Sticks & Scones Page 21

  I put these worries out of my head when the steaming scones emerged from the oven. We cooed and chattered and spread layers of whipped cream and jams on each split half. Yum, my brain cried, when I bit into flaky, moist layers slathered with cream and melting sherry jelly. I noticed Tom was still not eating much. Nevertheless, his spirits seemed to have perked up in the presence of family and food. I glanced at the clock: quarter to four. If we were going to have our heart-to-heart, the time was approaching.

  “Goldy?” asked Julian. “I forgot to tell you your supplier finally arrived. She brought another lamb roast, plus all the extra foodstuffs for tomorrow and Friday. When we finish here, do you want me to keep working on the labyrinth lunch? I finished the soup. Eliot said before he left that he wanted us to check that the tables would arrive early tomorrow morning.”

  “Let’s wait on that,” I replied. “And thanks for helping Alicia, and for getting started here. I want to work on tonight’s dinner, but not quite yet.” Even though the bedroom would have been a better setting for my tête-à-tête with Tom, the time was ripe. I gave Julian a meaningful glance.

  “Okay!” Julian exclaimed. “I guess I’ll go set the six of us up in the Great Hall.” In a wink, he was gone.

  “Tom,” I plunged in, “we need to talk. Something’s been bothering me….” I faltered.

  He furrowed his brow, but his face was blank. “Go on.”

  “Right after you were shot, you said something strange to me. You said, ‘I don’t love her.’”

  His shoulders slumped and he looked away. “Oh, God. So it’s true. I didn’t imagine it.”

  “Didn’t imagine what? That Sara Beth O’Malley is alive?”

  Tom’s eyes, when he turned back to me, were the lucid green of sunlit seawater. “Goldy, I love you. I’m married to you. When I woke up in that hospital, I didn’t know whether I’d dreamed that she’d come back or not. They warned me that the pain medication might be hallucinogenic, so I put it down to that. Then I woke up here, and I thought I saw somebody run out of our room.”

  No wonder he’d been looking so full of pain. My heart ached. “A man or a woman was running out of our room? Didn’t you have your door armed?”

  “The door was armed.” There was more than a hint of irritation in his voice. “It didn’t look like a man or a woman. It looked like a kid in a suit of armor, like that ghost story last night. It looked like a hallucination, except the armor clanked pretty loudly.”

  “But Sara Beth O’Malley isn’t a hallucination, right?”

  He shook his head. “No, I think she’s alive. All these years of silence, then she starts sending me e-mails. I was trying to figure out what was going on when I was shot.”

  He looked so forlorn that I took his big hands into mine. “Since it’s full-disclosure time,” I said hesitantly, “I want to tell you that I downloaded her e-mails, plus the one you received from the State Department. I also downloaded Andy’s e-mails, because I thought it might help figure out who shot the two of you. I put all the e-mails on a disk before our computers were stolen.”

  He lifted a sandy eyebrow. “Let me get this straight. You not only read my personal, private e-mails from Andy Balachek, you also read my personal, private electronic correspondence from and about Sara Beth?”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that when you told me that you didn’t love some woman, I was sure she was the one who’d shot at our house and shot you. I was trying to figure out who it was, too.”

  “But I’d already told you I didn’t love her.”

  “So, you haven’t actually seen her yet?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I have to tell you, I have.”

  “What?” Tom’s face furrowed. “Are you sure? You saw her? Talked to her?”

  “Both. But not for more than a minute. The day after you were shot, she staked out our house. I looked at an old photograph of her from your album. She looked like the same woman, only older.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I tried to control my trembling voice. “I’m wondering if she shot out our window, and then she shot you, because she’s the jealous type.” I forced myself to stop talking.

  “My, my.”

  I paused, then went on: “Look, Tom, I’m terribly sorry about prying into the Sara Beth thing. Can you just please tell me what’s going on?”

  He lifted his left shoulder. “She didn’t die. Or else, I figured, someone was doing a great hoax job. But if you saw her and talked to her, I don’t know. I do think I should try to meet her. She said in her e-mail she has a dentist’s appointment Friday morning….”

