Sticks & Scones

by Diane Mott Davidson

  I choked. “Viv Martini? She’s involved with these crooks?” Why had Tom not told me this? “Viv is my ex-husband’s girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, so we heard. The woman gets around. Our most recent information was that Martini was involved with Ray Wolff. Last month, we thought we spotted her at a Denver hotel, either alone or with Andy Balachek. Then we heard she was interested in John Richard Korman.”

  She gets around? That seemed an understatement. To my way of thinking, the Furman County Jail sounded postively incestuous. I remembered Arch’s words: Dad stole the girlfriend of one of the convicts. The guy was pretty pissed off and yelled at Dad that he’d get back at him. But Dad and Viv are doing okay. Viv told me she’s happier with someone finishing a prison stint than with someone who’s just getting started on one. She likes it that Dad has money. He told her he was buying her something nice, a Mercedes or maybe a trip to Rio.

  I felt as if I were inside the washing machine with all the Jerk’s dirty laundry, past and future. Let’s see: The Jerk stole the hijacker’s girlfriend. This past Friday, the Department of Corrections released the Jerk. Very early today, Monday morning, someone blasted out our front window. Two hours ago, Tom, who arrested the hijacker, was shot, right next to where the corpse of the hijacker’s murdered young partner, the man Tom had been seeking in Atlantic City, had been dumped.

  Even a paranoid has real enemies.

  The captain’s pager beeped. “I’ve gotta go make this call from my car,” Lambert informed me, and left.

  I used the waiting-room desk phone to call Marla again. My watch said half past nine. While I was waiting to be switched to my friend’s voice mail, I ate one of the two emergency chocolate truffles I keep in my purse, then tore into a cellophane-wrapped package of crackers left for waiting-room families. Feeling slightly better, I told Marla’s messaging that Tom was now in with a vascular surgeon.

  “Please call the hospital’s main number and see if they’ll page me,” I added. “I’m still hoping you can bring Arch to the hospital so we can decide what to do. I’ll be spending the night here. Oh, and I’m desperate for some clean clothes, if you can scrounge anything up. Thanks, friend.”

  Captain Lambert trundled back into the waiting room. “Okay,” he began without preamble, “our guys on the hill just called in a preliminary report. What they think are the shooter’s footprints start by a picnic table in Cottonwood Park, then go down to a spot across from the creek, then back up to the table. At the point across the creek, a tech found a spent shell. There are some tire tracks by the picnic table. So someone was watching from above, then came back down to do the shooting, then went back up to his vehicle. Was the person waiting for Tom? Was the shooter waiting for the person who found Balachek’s body? But that was you, right? Would the perp have waited all day to shoot at a cop? We can’t tell yet.”

  Waiting for Tom? Waiting for any cop? My thoughts whirled. If you’d murdered Andy Balachek, why not just leave? Why stay?

  The captain continued, “The investigative team has begun detection around the body. Rigor’s already set in, so he’d been dead for a while. Which makes even less sense. How long had the perp been waiting up in the pines? Hours? Oh, and by the way, all this is for your ears only, Goldy,” he warned.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Okay.” As if I was going to ask some stranger how to make sense out of all this.

  “Okay, regarding your house,” the captain said, switching back to his reassuring tone. “Since your security system’s down from the shooting, your neighbor Trudy volunteered to watch your house. Another thing you should be aware of: I’ve assigned two of Tom’s men to investigate this case. Officers Boyd and Armstrong. Boyd will be lead investigator.”

  I felt relief. The captain also had a long message from Marla, who had called the sheriff’s department. She’d pulled Arch from school, Lambert reported. She and Arch were going to Boulder to find someone named Julian. Then the three of them were coming here to the hospital. Lambert talked on about how the policemen’s wives had wanted to organize meals to be sent to the castle, where he assumed Arch and I would want to stay, but they weren’t sure if I’d want them, with me being a caterer and all. I smiled involuntarily at the image of historic-food buff Eliot Hyde peering into a tuna noodle casserole. I thanked the captain and assured him meals would not be necessary.

  While Lambert sat patiently, I paced for another hour. Finally a young, grim-faced doctor in surgical clothes came into the room. “Mrs. Schulz?” He nodded at Lambert. A pins-and-needles anxiety swept over me.

