Sticks & Scones Read online

  Bill Quincy, his wide, chinless face grim, his broad shoulders tense, announced that he intended to go through the house, to see if the shooter had broken in. I should wait until he’d inspected the first floor, he ordered, pushing past me without further ceremony. Bill stomped resolutely through the kitchen and dining room, peered into the tiny half-bath, then returned to the hallway and cocked his head at me. I tiptoed behind him to the kitchen. He shouted a warning into the basement, then banged down the steps. If the intruder was indeed inside, there could be no mistake that my neighbor intended to roust him out.

  Jake bounded up to Arch’s room ahead of me. Scout, our adopted stray cat, slunk along behind the bloodhound, his long gray-and-brown hair, like Arch’s, turned electric from being suddenly roused. Following my animal escort, I silently thanked God that none of us had been hurt, and that we had great neighbors. The cat scooted under the bed used by Julian Teller, our former boarder, now a sophomore at the University of Colorado. Arch asked for a third time what had happened. I didn’t want to frighten him. So I lied.

  “It just … looks as if some drunk staggered up from the Grizzly Saloon, took aim at our living-room window, and shot it out. I don’t know whether the guy used a shotgun or a rifle. Whatever it was, he wasn’t too plastered to miss.”

  My son nodded slowly, not sure whether to believe me. He shouldn’t have, of course. The Grizzly closed early on Sunday night.

  I stared at the hands on Arch’s new clock, a gift from his fencing coach. The clock was in the shape of a tiny knight holding a sword, from which a timepiece dangled. When the hands pointed to four-twenty-five, a wail of sirens broke the tense silence. I pushed aside Arch’s faded orange curtains and peeked out his window. Two sheriff’s department vehicles hurtled down our street and parked at the curb.

  I raced back to Tom’s and my bedroom and slid into jeans, a sweatshirt, and clogs. Had someone unintentionally fired a gun? Was the damage to our window just some stupid accident? Surely it couldn’t have been deliberate. And of all the times for this to happen …

  I started downstairs. Today was supposed to herald my first big job in five weeks, a luncheon gig at a Gothic chapel on an estate dominated by a genuine English castle. The castle was one of Aspen Meadow’s gorgeous-but-weird landmarks. If things went well, the castle-owner—who was hoping to open a conference center at the site—promised to be a huge client. I didn’t want anything to mess up today’s job.

  Then again, I fretted as I gripped the railing, I was a caterer married to a cop, a cop working on a case so difficult he’d been forced to search for a suspect two thousand miles away. Perhaps the gunshot had been a message for Tom.

  Outside, the red-and-blue lights flashing on snow-covered pines created monstrous shadows. The sight of cop cars was not unfamiliar to me. Still, my throat tightened as I wrenched open our front door. Bill and the other gun-toters looked at me sympathetically.

  Why would someone shoot at the house of a caterer?

  I swallowed hard.

  Did I really want to know?

  CHAPTER 2

  Two cops trod up the icy path to our door. The first was tall and decidedly corpulent, the second short and slight, with a dark mustache set off by pale skin.

  “Mrs. Schulz?” asked the tall one. “I’m Deputy Wyatt. This is Deputy Vaughan.”

  I nodded and shook their hands. I remembered both of them from the department Christmas party, which was actually held three days before New Year’s, since Christmas and New Year’s themselves are always high-crime days. While the impromptu posse, three neighbors plus Bill, looked on curiously, I thanked the cops for responding so quickly.

  Wyatt, who had dark, intelligent eyes, addressed me in a low, terse voice. “We’re going to secure your house. Then we’ll need to talk to your neighbors.” He took off his hat, revealing a head thinly covered with dark brown hair. “After that, we’ll want to talk to you.”

  I let him in while Vaughan stepped aside and talked quietly to the men on the porch. With most of the front window missing, it seemed silly to shut the door firmly behind Wyatt. But I did anyway. Amazing how old habits die hard.

  Once I’d turned on the living-room lights, Wyatt stepped toward the window. He frowned at the glass fangs hanging from the casement. Frigid air poured through the hole. The deputy gave a barely perceptible nod and began to move through the house.