  I swallowed. Did I trust him meeting with that lovely, enigmatic woman? What were my choices? I could hear the reluctance in my voice when I said, “I won’t do anything else about her if you don’t want me to. But here’s one more thing I’ve been wondering about …although it’s a bit far-fetched.”

  “Don’t worry, Miss G.” His voice was grim. “I’m used to far-fetched these days.”

  “The owner of The Stamp Fox insists any stolen philatelic material can be easily fenced in the Far East. Do you think there’s a possibility Sara Beth could be part of the stamp robbery?”

  He considered the crumbs on our plates, then shook his head. “It’s not like her. Or at least, not the way she used to be. Obviously, I didn’t know her as well as I thought I did.”

  “As long as this is truth time, you should know I’ve been doing some poking around on a related matter.” Tom groaned and I continued hastily, “I’m not sure it’s safe for us to stay here. Sukie was treated by John Richard for cancer, and didn’t tell me—”

  “That makes her dangerous?”

  “The Lauderdales hate me, and Chardé is the castle decorator. She can get into the castle anytime she wants.”

  “Now there’s an indication of guilt.”

  “And Eliot Hyde had an affair with Viv Martini, who is John Richard’s new girlfriend and was Ray Wolff’s—”

  “You have been busy. Listen, I want to go home, too. And we will, soon. Meanwhile, I think it’s fine for us to be here. Eliot Hyde is so afraid of looking bad in the public eye he wouldn’t dare try anything, and Sukie knows where her bread gets buttered.”

  “I’m not so sure—”

  “You’ll have to trust my judgment. Of course, you haven’t been doing too well in the trust department lately.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it. Still, my brain buzzed with unanswered questions. The minutes ticked by. I had lied to Tom by not immediately ’fessing up to my e-mail snooping; he had lied to me by covering up the whole resurrection-of-Sara-Beth problem. We sat in silence, not sure how to react to one another. The room shadows lengthened. Finally Tom said he was going to rest a while, and would meet us in the Great Hall at seven.

  I preheated the oven and washed the tea dishes. Then I rubbed the thawed lamb roast with garlic, put it into the oven, and started the potatoes boiling. When I was washing the green beans, Boyd called.

  “There was no sign of Troy McIntire when we got to his house,” he began matter-of-factly. “Neighbors say, about half an hour after you left? Old Troy came out of his house lugging several big suitcases. We’re hoping for a search warrant, but I’m sure that even if we get one, we wouldn’t find anything incriminating. As for your ex-husband, he’s not at home. I should know more about your computers tonight.”

  “Thanks for trying,” I told him, then returned to my culinary duties. After the exchange with Tom, my mood had dropped. With no good news from Boyd, it plunged to a new low. To distract myself from the worries that seemed to beset us on every side, I decided to make the plum tarts for Friday’s banquet dessert.

  The thought of laboriously wrapping the zirconia stones in foil with no accompaniment besides my own thoughts—the Hydes either didn’t have a stereo or I just couldn’t find it—was abhorrent. In one of our hastily packed boxes, I remembered seeing Arch’s Walkman, so I poked around until I found it.

>   I inserted the labyrinth-background tape from Eliot’s desk, washed my hands, and assembled the ingredients for the tart crusts. Eliot had wanted me to bone up on labyrinths so that I could field questions during the next day’s lunch. What he didn’t realize was that except for the dieters, no one ever asks the caterer much. The dieters have two questions: “What’s in this?” and “Is it low-fat?” They can be tiresome clients.

  The labyrinth was a very ancient form, the tape began. It differed from a maze, a laid-out puzzle where you had choices as to which way to go. A labyrinth led only one way, but unless you paid attention to every twist and turn, you wouldn’t make it to the center. The oldest surviving labyrinth formed a stepping-stone path laid into the floor of the nave of Chartres Cathedral. The distance to its center from the front door was used as a mystical measurement, and mirrored the distance from the door to the center of the rose window. At the center you will find God, the tape informed me. Pilgrims now walked the labyrinth only once a year, but in medieval times it might have been walked often. These days, chairs covered the Chartres labyrinth.

