Sticks & Scones gbcm-10 Read online

  “What in the hell do you suppose that was about?” demanded Marla. “I mean, they didn’t even give us a second look. And anyway! Even if you disagree with someone who works for you, you don’t try to choke ‘em. I mean, not unless you coach college basketball.”

  “I can’t deal with this now,” I said abruptly, realizing that if Michaela was not at fencing practice, it must have been canceled. “I’ve got to run.” While Marla waited, I darted into our room - Tom was sleeping - and snagged my purse and jacket.

  “Run where?” she whispered when I returned.

  “I need to pick up Arch.” I zipped to Arch’s room, grabbed his overnight bag, and trotted back toward Marla. “I’ve got to drop him off for the Jerk, then come back and take care of Tom. And I want to get out of here before Eliot realizes I saw him. Should we report him to the domestic-abuse people, though?”

  “Better wait on that,” said Marla,

  “because I think we might have just saved him from being stabbed, gored, and left for dead.” She walked purposefully down the hall. “Think I should tell Sukie? She’s Swiss, she’s used to being neutral, right?”

  “Don’t,” I advised as I tried to hurry along behind her. Marla, heavier than I by about fifty pounds, had become devoted to a minimal but effective exercise routine since having a heart attack the previous summer. Still, I was surprised when she quickstepped down the carpeted stairs beside me. Following her, my head throbbed. I said, “Snooping around is hard on your health.”

  “Uh-huh,” she replied. “I noticed what it’s doing for yours.” We pulled up in front of the kitchen door. “I just want to know why those two were arguing,” she said, the very picture of innocence. She pushed into the kitchen and merrily asked Julian where Sukie had gotten to. Julian, chopping vegetables, called to Sukie, who

  peeked out, startled, from where she was crouching inside the hearth. We’d interrupted her scrubbing of the fireplace’s interior walls, and she was not happy. Despite the twice-weekly visits of a cleaning company, Sukie felt compelled to check obsessively for spots they might have missed. Well, I’d probably be critical of any caterer I had to hire, so who was I to judge?

  As I pulled out of the garage and accelerated across the causeway, a new question occurred to me: Did Sukie’s cleaning jobs include straightening out messes made by her husband?

  At quarter after three, Arch raced out the school gym entrance. “They’re refinishing the floor of the school fencing loft,” he announced as he heaved his bookbag into the rear of the van, “so Michaela gave us an assignment. She told us to run up and down five hundred stairs.” His tone was weary. “Fifty times ten stairs. Or whatever. But I’m too hungry to do that right now.”

  “Why run up and down stairs?” I asked as I headed toward the Aspen Meadow Pastry Shop.

  “Strengthens the legs.” He glanced over the seat. “My overnight bag? Are we moving again?”

  “Your dad and I have worked out a visitation policy for the next couple of weeks,” I began, as if John Richard and I had actually peacefully cooperated on a new arrangement. I explained to Arch that I’d be leaving him at the counseling center by the library. His bag held clean clothes and toiletries, and his dad would take him to school the next day. I pulled into a parking space on Main Street. After practice, I concluded, I would pick him up.

  Without responding, Arch jumped out of the van and shot into the pastry shop.

  “Well, I’m glad to see Dad,” he said finally, after he’d ordered two pieces of Linzertorte and a soft drink. “But Michaela promised that tonight Eliot would show me exactly where the young duke died. Would you tell her where I am? Ask her if I can see it tomorrow after practice?”

  “Sure,” I said, with some hesitance, as Arch wolfed down his first piece of torte. I guessed medieval history could be pretty cool if you focused on death and ghosts. Still, I wasn’t certain I wanted Eliot and Michaela showing Arch anything. “Ah, honey? I don’t want you poking around where someone died. Any chance I could go with you?”

