Sticks & Scones (15 page)

“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 inside of my cheek.

“Here you are,” announced a throaty female voice behind 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 Pépin 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.”

“I
am
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 Wolff!” she snapped. “There’s no telling what
he’s
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 Pépin, 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 chèvre 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.”

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 chèvre and made a silky coating for the sweet, moist figs and bitter greens. It was a heavenly mélange. 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.

Tom grinned. “You guys want me to finish this story?” When we both nodded, he went on: “The bride in the second ceremony refused to go on with the service. The groom demanded his money back. Eliot said no. The groom gave Eliot a fist to the jaw, and knocked him out. One of the guests called us. By the time we got there, the guests had all dispersed, and the bride and groom had skedaddled to a justice of the peace. Somebody had given Eliot Hyde smelling salts. We found him in the chapel storage area, where he was rewinding a tape of screaming sounds, probably broadcast through speakers in the chapel. He said he’d set up the tape to go off if the chapel was broken into, but somehow the recorder had gotten tripped by the wedding party. We told him to get rid of the tape, or next time we’d arrest him for creating a public nuisance.”

“Poor Eliot,” I said.

Julian rolled his muscled swimmer’s shoulders as he polished off his plate of veggies. “Way I heard it, when I was at Elk Park Prep? Someone actually
did
die here. A child. And not four centuries ago, either.”

“What?” Tom and I demanded.

Julian shrugged. “The story at school was that a couple came up here to have an illegitimate baby, and it was a stillbirth. They threw the baby’s corpse down the well. As I said, this isn’t an ancient ghost rumor, either. It was something in the last ten years.”

“No one reported it to the sheriff’s department,” Tom replied, “or I would have heard about it.”

“Search warrant!” I cried.

“Forget it,” said Tom.

“Here’s my opinion,” Julian said, picking up our plates. “Eliot may have acted weird by scaring folks off. But if you ask me, Sukie’s the nutcase.” He frowned. “There is such a thing as
too
clean, you know. I finish with
a bowl, she washes it. She wipes down the walls, then cleans the windows. Done with that? She sweeps the floor, gets on her hands and knees, and scrubs it. Why would a rich person with a hired cleaning service be so anal?”

“Julian!” Tom and I cried.

He went on: “I’ve only been here one day. Sukie seemed to like the lunch, right? But then I began thinking she was just keeping an eye on me, to make sure I didn’t steal anything. When she grabbed away a sauté pan I was still using, I told her she didn’t need to worry, I was
bonded.
She apologized. She says she cleans because she’s Swiss. Next week, she’s hiring a specialist to wax all the wood floors. She told me that while she was at a church meeting Sunday night, Chardé came in and she and Eliot splashed paint samples all over the place. Sukie went absolutely nuts. Then the paint guys came back today with more paint samples. Eliot told her not to worry, brighter colors would make the castle more attractive as a conference center.” He motioned with the tray he had now filled with plates. “Anyway, if I don’t put these in the dishwasher before I go to bed, she’ll come around in the middle of the night looking for them.”

I didn’t like the idea of Julian wandering around the castle alone at night, but tried to keep my voice serene. “Listen, Julian, do me a favor, okay? When you finish in the kitchen and come back up, just knock gently on our door. One knock. So we can be sure you’re all right.”

“So you know the ghost didn’t snag me?” Julian said with a wink. He heaved up the tray. “Okay, Ma and Pa. I’ll knock.” We thanked him again for the marvelous meal. He grinned, delighted with our praise, and backed out the door.

When Tom and I were alone at last, I washed my hands and began the task of removing his bandage, cleaning the wound, then taping it back up. Lord knows, I
longed to ask him about Sara Beth O’Malley. But I couldn’t. The newly bloodied bandage, the ugly bruising around the wound, the black stitches on his swollen flesh, made me resolve to say nothing.

Even if I suspected Tom’s old girlfriend had shot him for being disloyal to her and marrying me, what good would it do to confront
Tom?
I gently laid new gauze in place. What I really wanted to know, I decided, was if he still cared about her, and if he’d acted on that by … whatever.
Stop
, I ordered myself, as I gently pressed down the last bit of tape. The Jerk had betrayed me for years, years when I’d stuck my head in the proverbial sandbox so much I might as well have been living at the beach. By the end of our marriage I’d turned into a suspicious harpy who thought
everything
John Richard told me was a lie. If I got back into mistrustful thinking, I was going to make myself miserable.

“Something wrong, Goldy?” Tom gave me the full benefit of those all-knowing green eyes.

“I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t, I’ll be fine.” He paused. “Is Arch on your mind?”

“Yes, that’s it.” My voice cracked.

“The kid’ll be all right. Korman won’t try anything while he’s on parole. Why don’t you come to bed?”

And so I did. I wanted to ask Tom if he still loved me, but I couldn’t. It had been a long day, a
very
long day. Still, once I was between the crisp cotton sheets and down comforter that were worthy of the most luxurious hotel, sleep eluded me. I switched from fretting about Tom, to wondering if I could safely boot my laptop and read his e-mails, to worrying about Arch. Where was my son at that moment? Did he miss me? I turned over and sighed.

“Goldy, what is it?”

