Sticks & Scones gbcm-10 Read online

  “If there’s nothing further - ” I began.

  “So do we understand each other?” the Jerk said to me. I think he wanted to shake his finger in my face again, but Viv had him entwined. Instead, I walked quietly toward him and pointed a finger less than an inch from his aristocratic nose.

  “Split. Now. You understand? I heard you. Remember General Farquhar, who could kill people without making any noise? I make a ton of noise. Now, buzz off before the nice neighbors have to hear it.”

  “Now, now, Goldy,” Viv said, her voice conciliatory. “Let’s not make threats we can’t back up.” She gave me a knowing look. “I make a ton of noise, too, don’t I, baby? Let’s go.”

  John Richard pressed his lips together and swallowed. Come to think of it, he did look kind of tired, especially in his noir outfit. Buddy and Eliot stood aghast: Were we actually hooked up with this woman? How’d we survive? Chardé seized the opportunity of this dramatic tableau to stride toward me: Lemon in Motion.

  “We’re coming to the fencing banquet, too,” she declared, her pert nose in the air. I prayed that the yellow beret would plop to the floor, but it didn’t slip. “We eat no undercooked meat, no raw eggs, and no sugar in any form. And by the way, our son Howie is lactose-intolerant. You probably don’t remember any of this from when you catered for us. You were too busy being nosy, isn’t that right?”

  “I - “

  “Howie likes lime sorbet. No dairy. Got it?” Chardé said.

  “Okay!” Julian bellowed, extending his arms. “That’s it! Everybody out! Out! You, you, you, and you!” he snarled, pointing to the Jerk, Viv, Buddy, and Chardé. “We cannot work for our clients with you here. Leave.”

  “We are your clients,” chimed in Buddy Lauderdale, with that nasal arrogance I knew only too well.

  “Then please come back at lunchtime,” Julian said firmly. No question, the kid had it all ver yours truly in the assertiveness department.

  Eliot made soft cooing noises that were meant to reassure his good chums, the Lauderdales. The Jerk and Viv banged out through the chapel door. When Eliot and the Lauderdales also departed, I slumped down in one of the wooden chairs. Julian made sure the doors were firmly shut and locked. He called to us that there was also an inside bolt, and he was throwing it until lunchtime.

  “I’m not sure I can make it through this day,” I moaned when he returned.

  “Sure you can. There’ll be new deep-pocket folks here who’ll love your food. They will line up to book you for their next catered event.”

  He made me laugh. I was about to tell him how proud I was of him when thunderous pounding interrupted us yet again. This time, I unbolted the door and opened it myself. It was the baker’s assistant, come to set up the labyrinth cake. It looked scrumptious, a huge fudge-frosted round cake with white-iced loops reflecting the intricate pattern on the chapel floor.

  “Ibrought you something,” Julian said, when I had firmly locked up behind the baker’s assistant. He was holding an upscale shopping bag. “Chocolate Emergency cookies, remember? I figure we’re in one now.” He drew out a wrapped packet and a small hot-drink container. “I even brought you an espresso.”

  “You’re a lifesaver, Julian.” I bit into the cookie. Dark fudgy flavor exploded in my mouth and a burst of chocolate euphoria sparked up my spine. The cookies were chewy without being too sweet, with the smooth, buttery vanilla icing a perfect complement to the rich chocolate. A heartswig of the espresso sent all worries about the Lauderdales, the Jerk, and Viv down Cottonwood Creek.

  For the nonce, anyway.

  Two hours later I was letting the mood fit the food by being upbeat while serving trays of mail-order English cheese puffs, onion toasts, and caviar with toast points. The big donors, a handful of vestry members, and a few Episcopal Church Women, along with our parish priest, were all chugging champagne while gushing that Eliot had been so generous to donate the chapel to Saint Luke’s. The Lauderdales had snubbed me, of course, and recommended that others do so as well, Marla reported. Meanwhile, Marla announced that she didn’t understand why she’d given so much money to the labyrinth, when walking it was going to be so confusing after all this champagne.

