Sticks & Scones

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “There were photo albums on the desk down there?” Armstrong looked skeptical.

  “I’m not sure …” I lied. But I could not tell Boyd and Armstrong that I was seeking the identity of her. Moreover, I was not ready to admit I thought a) that my husband might be having an affair and b) that I was snooping around in his stuff to get the answer to a).

  “I need that picture,” I repeated firmly. “And the photo albums are down there somewhere. I think,” I added. I was trying to sound confused in the aftermath of the attack. I knew full well that our albums were in an upstairs closet.

  “If they’re in the basement, we can’t get them now. We’ll taint the crime scene,” Armstrong murmured. “Do you have any ideas who might have hit you?”

  I told them about the bowlegged man who’d showed up claiming he was sent to fix the window. I also told them about the woman in the car. Trudy would be eager to talk about the mysterious beauty in the station wagon, I said, and she had her license plate number, too. Armstrong checked to see if either the glass truck or the car was still outside. Neither was.

  “Could you please tell me about Andy Balachek?” I asked when he returned.

  Boyd sighed. “They finished the autopsy last night. Did it extra fast because Tom was shot at the scene. But Goldy,” he added hastily, “we need to run through what happened with the window shooting first. Who you think might have done it and why. It may be connected to this attack on you. Then we’ll talk about Balachek.”

  And so, for the third time, I told my story. I played Chardé’s message for them. They asked for the tape and I gave it to them.

  “There’s something else,” I added. “I saw Chardé Lauderdale at the hospital while I was waiting to see how Tom was.”

  Boyd stopped scribbling and looked up, frowning. “What was she doing?”

  “Nothing. Standing at the waiting-room window.”

  Boyd and Armstrong exchanged a look. Then Boyd took a deep breath. “Mrs. Lauderdale has already complained to Captain Lambert about being questioned over your window shooting. She gave him an earful, especially since she and her husband keep getting calls about the child-abuse case. I guess the newspaper article didn’t help.”

  I shuddered when I thought back to the sensationalist Mountain Journal headline: “Caterer in Hot Water Over Attempt to Save Child.” I said, “I’m supposed to see the Lauderdales Thursday at a lunch I’m catering. Chardé’ll probably behave herself there. And if she shows up here or at the castle, I’ll call you right away.”

  “All right,” said Boyd, nodding. “Now we need to know about what happened yesterday morning after you left here, up to the point where Tom was shot.”

  I recited the events of the previous morning. I added that I hadn’t heard back from Pat Gerber, and they mumbled something about the A.D.A. being the hardest person in the county to reach. I told them Eliot and Sukie Hyde had been extraordinarily nice and welcoming.

  Boyd said, “Tell us about finding Balachek.”

  I hesitated. Boyd and Armstrong worked well together. They dug for the right data and usually shed light on a case. Before, when I’d wanted information on an investigation that involved someone I knew, I’d had to wheedle it out of them. Now I needed their theory on who had murdered Andy Balachek and why. It was highly probable, I reasoned, that Andy’s killer either shot Tom or knew who had. But looking at their impassive, suspicious-cop faces, I was reminded of oysters that no pliers were ever going to open.

  “I had to check the chapel to see if the portable dining tables had been delivered for the luncheon. When I parked and looked down at the creek, Andy was in it.” Boyd and Armstrong waited for me to go on. I asked, “So what was the cause of death?”

  When they resolutely said nothing, I thought back. Andy had been wearing a lumberjack plaid shirt and jeans. I didn’t remember seeing a jacket on him, much less blood staining his clothes. What he had had was … wait.

  “His hands were black,” I exclaimed. “Was he tortured before he died? Then someone shot him and threw his body there?” The oyster faces looked mildly surprised. I was right. “Now are you going to tell me what your theory is?”

  Boyd shook his head. “We don’t know who dumped Balachek in the creek.” He stabbed a stubby finger at me. “And you, Sherlock, can’t divulge anything about the color of his hands.”

  “Was he shocked electrically?” I asked. They groaned. I pressed on. “Seems as if I remember somebody else dying of electrocution. The former spouse of someone at the castle, yes? Ring any bells?”