  Dr. Dan Spier, vascular surgeon, was concise. His small fingers indicated on his own chest the bullet’s point of entry. It had indeed gone through soft tissue only. He talked about the surgery his team had undertaken, and told me that Tom’s shoulder would have to be immobilized for about a month, although he could start moving around as soon as he felt up to it. Tom was lucky, Spier continued dryly, that no bone had been hit, lucky that the weapon had not been an automatic, lucky that there had been only one bullet. And he was particularly lucky, Spier added with a pinched smile, that I’d had the presence of mind to compress the wound.

  Lucky. I turned the word over in my mind.

  Spier concluded by saying I would receive discharge instructions on changing the bandage and on bringing Tom back in to be examined. As long as all went well during a night in ICU, Tom could go home in the morning.

  “That seems early,” I protested. How could we go home, until the cops had a better sense of who the shooter was? And if we didn’t go home, how would the Hydes take to having a wounded cop recuperating at their place?

  Spier shook his head. “It’s not really early. All you have to do is keep an eye on the wound and get the patient to rest.” I thanked Spier. He nodded impassively and left.

  Finally, finally, I was allowed to see Tom. His skin was yellow. With an IV in his arm and oxygen tubes up his nose, he appeared utterly helpless. The bedsheet rose and fell as he slept. I closed his hand in mine. His eyelids flickered but did not open. I love you, I told him silently. I love you now and forever and ever. No matter what.

  A Furman County deputy was stationed outside the ICU. An older nurse with a flat midwestern accent told me I could see Tom ten minutes each hour, the usual drill. I should not try to wake him.

  “It’s going to be a rough twenty-four hours for you, Mrs. Schulz,” she warned, her voice laced with sympathy. “You might want to get some family here with you. Get yourself something to eat.”

  “Rough,” I repeated numbly.

  But we’re lucky, oh so lucky. Tom is alive.

  I told the nurse I would be back in an hour. When she turned to talk to a family whose daughter had just come out of surgery, I walked unsteadily to the ICU waiting room.

  CHAPTER 9

  Tom opened his eyes once, on my second visit to the ICU. When he turned his head a fraction, I jumped to his side and carefully took the hand not connected to an IV. I asked him how he felt. He groaned but said nothing before the medicated fog reclaimed him. With grim determination, I continued my hourly visits through the afternoon.

  At six o’clock, Marla burst into the ICU waiting room with Arch and Julian Teller in tow. To their worried barrage of questions about Tom’s condition, I replied that he’d had surgery and was on the mend. Arch, fighting back tears, gave me a brief squeeze before withdrawing behind Julian and Marla. Julian stepped forward and hugged me hard. His handsome face now boasted a college-grown mustache and goatee. Not tall, he possessed a lean, muscular, swimmer’s body, barely visible as he shoved his hands into pockets of a khaki outfit that resembled an oversize uniform of the French Foreign Legion. When he pulled away, he ran his hand through his tobacco-brown hair, now a mown thatch, and mumbled that he felt terrible, that he couldn’t believe someone had shot at us, that he wished he could have been at the hospital earlier.

  “Julian.” I pulled him in for another embrace. For almost three years, Julian Teller had been a much-lo
ved member of our extended family. Not only was he dedicated to becoming a vegetarian chef, he was a great kid to boot. So I wasn’t going to listen to him apologize about anything. “You say you’re sorry again, we’ll have Steak Tartare for breakfast.”

  Julian’s mouth twisted into a shy smile. “I left messages for my professors.” His body tensed with energy as he tried to make his shrug appear offhand. “Told them I was taking a few days off for a family emergency. I mean, I was already set to help you with that banquet Friday night. I can stay a few weeks if you need it. And if the people at the castle wouldn’t mind having me,” he added, his eyes pleading. I started to say that he need not leave school indefinitely, but stopped when I glimpsed Arch’s worried face. It would be good for him to have Julian around for a while. Julian was an excellent student and would manage. Whether the Hydes would welcome yet another live-in guest was another matter.

  “Let me check with the castle owners,” I murmured.

