Sticks & Scones (12 page)

What am I doing?

Before this trickle of self-doubt could become a deluge, I stared at the demand for a password, then blithely typed in
chocolate
, the password Tom and I had laughed at when former clients had used it for their security gate. To my astonishment, the hard drive opened instantly. I slipped in my food-research disk and began to copy Tom’s files. I wouldn’t
look
at them—not without his permission. Not yet, anyway, I added to myself. I did, however, read the titles of the subfiles:
Balachek e-correspondence. Criminalistics course. Current cases. History.

“Mrs. Schulz?” Morris Hart cried from above.

Startled, I composed myself and called that I was in the basement and would be up in a few minutes. But Hart schlepped across the kitchen floor, following my voice, then traipsed down the basement stairs. I clicked madly to finish my copying.

When he was two steps from the basement floor, I made my face impatient to hide my guilt. “I’m just going to be a minute or two longer.”

“Sorry to bother you, but I have a high-powered vacuum to get up those glass shards. It has a tendency to blow fuses in older houses. Just wanted to warn you.”

“Okay, okay,” I said, resigned. “Just go ahead and start it.” I worried briefly about our walk-in refrigerator. But with its surge protector and backup power source, it should be okay.

He grunted and tramped back up.
Copy, copy, copy
, the computer repeated as my disk filled up.
I won’t read this material
, I kept telling myself.
I’m just being helpful here.

I couldn’t help it: I glanced back at the names of Tom’s files. What did the file named
History
cover? Tom really wouldn’t mind if I took a quick peek, surely?

I clicked on the file, which contained subfiles with dates. “S.B., January 1.” And “S.B., January 3.” “Follow-up, January 4.” Then, “Conv. W/State Dept., January 5.” The State Department? U.S. or Colorado? And who was S.B.? I opened the file from the first of January, when I’d been dealing with the aftermath of the Lauderdales’ party. The file contained an e-mail with the following text:

My throat was suddenly dry. I should not be doing this, I thought. Curiosity can kill a cat … or a marriage. Still, I had to know. Without reading more, I copied all the rest of the e-mails onto the disk. My mission complete, my heart aching, I quit the program, ejected the disk, and slipped it into my jeans pocket.

I was shutting down the computer when there was an explosion behind me. Or was it
on
me? A cold, dark pain filled my head. I realized that someone had hit me, was hitting me, again and again and again. My skullbones reverberated in agony.

My sight clouded, then went black. I screamed for help and tried to cover my head, turn around, anything. I couldn’t catch my breath. I’d been listening to the roar of the vac upstairs, reading Tom’s personal correspondence—

My attacker hit me again and my chin slammed into Tom’s desk. My knees crumpled and I was sliding,
helplessly, whimpering, trying to cover my head, my body afire with pain.
This isn’t fair.
Was I saying it or thinking it?
Damn, damn
, my inner voice supplied. My knees and then my body banged onto the basement’s cold floor.

John Richard had never said he’d love me always. But Tom had. The day of our wedding.
I’ll love you forever, Miss G. Forever and ever.

As unconsciousness claimed me, I remembered Tom’s handsome face that happy day, and the sound of his warm promise.

I’ll love you forever.

G
etting banged up is bad. Gaining consciousness is worse. From my years with the Jerk, I was acquainted with sledgehammer-wedged-in-the-skull pain. The worst part is that you suspect that if you’d used the brain
inside
your head in the first place, this might not have happened to you. I’d been told that
an independent janitorial service
was going to clean up the glass. Not some guy masquerading as a window fixer.
Damn again
, I thought.
You idiot.

Yeah, yeah, Tom had said something about not blaming yourself when you screwed up. So: Wracked with pain, lying sprawled on our basement floor, drowning in self-recrimination, I tried to talk myself into getting up on my feet again and calling for help. After agonizing minutes of thinking about moving, then searching for the least painful way to stand, I fought off nausea, trembling, and visual black clouds to get to my feet. Once upright, I gingerly touched my head until I found the beginnings of
a lump. Agh! I sighed and looked around. Tom’s desk was clean, as in, nothing on it anymore. No papers. No files.

