Sticks & Scones (22 page)

“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.

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.

A
t 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 the 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.

Eliot, his chin held high, led us to the far end of the hall, where he’d set up a badminton net and marked out a court with tape. The penny-prick game looked straightforward enough: players stood behind a boundary and threw knives at an empty bottle, trying to knock a penny off the bottle’s lip, without overturning the bottle itself. Although the game historically was played with real knives, Eliot, ever wary of folks hurting themselves at the castle and the story getting into the paper, had bought a dozen of the rubber variety.

Tom appeared as I finished organizing the buffet. He walked over slowly and gave me a one-armed hug. Tears stung my eyes. I squeezed him back and prayed for all of Sara Beth O’Malley’s teeth to fall out of her mouth before Friday.

Sukie, Eliot, Michaela, Tom, Arch, and I dug into the tender lamb roast, the garlicky potatoes, the crunchy beans, the rich, hot gravy, and the cool mint jelly. Julian fixed himself a heaping plate of vegetables and salads, while Eliot waxed eloquent on the fact that the ceremonial procession of the courses from the kitchen to the Great Hall—which we’d unconsciously imitated when we’d lugged the food up the stairs—had been extraordinarily important in medieval and Renaissance times. The lord of the castle wanted to put on a big show, to prove to everybody how rich he was.

Julian surreptitiously rolled his eyes, then offered to clear the table and return with dessert and coffee. I nodded and thanked him. Eliot tapped Michaela to play the first game of shuttlecock as teammate to Arch, with Eliot and Sukie for opponents. Tom kept score, and I straightened up the table while cheering for both teams.

When the score was nine to nine, a cold sweat rolled
over me. Had I really detected movement in the shadows of the postern-gate corner? Without warning, a shift in the flickering light revealed—what was it? A miniature knight, dressed in plate armor? Watching the game?

“Agh!” I yelled, pointing at the corner. “What the
hell
is that?”

The badminton game ceased. Eliot, Sukie, Michaela, and Arch gaped at me. I looked at them, then squinted at the corner, now suddenly empty. I sprinted over to where the two walls met, only to find no statue, no movement, no miniature knight. I tore open the door that led to the postern gate. The tower was icy cold and deserted. Disappointed, I slammed back inside.

“Miss G.?” Tom’s voice was full of concern.

“Sorry, everybody. I thought I saw something….” I felt acutely embarrassed. I really did seem to be losing my mind. Except Tom had had a similar vision/hallucination/whatever. What was going on?

Sukie shot Eliot a stern look and murmured that sometimes it was better
not
to share the legends of the castle with guests. Eliot tossed his hair off his forehead and replied that he hadn’t told me
any
ghost stories. But I noticed that his eyes had become anxious. Tom tilted his head at me:
Did my Tale of Law Enforcement scare you?
I shook my head, as in,
It’s okay.

“Let’s do the fencing demonstration,” Michaela interjected, and I was thankful for the change in subject. The last thing a caterer wants to make is a gaffe, especially when the guests then proceed to discuss it for the rest of the evening.

Michaela and Arch took swords and masks from a bag stored under the buffet table. While Arch rolled out a mat, I kept an eye on the dark corner. So, I noticed, did Sukie. Tom, meanwhile, engaged Eliot in a spirited discussion of the escalating prices of antique furniture. But I couldn’t help noticing that Eliot’s gaze also kept straying
to the shadows through which I’d seen the armored figure glide.

“This is an épée,” Michaela announced in her gravelly voice, commanding our immediate attention. “With the foil, which Arch and I usually use in practice, one may score a point by a touch on the upper torso. With the épée, touches
anywhere
on the body count. Arch, come here, please.” My son dutifully hopped up from the mat and strode over.

“The first thing we teach,” Michaela said, pointing to Arch’s feet, “is how to advance and retreat. Okay, Arch.” My son obliged by stepping deftly forward and back. Michaela continued: “The front arm and hand holding the weapon are parallel to the ground.”

At this she handed Arch an épée, which he brandished in showmanlike fashion. Tom grinned.

“The back arm,” Michaela went on, “is crooked up at the elbow, hand facing the sky, for balance, until someone attacks, and lunges. Go ahead.”

Arch lunged. As he straightened his back leg and arm, he thrust the sword forward. It gleamed dangerously in the light from the chandelier. My son, the swashbuckler.

Michaela picked up a weapon. “The final skill we teach newcomers is parry, riposte. Your opponent attacks. You slap his sword aside, then counterattack.” She lowered the mask over her face.
“En garde
, Arch.”

Michaela and Arch touched their swords to their masks in formal greeting. And then they went at it, back and forth across the mat, moving with remarkable swiftness and an impressive snapping of swords.
Clink, clink, swoosh, clink.
I found myself growing more nervous with every flourish. I didn’t know if Michaela was letting Arch win, or making a good show. Arch scored a hit. Both took off their masks, bowed deeply to each other, then to us.

We all clapped enthusiastically. All of us, that is, except Eliot, who appeared increasingly anxious. As if on
cue, Julian entered with a tray. He had shortbread cookies, ice cream, and frosting-slathered Chocolate Emergency Cookies, plus an insulated coffeepot and cream and sugar containers.