  Again, the two cops looked at one another. Boyd sighed. “Carl Rourke, Sukie Hyde’s first husband, died in a freak electrical accident while working on a roof.”

  “Do you think there’s any correlation between the two deaths?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” Armstrong said. “I repeat, Goldy, you can not talk about Balachek’s burned hands, or the possibility of electric shock, with anyone. It’s a key.”

  Uh-huh. Before I could protest or reply, our doorbell rang again. Three men from the sheriff’s department had arrived to process the basement. I showed them in, then murmured to Boyd and Armstrong that if they weren’t going to share their theories on what had happened to Balachek, I really needed to get back to my injured husband.

  “We’ll be calling Tom,” Boyd told me. “We’ve got copies of all of Andy’s e-mails. Last one was ten days ago. Then he called you, wanting Tom. Said he was in Central City, but might go to Jersey after that. We’re wondering if Balachek tried to communicate after that phone call. Like by another e-mail, phone call, whatever.”

  Maybe he sent Tom something by FedEx, I almost joked, but, for once, refrained. Had Tom mentioned anything else, they wanted to know?

  Well, there’s some woman. “No,” I replied without looking at them. “He didn’t. At least, not that I know of.”

  They said that was all for now, but they were staying at our house for a while, if that was all right. The doorbell bonged again and I went to get it. Thinking it was more cops, I pulled the door open without checking the peephole.

  It was the Jerk, with Viv Martini at his side.

  He looked thin and pale, and his face seemed hard, a tad less confident. The effect of several months in prison, no doubt. He wore charcoal pants, a yellow pullover, and what looked like a new reversible down jacket, black on one side, bright blue on the other, visible at the open neck. His still good-looking face, though, revealed a dark mood. Viv, with her thin face and body, spiked blond hair, black-heeled boots, tight black pants, and fashionably poufed black nylon jacket, looked as if she were on her way to a stint with a punk rock band. When she unzipped the jacket, a tight V-neck revealing her significant cleavage sprang into view.

  “Get out here,” ordered John Richard, his command rigid with anger.

  Without saying a word, I slammed the door and dashed back to the dining room. I told Boyd and Armstrong what was going on and asked them to accompany me back to the porch. Just in case, I added.

  Oh, my, how I delighted in the look of dismayed surprise that clouded the Jerk’s face when the conspicuously armed Boyd and Armstrong stepped onto the porch behind me. When we were all outside—John Richard and Viv to one side, me with my cop buddies beside the porch swing—Sharks and Jets—I asked the Jerk what he wanted.

  “I want my son.” His voice was thick with the attempt to be simultaneously mean and conciliatory. “How dare you slap a restraining order on me? It’s a good thing it’s temporary, because I am going to stomp you so bad in two weeks, you’re going to wish you’d moved to Florida. I already got the story on what happened to you here, by the way.”

  “You’re in violation of a restraining order, and you’re out on probation, buster,” said Boyd. “So watch your mouth. And if you move even an inch closer to your ex-wife, I’m going to arrest you.”

  “I wasn’t talking to you,” the Jerk retorted. Viv sidled closer to John Richard, slipped her hands around his waist, then slid her f
ingers inside his belt. John Richard stiffened and actually blushed.

  “Move back, ma’am,” Boyd ordered. This Viv did, but with a reluctant pout. John Richard gulped. His time in jail must have made him awfully horny. Apparently, he’d found just the right gal to meet his needs.

  Boyd walked up to John Richard. He folded his arms, lifted his chin, and waited. John Richard took a step backward, right onto Viv’s toes, and she squawked. I wondered if she was having the tiniest flicker of doubt about her new boyfriend’s power. After a moment’s hesitation, she took another precarious step back from John Richard. I felt … well … triumphant.

  “I’ll make arrangements for you to see Arch,” I told John Richard. “Call your lawyer.”

  John Richard’s voice was cold. His eyes stayed on Boyd. “We want to see him today. We’re going to take him back to my place, not some stranger’s castle, where you have to stay because somebody else you pissed off is taking potshots at windows in your house.”