  Arch’s music wafted down from upstairs. Unrhythmic thumps—Jake’s tail hitting the floor—indicated the bloodhound had stayed with him. Now there was a recipe for comfort: rock and roll, plus a canine companion.

  The icy February air made me shiver. I headed to the kitchen, where I could close the hall door against the chill. There, I could also turn on the oven. My oven was to me what Arch’s music was to him.

  But heating the oven wasn’t enough. My mind continued to cough up questions, and I moved nervously from one window to the next. Who shot at us? Why would someone do such a thing? Outside, flashes of the police car lights blinked across the snow-sculpted yard. Should I call Tom now, or should I wait? Would they assign this case to him?

  In the basement, I could hear Wyatt’s scraping shuffle as he moved from Tom’s office into the storage room, bathroom, laundry room, closets….The hole in the window meant I could just hear Vaughan’s low murmur on the front porch, interspersed with responses from one or the other of the neighbors. How much longer would they leave me here? Could the shooter be inside? Impossible. But might he not still be somewhere outside? Unlikely, I reasoned.

  I hugged myself as cold air streamed under the door between the kitchen and the hall. How was I supposed to work in my kitchen today if it was so doggone cold? And anyway, a hot oven wasn’t going to make me feel any better unless I actually put something into it. Something hot and flaky, something you could slather with jam and butter, or even whipped cream….

  Again the gunshot echoed in my ears. I couldn’t stop trembling. Where were the cops? Why was it so cold in here?

  I needed comfort. I was going to make scones.

  I felt better immediately.

  I heated water to plump the currants, powered up my kitchen computer, and rummaged in our walk-in refrigerator for unsalted butter. I’d done a great deal of research on English food for the catering stint I was starting, and what I’d learned had been fascinating. Scones had first been mentioned as a Scottish food in the sixteenth century. Since that meant the Tudors might have indulged in the darling little pastries, my new client was desperate for a good recipe.

  Intriguing as the notion of the perfect scone might be, the ability to concentrate eluded me. Fretting about how long it might take to get our window repaired, I smeared a stick of butter on the marble counter. When the gunshot blast reechoed in my brain, I forgot the stopper for the food processor. A blizzard of flour whirled up to the ceiling, then settled on my face. When I coughed and jumped back, my elbow smacked a carton; a river of heavy whipping cream glug-glug-glugged onto my computer keyboard. I was cursing mightily when Wyatt and Vaughan finally pounded into the kitchen. Surveying the mess, their eyes widened.

  “I’m cooking,” I told them, my voice fierce.

  “So I see,” said Wyatt. He cleared his throat. “Umm … Why don’t you have a seat for a minute?”

  I shut down the computer and unplugged it, turned the keyboard over to drain, turned off the food processor, and wiped the flour from my face. Without missing a beat, Wyatt launched into his report. Thankfully, he’d found nothing amiss—no sign of forced entry, no strangers lurking in closets or under beds. Investigators and techs, he assured me, would be along in no time to process the scene.

  Castle Scones

  ¼ cup currants

  2 cups all-purpose flour

  2 tablespoons sugar

  1 tablespoon baking powder

  ½ teaspoon salt

  4 tablespoons well-chilled unsalted butter, cut into 4 pieces

  1 large egg

  ¼ cup whipping cream ¼
cup milk

  2 teaspoons sugar (optional)

  butter, whipped cream, jams, curds, and marmalades

  Place the currants in a medium-sized bowl and pour boiling water over them just to cover. Allow to stand for 10 minutes. Drain the currants, pat them dry with paper towels, and set aside.

  Preheat the oven to 400°F.

  Mix the flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in the bowl of a food processor fitted with a steel blade. With the motor running, add the butter and process until the mixture looks like cornmeal. In a separate bowl, beat the egg slightly with the cream and milk. With the motor still running, pour the egg mixture in a thin stream into the flour mixture just until the dough holds together in a ball. Fold in the currants.

  On a floured surface, lightly pat the dough into 2 circles, each about 7 inches in diameter. Cut each circle into 6 even pieces. Place the scones on a buttered baking sheet 2 inches apart. Sprinkle them with the optional sugar, if desired.

