Sticks & Scones

by Diane Mott Davidson

  I glanced at my son as our boots cracked across the icy gravel. Did Viv offer to teach you to shoot, too? Unfortunately, Viv was also an accomplished tae kwon do practitioner and fencer. Feeling more inferior than I cared to admit, I had signed up for the free weekly fencing lessons Michaela Kirovsky had offered team parents. I told myself it was to keep up with Arch, but deep down I suspected it was to keep up with Viv. Which I couldn’t do, as it turned out. My first three lessons, I’d suffered claustrophobia from the mask, thighs so sore I’d been unable to walk, and confidence so shattered I’d dropped out of class.

  Come to think of it, could Viv have shot out our window? Why would she do that?

  A speaker on the security keypad beeped. The massive doors creaked open.

  “Gol-dy!” Sukie Hyde’s cheery, familiar voice made a ringing echo on the ancient stones. “You’re here!”

  “Yes, we are!” I called back with what I hoped was a self-assured voice. “Thanks for having us!”

  Sukie, wearing a full-length, forest green coat, cooed at Arch and me as she bustled toward us. “Look at you two!” she exclaimed. Worry furrowed her rosy-cheeked face as she assessed us for damage. Looking younger than her late thirties, unpretentiously cheery and always happy to see you, Sukie was plumply appealing, like one of those happily voluptuous women painted by Rubens. Her wavy golden hair drifted out in all directions, giving an incongruously disheveled air to the superbly organized gal beneath. “Welcome to Hyde Castle. Eliot and I were so shocked to hear what had happened! Imagine, your windows shot at!”

  “It was only one window,” I assured her. “The food’s in the back of the van, if you’d like me to bring it in.”

  Sukie beamed and said Michaela could do that.

  “It could spoil,” I started to protest.

  “Don’t worry about it, Gol-dy.” Sukie’s voice was richly comforting, like vanilla custard. “Please, you have just had a terrible shock. Soon there will be warm coffee cake in the kitchen,” she said. “Come on, both of you, we will get you some hot drinks. I am making the coffee cake myself. From a mix, of course,” she added with a giggle.

  I smiled in spite of myself. Sukie could make the castle as tidy as a Swiss hotel, but she could not so much as toast bread. She had what we in the food biz gleefully call a cooking block. According to Marla, Eliot abhorred the kitchen, too, except for the jams and jellies he made in the middle of the night, when he couldn’t sleep. Well, at least he wasn’t canning okra. Before Sukie had changed Eliot’s life, he’d subsisted first on frozen dinners, then SpaghettiOs, and finally, just when Sukie came into the picture, enormous casseroles of beans and rice. These cheap repasts were not, of course, suitable for the suddenly wealthy. Nevertheless, the Hydes soon wearied of eating out. On my first visit, I’d brought Sukie and Eliot a dinner to tuck into their refrigerator and reheat. They’d found my culinary powers awesome, and their praise had warmed my heart.

  At the far side of the entryway, new plate-glass doors looked out on the courtyard. Sukie switched on spotlights and drenched the interior space in a blaze of glory. The previous summer, a landscaper had followed Eliot’s directions for planting a Tudor garden. Eliot had used the strawberries and chokecherries for his jams. But it was all I could do to keep from laughing when Eliot had gone on to tell me they’d given the cabbages, cucumbers, radishes, parsnips, and even the freshly grown herbs to Aspen Meadow Christian Outreach, since neither he nor Sukie knew what to do with their cornucopia of ripe goodies. In the spotlights, the geometric layout of ice-burnished twigs sparkled.

  To surround the courtyard, Theodore Hyde had replaced the crumbling interior walls with an Italianate arcade made of new Colorado granite. The lights illuminated dazzling silver rapiers set beneath the support for each arch. Above the arcade, more spotlights, their lenses tinted hues of orange and pink, bathed new stone walls and courtyard-facing windows with a welcoming glow.

  “Wow!” Arch exclaimed. “They’ve done a lot since the sixth grade came here for a tour.” He craned his neck to gaze up at the arched ceiling of the gatehouse. “Check it out, Mom, those things haven’t changed.” He pointed upward. “Meurtriers. Otherwise known as murder holes.”

  “What?” Overhead, at the intersection of each arch, holes pierced the ceiling.