  He sighed and put down his second piece of torte. “First you want me to get along with these people, then you tell me you need to chaperone me around the place. Which is it?” “The castle… is big, very big, and parts of it are closed off. I just… I’m not entirely sure the whole place is safe, that’s all.” The memory of Eliot lunging for Michaela’s throat made my stomach knot. “Also, I don’t want you going anywhere with Michaela and Eliot without me along.” “Okay, Mom,” he said as he tossed his paper plate and cup, “just forget that I was trying to get along with the Hydes. I’ll tell them I can’t do anything or go

  anywhere without my mommy there to take care of me.” Why was mothering so hard? I exhaled, unable to think of a reply. Arch said he was going to find some steps to start running up and down. I sat in the van with the motor running and tried to think. Arch was due to turn fifteen in April, a fact he reminded me of whenever he accused me of babying him. But that was two months away. What I needed to concentrate on was where I should move our family next, before Eliot and Michaela killed one another, and while figuring out what John Richard and Viv Martini were up to. Not to mention who’d shot Tom. But immediate answers eluded me. When Arch returned, gasping, he said, “I think I’m going to puke.” On that happy note, we drove to the counseling center in silence. When we pulled into the library parking lot and got out of the van, I glanced around. One could never be sure that the Jerk would actually show up at any particular prearranged time, I thought, as I chewed the in-side of my cheek.

  “Here you are,” announced a throaty female voice be-hind me. I whirled and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. It was Viv Martini herself, dressed in skin-hugging chocolate brown leather pants and jacket. Once again, her jacket was zipped down to reveal cleavage. Would it be too prudish for me to put my hand over Arch’s eyes? “Hi, Viv,” Arch said matter-of-factly. “Want me to put my stuff in the car?” “Your dad’s not here yet-” Viv began. “Arch,” I interrupted her, “would you run into the library and see if the new Jacques Pepin has come in for me? I requested it a month ago.” He sighed, rolled his eyes, and dropped his bag on the pavement. “Please be nice to him,” I told Viv, as soon as Arch had disappeared into the library. “He’s really struggling with his dad getting out of jail.” “10m nice to him,” Viv protested. “I got John Richard to buy a treadmill and free weights so we could both work out with Arch. Arch likes me.” I paused, but only for a moment. John Richard could be along any moment. “Look,” I said, a tad desperately, “my husband is a policeman who’s been shot-” “So we saw on the news.” To my surprise, Viv’s eyes were sympathetic. “How awful! Do they have any idea who did it?” “Not yet. But my ex said you knew Ray Wolff, who was arrested by my husband.” I watched her closely, but saw nothing on her face except concern. “Do you have any idea if Wolff was involved in the shooting?” “I don’t give a damn about Ray Wolffi” she snapped. “There’s no telling what lies up to. That’s why I left him.” I managed a smile. Did I believe her? “A rumor in town also has you seen with Andy Balachek, whose body I found.”

  “Forget it,” she said immediately. “I didn’t touch Andy. He wasn’t my type. He was a sweet kid. Ray seduced him into that theft, the way he does everybody. Ray’s a son-of-a-bitch snake who will promise you anything to get what he wants.”

  Arch came out of the library and called to us. I said quickly, “So, Viv? You wouldn’t have any idea who killed Andy, would you?”

  She signaled to Arch. “Some buddy of Ray’s, probably. Once they do what he says, they’re like those bugs that crawl back under rocks, never to see the light of day.”

  Without warning, the gold Mercedes screamed into the lot. John Richard hopped out, crossed his arms, and glared at us. I squinted at the dealer’s paper tags on the Mercedes. Lauderdale Luxury Imports. Was the Mercedes John Richard’s car or Viv’s? Arch announced that there were fifty holds on the Pepin, and I wouldn’t get it for a while. Then he shyly looked
up to Viv, who sauntered away with her arm slung over my son’s shoulder. The sight made me want to puke.

  Once they’d pulled away, I headed back to the castle. Dusk in the Rocky Mountain winter is a sudden, cold affair, arriving early and bringing with it a lengthy atmospheric gloom. I felt my mood drop with the temperature and the darkness.

  In the kitchen of the. castle, Eliot, wearing an old-fashioned double-breasted gray suit and gray Ascot tie, was giving Julian instructions on the general outlines for a Tudor dinner. I looked closely at his left arm, the one Michaela had struck with the sword. Was that a slight bandage-bulge, or was I imagining it? In his right hand, Eliot held a crystal glass of sherry that he gestured with to make his points. “It was not a supper; although what the Elizabethans called dinner; we’ll be serving at suppertime on Friday evening for the fencing team.” The sherry slopped over the side of the glass.

