Sticks & Scones (3 page)

Why would someone shoot at the house of a caterer?

I swallowed hard.

Did I really want to know?

T
wo cops trod up the icy path to our door. The first was tall and decidedly corpulent, the second short and slight, with a dark mustache set off by pale skin.

“Mrs. Schulz?” asked the tall one. “I’m Deputy Wyatt. This is Deputy Vaughan.”

I nodded and shook their hands. I remembered both of them from the department Christmas party, which was actually held three days before New Year’s, since Christmas and New Year’s themselves are always high-crime days. While the impromptu posse, three neighbors plus Bill, looked on curiously, I thanked the cops for responding so quickly.

Wyatt, who had dark, intelligent eyes, addressed me in a low, terse voice. “We’re going to secure your house. Then we’ll need to talk to your neighbors.” He took off his hat, revealing a head thinly covered with dark brown hair. “After that, we’ll want to talk to you.”

I let him in while Vaughan stepped aside and talked quietly to the men on the porch. With most of the front
window missing, it seemed silly to shut the door firmly behind Wyatt. But I did anyway. Amazing how old habits die hard.

Once I’d turned on the living-room lights, Wyatt stepped toward the window. He frowned at the glass fangs hanging from the casement. Frigid air poured through the hole. The deputy gave a barely perceptible nod and began to move through the house.

Arch’s music wafted down from upstairs. Unrhythmic thumps—Jake’s tail hitting the floor—indicated the bloodhound had stayed with him. Now
there
was a recipe for comfort: rock and roll, plus a canine companion.

The icy February air made me shiver. I headed to the kitchen, where I could close the hall door against the chill. There, I could also turn on the oven. My oven was to me what Arch’s music was to him.

But heating the oven wasn’t enough. My mind continued to cough up questions, and I moved nervously from one window to the next. Who shot at us? Why would someone do such a thing? Outside, flashes of the police car lights blinked across the snow-sculpted yard. Should I call Tom now, or should I wait? Would they assign this case to him?

In the basement, I could hear Wyatt’s scraping shuffle as he moved from Tom’s office into the storage room, bathroom, laundry room, closets….The hole in the window meant I could just hear Vaughan’s low murmur on the front porch, interspersed with responses from one or the other of the neighbors. How much longer would they leave me here? Could the shooter be inside? Impossible. But might he not still be somewhere outside? Unlikely, I reasoned.

I hugged myself as cold air streamed under the door between the kitchen and the hall. How was I supposed to work in my kitchen today if it was so doggone cold? And anyway, a hot oven wasn’t going to make me feel any
better unless I actually put something into it. Something hot and flaky, something you could slather with jam and butter, or even whipped cream….

Again the gunshot echoed in my ears. I couldn’t stop trembling. Where were the cops? Why was it so cold in here?

I
needed comfort. I was going to make
scones.

I felt better immediately.

I heated water to plump the currants, powered up my kitchen computer, and rummaged in our walk-in refrigerator for unsalted butter. I’d done a great deal of research on English food for the catering stint I was starting, and what I’d learned had been fascinating. Scones had first been mentioned as a Scottish food in the sixteenth century. Since that meant the Tudors might have indulged in the darling little pastries, my new client was desperate for a good recipe.

Intriguing as the notion of the perfect scone might be, the ability to concentrate eluded me. Fretting about how long it might take to get our window repaired, I smeared a stick of butter on the marble counter. When the gunshot blast reechoed in my brain, I forgot the stopper for the food processor. A blizzard of flour whirled up to the ceiling, then settled on my face. When I coughed and jumped back, my elbow smacked a carton; a river of heavy whipping cream
glug-glug-glugged
onto my computer keyboard. I was cursing mightily when Wyatt and Vaughan finally pounded into the kitchen. Surveying the mess, their eyes widened.

“I’m cooking,” I told them, my voice fierce.

“So I see,” said Wyatt. He cleared his throat. “Umm … Why don’t you have a seat for a minute?”

I shut down the computer and unplugged it, turned the keyboard over to drain, turned off the food processor, and wiped the flour from my face. Without missing a beat, Wyatt launched into his report. Thankfully, he’d found
nothing amiss—no sign of forced entry, no strangers lurking in closets or under beds. Investigators and techs, he assured me, would be along in no time to process the scene.

I offered them hot drinks. Both declined as they settled at our oak kitchen table. I fixed myself an espresso, picked up the dripping cream carton, and poured the last of the white stuff into my coffee.
Fortitude
, I reminded myself. The kitchen air was like the inside of a refrigerator. I should have put on two sweatshirts.

“I remember you,” Wyatt said, a mischievous smile playing over his lips. “And not just because you’re married to Tom Schulz. You’re the one who’s gotten kinda involved in some investigations, right?”

I sighed and nodded.

Vaughan chuckled. “Seems to me we’ve ribbed Schulz about that a time or two. We asked him, why don’t you just give her a job?”

Didn’t these guys care about our shattered window? Why weren’t they digging bullets out of my living-room wall? Or searching for footprints in the snow? “Thanks, guys,” I replied. “I’ve got a job. A business. Which this incident is not going to help. And I also have a son who needs to be protected,” I reminded them grimly.

Getting serious, the deputies fired questions at me. What had I heard? When? Why was I so sure it was a gunshot? Had I actually seen anything out the window? Had Arch?

Warmed by the coffee, I gave short answers while Wyatt took notes. But I faltered when he asked if any member of our family had received threats lately.

“There was something involving the department about a month ago,” Wyatt prompted me, when I didn’t immediately answer. “You’re the caterer who turned in the Lauderdales. New Year’s Eve? Child abuse, right?”

“Yes,” I replied. “I turned in Buddy’s-your-buddy, the
Jag’s-in-the-bag Lauderdale. He shook his baby daughter until the poor child passed out.”