  Marla, her face set in forced jollity, bustled forward in one of her “February is for Valentine’s Day” outfits: a long-sleeved scarlet knit dress patterned with white hearts the size of fried eggs. Her voice was matter-of-fact. “We’re all taking a few days or weeks off or whatever Tom needs. Who do these criminals think they are, anyway?” The dish-size hearts trembled as Marla handed me a shopping bag and leaned forward for her hug. “Sweat suit from the Brown Palace Gift Shop. I’m so sorry this is happening,” she whispered in my ear. “If I had a husband I loved the way you love Tom, I’d be hysterical. You don’t think El Jerko did this, do you?”

  “Not sure,” I murmured, then, in a louder voice, thanked her for the clothes and for bringing the boys. I turned my attention back to Arch. His static-filled brown hair, thick glasses, and pinched expression gave him the look of a young professor whose experiments had all failed. He waited until the others had hugged and spoken to me before giving me another hug.

  “Mom.” He kept his voice low. “Did they try to shoot you, too?”

  “No,” I said lightly, trying to be matter-of-fact. Arch still suffered from the occasional nightmare, and I needed to reassure him.

  “I’m sorry I lost my cool this morning.”

  “It’s okay.”

  It was not a bad apology, as apologies went. Obviously, he was afraid to ask about Tom yet. I answered the rest of their questions by giving the barest details of what had happened. Tom was almost certainly coming back to the castle the next morning, I said. The Hydes would just have to understand. After all, where else could we go?

  We took turns seeing Tom. With his slack, jaundiced face, IV streaming under the bandage on his arm, and his heavy snoring, he looked and sounded terrible. At eight forty-five the priest from St. Luke’s showed up. He saw Tom alone, and then the five of us prayed together briefly in the waiting room.

  At nine-thirty, a yawning Marla announced that the boys should come back with her to the Brown Palace. Arch protested that he couldn’t, that all his bags, clothes, and “stuff” were at Hyde Castle, and by the time they drove to Aspen Meadow, picked up his paraphernalia, and schlepped back to Denver, it would be morning and he’d have to leave for school. Julian jumped in to say he had a sleeping bag in his Range Rover and could drive Arch back to the castle. And, he added, he could find the castle at night with no problem. He was willing to sleep on a couch or even on the floor of Arch’s room, if the Hydes would allow it. Then he could take Arch to and from school and help with the historical cooking. “I’ll stay for as long as you want,” he concluded in a tone that brooked no argument.

  “Thanks for the offer,” I told him. “But it’s up to the Hydes.”

  Marla left to call Eliot and Sukie about Julian’s request to be housed at the castle. When she returned, she said she’d talked to Eliot, who couldn’t have been nicer.

  “‘Yes,’ he gushed,” Marla said, imitating Eliot’s sonorous voice, “‘bring the injured policeman, bring the college student, we’ll have a grand household here just as they did in medieval times.’ He was slightly freaked out that you’d found the body of Andy Balachek,” she added. “Apparently, Andy used to come to the castle quite a bit when he was little, because his father, Peter—the excavator, do you know him?—rebuilt the Hydes’ dam after Fox Creek flooded. Eliot didn’t know ‘poor little Andy’ might be involved in illegal activity. So he’s spooked.”

  “Great,” I muttered.

  “Oh-kay,” Marla went on, “Eliot also asked if you would be able to cater the labyrinth-donor lunch in three days, on Thursday. The police should be finished with the crime scene by then, he figures. Oh, and the St. Luke’s staff is going to call all the donors, to notify them of the change.” She raised her eyebrows at me. “Eliot was also worried that doing both the lunch and the fencing banquet on Friday might be too much for you.” She grinned mischievously. “I knew you didn’t have any catering events until Saturday night’s Valentine’s Day dance. So I told him Thursday would be fine. Hope that’s okay. I also offered Julian’s services both days. The king of the castle,” Marla said with a toss of her head, “was able to retire in peace.”

  “Wearing his nightcap, no doubt.”

  “Are you kidding? Wearing a crown.” She frowned. “So you’re all right with that catering schedule?”

  “Absolutely, thanks. Tom needs to rest. Julian and I can do big-time cooking. It’ll be good for us.”