  As I sliced the dark plums into juicy slices, the taped voice launched into a discussion of labyrinth symbolism, which, in fact, was similar to that of the maze. Theseus had wound into the maze of the Minotaur, slain him in its center, then found his way back out to safety with the help of thread, thoughtfully provided by Ariadne. Christians walking to the center of the labyrinth could only get lost if they weren’t paying attention. By treading the path of the labyrinth, Christians took a spiritual journey to the death of Christ, and his temporary descent to hell. By symbolically descending and then ascending again, a pilgrim retraced the messianic journey, found God, and, hopefully, figured out all his or her life problems along the way. The idea of a walking meditation was appealing, but I wondered what happened if you got stuck in the center. Who helped you out of a temporary descent to hell, if you failed to find God? The tape, as it whirred to its close, provided no answer.

  Damson-in-Distress Plum Tart

  14 tablespoons (1¾ sticks) unsalted butter

  2¼ cups all-purpose flour, plus an additional 3 tablespoons for the filling

  3½ tablespoons sour cream, plus an additonal ½ cup for the filling

  ¾ teaspoon salt

  9 Damson or other plums (If using small Italian plums, you may need as many as 24)

  2 eggs

  1½ cups sugar

  Preheat the oven to 325°F. Butter the bottom and sides of a 9 × 13-inch glass pan.

  For the crust, first fit a food processor with the steel blade. Cut the butter into chunks. Place it into the bowl of the food processor along with the 2¼ cups flour, 3½ tablespoons sour cream, and salt. Process until the dough pulls into a ball. Gently pat the dough into an even layer on the bottom of the prepared pan.

  For the filling, pit and slice the plums into quarters. Cover the prepared crust with rows of sliced plums to completely cover the crust. Beat the eggs with the sugar, 3 tablespoons flour, and ½ cup sour cream until well blended. Pour this beaten mixture carefully over the rows of plums.

  Bake the tart for 45 to 60 minutes, or until the top is golden brown and the custard is set in the middle. (I use a spoon to check the middle of the tart. The custard should be congealed, not soupy.)

  Allow the tart to cool completely on a_ rack. Cut into rectangles and serve with best-quality vanilla ice cream. Refrigerate any unserved portion.

  Makes 16 servings

  I put the Walkman away and proceeded to wrap the zirconia in bits of foil and place them on top of the plum slices. I wanted them to be in full view because, unlike Eliot, I thought tucking stone-hard trinkets into food was a very bad idea. The Elizabethans had eaten far too much sugar and crunched on far too many baubles, and all before the advent of false teeth.

  I mixed a rich, creamy custard and sloshed it over the plum slices. As I was slipping the tarts into the oven, Arch blasted into the kitchen. He was wearing his fencing outfit, and looked very dashing.

  “Dad’s wasn’t very much fun,” he blurted out. “His lawyer sold some of his old furniture and he needs to buy more. He had to go to Vail today for his new job.” No, I wanted to say, he went to check on his three-million-dollar town house. “He’s coming Friday night. To the banquet. With Viv.”

  “Not if I can help it, he isn’t.”

  My sometimes-sage son Arch changed the subject. “Is our window at home fixed yet? Is Tom awake? Is Julian around?”

  “The window’s not fixed. I don’t know if Tom’s awake. Julian’s setting up for dinner in the Great Hall.”

  “Michaela says she and I are doing a fencing demonstration after dinner. She told me to keep my uniform on, and not to get any food on it.” He gave me a soulful look from behind his tortoiseshell glasses. “It’s good to get back here. I had to sleep on the floor at Dad’s. I’m … sorry I was so upset the first day.”

  “You already apologized, honey.”

  “I know, but I wrote a note to the Hydes, too. I slid it under their door. I … like it here. It’s not as good as our regular home, but it’s okay.”