  Bake about 15 minutes, or until the scones are puffed, golden, and cooked through. Serve with butter, whipped cream, and jams.

  Makes 12 scones

  I offered them hot drinks. Both declined as they settled at our oak kitchen table. I fixed myself an espresso, picked up the dripping cream carton, and poured the last of the white stuff into my coffee. Fortitude, I reminded myself. The kitchen air was like the inside of a refrigerator. I should have put on two sweatshirts.

  “I remember you,” Wyatt said, a mischievous smile playing over his lips. “And not just because you’re married to Tom Schulz. You’re the one who’s gotten kinda involved in some investigations, right?”

  I sighed and nodded.

  Vaughan chuckled. “Seems to me we’ve ribbed Schulz about that a time or two. We asked him, why don’t you just give her a job?”

  Didn’t these guys care about our shattered window? Why weren’t they digging bullets out of my living-room wall? Or searching for footprints in the snow? “Thanks, guys,” I replied. “I’ve got a job. A business. Which this incident is not going to help. And I also have a son who needs to be protected,” I reminded them grimly.

  Getting serious, the deputies fired questions at me. What had I heard? When? Why was I so sure it was a gunshot? Had I actually seen anything out the window? Had Arch?

  Warmed by the coffee, I gave short answers while Wyatt took notes. But I faltered when he asked if any member of our family had received threats lately.

  “There was something involving the department about a month ago,” Wyatt prompted me, when I didn’t immediately answer. “You’re the caterer who turned in the Lauderdales. New Year’s Eve? Child abuse, right?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I turned in Buddy’s-your-buddy, the Jag’s-in-the-bag Lauderdale. He shook his baby daughter until the poor child passed out.”

  Wyatt looked up from his notebook and scowled. “You were doing a party there, isn’t that what I heard?” he asked. “Big party, even though the guy’s facing bankruptcy or something?”

  Or something. Buddy Lauderdale’s rumored financial difficulties had been widely reported, along with his arrest. According to the whispers, dutifully conveyed in the newspapers, the new, expanded Lauderdale Luxury Imports, situated near the fancy new Furman East Shopping Center, was about to go belly-up.

  Buddy Lauderdale, fiftyish, swarthy, and boasting a full head of newly plugged hair, had scoffed at the rumors. With his ultrachic, fifteen-years-his-junior second wife Chardé, Buddy had thrown an extravagant New Year’s party to show the world just how rich and confident he was. And I’d been booked to do the catering, thanks to the recommendation of Howie Lauderdale, a star sophomore on the Elk Park Prep fencing team. Sixteen-year-old Howie, who’d befriended Arch, was the product of Buddy’s first marriage. Naïvely, I’d thought the father would be as nice as the son.

  All had gone well on New Year’s Eve, I recounted at the cops’ prompting, until about eleven-thirty, when Buddy and Howie had put on a fencing demonstration for their guests. Unfortunately, Patty Lauderdale, the cute-as-a-button one-year-old daughter of Buddy and Chardé, had started to wail just as the demonstration began. Buddy had ordered me to take the baby away, which I had. In the kitchen, I’d rocked, cooed, and sung to the screaming Patty, all to no avail. The child should have been in bed, of course, but the parents had wanted to show her off to their guests. Impatient with the racket, Buddy had stormed into the kitchen. In the presence of no other adult but me, he’d grabbed little Patty from my arms. Over my protests, he’d shaken that poor child until she choked, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she lost consciousness.

  So yes, I’d called the cops. Patty had been removed from the family home for a week. After an investigation, the Lauderdales, who had no priors, had been cleared of child abuse. Little Patty, reportedly still undergoing neurological tests, had been returned to her parents. But I’ve learned to suspect the corrupting power of money, influence, and lawyers. Through friends, I’d heard that the Lauderdales had sworn they were going to get Goldy. They insisted that good old Buddy had just been trying to be a good parent. And they also claimed that their name and their business had been irreparably harmed by my call to law enforcement. A hysterically toned Mountain Journal article, discussing the incident and my own history of spouse abuse, had not helped the situation. Beside the article had been two pictures. The first was of Buddy Lauderdale from his Jag’s-in-the-bag TV commercials, where he wore a hunting outfit, toted a rifle, and had a large bag slung over his shoulder. The second was of him being led away from his home in handcuffs.