No computer.

I blinked and swayed dizzily. My watch said ten-thirty. I walked—slowly, taking steadying breaths—up the stairs, into my kitchen. I called and looked all around; no attacker in sight. Did we have any painkillers in the house? My brain offered no answer. In fact, my thinking was extremely fuzzy, even as to the location of the Cognac I used to make Cherries Jubilee. Everything in the kitchen seemed turned around … or different.

Wretchedly, I realized that things seemed unfamiliar because the smashed monitor of my kitchen computer lay on the floor beside the keyboard. The kitchen computer itself was
also
missing.

I started to cry. Then I yelled and cursed. Of course, there was no question that folks on the street might hear me. But I didn’t care what the neighbors thought. My own shouted curses miraculously seemed to clear my brain, at least until I could pour myself a glass of Cognac from the dining-room cabinet. Of course, I’d learned in Med Wives 101 that you didn’t treat a head injury with alcohol, but my brain was screaming for reprieve from the pain. I had just taken a first naughty swallow when the front doorbell bonged, making my head spin. Great, I thought, things couldn’t get much worse.

I peered through the peephole at the smiling faces of Sergeants Boyd and Armstrong. Not exactly in the nick of time, were they?

“Somebody broke in,” I announced bluntly as Boyd, his barrel-shaped body somewhat rounder than the last time I’d seen him, came through the door.

“Here? Just now?” asked Boyd, eyeing me, my trembling hand, and my glass of brandy.

When I replied in the affirmative, Armstrong, whose towering frame and fierce face contraindicated what I
knew to be his gentle demeanor, said, “You look as if you’re in pain.” Since I’d seen him last, he’d lost a few more of the sparse brown hairs he combed so diligently over his bald spot.

I said, “I am. Got knocked over the head. But … come on out to the dining room. I know the two of you won’t have a glass of booze while you’re on duty. Before lunch, no less. But I’m treating a nasty bump.”

Boyd and Armstrong told me to wait. In the front hallway, they insisted on separately assessing my noggin, which involved painful pressing on my head, then unblinking assessment of my eyes. Both decreed I should see a doctor that day.

“I can’t. I have to go back to Tom. He’s resting at Hyde Castle.”

“You need to get attention,” Boyd insisted.

“Look, thanks, but I’m aware of the symptoms of severe head injury,” I replied. “Blurred vision, slurred speech, nausea, loss of memory, fainting, and sleeping too much. If I show any of those signs, I’ll call for help. Scout’s honor.”

Armstrong’s scowl deepened. “Show us where this happened.”

“I was sitting there,” I said after I’d led them to the bottom of the cellar steps. I indicated Tom’s swivel chair. “I was whacked from behind.” I felt inside my jeans pocket and repressed a sigh of relief. The disk was still there. I knew I should mention to Boyd and Armstrong that I’d downloaded Tom’s files. But I couldn’t. Not yet, anyway. I couldn’t even think. In fact, I did feel a bit dizzy. But I’d be damned if I was going to any damn doctor on this damned day. Was
rage
a symptom of brain injury?

“Can we go back upstairs?” I asked them. “I need to sit down. You might want to look in the kitchen, because whoever it was stole
that
computer, too.”

“You pass out on me, I’m gonna get fired,” Boyd announced glumly as we headed up the stairs. In the kitchen, Boyd called for help on his radio while I tossed out the rest of the brandy and made myself an espresso. The computer thief wouldn’t have left prints on my coffee machine, would he?

“To process a crime scene,” Boyd concluded to the dispatcher.

To process a crime scene at the Schulzes’ house, again.

“Can we sit in the dining room?” Armstrong asked me. “We need to get through some questions.”

In the dining room, Boyd opened what looked like the same smudged notebook he’d carried for years. I wondered if he ever bought new ones.

“So what were you doing in the basement?” he began gently. “I mean, what were you doing when you were sitting at Tom’s desk? Working on his computer?”

