Sticks & Scones

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Marla said, “And you know those leather duds Viv wears, well, there’s only one leather specialty shop in Beaver Creek, and the owner is a good friend of mine—”

  I nodded, paying little attention. Last month, Furman County had been the scene of the murder of a FedEx driver and the theft of his three-million-dollar cargo. Yesterday, the body of one of the suspected hijackers had been found. Now, if I wasn’t making too much of a leap, a former girlfriend of Ray Wolff, the guy accused of masterminding the robbery, was doing a big real estate deal with a doctor whose assault conviction might not be known in ultrachic Beaver Creek. Was John Richard scamming the HMO? Was it possible that Viv Martini was laundering money through real estate? How probable was it that John Richard was being taken for a ride by his new girlfriend? Maybe John Richard would have to go back to jail. A shiver of delight wriggled down my spine.

  “What do you suppose is the attraction between those two?” Marla demanded, then answered her own question by launching into a monologue on the subjects of sex and money. I thought of something else: If Viv was not doing a drug or other underhanded deal with the Jerk, did he know how she was getting her money? He had to trust that she’d come up with the cash. Then again, maybe all she had to do was wrap herself around his torso and ask for the rough stuff.

  “Listen,” Marla went on breathlessly, “I’ve found out something else about John Richard that might interest you. Has to do with your current employer.”

  I gave her a skeptical look.

  “According to Christine Busby, Sukie’s great pal on the labyrinth committee? Sukie’s a cancer survivor.”

  “So? Lots of people are, Marla.”

  She opened her eyes wide. “Cervical cancer. Detected by John Richard, who did Sukie’s hysterectomy. She’s been cancer-free for five years and can’t say enough to Christine about how wonderful El Jerko is.”

  “But she didn’t act as if she knew him when I mentioned his name. Or when I showed her his picture—”

  “Hmm. She didn’t confide in me about her illness, either. Maybe she doesn’t want to spill her secrets to her beloved ex-doctor’s ex-wives.”

  “Marla, I need to tell Tom—”

  Before I could finish articulating that thought, two people appeared on the far side of the courtyard. Both in hooded winter coats, they seemed to be arguing beneath the ground-level arcade that enclosed the courtyard. Their voices carried but the words were unrecognizable. The altercation rose a notch when the two tried to make their points by thrusting pointed fingers in each other’s faces. I shuddered. Unless my own experience was wrong, it wouldn’t be long before the conflict went physical.

  Marla, ever willing to be diverted from gossiping about one situation to shoving her way into another, stared down avidly at the squabble. What looked like a tall man and a shorter, stockier one were now slapping each other’s hands away. The short man put his hands on the chest of the tall one and pushed him back. The tall man stumbled, fell, rolled, and then jumped back to his feet. His hood fell off.

  “Wow!” Marla exclaimed. “The lord of the manor just went ass-over-teakettle. And Sir Eliot is quarreling with …”

  But neither of us could make out the other person until both of Eliot’s hands flew up as if to choke the short man. Startled, the man pulled back and his hood flopped down …and revealed the disheveled white hair of Michaela Kirovsky, who was flailing as Eliot’s hands closed on her throat.

  “Good God,” breathed Marla. “It’s that caretaker woman. Goldy—call nine-one-one.”

  But there was no need, for at that instant Michaela wrenched violently away from Eliot and pulled a gleaming rapier off one of the covered arch supports. While Marla and I looked on in horror, Michaela slashed downward with the sword and struck Eliot’s left arm. I gasped. It was a move I’d seen Arch perform in fencing practice.

  “I’ve got to tell Tom,” I said. “Get someone on the phone—”

  “Hey!” yelled Marla, as she banged on the leaded glass. “Stop that!”

  Startled, Eliot and Michaela glanced up. I whispered a curse and pulled back from the window. Marla, undaunted, waved both hands over her head and bellowed, “No fighting! Stop that or I’ll call the cops!”

  Could they hear her through the glass? Did I care? I just wanted to be someplace else. So, apparently, did Michaela and Eliot, for when I peeked back out the window, both had disappeared through an unseen doorway.