  Sukie, standing on the other side of the room in a full-length black velvet coat, groaned, undoubtedly thinking of her just-scrubbed floor. I put on an enthusiastic face. Whatever Eliot wanted in the food department, no matter how arcane, he was going to get. I didn’t intend to get throttled.

  “Now, as Goldy may have told you,” Eliot said, jutting his chin in Julian’s direction, “during the Renaissance, your typical late-sixteenth-century courtier would be served neither dinner nor supper in the Great Hall. Hollywood notwithstanding, of course,” he added with a chuckle and sip of his drink. He continued: “The large change from medieval to Renaissance food service was that the king and queen - or lord and lady, as you will - withdrew to private chambers for meals. On very special occasions, such as Christmas, they would eat in the hall with a full complement of courtiers. The lord and lady and their intimates would be served on the dais, so all could see and admire them.”

  Julian’s handsome face was set in a raised-eyebrow, pressed-lip expression of I’m-trying-not-to-laugh. Without warning, I felt suddenly cold again, and glanced around. Was I the only one noticing that the same window kept sliding open? While Eliot lectured, I sidled over to the window, shut it, and then hustled back to the kitchen table, where Julian had laid out trays of beautifully arranged vegetarian fare.

  One platter contained a magazine-perfect stack of diamond-cut, grill-striped golden polenta, another a stunning array of steamed pale green artichokes, golden ears of corn, bright orange and green baby carrots, and broccoli florets. A third tray contained a bowl of arugula and romaine lettuces beside a heated crock of what looked and smelled like the recipe I’d shown him for a hot port wine and chčvre dressing. I looked closer. The creamy vinaigrette was studded with poached figs. So it was the recipe I’d shown him. I’d felt triumphant putting it together, for figs had been brought to Britain by the Romans. My mouth watered.

  “But we’ll have more time to talk tomorrow,” Eliot concluded with a toothy grin and last delicate slurp from his glass. “Sukie and I are going out for the evening. Enjoy the … veggies. Goldy can tell you a Tudor courtier typically consumed two pounds of meat a day. Venison, rabbit, mackerel, goose, pheasant, peacock, et cetera.” He nodded at the spread. “No cornbread, no carrots. The occasional potato.”

  Ever polite, Julian smiled and nodded. Sukie gave us her best approximation of an apologetic look and announced that Michaela had a small kitchenette in her castle apartment, and usually did not join them for the evening meal. Then she and Eliot swept away.

  I was left wondering. Had Eliot’s family treated the Kirovskys like family for so many years that it was impossible to fire her, even if she stabbed him with a sword? If Sartre was right, and hell was other people, what was other people you don’t get along with living forever at close quarters.? A lower circle of hell?

  I put these questions aside as Julian and I shouldered the trays and trucked them up to Tom’s and my room. Julian had already set three places at a card table next to Tom’s side of the bed. Not a dais in the Great Hall, but absolutely perfect for a cozy family meal. We said grace. In addition to thanks, I prayed for safety and guidance, and for my son.

  “Are we all sure we want to stay here?” Julian asked delicately, as he passed the salad. “That Eliot guy is weird.”

  “I’m comfortable,” Tom offered. “We wouldn’t have as good security in a hotel, I can tell you that, unless Lambert pulled some extra guys off the force to keep watch over us. So… unless the person who shot me can find a way into a heavily fortified castle, I’d say we’re in pretty good shape.”

  “Chardé Lauderdale might be able to find her way in,” I ventured.

  “I think I could deal with that skinny decorator,” Tom insisted with a chuckle.

  I started piling goodies onto Tom’s plate and my own. “Before you turn down a hotel, you should know I saw Eliot having a nasty fight this afternoon with his caretaker, Michaela Kirovsky, Marla broke it up.”

  “Yeah,” Tom replied. “Marla called while you were running Arch around. She said none of her sources know if Eliot and Michaela fight all the time, or if what you saw this afternoon was a one-time thing.” Tom laughed and shook his head. “I’d say Eliot Hyde is more than weird, maybe even certifiable. When we’re done eating, I’ll tell you all about his pranks.”

  “Oh, tell us now,” I coaxed with a giggle, infinitely glad that Tom felt well enough to gossip. I finished heaping his plate with polenta and vegetables and set it in front of him.