His black eyes bored into me. I swallowed. “No, not on the computer. I was … looking on Tom’s shelves, for our photo albums. I need a picture of John Richard Korman. You know, my ex. He was released last Friday. The Hydes want a photograph of him, since they need to know what he looks like in case he tries to get into the castle.”

“There were photo albums on the desk down there?” Armstrong looked skeptical.

“I’m not sure …” I lied. But I could
not
tell Boyd and Armstrong that I was seeking the identity of
her.
Moreover, I was not ready to admit I thought
a)
that my husband might be having an affair and
b)
that I was snooping around in his stuff to get the answer to
a).

“I need that picture,” I repeated firmly. “And the photo albums are down there somewhere. I think,” I added. I was trying to sound confused in the aftermath of the attack. I knew full well that our albums were in an upstairs closet.

“If they’re in the basement, we can’t get them now. We’ll taint the crime scene,” Armstrong murmured. “Do you have any ideas who might have hit you?”

I told them about the bowlegged man who’d showed up claiming he was sent to fix the window. I also told them about the woman in the car. Trudy would be eager to talk about the mysterious beauty in the station wagon, I said, and she had her license plate number, too. Armstrong checked to see if either the glass truck or the car was still outside. Neither was.

“Could you
please
tell me about Andy Balachek?” I asked when he returned.

Boyd sighed. “They finished the autopsy last night. Did it extra fast because Tom was shot at the scene. But Goldy,” he added hastily, “we need to run through what happened with the window shooting first. Who you think might have done it and why. It may be connected to this attack on you. Then we’ll talk about Balachek.”

And so, for the third time, I told my story. I played Chardé’s message for them. They asked for the tape and I gave it to them.

“There’s something else,” I added. “I saw Chardé Lauderdale at the hospital while I was waiting to see how Tom was.”

Boyd stopped scribbling and looked up, frowning. “What was she doing?”

“Nothing. Standing at the waiting-room window.”

Boyd and Armstrong exchanged a look. Then Boyd took a deep breath. “Mrs. Lauderdale has already complained to Captain Lambert about being questioned over your window shooting. She gave him an earful, especially since she and her husband keep getting calls about the child-abuse case. I guess the newspaper article didn’t help.”

I shuddered when I thought back to the sensationalist
Mountain Journal
headline: “Caterer in Hot Water Over
Attempt to Save Child.” I said, “I’m supposed to see the Lauderdales Thursday at a lunch I’m catering. Chardé’ll probably behave herself there. And if she shows up here or at the castle, I’ll call you right away.”

“All right,” said Boyd, nodding. “Now we need to know about what happened yesterday morning after you left here, up to the point where Tom was shot.”

I recited the events of the previous morning. I added that I hadn’t heard back from Pat Gerber, and they mumbled something about the A.D.A. being the hardest person in the county to reach. I told them Eliot and Sukie Hyde had been extraordinarily nice and welcoming.

Boyd said, “Tell us about finding Balachek.”

I hesitated. Boyd and Armstrong worked well together. They dug for the right data and usually shed light on a case. Before, when I’d wanted information on an investigation that involved someone I knew, I’d had to wheedle it out of them. Now I needed their theory on who had murdered Andy Balachek and why. It was highly probable, I reasoned, that Andy’s killer either shot Tom or knew who had. But looking at their impassive, suspicious-cop faces, I was reminded of oysters that no pliers were ever going to open.

“I had to check the chapel to see if the portable dining tables had been delivered for the luncheon. When I parked and looked down at the creek, Andy was in it.” Boyd and Armstrong waited for me to go on. I asked, “So what was the cause of death?”

When they resolutely said nothing, I thought back. Andy had been wearing a lumberjack plaid shirt and jeans. I didn’t remember seeing a jacket on him, much less blood staining his clothes. What he had had was … wait.

“His hands were black,” I exclaimed. “Was he tortured before he died? Then someone shot him and threw his body there?” The oyster faces looked mildly surprised.
I was right. “Now are you going to tell me what your theory is?”

