When Diesel and I walked into the kitchen, appetizing odors, along with Laura and Stewart, greeted us. Stewart presided over the stove while Laura prepared a salad.

“Just in time for lunch.” Laura pecked me on the cheek. “And there’s my big beautiful boy.” She blew a kiss to the cat, and Diesel rubbed against her legs, warbling happily.

“Howdy, Charlie.” Stewart said. “Hope you’re hungry.”

“I sure am. I thought you were going to be a bum today, and here you are cooking.” I walked over to the stove to see what was cooking. “Beef stroganoff. I do hope that’s for lunch.”

“It is.” Stewart grinned. “When you told me Azalea wouldn’t be here today, I couldn’t resist the chance to get into the kitchen on a weekday.”

“I’m glad your resistance was low,” I said. “I was figuring on having leftover ham and potato salad.”

“Too late for that anyway.” Laura giggled. “I think Justin must have had it for a midnight snack last night.”

“Then I’m doubly thankful Stewart had the urge to cook.” I sat down at the table. I hoped the stroganoff would be ready soon. The aroma was driving me crazy with hunger.

“Sean is lunching with Alexandra,” Laura said as she placed the large bowl of salad on the table. “Justin’s gone to see his father, so it’s just the three of us.” She began to set the table.

“This will be ready in just a minute.” Stewart added a heaping tablespoon of sour cream and stirred it in. “Any further leads on who killed Vera?”

“Nothing concrete,” I said. “I think Morty is the best suspect, though. Get rid of Vera, no need for a divorce, and then he could marry Sissy.”

“Speaking of our beautiful Miss Beauchamp, I ran into her yesterday afternoon.” Stewart began ladling noodles and beef onto plates. “I was walking around the square, and out she popped from the Atheneum. The poor thing looked upset about something—which I never could winkle out of her though I certainly tried—so I invited her over to the ice cream shop for a milk shake to cheer her up.”

While Stewart related his story, I’d been watching the cat pace back and forth near the counter where Laura had prepared the salad. She hadn’t put away the bag of grated cheese when she finished, and the cat could smell it. All of a sudden he leaped onto the counter and tried to stick his head into the bag.

“Diesel, no! You get down from there. You know better than that.” At my sharp tone the cat turned to glare at me. Laura retrieved the bag and returned it to the fridge. Diesel grumbled as he jumped to the floor and disappeared into the utility room.

“Poor kitty,” Stewart said. “He’s going to waste away to absolutely nothing if you won’t let him eat.” He set a plate of stroganoff in front of me, and Laura dished out the salad.

“Yes, he’s always on the point of starvation. Or at least he thinks he is.” I had to smile. After all, it did take a fair amount of grub to keep a thirty-six-pound cat in decent shape.