  While Julian served the soup, I hustled up to the castle and put in the Shakespeare’s Steak Pies. The Lauderdales were bad-mouthing me? Those creeps! “Anger’s my meat,” I whispered, congratulating myself on remembering something from Coriolanus. What was the rest of it? Oh, yes. Anger’s my meat: I sup upon myself / And so shall starve with feeding. So there! One more word from the Lauderdales and they’d be supping on raw hamburger with manchet bread. New play from the Bard: MacDEATH.

  After we set out the pies, salad, and bread, the guests happily moved through the buffet line. Julian bustled about, teased by his Aunt Marla and admired by the women. As far from the buffet tables as possible, the Lauderdales had seated themselves with Sukie, Eliot, and another couple from the church. Buddy and Chardé were working hard to appear deep in intellectual conversation. I, of course, was not fooled.

  At length, Eliot dimmed the chandeliers and began his talk. He clicked on a slide of the Chartres labyrinth, and offered the same historical and architectural background I’d heard on the audiotape. While he was showing Before and After slides of the chapel restoration, Marla sneaked up to my side.

  “No more on the Jerk’s real estate deal, sorry to report,” she whispered, with one eye on the cake table.

  “The lunch was scrumptious. The only historic food I have is in my refrigerator!”

  “Thanks. And thanks for checking on the town-house deal. I still think John Richard’s up to something.”

  “He’s always up to something.” Then she hustled off toward the untouched cake that the guests were going to have after the slide show.

  “Please, sir,” Marla whispered to Julian, “may I have some more? Or just a nibble, anyway?” Before I could protest, Julian had carved an enormous piece of cake, heaped it on a plate, and handed it to her.

  “Call it reverse nepotism, Goldy,” she stage-whispered, fingering up a dollop of icing. Heads turned and I sighed.

  Eliot had moved on to Before and After shots of the renovation of his castle. He ended with effusive thanks to the donors, and an invitation to have cake and to book their conferences into the castle next year. Then he invited them to quiet their souls and walk the labyrinth to arrive at their spiritual truth.

  If the clapping from twenty-six people wasn’t thunderous, it was at least enthusiastic. Julian and I served cake and coffee, which I hoped would tame any aftereffects of champagne. When they finished their dessert, the guests began to process single-file through the labyrinth.

  An eerie silence fell over the chapel as the silent parade went back and forth over the stones, all the way to the end. The few people who spoke as they were leaving did so in hushed tones. By two o’clock, the crowd had dispersed. Wow, I thought. Next time I felt uptight, I would give the labyrinth a try.

  The churchwomen gathered up their plates, silver, and glasses, to trek them back to the Saint Luke’s kitchen for washing. Eliot and Julian broke down the Hydes’ serving tables and chairs, and hauled them back to the storage area. Then Julian and I folded up the rented dining tables and left them in the gravel parking lot under a tarpaulin. Party Rental would return before four to pick them up. Sukie and Eliot conveyed their video equipment back to the castle. I emphatically told Julian that he was going to take the rest of the afternoon off. He’d earned it, I insisted.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, scanning the chapel interior, which still contained remnants of the party. “And what are you going to do if the Lauderdales show up again?”

  “I’ll throw the bolt while I’m finishing up,” I said diffidently. “And I’ll park the van right next to the door.”

  “Tell you what, boss, I’ll take the ice tubs, the chafers, and the last of the serving dishes. If you want, you can bring the platters and trash.”

  “I’ll be okay.�
�� I strode to the door and pointed to the dead bolt. “Chardé and Buddy, even Viv, might all have keys. My mistake was in trusting Eliot’s memory that we were the only ones who had one.”

  “That guy’s nice,” Julian commented, “but he’s a birdbrain, for sure.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Julian still looked unconvinced. “All right, listen. I’ll take my load up while you finish here. You’re not back at the castle in an hour and a half, I’m coming back.”

  I agreed. It would not take me more than twenty minutes to load the platters, then pack the trash and toss it into the castle Dumpster, located on the far side of the moat by a service road. Each time Julian overestimated how long I needed to do a chore, I accused him of treating me as if I were old and decrepit. He never denied it, drat him.