  I looked at Viv, who widened her black-lined eyes at me. In a deep, sexy voice, she said, “Windows don’t turn me on, Goldy.”

  I raised an eyebrow at her. “Mac user?”

  “Knock it off,” John Richard snarled.

  “I’ll call your lawyer,” I repeated to him. “Now, leave. Please.”

  “You have not heard the last of this,” John Richard said softly.

  “Ooh,” Viv murmured. She leaned toward the Jerk’s ear and purred, “I love it when you threaten the rough stuff.” As I shook my head, John Richard took Viv’s hand and descended the porch steps.

  “You haven’t heard even the beginning of the last of this,” John Richard shot over his shoulder.

  How very unfortunate, I thought as he climbed into the driver’s seat of the gold Mercedes. How very unfortunate, indeed.

  CHAPTER 13

  Head pounding, body aching, I trod upstairs, tossed a slew of outfits and odds and ends for Tom, Arch, and me into a large suitcase, and retrieved the canvas sack Tom had filled with our photo albums. There were bound to be several photos of the Jerk in one of the old books … enough for the Hydes and Michaela to get a good image of the guy who needed to be kept out of the castle.

  And then the suspicious side of me, that voice I wished would be quiet, insisted I had one more thing I needed to do. I called to Boyd and Armstrong that I would be right down.

  Rifling through Tom’s bureau made me wish that Episcopalians were as big on confession as Catholics. Yes, “reconciliation of a penitent” was a sacrament available to us. But it wasn’t so common among the Chosen Frozen that the thought of cleansing away my sin—in this case, deliberately invading my husband’s privacy—made committing the sin any easier. So I felt like a heel. Still, if there were love letters, charge receipts, anything, I wanted to find them, because I needed to know what was going on. After five minutes of frantic searching, I came up with nothing. Of course not, I thought, as I carried the suitcase and heavy sack of albums down the steps. I didn’t really think he’d cheat on me, did I?

  The suspicious voice admitted that I wasn’t sure.

  Boyd heaved the suitcase and sack into my van, then turned to me. “I don’t want you and Tom moving back in here until we catch these guys, understand? We’re putting a twenty-four-hour guard on the house, starting now.”

  I sighed, but nodded. Boyd told me to call anytime if I needed help. I promised I would. I thanked him for helping with Dr. Korman and for pulling together a team to watch our place. He nodded impassively. When he walked back to the house, I saw Trudy and Jake watching him from her window. Jake’s morose face about broke my heart.

  I sat in my van and tried to think. My head throbbed. I couldn’t face another historic-food discussion with Eliot Hyde just then. John Richard knew Arch was in school. His appearance at our house must have been meant to intimidate me. For a moment, I savored the memory of that astonished look on his face when confronted with two armed cops.

  But what about the mystery woman who’d been sitting in the rusty station wagon? Did she know we were staying at the castle? Had she followed me there after shooting out the window?

  Was she the one who’d shot Tom? Was she the one Tom didn’t love?

  I glanced around at the sack of photo albums on the floor. That suspicious voice again wormed its way into my brain … maybe this was where he’d stashed his credit card receipts for flowers, motel visits, jewelry. On the other hand, perhaps being whacked on the head and sustaining a visit from a violent narcissist unleashed more industrial-strength paranoia in the cerebral cortex.

  I dug reluctantly into the bag of albums. As it turned out, Tom had purchased another photo album since our wedding. He hadn’t mounted anything in it, but he’d tidily rubber-banded the photos from the last year and stuck them inside. Guilt juiced through my veins when I saw Tom’s pictures of me barbecuing for our little family’s first picnic, of Julian standing by the fountain at the University of Colorado student union. I scooped up the photos and slapped them back inside the new album. Then, unable to help myself, I finished my nefarious snooping task, shaking each of our old albums to see if any incriminating papers fell out.

  An old envelope dropped to the van floor. I bent and retrieved it. Inside was a snapshot of John Richard in his white doctor coat. His blond hair tousled, his hands in his pockets, he was smiling with all the charm that had hypnotized so many women—me included. I didn’t remember saving the picture, but perhaps I had and just didn’t recall. Or maybe Arch, ever the idealist when it came to his father, had tucked it away. I slipped the picture back into the envelope and dropped it into my purse.

