The Diva Spices It Up (A Domestic Diva Mystery #13) - Krista Davis Page 0,1

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