  “What in the hell do you suppose that was about?” demanded Marla. “I mean, they didn’t even give us a second look. And anyway! Even if you disagree with someone who works for you, you don’t try to choke ’em. I mean, not unless you coach college basketball.”

  “I can’t deal with this now,” I said abruptly, realizing that if Michaela was not at fencing practice, it must have been canceled. “I’ve got to run.” While Marla waited, I darted into our room—Tom was sleeping—and snagged my purse and jacket.

  “Run where?” she whispered when I returned.

  “I need to pick up Arch.” I zipped to Arch’s room, grabbed his overnight bag, and trotted back toward Marla. “I’ve got to drop him off for the Jerk, then come back and take care of Tom. And I want to get out of here before Eliot realizes I saw him. Should we report him to the domestic-abuse people, though?”

  “Better wait on that,” said Marla, “because I think we might have just saved him from being stabbed, gored, and left for dead.” She walked purposefully down the hall. “Think I should tell Sukie? She’s Swiss, she’s used to being neutral, right?”

  “Don’t,” I advised as I tried to hurry along behind her. Marla, heavier than I by about fifty pounds, had become devoted to a minimal but effective exercise routine since having a heart attack the previous summer. Still, I was surprised when she quickstepped down the carpeted stairs beside me. Following her, my head throbbed. I said, “Snooping around is hard on your health.”

  “Uh-huh,” she replied. “I noticed what it’s doing for yours.” We pulled up in front of the kitchen door. “I just want to know why those two were arguing,” she said, the very picture of innocence. She pushed into the kitchen and merrily asked Julian where Sukie had gotten to. Julian, chopping vegetables, called to Sukie, who peeked out, startled, from where she was crouching inside the hearth. We’d interrupted her scrubbing of the fireplace’s interior walls, and she was not happy. Despite the twice-weekly visits of a cleaning company, Sukie felt compelled to check obsessively for spots they might have missed. Well, I’d probably be critical of any caterer I had to hire, so who was I to judge?

  As I pulled out of the garage and accelerated across the causeway, a new question occurred to me: Did Sukie’s cleaning jobs include straightening out messes made by her husband?

  At quarter after three, Arch raced out the school gym entrance. “They’re refinishing the floor of the school fencing loft,” he announced as he heaved his bookbag into the rear of the van, “so Michaela gave us an assignment. She told us to run up and down five hundred stairs.” His tone was weary. “Fifty times ten stairs. Or whatever. But I’m too hungry to do that right now.”

  “Why run up and down stairs?” I asked as I headed toward the Aspen Meadow Pastry Shop.

  “Strengthens the legs.” He glanced over the seat. “My overnight bag? Are we moving again?”

  “Your dad and I have worked out a visitation policy for the next couple of weeks,” I began, as if John Richard and I had actually peacefully cooperated on a new arrangement. I explained to Arch that I’d be leaving him at the counseling center by the library. His bag held clean clothes and toiletries, and his dad would take him to school the next day. I pulled into a parking space on Main Street. After practice, I concluded, I would pick him up. Without responding, Arch jumped out of the van and shot into the pastry shop.

  “Well, I’m glad to see Dad,” he said finally, after he’d ordered two pieces of Linzertorte and a soft drink. “But Michaela promised that tonight Eliot would show me exactly where the young duke
died. Would you tell her where I am? Ask her if I can see it tomorrow after practice?”

  “Sure,” I said, with some hesitance, as Arch wolfed down his first piece of torte. I guessed medieval history could be pretty cool if you focused on death and ghosts. Still, I wasn’t certain I wanted Eliot and Michaela showing Arch anything. “Ah, honey? I don’t want you poking around where someone died. Any chance I could go with you?”

  He sighed and put down his second piece of torte. “First you want me to get along with these people, then you tell me you need to chaperone me around the place. Which is it?”

  “The castle … is big, very big, and parts of it are closed off. I just … I’m not entirely sure the whole place is safe, that’s all.” The memory of Eliot lunging for Michaela’s throat made my stomach knot. “Also, I don’t want you going anywhere with Michaela and Eliot without me along.”