“I’m just thinking about when Arch was a newborn.
I’d lie in bed and fret about whether he was breathing, even though he was just down the hall. I found that if I lay very still and listened, I could hear him. It was like your eyes adjusting to the dark. My ears took in all the sounds of the night, and finally made out his tiny infant breath. In and out. It was comforting. Does that sound nuts?”

“He’s breathing now, Miss G., in his bed at Korman’s house. He’s all right. If he wasn’t, we would have heard about it.”

At that moment a muffled knock on the door indicated Julian was retiring to his room. A few moments later, Tom snored softly beside me.

My eyes remained wide open, my body tense. Finally, I eased from beneath the comforter. Despite the heat pouring from the baseboards, the air in the big room was chilly. I sat down on the velvety wool rug.

Tom wasn’t in a deep enough sleep for me to start tapping away on a keyboard. Besides, if I read the e-mails tonight, I’d feel too guilty to sleep. Especially if he caught me.

I hugged myself against the cold and thought about Arch. Yes, he was with John Richard, and no, I couldn’t phone at midnight to check that he’d brushed his teeth and been tucked in. (Question: How do you tuck in an almost-fifteen-year-old, anyway? Answer: You don’t.) And what if Viv decided to tell Arch a bedtime story about automatic weapons?

Don’t think about it.

Very quietly, I slipped into my heavy coat, boots, and mittens. There
was
something I could do, a ritual that had always helped with worry about Arch’s safety when he was spending the night at a friend’s, or camping with the Cub Scouts in the wildlife preserve. I’d face in the direction of my son’s location and send him good vibes. This
was not a spiritual exercise sanctioned in your neighborhood Episcopal church. But I’d always found it reassuring, and believed that God would understand.

I quietly maneuvered through the set of double doors to the southeast tower. My boots scraped the floor. The sharp air was dense with ice crystals. The dim light illuminating the tower cast long shadows on the dark stone.

John Richard’s house lay southwest of the castle, in the Aspen Meadow Country Club area. I shivered, oriented myself, then stood by the window that faced southwest. I closed my eyes. Then I brought up the vision of Arch sleeping. I willed myself to be very still.

After a few moments, I could have sworn I heard breathing. It was not my own breath, but the rapid, shallow inhale-exhale of a child. Fear rippled through my veins. I opened my eyes and glanced around quickly: nothing. When I tipped forward to check out the window, there was only the barely lit black water of the moat below, and across the moat, a small neon light by the castle Dumpster. Ghosts didn’t usually breathe, did they? Being dead and all?
I’m losing it
, I decided, as I tiptoed back to our room, shed my outerwear, and slipped into bed.
I need sleep.

But I lay awake for a long time, thinking about what to do next.

Dawn brought frigid air and charcoal clouds hemmed with a bright blue sliver of sky. To my chagrin, my neck had stiffened from my nasty encounter with the computer thief. What sleep I’d managed to get had brought some clarity, however. Boyd and Armstrong had promised to touch base today. I would call them first, with some questions of my own. And I had to talk with Eliot about the new arrangements for the next day’s labyrinth lunch. With Tom still asleep, I rolled quietly out of bed, emptied
my mind, and began a slow yoga routine. Breathe, stretch, breathe, hold. Before long, I felt better.

As I started to get dressed, I remembered the disk and Sara Beth O’Malley. I frowned, remembering Tom’s story. Talk about a
ghost.

Tom’s snoring was deep and sonorous. With my laptop tucked under my arm, I tiptoed into the bathroom. I didn’t give myself time to think, much less feel guilty. I plugged in the computer and booted it up, covered the toilet seat with warm towels, and sat down to break into my husband’s e-mail.

There were seven messages: three from “The Gambler,” as Andy apparently called himself, three from “S.B.,” and one from the State Department. I had already opened the first of S.B.’s messages:
Do you remember me? You said you’d love me forever.
Now I went straight to the second.

I need to prove myself to you?
I smiled. Good old Tom. Figure out if she is who she says she is.
I’m putting myself in danger just writing to you. Nobody knows I’m here. Remember our secret engagement ring? We didn’t want people to criticize us for being too young to know what we were doing. So you picked out a tiny ruby, my birthstone, set in platinum. In answer to your other question, I’ve been in a little village. After my so-called death, I went from being a nurse to being a doctor.—S.B.

At least she wasn’t calling herself “Your S.B.” anymore. I battled guilt as I opened the third and final communication from her, dated three weeks ago.

Tom, I saw your wife and son today. I read in the paper that she’s a caterer. I don’t want to upset your life. I just would like to see you. Why am I here, you asked. An anonymous donor is giving us medical supplies. I’m picking them up. I also have a dental abscess and need a root canal. They don’t have neighborhood endodontists in my country, although they can manage fake passports and counterfeit checks. I’m taking the risk to tell you all this for a reason. I have an appointment at High Country
Dental on February 13 at 9
A.M.
I’d like to see you before my appointment, if possible. S.B.

Wait a minute.
My country?

The next communication, the one from the State Department, was unemotional and to the point.

Officer Schulz: As you were notified by the DOD in 1975, Major Sara Beth O’Malley, R.N., was listed as missing, presumed dead. Her Mobile Army Surgical Hospital unit was destroyed during an attack three months before American forces withdrew from Saigon. Her body was not recovered, and the DOD has not had reason to change its assessment.