  I bolted the door and reflected on what I had not told Julian: that I wanted to have a good look at the chapel myself, as it was awfully close to the crime scene created by Andy’s body and Tom’s being shot. First I applied myself to finishing the cleanup, which took seventeen minutes. I scrutinized the interior space to make sure we had not forgotten anything. The chapel looked spanking clean. Even with Marla’s premature dive into the cake, the luncheon had been a success, and I was thankful.

  At that moment I felt as if the shiny stones of the labyrinth were beckoning to me. Pink light from the rose window skipped across the marble, and my skin prickled. What had Eliot said? You walk the labyrinth to arrive at your spiritual truth. I hadn’t been doing too well in the truth department lately, so why not try it before I snooped around?

  My mind dredged up a bit of Scripture: I still my soul and make it quiet, / like a child upon its mothers breast; / my soul is quieted within me.

  After a few moments, I moved forward, feeling strangely hesitant. As I walked, concentrating on the tortuous path seemed to clear my mind of the questions currently plaguing me - who’d killed Andy and why, who’d shot Tom and why, who’d shot at our window and why, and who’d killed Mo Hartfield after he’d inexplicably stolen our computers. As I put one foot in front of the other, I felt a calming presence. I was moving forward - either into or away from my life, I couldn’t tell which.

  Finally I arrived at the labyrinth’s center. I could have sworn I heard my heart beating. Gazing back at the swirls and turns of the flat marble stones, I felt serenity - for the first time in a week. Outside, the sun emerged from behind a cloud and splattered pink light over the path. Eliot’s audiotape as well as his lecture had detailed the mystical significance of distances at Chartres. From the center of the labyrinth to the base of the portal was the same distance as from the base of the portal to the center of the rose window. I looked up at the rosy pattern of stained glass.

  Now there was a surprise. Instead of Sukie-inspired cleanliness on the multicolored sections of glass, the center of the rose window looked as if someone had left a blotch of dirt… .

  At the center you will find God, the tape had said. Maybe what was up there wasn’t dirt. Maybe someone: who knew the symbolism of the labyrinth had put something else there, something important. Or maybe my paranoia was kicking in again.

  I checked my watch. I had thirty minutes before Julian would start to worry. Undoubtedly breaking all rules of labyrinth-walking, I sprinted across the tiles to the storage room and hauled out the ladder. It was one of those extension affairs that creak horribly and feel rickety as the devil. Nevertheless, after five minutes of struggling, I wrestled the thing open and laid the top just above the center of the rose window. I took a deep breath and started climbing.

  Outside, the wind whipped around the chapel walls. As I ascended, I could hear the cold air whistling through tiny cracks in the glass. Finally I reached the fourth rung from the top. I peered into the center of the rose window, which was actually a pocket of pink glass soldered inside a metal circle. What I saw there didn’t make sense. I was looking at - torn tape, paper, and plastic.

  I reached in and gently tried to remove the paper and tape. It was not easy. The paper had become wedged underneath the soldering, and all my attempts to scoot it out were unsuccessful. At length, I had the bright idea to reach into the adjoining pocket of enclosed yellow glass and coax the paper the other way. Ten minutes of scraping and pushing later, the scrap of paper slipped free.

  I examined it, hoping against hope that it wasn’t just an invoice from Bill’s Stained-Glass Repairs, left as a joke.

  What I held in my hands was not a bill. It was the torn half of an envelope. I reached into the envelope and pulled out a small, plastic case. Inside the clear envelope was a stamp. I gasped and grabbed the rung to keep from toppling off the ladder.

  The color: red-orange. The printing around the sides: One Penny, Post Office, Postage, Mauritius. And in the center, the profile of a woman: Chubby cheeks. Severe hair. Grandmotherly eyes.

  Queen Victoria.

  -23-

  I hastily tucked the paper envelope with the plastic case and its eight-hundred-thousand-dollar stamp deep in my apron pocket. After a few heart-stopping teeters on the ladder, I finally reached the bottom, rattled the ladder down, and scooted it back to the storeroom. Then I pulled out the envelope and dropped it into a clean brown paper bag - Tom had taught me a thing or two, such as, try not to muck up evidence - before serenely transporting it out to the van along with the trash.