  “Heard from the Lauderdales lately?” Wyatt asked now.

  I shook my head, but my heart sank. Unfortunately, Chardé Lauderdale was designing and implementing the makeover for the interior of Hyde Castle, where I would be catering later in the week. Chardé had also overseen the redecoration of Hyde Chapel, where I would be working later today. Make that, where I was hoping to work later today, if I could find a place to cook that had heat, ovens, and windows without bullet holes.

  “Do you know of any recent threats made against Tom?” asked Vaughan.

  I sighed and said no. If anyone had threatened him, I reminded them, there ought to be a record of it at the department. The hijacking-homicide case that had taken Tom out of state involved a heist from a Furman County store named The Stamp Fox. One of the envelopes in the hijacked delivery truck—the main target of the thieves—had contained collectible stamps worth over three million dollars. The Stamp Fox had been shipping the stamps in a plain FedEx envelope to a philatelic show in Tucson. So much for transmitting valuables incognito. When the FedEx driver resisted, he’d been shot dead.

  “Tom’s supposed to come back today,” I told Wyatt and Vaughan. “He’s been looking for a local fellow who’s been connected to the delivery-truck hijacking. Name’s Andy Balachek.”

  “Isn’t Balachek the kid with a gambling problem?” demanded Wyatt. “Stole his dad’s excavation truck and then sold it? Got involved with Ray Wolff?”

  I nodded. This, too, had been in the papers. Andy Balachek’s friendship with Ray Wolff, the infamous hijacker now behind bars in the Furman County Jail, had proved costly to the naïve twenty-year-old. As one of Wolff’s known associates, Andy had been questioned. The night of the hijacking, Andy’s father had had a heart attack. Then Tom had arrested Ray Wolff, who’d left a fingerprint on the steering wheel of the hijacked FedEx truck, at a storage area on the county line. Wolff, vowing revenge, had spat in Tom’s face before being led away in handcuffs.

  I knew, but I was not sure that Wyatt and Vaughan knew, that Andy Balachek had confirmed the department’s suspicions of his partnership with Ray Wolff. A few days after the theft, Andy had contacted Tom, requesting Tom communicate with him via e-mail. Andy was interested in a plea deal. The county D.A. had told Tom to string Andy along. Fearing his father was not long for this world, and needing to clear his conscience, Andy had been the one who’d tipped Tom off to Wolff’s visit to the storage
area. Then Andy had e-mailed Tom saying that he’d gotten a stake and was heading for Atlantic City. And off Tom had gone—to find him.

  “Any other problematic cases Tom might have mentioned?” Deputy Vaughan persisted. “Somebody else have an ax to grind with him?”

  I frowned and thought back to the e-mail account Tom had been forced to set up on his computer at home, because Andy Balachek had insisted he wouldn’t send any correspondence directly to the sheriff’s department. It had been out of character for Tom to take so much time to work at home. But he had, until he’d packed up for New Jersey. No, I didn’t know whether Tom was working on other problematic cases. What I did know was that he’d been working too hard.

  “Did he mention threats from Balachek?” asked Vaughan.

  “When Balachek e-mailed Tom that he was leaving the state, Tom immediately got approval from Captain Lambert to go looking for him.”

  Vaughan raised his eyebrows, as in, That’s it?

  “And you, Mrs. Schulz?” asked Wyatt. “Aside from the Lauderdales. Anyone else you know might want to take a shot at you? Or your son, for that matter?”

  Wyatt scribbled as I told him that Arch’s father, my ex-husband, was being considered for parole, actually an early release, because of his so-called “good behavior.” I added that serving less than five months of a three-year sentence didn’t seem like much of a punishment for beating the daylights out of a woman. No, I told them, John Richard wasn’t in jail for assaulting me. Or his other ex-wife, my best friend, Marla Korman. Not this time. I added that the idea of the Jerk being a model prisoner was an oxymoron on the order of fat-free butter. I told both deputies that John Richard could be out of jail anytime. But I was supposed to receive a notice from the Department of Corrections before that happened.