  “You see,” my son went on, “even if the enemy could get across the moat and through whatever barbican or outer defense was set up, they’d still have to get through the gatehouse.” He pointed back at the entry portcullis. “So if the attackers rammed the portcullis to get into this space, the castle’s warriors poured boiling oil down on the bad guys through those holes.” He announced this with a fourteen-year-old’s relish for violence.

  “Let’s go,” I said hastily, as Sukie disappeared through another pair of glass doors. I preferred to associate boiling oil with doughnuts and French fries, thank you very much.

  Now twenty steps ahead of us, Sukie was either turning off another security system or rejiggering a thermostat. I shuddered to think of the electric bills generated by heating and lighting these vast spaces. I hated even more thinking how to tell Sukie and Eliot that their security system might have to withstand a visit from the Jerk.

  Arch tugged on my elbow. “How many times have you been here?” he demanded, his voice just above a murmur. “Did she talk to you about the … earl’s nephew?” Ever wary of being dubbed a wimp, Arch was reluctant to use the word ghost.

  “I’ve been here once, and nobody talked to me about spirits,” I whispered back. “At some point, you can ask the Hydes about it. Just not today, okay?”

  He frowned, but joined me in following Sukie as she bustled down a dazzling rose-and-gray marble hallway. The marble, too, was from Colorado, Sukie had told me, and had been picked out by Chardé Lauderdale as the basis for the interior color scheme. Flickering electrified candles atop gleaming brass wall sconces lit our way as we walked down a plush carpet runway patterned with gold medallions on a royal-blue background. Arch stopped to touch one of the reproduction leaded-glass windows. Then he eyed a threadbare tapestry depicting a maiden patting her unicorn.

  “Do you think the Hydes will let Dad visit?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Probably you’ll go to his place, once we get things worked out.”

  Arch was silent. I looked around. On our right, a twentieth-century spiral staircase led up to a doorway into the gatehouse, put there, Eliot had told me, by his thoughtful grandfather. Old Theodore did not want his caretakers traversing the cold stone entryway to get to their apartment, once they finished nighttime kitchen duty. Personally, I would have preferred an escalator.

  Ahead of us, Sukie swept through more glass doors beneath another archway. The doors opened into the living room. But on my tea-visit, “living” in this room had seemed unimaginable. The room looked more like the lobby of a grand hotel than a place where people would actually snuggle down for conversation or reading. The vast space featured a polished dark wood floor covered by Oriental rugs in rich hues of scarlet, royal blue, and gold. Couches and wing-back chairs upholstered in floral and paisley chintz, the shades chosen to match the rugs, sat beside massive antique tables of mahogany and cherry. The effect was impressive. No matter what else you said about Chardé Lauderdale, the woman knew what she was doing in the decorating department.

  Our boots made a shh-shh noise as we shuffled over the sumptuous carpets. I touched the cellular in my pocket. The moment we were situated, I promised myself, I would call Tom’s hotel.

  “You’re a member of the fencing team, right, Arch?” Sukie trilled over her shoulder. “When your teammates come to our banquet this week, you’ll be able to show them around. We have an indoor pool, now, on the ground floor west of the postern gate, if you want to go for a swim.”

  Arch mumbled, “Okay.” He hated to swim. He said, “Miss Kirovsky has been telling us about her collection of royal memorabilia. I’d really like to see that.”

  I exhaled. At least he hadn’t
requested an interview with the phantom of the young duke-apparent.

  “Then ask her, my dear,” Sukie replied graciously as she paused by one of the glass doors. “And perhaps Michaela could take you to school today, after she unloads your mother’s equipment.”

  I felt a tad confused, as I hadn’t realized that Michaela was regarded as a general servant in addition to caretaker and local fencing coach. But it was too early in the day to delve into the particulars of the Hydes’ household arrangements.

  While Sukie held open the door, Arch turned to me and asked softly, “How will Dad even know I’m here?”

  “I’ll call the county lawyer, all right?” I was not about to call John Richard’s attorney, that pompous nerd responsible for mailing child support payments from John Richard’s fat hoard of cash, the result of the sale of his ob-gyn practice. Dealing with the Jerk’s attorney was like being forced to eat … well, that historic but unappetizing food: pottage. It was not something I chose to do.