  “It’s good to have you back,” I said, and hugged him. Fourteen-year-old boys do not like motherly embraces. But if you don’t mind putting your arms around a kid-dying-to-get-away-from-you, you can let him know you care.

  “I’m starving,” he announced, peeking into the oven. “And I’ve got a ton of astronomy homework. How long to dinner?”

  I told him it would be a few hours and he should wash up for a snack. While he soaped his hands, I fixed him scones, cheddar slices, and a soft drink. When he finished, I told him, he could help Julian set up in the Great Hall, then ask for homework help.

  “Michaela’s idea is so cool,” Arch enthused, his mouth crammed with scone. “We’re going to show everybody how to fence, then we’re going to reconstruct a duel where some guy insulted another guy. The insulting guy got stabbed and bled to death.”

  I shuddered, remembering the Lauderdales and their threats. “I think anyone who resorts to weapons to resolve conflicts has already lost.”

  “Yeah, well, I think that’s why we always yelled that saying on the playground. Y’know, ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me.’ Michaela says that when duels started, they used swords. Then they switched to pistols. You got in a duel with both guys packing guns, somebody was going to get whacked.” He sounded ecstatic.

  I remembered Buddy Lauderdale’s face as he was led away in handcuffs on New Year’s Eve. By the time I commented, “Now there’s a happy thought,” Arch had already whisked away.

  CHAPTER 20

  At quarter past six, Arch returned to the kitchen to pick up the hot-water baths for the chafers. He reported that he’d done all of his schoolwork, except for astronomy. For that, he had to wait until the stars rose. Might be up late, he added with mock ruefulness, but I let it go.

  Julian, meanwhile, fretted that the night’s menu had no gourmet vegetarian dishes. So he scurried about to prepare two of his bistro specialties: a colorful lentil-tomato-scallion salad, and a bowl of baby spinach leaves tossed with a balsamic vinaigrette and topped with slices of goat cheese and tiny dollops of a red onion marmalade he grabbed from the dining-room jam cabinet.

  “I might want to get this recipe from Eliot,” I commented, when I tasted the spicy relish. Julian nodded.

  Arch, careful to protect his white fencing outfit, put together a heaping basket of warm rolls and butter. As we were loading the lamb roast and fixings onto trays, Eliot appeared.

  He was wearing a double-breasted black suit that gave him a vaguely military air—probably a captain-of-the-castle look he was going after. With great ceremony, he announced that the seminar had been a success. While we picked up the gravy boat, extra candles, and matches, Eliot shuffled and banged in the dining room. Eventually he emerged with an elaborate corkscrew and two bottles of red wine. The only thing he and Sukie had disagreed on, he went on, was t
he number of people the castle could feed on a daily basis.

  “This castle held a hundred people in the Middle Ages,” he told us, as he eyed his marmalade on top of Julian’s salad, “with complete self-sufficiency. And besides, we’ve done fine with you four,” he added over his shoulder. He sashayed ahead of us through the heavy wooden hallway doors that led to the stairs.

  “And we’re thankful,” I gushed. I didn’t point out that Eliot had done no cooking, cleaning, or conference-running, not to mention battle-preparation, during our stay. Not only that, but medieval kitchen staffs usually numbered over fifty. I didn’t point this out, either. If a caterer wants to keep her job, she does not correct the client.

  I had never been in the Great Hall at night. Chandeliers and candles illuminated the cavernous space. The walls, paneled with dark, elaborately carved wooden squares, were hung with rich tapestries depicting battle scenes. Rows of arched leaded-glass windows bisected the walls. On the second story at the far end of the hall, a large balcony I had not noticed before projected out over the room. That area, Eliot said as I directed the food into the chafers, had been the minstrels’ gallery. Below the gallery, the wood-paneled wall also jutted into the hall—another medieval toilet, Sukie told me, pragmatic as ever. The corner also held an arched doorway that led to the postern gate. Eliot went on to inform us that in the Middle Ages, only the courtiers dined in this hall. The servants had been relegated to their own dining hall on the castle’s south range.