“And now,” Michaela said, “we will—”

Somewhat rudely, I thought, Eliot interrupted her with, “Great! Come on everybody, time for our sweets!” Tom and Sukie attempted halfhearted applause for the fencers.

Downcast, clutching his weapon, Arch raised his eyes to me for a cue. I gave a tiny shrug. Michaela murmured to him that the demo was over, and would he please roll up the mat.

With exclamations of pleasure, Eliot and Sukie received demitasse cups of coffee and crystal bowls of ice cream, with cookies perched on the scoops. Ignoring Michaela and Arch, Eliot resumed his somewhat shrill monologue on the exorbitant prices of antiques. Julian, his intuition alerting him that something had run amuck, appeared at my side.

“What’s going on?” he murmured.

“I thought I saw a ghost, and now Eliot’s acting a little uptight,” I said under my breath.

“Oh, is that all?”

“Julian, I saw
something.
So did Tom, when he woke up today. So either there
is
a ghost here, my husband and I are both having hallucinations, or a kid or midget or something is romping through the castle, wearing knight’s armor.”

“If it’s a girl in her late teens, tell her I’m available.”

“Julian!”

“Early twenties would be okay.” He scanned the Great Hall. Eliot and Sukie called their thanks to us and waved good night. Standing not far from us, Arch looked crestfallen.

“Jeez, Goldy, Arch looks like a friend just died,” Julian commented, concerned.

“He was enjoying being the center of attention for once—”

“Mom!” Arch appeared by my elbow and I yelped. It was his silent disappearing-reappearing act, learned in his eleventh and twelfth years, otherwise known as his magic-trick phase. I didn’t like it any more now than I had then.

“Michaela wants you and Tom and me to come over and see the fencing loft,” my son said eagerly. “And Julian, too, if he’d like to. We can finish our demonstration over there, if everybody still wants …”

“Oh, no, thanks,” Tom said. His face was haggard, and I knew the evening had worn him out more than he was willing to admit. “I’m going to turn in, if that’s all right.”

“Mom?” asked Arch, his face pleading.

“I have to do the dishes,” I said, with a pang. “Sorry.”

“Forget the dishes,” Julian told me firmly. “Go watch the demonstration. And, hey! I’m getting good at cleaning up. Makes me feel helpful.”

Arch’s expectant look, Julian’s offer, Michaela’s generosity, and, of course, my admonition to Arch not to go anywhere in the castle alone, made me say yes, I’d love to watch the demonstration. But not for long, I told Arch hastily: I still had prep to do on the labyrinth lunch, and he had astronomy homework. Not to mention, I added silently, if there was going to be a ghost-knight flitting around the castle, I wanted to be at my son’s side when the specter made his next appearance.

Toting armloads of fencing equipment, we wended our way through the cold, dimly lit postern gate tower, then down a drab hall to a set of steps leading to the first floor.

“How come part of the inhabited section of the castle is downstairs,” I asked Michaela, “and part is up?”

“In Eliot’s grandfather’s time,” she replied, “two of the castle’s original four stories were what their family and our family lived in and used. Then when the flood of
’82 came, Eliot had to make some decisions. The wall of water blasted down Fox Creek, broke the dam, and flooded the basement and first-floor rooms on the west range. Eliot wanted the study redone, because of the beautiful old fireplace in there, and his and Sukie’s bedroom. Chardé has worked hard on the place.” She shook her head. “But, whoa, did we all get tired of her, begging to refurbish the rest of the flood-damaged rooms, telling Eliot that he’d look cheap if he didn’t spend more money getting everything redecorated. That woman’s a money-grubber if I ever saw one.”

Don’t hold back on your feelings
, I thought as we tramped past the entry to the indoor pool, the door to Eliot’s study, and then through the glass doors marked
UNDER CONSTRUCTION
—
NO ADMITTANCE.
The
Wet Paint
sign was gone. The splattered paint, however, was still all over the place, and the new padlock was securely fastened.

“Was Chardé working over here?” I asked casually, trying to disguise my interest. I couldn’t exactly admit to breaking into a playroom.

“I hope not,” said Michaela. “We try to keep that woman as contained as possible. Or at least, I do,” she added with a sourness that was impossible to miss.

I stopped in front of the playroom and tilted my head at the door. “What’s in here?”

“It used to be old living quarters,” said Michaela with a smile. “But we’re having them fixed up. Without Chardé, hopefully. Let’s go.”

To my surprise, Michaela did not live on the ground floor of the north range—the castle front—but through a door and up another set of stairs to the second story. At the top of the steps, she slipped a brass key from under a plastic welcome mat. Interesting to note that while the Hydes were extremely security-conscious, Michaela was not….

“In the flood of ’82?” she explained as she fiddled with the lock. “The west side of the north range’s first
story was also completely flooded. This side of the gatehouse has been our living quarters since my grandfather’s time.” She sighed and pushed open the door. “We lost boxes of books and letters that I had stored in closets. Our family used to have the two stories, but now my whole operation is upstairs. Downstairs is more storage area.”