  Tom took a few bites, and complimented Julian. Then he said, “Eliot told the sheriff’s department, and townsfolk who would listen, that any castle-property trespasser would be attacked by a ghost.”

  “I’ll bet that brought in the gawkers,” Julian said with a wry smile.

  Tom laughed again. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Figgy Salad

  4 ounces small Mission figs (13 to 15 figlets”) ˝ cup ruby port ˝ teaspoon sugar 1 ounce (about 2 tablespoons) filberts (also called hazelnuts) 2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar 1 large shallot, minced by hand or in a small food processor 2 ounces chčvre, softened and sliced 1/4 cup olive oil ź teaspoon salt freshly ground black pepper to taste 8 cups field greens (“baby” variety, if possible), rinsed, drained, patted dry, wrapped in paper towels, and chilled

  Cut the stems off the figs, rinse them, and pat dry. Place them in a small saucepan with the port and sugar and bring to a simmer over medium heat. Cover the pan, lower the heat to the lowest setting, and simmer gently for about 10 minutes, or until the figs are soft. Drain the figs, reserving the cooking liquid. Allow the figs to cool, then slice them into quarters and set aside. Using a wide frying pan, toast the filberts over medium heat, stirring frequently, until they emit a nutty smell, about 5 to 10 minutes. Remove them from the heat, and when they are cool, coarsely chop them. Reheat the cooking liquid over low heat and stir in the vinegar, shallot, chčvre, oil, and seasonings. Add the figs and raise the heat to medium-low. Stir the dressing until the cheese is completely melted. Toss the field greens with the warm dressing and sprinkle the nuts on top. Serve immediately.

  Makes 6 servings

  -15-

  I knew better than to interrupt Tom when he began a Tale of Law Enforcement. I took a first luscious bite of Julian’s beautifully prepared salad. The warm, bittersweet dressing had melted the creamy chunks of chčvre and made a silky coating for the sweet, moist figs and bitter greens. It was a heavenly mčlange. Was this really my recipe, or had Julian transformed it into something otherworldly? Maybe what made it delicious was someone else fixing it.

  I felt myself relax. And I was thankful: That my husband was alive, that Julian was with us once again, that Arch and I had survived our first encounter with the Jerk-as-ex-con. As I munched the sumptuous grilled polenta, I ordered myself to set aside worries about Tom’s wound, the other woman he claimed not to love, and Andy Balachek’s corpse in Cottonwood Creek.

  “Eliot had moved back from the East Coast and lived in this castle for almost, oh, five years,” Tom continued, “when he realized his tours were a
flop and his inheritance was going to drain away soon. So. About four years ago, he took out a loan against the equity in the castle itself and used it to refurbish the chapel by the creek. Vandals had broken some windows and spray-painted the walls and floor. Eliot spent fifty thou on folding wooden chairs, heaters, an antique organ, a handmade gold cross, spotlights, repairs to the stained-glass windows, and installation of electricity. The first wedding went off well. Unfortunately, Eliot hadn’t thought of security, and vandals broke in after the celebration and stole the gold cross.”

  “Wow,” said Julian, as he piled jewel-colored baby vegetables on our plates. “How much bad luck would that bring?”

  Tom nodded. “Eliot’s next strategy, in addition to installing a lockbox, was to arrange an interview with the Mountain Journal. He claimed the dead duke, the rich young nephew from Tudor times, still haunted the place and roamed the grounds. Eliot called his own estate ‘Poltergeist Palace.’ He warned that anyone breaking into Hyde Chapel or the castle could be attacked by the ghost.”

  “So he’s the one who came up with the name,” I muttered.

  “A second couple tying the knot in Hyde Chapel didn’t even finish their ceremony. The bride was spooked to begin with, because the groom had lost his first wife in a car accident. Before they got to ‘I do,’ a screaming started up in the chapel. Or near the chapel; the witnesses couldn’t agree. Nobody could find the screamer. So the bride got hysterical and started hollering herself, claiming it was the ghost of her husband’s first wife.”

  “How come none of this was publicized at Saint Luke’s when Eliot gave them Hyde Chapel?” I asked, fascinated.

  “Because Episcopalians have the Holy Ghost,” Julian interjected.

  “That’s the Holy Spirit to you,” I shot back.