”

“It was in my purse. I saw it when I paid the check at Blackwell’s Tavern. But I was with clients, so I didn’t want to take it out in front of them. And then I forgot about it until just now.”

Nina gasped. “Worried in Old Town must work at Blackwell’s Tavern. Who was your server?”

“A man in his thirties.” I mashed my eyes shut and tried to remember the name tag on his shirt. “Antonio Hirsch.”

“We’re seeing Bobbie Sue Bodoin tomorrow night. Maybe we can think of a clever way to ask her.”

“There’s a good idea,” I said sarcastically. “ ‘Bobbie Sue, one of your husband’s employees thinks something illegal is going on at his restaurant. Could you put us in touch with a server named Antonio Hirsch so we can talk to him about it?’ ”

That afternoon, I pondered how I could help Worried in Old Town. I phoned my editor, who confirmed that we should not treat it like letters about recipes and entertaining. I decided to take it to Sergeant Wolf Fleishman of the Alexandria Police, and with his permission, in my next column we would ask Worried in Old Town to contact me, without printing the letter.

That straightened out, I headed to the police station.

Wolf came down to the modern lobby. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

Wolf liked to eat and usually carried a few extra pounds, but they did nothing to detract from his good looks. Silver glinted in his sideburns as the summer sun shone on them through a window. We had dated for a time and I was pleased that we continued to be friends. I handed him the letter.

He slid it out of the envelope and read it. Then he flipped the envelope, examining it, and read the note again. “Where did you get this?”

I told him about it mysteriously being in my purse after eating at Blackwell’s Tavern. “I’ve talked to my editor. We’re putting a request in my column tomorrow for her to get in touch with me.”

“You’re not going to print the letter, I hope?”

I tilted my head. “C’mon, Wolf. I’m not that stupid.”

“I can’t stop you from doing that, but I have concerns. Keep it very neutral. I don’t know of anything major going on in Old Town right now, but I don’t want you or Worried in Old Town getting tangled with a bunch of thugs. May I keep this?”

“Yes. I made a copy.”

He met my gaze. “I want to know when she contacts you.” He held up the letter. “This could be anything from a mistaken impression to some kind of retaliation or prank. But it could also mean something sinister is going on.”

The letter went out of my head again the next day as I tackled Bobbie Sue Bodoin’s Midsummer Night dinner party for her employees. Fortunately, she had decided to rent the outdoor terrace of a restaurant located on the Potomac River where her guests could enjoy Old Town’s Midsummer Night festivities on the water.

It was early evening when Bobbie Sue Bodoin examined the massive assortment of desserts and asked, “There’s no cheesecake, is there?”

I assured her there wasn’t.

Nina had come along on my job so she would get a premier seat for the fireworks on the Potomac. She blurted, “I love cheesecake! Why aren’t you serving it?”

Bobbie Sue, who was about five and a half feet tall with a voluptuous figure that she didn’t mind showing off, promoted her cheesecake business by calling herself the Queen of Cheesecake. “Those words are music to my ears,” she said. “But Nina, darlin’, this is for my employees and I want it to be very special. Cheesecake is what we eat every day. There’s always at least one in the lunchroom. You should come by sometime when we try out new flavors. On those days, when I go home, the last thing I want to see is cheesecake!”

“Maybe I should sign up as an official taster,” Nina suggested.

“Nina has a unique palate,” I said. “She can taste all kinds of subtle flavors that other people don’t even notice.”

Bobbie Sue smiled at Nina. “I’ll keep you in mind. We’re going to be testing cheesecakes like crazy. To celebrate our expansion, we’re having a cheesecake contest to find a new flavor. The prize is ten thousand dollars. You should think about entering.” She studied the Apple watch on her wrist for the fourth time in the last few minutes.

“Don’t worry. We’ll be ready for them,” I said. Most of her two hundred guests were on their way to see Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the park nearby. It would end at twilight, giving them just enough time to walk over to the riverfront restaurant where they would be seated outside to enjoy a late dinner followed by a dessert buffet, and watch the fireworks over the river.

“Hmm?” she murmured. She looked over at me. “It looks wonderful. I’m so glad you talked me into including cheeses and fruit for those who don’t feel like anything too sweet for dessert.” Her gaze fell to her watch again.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“There’s just so much going on. Months ago, when I scheduled this party, I stupidly thought Midsummer Night would be boring. Then someone decided to put on the play, and my daughter Jo’s ballet class agreed to be fairies.”

“Jo? I thought her name was Rebecca. Do you have two daughters?” Nina asked.

Bobbie Sue waved her hand. “She’s ten now and is in her Little Women phase. Her name is really Rebecca Josephine—”

Nina interrupted her. “That’s beautiful!”

“I think so! But I guess it’s a lot for a little girl. I told my husband that in a couple of years, she’s going to tell us to call her RJ. But for now, she’s Jo.”

She took a long sip of iced tea. Even though it wouldn’t officially be summer until tomorrow, the heat and humidity hadn’t gotten that memo.

“Anyway,” she continued, “then the merchants association decided all the stores and restaurants would be open until midnight, so my husband, Tate, is busy, and our son, Spencer, wants to run in the Midnight Madness 5K, and I feel like I’m going in circles keeping track of everyone. I’ve been trying to remind Tate to catch at least part of Jo’s performance, but I’m getting his voicemail. I hope he doesn’t forget. She would be devastated. After the performance, I’ll bring Jo and some of her friends back here with me. They’re going to a slumber party tonight, but I promised them dinner, dessert, and fireworks first.” She took a deep breath and threw her shoulders back. “All I need to know is that you have everything under control here.”

I shot her a smile. “Go take care of your family. Nina and I will make sure everything is ready for your guests on this end.”

“You’re an angel.” Bobbie Sue took off at a fast clip.

“Di. . .