  “Really,” added Julian.

  “Come on, guys,” Arch pleaded wearily, “I’ve got a ton of English homework, and I’ve got to use the binoculars to see what phase Venus is in. The teachers don’t excuse missed assignments unless you yourself are in the hospital. Maybe not even then,” he added glumly. Poor Arch!

  We made sketchy plans. Elk Park Prep had a late start the next day, so if the hospital released Tom early enough, we might return to the castle before Arch and Julian left for school. After Tom was settled in our castle suite, I’d finally go home for the disk that had my recipes and notes on historic English food, plus information on how castles were run, and background on labyrinths—all areas Eliot had asked me to research. I’d also find a photograph of the Jerk, I added silently, for the benefit of castle security. Then Julian and I would plunge into finishing the planning and doing the cooking for the luncheon and dinner. Before the three of them left, we gave each other one last reassuring hug.

  When they’d gone, however, I felt a flood of loneliness, as if the events of the day were just now catching up with me. I changed into the gift-shop sweat suit. But dozing on the waiting-room couch did not seem to be in the cards. The bright overhead lights, intercom announcements, and shuffling and buzzing of folks in the hall, not to mention my own awareness of each upcoming ten-minute visit, all conspired against it. Chardé Lauderdale, I found out from a nurse who was an old friend, had indeed been in with baby Patty for a visit to the neurologist. To my relief, Chardé did not appear again.

  Finally, near dawn, slumber overwhelmed me. Bad dreams brought visions of Andy’s body in the creek, the crack of a gunshot, Tom falling toward me, his arms outstretched. The expression on his face … I unintentionally shouted myself awake, only to look up into the eyes of Captain Lambert.

  He’d brought me a still-hot, four-shot latté, bless him, made just the way Tom had once told him I liked it. Chilled and stiff from my restless night, throat sore, eyes gummed from crying, I gratefully sipped the rich drink. The captain waved my thanks away and pointed to a brown paper bag.

  “I brought a department sweat suit Tom’s size. And we had your van towed up to the castle. Workmen’s comp is paying for everything, including an ambulance to take Tom back to the castle with you, unless you want to go someplace else. We’ve had lots of offers from his friends. Tom has lots of friends,” he reminded me gently.

  “Thanks, but all my cooking equipment is at the castle, and I’m doing two events for the Hydes this week. If Tom’s up to it, I’d love to get out of here ASAP.”

  Lambert obligingly pulled
strings. I received my instructions about caring for him once he was released. Tom was discharged ten minutes later. That’s the great thing about cops. Even doctors are afraid of them, almost as much as they are of lawyers.

  An orderly piloted Tom to the discharge doors and then into the waiting ambulance. Captain Lambert strode along next to the wheelchair and told me Boyd and Armstrong would be up to the castle that afternoon to talk to me. Once Tom was strapped into the back of the ambulance and the wheelchair was folded and stored beside him, I climbed in. A moment later we were bumping out of the parking lot.

  “I’m sorry to put you through this,” were Tom’s first words. Nonplussed, I blurted out my own apology. How wrong I’d been not to leave that area by the creek when he’d told me to. How I shouldn’t have run to welcome him.

  He shook his head. “I should have waited till backup arrived.” His voice was hoarse, his breathing labored. “Then you never would have jumped out. No … blame.” When he stopped talking, I knew better than to reply. “Andy,” he added fiercely.

  I squeezed Tom’s hand. “Don’t think about him. In fact, Tom? Don’t talk at all.”

  “I want to get on with this.” He spoke slowly, insistently. “I need to get back to—”

  “Tom, please. You’ve got to heal.”

  “Working heals me.”

  “Tom—”

  “Where was I?” He squinted at the beige ceiling of the ambulance interior. “Oh, yeah….Andy just makes me so damn mad. Made me mad. And now he’s got himself dead.”

  I didn’t care about Andy Balachek; I cared only about Tom. Clearly, he wasn’t going to follow doctor’s orders and stay quiet. He didn’t want that. He wanted to talk about the corpse in the creek. “Okay,” I said. “Balachek’s death was avoidable. Why?”