  Finally I reached Tom’s own ancient album. When I shook it, newspaper articles and stray photos cascaded into my lap. “Army Veteran Graduates First,” screamed a proud headline of the Furman County Sheriff’s Department newsletter, detailing Tom’s triumphant graduation at the top of his class from police academy. “Top Cop Honored” was another one, for the time Tom had received an award for finding a group of paintings stolen from a Denver art dealer and stashed in an Aspen Meadow garage. Then there was a much older photograph: Tom in his Cub Scout uniform, curly sandy-brown hair, chubby cheeks, crooked smile.

  It was too much. I cracked open the yellowed pages of the old album and admired each photo of my dear Tom. As I worked my way through the book, I tried to replace each item I’d shaken loose in its original order.

  Page after page showed Tom with school friends, in his army uniform, with cop buddies. My suspicion turned to pride, then to bitter humiliation for doubting him. He had been delirious after he’d been wounded yesterday, that was all there was to it. I had replaced nearly every article and photo when, suddenly, I was brought up short.

  “Local Nurse Reported Killed in Mekong Delta Helo Crash” was the headline from a 1975 article. I stared down at it and recalled what I knew: that Tom had been engaged to a woman named Sara who’d been a few years ahead of him in high school. Sara had gone to nursing school and then been assigned to a Mobile Army Surgical Hospital, a MASH, in Vietnam. As soon as he turned eighteen, Tom had enlisted and followed her over. That was all that he’d told me, except that they’d never actually seen each other in that war-ravaged country before she was killed. But hadn’t she died in an artillery shelling, not a helicopter crash?

  There was a graduation photo of her in her white nurse’s cap and uniform. Sara Beth O’Malley had been a pretty young woman with wavy dark hair and a face glowing with youth, enthusiasm, and pride. I swallowed. On the photo, she’d written: Love you forever, S.B.

  I sat there for a long time. I’d seen her, of course. Her face was now thinner, the youthful glow long gone. But the years had not rendered her unrecognizable. I’d announced I was Goldy Schulz. I’m just waiting, she’d said, when I’d stared into the battered station wagon. She’d started the car and pulled away. I’d been so eager to suspect her that I hadn’t registered—much less understood—her expression as she whipped the wagon away from
the curb.

  Her lips had trembled; her eyes had been filled with pain.

  A cold wind rocked the van as I started down our street. Questions tumbled through my mind: Is she really Sara? What was she doing here? I remembered the title of one of Tom’s e-mails. Call to State Department. Even worse, I wondered how in the world I was going to broach all this to Tom. Hey, honey? Any old flames still burning? I did wonder how someone who’d been reported dead in Vietnam could disappear for all these years. If the woman in the station wagon was Sara Beth O’Malley, where had she been for the last couple of decades?

  And in the question department, I had a few more: Why had our computers been stolen? Could Sara Beth O’Malley have doubled back to pick them up? No … it had to have been “Morris Hart,” whoever he was. Besides the e-mails from Sara Beth, there had been all those communications from Andy to Tom. Was Morris Hart connected somehow with the stamp thieves? Was he Ray Wolff’s missing partner?

  To the west, swirls of fog scudded in front of a thin cloud cover the hue of gray flannel. My stomach growled. It was already eleven forty-five of a morning that felt far too long and threatened snow. My body was not going to allow me another crisis-laden day without regular meals.

  Nevertheless, there was a place I wanted to visit before returning to Hyde Castle. Some injuries you take very personally. Your husband being shot, for example. I did not know if the Hydes and Chardé would still be at the chapel, where I definitely wanted to look around. But another site I wanted to check was the one staked out by the shooter. No doubt, the Furman County Sheriff’s Department would do a good job investigating. But an attempt on Tom’s life was too traumatic for me to just go back to the day-to-day life of catering without making sure the department was doing a thorough job. I envisioned Tom rolling his eyes.