  A hint of desperation threaded through Arch’s voice. “Look, Mom, I know you don’t want to see Dad. But I promised him we could get together as soon as he got out. It’s what he said he wanted more than anything. So could you please find him? Please?”

  “I told you I would, hon. Just not this sec, okay?”

  Sukie waited politely until my son and I had finished our whispered conference. In tense silence, we went through yet another set of glass doors, which Sukie said they had installed as insulation against the cold. The need for insulation quickly became evident when we entered the tower. An arctic blast made us all pull our coats tightly around us.

  Unlike the hallway, the corner drum tower was not newly lined with marble. Frigid air poured through slits in the gray stone—more narrow openings used by archers.

  Sukie pointed to a smaller, covered stone cylinder on the tower floor. “This was the castle’s original well, Arch. Do you know why they placed the well inside the castle, instead of outside?”

  I knew she was trying to be nice, to make Arch feel welcome. I was not sure it was working. Arch frowned, as if deciding whether to indulge Sukie with an answer.

  “Actually,” he said finally, his voice raised over another sudden cold wind. “I do know about castle wells. People living in the castle had to have their water supply inside the fortress walls, in the event of siege. They didn’t want the enemy poisoning their drinking supply. Do you use it for the castle’s water?”

  “Oh, no,” Sukie answered, apparently delighted with his interest. “Eliot’s grandfather had a new water system put in, and Eliot’s father used insurance money to get the whole plumbing system upgraded, after Fox Creek flooded in ’82.”

  She gestured for us to go through the door she’d opened to the next large space, the dining room. Here, the walls had been painted a creamy yellow, which was the perfect complement for the lime, pink, and cream Persian rug, walnut dining-room table and chairs, and large matching buffet and glass-fronted wine cabinet, one of the two places Eliot kept his jam supply. No doubt, this furniture was also gen-yoo-ine antique, the kind Tom, but not I, could have dated and placed.

  “And this is the buttery, Arch,” Sukie explained. “Or at least it used to be. Bottles of ale were kept here. The wine cellar was underneath. Next door to the buttery was the stillroom, where they made preserves, and next to that was a bedroom. We combined all three rooms for the dining room and kitchen. Eliot makes his jams in the kitchen, since the stillroom is kaput. Wait until you taste his goodies. Your mother loved them.”

  “I did indeed,” I murmured, as we entered the kitchen. I had been in this grand cooking-and-serving space on my earlier visit. Four electrified chandeliers provided the lighting. Glass-fronted maple cupboards with painted porcelain handles rose above a shiny backsplash of blue-and-white Delft tiles. A maple corner cupboard was also crammed with jars of preserves. Overhead, an immense, hook-studded iron rack hung from the ceiling. From each hook dangled a darkened pot or roasting pan, some of them massive enough to roast a flock of geese. One wall boasted framed photos and reproduction signs from English taverns. Along the other wall, cozy embers glowed in one of the two stone hearths. In spite of the flickering electrified candles, shadows filled the kitchen’s corners like smoke.

  Arch’s insistent voice cracked next to my ear. “I have to get ready for school. Now, Mom.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be going to a place where you can change in a minute,” I said quickly, feeling my irritation flare. But he was right. Sukie’s leisurely early-morning guided tour of her castle was getting on my nerves, too.

  Arch glared at me. “When?”

  I squared my shoulders, shot him a reproving look, and asked Sukie, who was donning heavy pot-holder mitts, “Is Michaela—Miss Kirovsky, that is—coming over here? I mean, to the kitchen?”

  “Any minute, just … agh!” Sukie had pulled open her oven door, and a cloud of black smoke billowed out. Somewhere nearby a smoke alarm started shrieking. “Oh, dam-mit!” she hollered. Dropping the pot holders, she pulled out the charred coffee cake with her bare hands. She immediately let go of the pan and screamed bloody murder.

  “Eeoyow! Hilft! Mutti!”

  “Cold water!” I cried. “Now! Now!”