  “Okay, Mom,” he said as he tossed his paper plate and cup, “just forget that I was trying to get along with the Hydes. I’ll tell them I can’t do anything or go anywhere without my mommy there to take care of me.”

  Why was mothering so hard? I exhaled, unable to think of a reply. Arch said he was going to find some steps to start running up and down. I sat in the van with the motor running and tried to think. Arch was due to turn fifteen in April, a fact he reminded me of whenever he accused me of babying him. But that was two months away. What I needed to concentrate on was where I should move our family next, before Eliot and Michaela killed one another, and while figuring out what John Richard and Viv Martini were up to. Not to mention who’d shot Tom. But immediate answers eluded me.

  When Arch returned, gasping, he said, “I think I’m going to puke.”

  On that happy note, we drove to the counseling center in silence. When we pulled into the library parking lot and got out of the van, I glanced around. One could never be sure that the Jerk would actually show up at any particular prearranged time, I thought, as I chewed the inside of my cheek.

  “Here you are,” announced a throaty female voice behind me.

  I whirled and the hair on the back of my neck stood on end. It was Viv Martini herself, dressed in skin-hugging chocolate brown leather pants and jacket. Once again, her jacket was zipped down to reveal cleavage. Would it be too prudish for me to put my hand over Arch’s eyes?

  “Hi, Viv,” Arch said matter-of-factly. “Want me to put my stuff in the car?”

  “Your dad’s not here yet—” Viv began.

  “Arch,” I interrupted her, “would you run into the library and see if the new Jacques Pépin has come in for me? I requested it a month ago.”

  He sighed, rolled his eyes, and dropped his bag on the pavement.

  “Please be nice to him,” I told Viv, as soon as Arch had disappeared into the library. “He’s really struggling with his dad getting out of jail.”

  “I am nice to him,” Viv protested. “I got John Richard to buy a treadmill and free weights so we could both work out with Arch. Arch likes me.”

  I paused, but only for a moment. John Richard could be along any moment. “Look,” I said, a tad desperately, “my husband is a policeman who’s been shot—”

  “So we saw on the news.” To my surprise, Viv’s eyes were sympathetic. “How awful! Do they have any idea who did it?”

  “Not yet. But my ex said you knew Ray Wolff, who was arrested by my husband.” I watched her closely, but saw nothing on her face except concern. “Do you have any idea if Wolff was involved in the shooting?”

  “I don’t give a damn about Ray Wolff!” she snapped. “There’s no telling what he’s up to. That’s why I left him.”

  I managed a smile. Did I believe her? “A rumor in town also has you seen with Andy Balachek, whose body I found.”

  “Forget it,” she said immediately. “I didn’t touch Andy. He wasn’t my type. He was a sweet kid. Ray seduced him into that theft, the way he does everybody. Ray’s a son-of-a-bitch snake who will promise you anything to get what he wants.”

  Arch came out of the library and called to us. I said quickly, “So, Viv? You wouldn’t have any idea who killed Andy, would you?”

  She signaled to Arch. “Some buddy of Ray’s, probably. Once they do what he says, they’re like those bugs that crawl back under rocks, never to see the light of day.”

  Without warning, the gold Mercedes screamed into the lot. John Richard hopped out, crossed his arms, and glared at us. I squinted at the dealer’s paper tags on the Mercedes. Lauderdale Luxury Imports. Was the Mercedes John Richard’s car or Viv’s? Arch announced that there were fifty holds on the Pépin, and I wouldn’t get it for a while. Then he shyly looked up to Viv, who sauntered away with her arm slung over my son’s shoulder. The sight made me want to puke.

  Once they’d pulled away, I headed back to the castle. Dusk in the Rocky Mountain winter is a sudden, cold affair, arriving early and bringing with it a lengthy atmospheric gloom. I felt my mood drop with the temperature and the darkness.