Wyatt looked up from his notebook and scowled. “You were doing a party there, isn’t that what I heard?” he asked. “Big party, even though the guy’s facing bankruptcy or something?”

Or something. Buddy Lauderdale’s rumored financial difficulties had been widely reported, along with his arrest. According to the whispers, dutifully conveyed in the newspapers, the new, expanded Lauderdale Luxury Imports, situated near the fancy new Furman East Shopping Center, was about to go belly-up.

Buddy Lauderdale, fiftyish, swarthy, and boasting a full head of newly plugged hair, had scoffed at the rumors. With his ultrachic, fifteen-years-his-junior second wife Chardé, Buddy had thrown an extravagant New Year’s party to show the world
just
how rich and confident he was. And I’d been booked to do the catering, thanks to the recommendation of Howie Lauderdale, a star sophomore on the Elk Park Prep fencing team. Sixteen-year-old Howie, who’d befriended Arch, was the product of Buddy’s first marriage. Naïvely, I’d thought the father would be as nice as the son.

All had gone well on New Year’s Eve, I recounted at the cops’ prompting, until about eleven-thirty, when Buddy and Howie had put on a fencing demonstration for their guests. Unfortunately, Patty Lauderdale, the cute-as-a-button one-year-old daughter of Buddy and Chardé, had started to wail just as the demonstration began. Buddy had ordered me to take the baby away, which I had. In the kitchen, I’d rocked, cooed, and sung to the screaming Patty, all to no avail. The child should have been in bed, of course, but the parents had wanted to show her off to their guests. Impatient with the racket, Buddy had stormed into the kitchen. In the presence of no other adult but me, he’d grabbed little Patty from my
arms. Over my protests, he’d shaken that poor child until she choked, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she lost consciousness.

So yes, I’d called the cops. Patty had been removed from the family home for a week. After an investigation, the Lauderdales, who had no priors, had been cleared of child abuse. Little Patty, reportedly still undergoing neurological tests, had been returned to her parents. But I’ve learned to suspect the corrupting power of money, influence, and lawyers. Through friends, I’d heard that the Lauderdales had sworn they were going to
get Goldy.
They insisted that good old Buddy had just been trying to be a good parent. And they also claimed that their name and their business had been irreparably harmed by my call to law enforcement. A hysterically toned
Mountain Journal
article, discussing the incident and my own history of spouse abuse, had not helped the situation. Beside the article had been two pictures. The first was of Buddy Lauderdale from his Jag’s-in-the-bag TV commercials, where he wore a hunting outfit, toted a rifle, and had a large bag slung over his shoulder. The second was of him being led away from his home in handcuffs.

“Heard from the Lauderdales lately?” Wyatt asked now.

I shook my head, but my heart sank. Unfortunately, Chardé Lauderdale was designing and implementing the makeover for the interior of Hyde Castle, where I would be catering later in the week. Chardé had also overseen the redecoration of Hyde Chapel, where I would be working later today. Make that, where I was
hoping
to work later today, if I could find a place to cook that had heat, ovens, and windows without bullet holes.

“Do you know of any recent threats made against Tom?” asked Vaughan.

I sighed and said no. If anyone had threatened
him
, I reminded them, there ought to be a record of it at the
department. The hijacking-homicide case that had taken Tom out of state involved a heist from a Furman County store named The Stamp Fox. One of the envelopes in the hijacked delivery truck—the main target of the thieves—had contained collectible stamps worth over three million dollars. The Stamp Fox had been shipping the stamps in a plain FedEx envelope to a philatelic show in Tucson. So much for transmitting valuables incognito. When the FedEx driver resisted, he’d been shot dead.

“Tom’s supposed to come back today,” I told Wyatt and Vaughan. “He’s been looking for a local fellow who’s been connected to the delivery-truck hijacking. Name’s Andy Balachek.”

“Isn’t Balachek the kid with a gambling problem?” demanded Wyatt. “Stole his dad’s excavation truck and then sold it? Got involved with Ray Wolff?”

I nodded. This, too, had been in the papers. Andy Balachek’s friendship with Ray Wolff, the infamous hijacker now behind bars in the Furman County Jail, had proved costly to the naïve twenty-year-old. As one of Wolff’s known associates, Andy had been questioned. The night of the hijacking, Andy’s father had had a heart attack. Then Tom had arrested Ray Wolff, who’d left a fingerprint on the steering wheel of the hijacked FedEx truck, at a storage area on the county line. Wolff, vowing revenge, had spat in Tom’s face before being led away in handcuffs.

I knew, but I was not sure that Wyatt and Vaughan knew, that Andy Balachek had confirmed the department’s suspicions of his partnership with Ray Wolff. A few days after the theft, Andy had contacted Tom, requesting Tom communicate with him via e-mail. Andy was interested in a plea deal. The county D.A. had told Tom to string Andy along. Fearing his father was not long for this world, and needing to clear his conscience, Andy
had been the one who’d tipped Tom off to Wolff’s visit to the storage area. Then Andy had e-mailed Tom saying that he’d gotten a stake and was heading for Atlantic City. And off Tom had gone—to find him.

“Any other problematic cases Tom might have mentioned?” Deputy Vaughan persisted. “Somebody else have an ax to grind with him?”

I frowned and thought back to the e-mail account Tom had been forced to set up on his computer at home, because Andy Balachek had insisted he wouldn’t send any correspondence directly to the sheriff’s department. It had been out of character for Tom to take so much time to work at home. But he had, until he’d packed up for New Jersey. No, I didn’t know whether Tom was working on other
problematic
cases. What I did know was that he’d been working too hard.

“Did he mention threats from Balachek?” asked Vaughan.