  She didn’t move. I tugged her to the sink, where I ran cold water over her hands while murmuring comforting words. Tears streamed down Sukie’s perfectly made-up cheeks. When I was sure she was going to stay put, I grabbed two folded kitchen towels and picked up the offending coffee cake pan from the floor. One of the first things I’d learned working in a professional kitchen was not to dump smoking food into the trash. I tossed the coffee cake under a second faucet, then dashed to the ovens and turned on every ventilation fan I could find. Within minutes, the smoke had abated and the alarm had mercifully quieted.

  Sukie stopped crying, inspected her fingers, and wrapped a wet towel around her left hand. Arch continued to give me his I-really-need-to-talk-to-you look. I didn’t know what to say. Excuse me, Sukie, but may my son and I leave you, your burned hands, and your smoke-stinking kitchen so we can confer in your nondairy buttery?

  Arch tugged my sleeve. “Ah, I need to drop my stuff somewhere before I go to school. I need to do my hair, too, and finish getting ready. Okay? Please? And I do want Miss Kirovsky to take me to school, so you, Mom, can track down that lawyer and find out where Dad is.”

  “Okay,” I promised in a low voice. I pressed the power button on my cell phone. The tiny screen told me the phone was Looking for service, which is the telecommunications euphemism for You’re out of luck! “Sukie, I’m desperate for a telephone. Is there one nearby?”

  She said patiently, “It is just half past six.”

  “It’s okay,” I replied. It’s half past eight in New Jersey, and that’s the only time that counts right now. I said, “I really need to talk to my husband before he leaves for the airport.” After that, I would fulfill my promise to Arch and leave a message for Pat Gerber, the assistant district attorney for Furman County. Clearly, the Department of Corrections was taking its sweet time getting around to informing us of its plans for the Jerk. Pat Gerber would give me the straight scoop—if I could find her.

  “There is a phone on that wall—” Sukie began, but we were interrupted at that moment by the entrance of Eliot Hyde.

  He banged open the heavy wooden door, glided into the kitchen, and surveyed his wife, his caterer, and his caterer’s son. Then he sniffed the air suspiciously. The flickering chandelier turned errant strands of his hair to gold. This morning, Eliot’s movie-star features and sad brown eyes seemed even more striking than before. He wore the ubiquitous silk scarf above a long, flowing bathrobe of royal blue velvet. Tender Is the Nightgown. Arch stared at Eliot Hyde with his mouth open.

  “Cheerio!” Eliot called to us, as if we numbered in the hundreds, instead of just three. “Welcome to our castle!”

  “Mom!” Arch was tugging on my sleeve again. “When can we—”

  �
��Honey,” I pleaded. “Stop! You’re driving me nuts!”

  Ignoring this, Eliot Hyde sniffed the air again and looked around. “Aw, honeykins, did you burn another one?”

  To my dismay, before Sukie could reply, my son turned and bolted from the kitchen. After a stunned second, I scooted after him, paddling hard through an ocean of guilt.

  Eliot called plaintively after us, “What did I say?”

  CHAPTER 5

  I caught up with Arch by the well. “Look, hon—”

  “I want to leave. I want to see Dad. I want to know why our window was shot at. What if someone tried to shoot at Dad, too? Maybe that’s why he hasn’t gotten in touch with me. Did you ever think of that, Mom? Maybe somebody’s trying to get us all.”

  Most of the time, Arch kept his feelings well in control. Now he was worried about his father, worried about the house, worried about me. Added up, this was too big a burden for a teenager.

  “Arch, please,” I told him, “the cops are working on the bullet through the window. Once, when I was little? Somebody threw a snowball packed with gravel through our picture window. Who ever heard of such a thing happening in a nice neighborhood of a small New Jersey town? The kid who threw it said it was a prank. So that’s what I think. Whoever shot out our window was either drunk or playing a joke. Trust me, your father can take care of himself. Please, let’s go back.”

  He mumbled, “If that’s true, then it’s a stupid joke,” but grudgingly returned to the kitchen. Sukie had her hands in a bowl of ice water. Eliot had moved to the counter to make tea, and Arch squinted at the back of the royal blue robe, which we could now see was embroidered with the words “His Highness.” His water-heating mission complete, Eliot flowed back to the island and cocked an aristocratic eyebrow at Arch and me. The robe swirled around his ankles.

  “I understand you two had a spot of trouble.”

  “We did,” I replied. I did not want to discuss the window anymore. “Thank you so much for taking us in. Now if we could just—”