Boyd shook his head. “We don’t know who dumped Balachek in the creek.” He stabbed a stubby finger at me. “And you, Sherlock, can’t divulge anything about the color of his hands.”

“Was he shocked electrically?” I asked. They groaned. I pressed on. “Seems as if I remember somebody else dying of electrocution. The former spouse of someone at the castle, yes? Ring any bells?”

Again, the two cops looked at one another. Boyd sighed. “Carl Rourke, Sukie Hyde’s first husband, died in a freak electrical accident while working on a roof.”

“Do you think there’s any correlation between the two deaths?” I asked.

“Not yet,” Armstrong said. “I repeat, Goldy, you can
not talk
about Balachek’s burned hands, or the possibility of electric shock, with
anyone.
It’s a key.”

Uh-huh. Before I could protest or reply, our doorbell rang again. Three men from the sheriff’s department had arrived to process the basement. I showed them in, then murmured to Boyd and Armstrong that if they weren’t going to share their theories on what had happened to Balachek, I really needed to get back to my injured husband.

“We’ll be calling Tom,” Boyd told me. “We’ve got copies of all of Andy’s e-mails. Last one was ten days ago. Then he called you, wanting Tom. Said he was in Central City, but might go to Jersey after that. We’re wondering if Balachek tried to communicate after that phone call. Like by another e-mail, phone call, whatever.”

Maybe he sent Tom something by FedEx
, I almost joked, but, for once, refrained. Had Tom mentioned anything else, they wanted to know?

Well, there’s some woman.
“No,” I replied without looking at them. “He didn’t. At least, not that I know of.”

They said that was all for now, but they were staying at
our house for a while, if that was all right. The doorbell bonged again and I went to get it. Thinking it was more cops, I pulled the door open without checking the peephole.

It was the Jerk, with Viv Martini at his side.

He looked thin and pale, and his face seemed hard, a tad less confident. The effect of several months in prison, no doubt. He wore charcoal pants, a yellow pullover, and what looked like a new reversible down jacket, black on one side, bright blue on the other, visible at the open neck. His still good-looking face, though, revealed a dark mood. Viv, with her thin face and body, spiked blond hair, black-heeled boots, tight black pants, and fashionably poufed black nylon jacket, looked as if she were on her way to a stint with a punk rock band. When she unzipped the jacket, a tight V-neck revealing her significant cleavage sprang into view.

“Get out here,” ordered John Richard, his command rigid with anger.

Without saying a word, I slammed the door and dashed back to the dining room. I told Boyd and Armstrong what was going on and asked them to accompany me back to the porch. Just in case, I added.

Oh, my, how I delighted in the look of dismayed surprise that clouded the Jerk’s face when the conspicuously armed Boyd and Armstrong stepped onto the porch behind me. When we were all outside—John Richard and Viv to one side, me with my cop buddies beside the porch swing—Sharks and Jets—I asked the Jerk what he wanted.

“I want my son.” His voice was thick with the attempt to be simultaneously mean and conciliatory. “How dare you slap a restraining order on me? It’s a good thing it’s temporary, because I am going to stomp you so bad in two weeks, you’re going to wish you’d moved to Florida. I already
got the story on what happened to you here, by the way.”

“You’re in violation of a restraining order, and you’re out on probation, buster,” said Boyd. “So watch your mouth. And if you move even an inch closer to your ex-wife, I’m going to arrest you.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” the Jerk retorted. Viv sidled closer to John Richard, slipped her hands around his waist, then slid her fingers inside his belt. John Richard stiffened and actually blushed.

“Move back, ma’am,” Boyd ordered. This Viv did, but with a reluctant pout. John Richard gulped. His time in jail must have made him awfully horny. Apparently, he’d found just the right gal to meet his needs.

Boyd walked up to John Richard. He folded his arms, lifted his chin, and waited. John Richard took a step backward, right onto Viv’s toes, and she squawked. I wondered if she was having the tiniest flicker of doubt about her new boyfriend’s power. After a moment’s hesitation, she took another precarious step back from John Richard. I felt … well …
triumphant.