  In the kitchen of the castle, Eliot, wearing an old-fashioned double-breasted gray suit and gray Ascot tie, was giving Julian instructions on the general outlines for a Tudor dinner. I looked closely at his left arm, the one Michaela had struck with the sword. Was that a slight bandage-bulge, or was I imagining it? In his right hand, Eliot held a crystal glass of sherry that he gestured with to make his points. “It was not a supper, although what the Elizabethans called dinner, we’ll be serving at suppertime on Friday evening for the fencing team.” The sherry slopped over the side of the glass.

  Sukie, standing on the other side of the room in a full-length black velvet coat, groaned, undoubtedly thinking of her just-scrubbed floor. I put on an enthusiastic face. Whatever Eliot wanted in the food department, no matter how arcane, he was going to get. I didn’t intend to get throttled.

  “Now, as Goldy may have told you,” Eliot said, jutting his chin in Julian’s direction, “during the Renaissance, your typical late-sixteenth-century courtier would be served neither dinner nor supper in the Great Hall. Hollywood notwithstanding, of course,” he added with a chuckle and sip of his drink. He continued: “The large change from medieval to Renaissance food service was that the king and queen—or lord and lady, as you will—withdrew to private chambers for meals. On very special occasions, such as Christmas, they would eat in the hall with a full complement of courtiers. The lord and lady and their intimates would be served on the dais, so all could see and admire them.”

  Julian’s handsome face was set in a raised-eyebrow, pressed-lip expression of I’m-trying-not-to-laugh. Without warning, I felt suddenly cold again, and glanced around. Was I the only one noticing that the same window kept sliding open? While Eliot lectured, I sidled over to the window, shut it, and then hustled back to the kitchen table, where Julian had laid out trays of beautifully arranged vegetarian fare.

  One platter contained a magazine-perfect stack of diamond-cut, grill-striped golden polenta, another a stunning array of steamed pale green artichokes, golden ears of corn, bright orange and green baby carrots, and broccoli florets. A third tray contained a bowl of arugula and romaine lettuces beside a heated crock of what looked and smelled like the recipe I’d shown him for a hot port wine and chèvre dressing. I looked closer. The creamy vinaigrette was studded with poached figs. So it was the recipe I’d shown him. I’d felt triumphant putting it together, for figs had been brought to Britain by the Romans. My mouth watered.

  “But we’ll have more time to talk tomorrow,” Eliot concluded with a toothy grin and last delicate slurp from his glass. “Sukie and I are going out for the evening. Enjoy the …veggies. Goldy can tell you a Tudor courtier typically consumed two pounds of meat a day. Venison, rabbit, mackerel, goose, pheasant, peacock, et cetera.” He nodded at the spread. “No cornbread, no carrots. The occasional potato.”

  Ever polite, Julian smiled and nodded. Sukie gave us her best approximation of an apologetic look and announced that Michaela had a small kitchenette in her castle apartme
nt, and usually did not join them for the evening meal. Then she and Eliot swept away.

  I was left wondering. Had Eliot’s family treated the Kirovskys like family for so many years that it was impossible to fire her, even if she stabbed him with a sword? If Sartre was right, and hell was other people, what was other people you don’t get along with living forever at close quarters? A lower circle of hell?

  I put these questions aside as Julian and I shouldered the trays and trucked them up to Tom’s and my room. Julian had already set three places at a card table next to Tom’s side of the bed. Not a dais in the Great Hall, but absolutely perfect for a cozy family meal. We said grace. In addition to thanks, I prayed for safety and guidance, and for my son.

  “Are we all sure we want to stay here?” Julian asked delicately, as he passed the salad. “That Eliot guy is weird.”

  “I’m comfortable,” Tom offered. “We wouldn’t have as good security in a hotel, I can tell you that, unless Lambert pulled some extra guys off the force to keep watch over us. So … unless the person who shot me can find a way into a heavily fortified castle, I’d say we’re in pretty good shape.”

  Figgy Salad

  4 ounces small Mission figs (13 to 15 “figlets”)

  ½ cup ruby port

  ½ teaspoon sugar

  1 ounce (about 2 tablespoons) filberts (also called hazelnuts)

  2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar

  1 large shallot, minced by hand or in a small food processor

  2 ounces chèvre, softened and sliced