  No one was in the Hyde Chapel lot, but I tried to act normal anyway, just in case I was being watched from somewhere, anywhere. I relocked the chapel, deposited the key in the lockbox, and revved my van up the service road, to the edge of the moat, by the castle Dumpster. I heaved in the lunch trash, hopped back into the driver’s seat, and called Sergeant Boyd on my cellular.

  “Part of the loot, eh?” said Boyd, who sounded either amused or skeptical, I couldn’t tell which. “In the middle of a stained-glass window, way up high? Uh-huh.” Skeptical, definitely.

  “Listen, would you?” I gulped down the impatience I in my voice, trying to remember Boyd was just doing his I job. “The Lauderdales and John Richard and Viv Manini all came into the chapel this morning right after you guys pulled off your detail. Maybe this is what they were looking for.”

  “That’s an awkward place to check, without a bunch of witnesses noticing. You know - how do you disguise the fact you’re pulling out a twenty-foot ladder?”

  “Sergeant!”

  “Yeah, yeah, okay. Stay where you are. I’ll send somebody up to get the evidence from you.”

  “I’m not staying on this service road, thanks. I just finished a catering event and I’ve still got to prep for another one tomorrow. Tell your people to meet me at the Aspen Meadow Library in twenty minutes.”

  “Gee, Goldy, our homicide guys will gladly work around your catering timetable. Especially since we’re dealing with evidence worth close to a million dollars and connected to three homicides and a cop-shooting.”

  “One more thing,” I said, unfazed. “Did your guys find anything in Hyde Chapel, after you took Andy’s body from the creek?”

  “Nope, it was clean. In fact, that chapel brought a whole new meaning to the word clean.” He sighed. “I thought you were in a hurry to get to the library.”

  I signed off, realized I’d neglected to close the lid on the Dumpster, rushed out and whacked it down, then raced to the library to meet the deputy. A uniformed young man with red hair and a red mustache unceremoniously plucked the bag from my hand and roared away.

  I waved at Julian in the castle driveway. He was coming out as I was headed in. He rolled down his window and yelled that I was over my ninety-minute limit.

  “I’m just an old lady caterer who can’t move as fast as you young folks!” I hollered back.

  “As fast as us young folks?” Julian yelled gleefully. “Check this out!” He clanked the Rover into reverse and backed up the icy driveway. As if that weren’t enough, he then gunned the SUV backward across the causeway, over the moat. I watched from the far side, shaking my he
ad. One error of steering, and Julian would be sleeping with the fishes.

  When I caught up with him at the gatehouse, I said, “That’s not a quick path home, Julian, that’s a quick path to drowning.”

  He grinned and pressed the buttons for entry to the gatehouse. Once inside, I glanced overhead into the space above the murder holes. No one appeared to be in that empty room next to Michaela’s kitchen. But in the remote event that my paranoia was translating into imagining hidden electronic eavesdropping devices, I decided not to tell Julian about the stamp.

  In the kitchen, a note from the Hydes was propped up against the toaster. The luncheon had been fabulous, Sukie wrote, but utterly exhausting. She went on to say that she’d felt so sorry for me, she’d washed all the serving dishes. Now she and Eliot were eating dinner out, and we were to feel free to scrounge whatever we wanted.

  “Ah, speaking of going out to dinner, Goldy?” said Julian. “Arch asked me to take him to McDonald’s, after his fencing practice. I know, I know, even the salads aren’t up to your culinary standard. But I figured, what the heck, give the kid a break from the gourmet stuff for one night.”

  I smiled, paid Julian for his afternoon of work, and gave him some extra money to treat Arch and himself. Then I asked about Tom.

  Julian shrugged. “I don’t know. When I looked in on him, he said he was going to change his own bandage. I have to run to Boulder to get some books before I pick up Arch, so I’m taking off. Why don’t you bring Tom some tea with fixin’s?”

  Julian quickstepped away. I looked at my watch: just after three. Tea, goodies, and puzzling over an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar stamp I’d found in Hyde Chapel … was Tom up to it?