“Uh-huh.” I didn’t ask how he was going to pilot a car with his one good hand. I didn’t want to discuss his driving or his desire for closure with his ex-fiancée. Or whether he would take a gun.
He said quietly, “They towed my Chrysler to the department garage. May I borrow your van?”
I didn’t trust my voice, so I just nodded.
Tom said, “Goldy? We’ve talked about this. You’re my wife, and I love you. Don’t you believe me?”
With my lips pressed together and an unseen force squeezing my heart, I nodded mutely and handed him the van keys. Then I picked up my laptop, walked quickly out of our big English-castle bedroom, and quietly shut the massive door. Trying not to think, I headed down to the castle kitchen.
When you feel really low, focus on the food.
While my laptop was booting on the trestle table, I took a bite of one of the strawberry salads—still half-liquid—and tasted the curry sauce, which was spicy-hot, creamy, and mellowing superbly. Then I inserted my disk to check the recipes for the potato casserole and raisin rice. I may have teased Julian about thinking of me as old. But the fact was that my memory for recipes was not butcher-knife sharp.
I reflected on that evening’s schedule. Although adult-only banquets usually start at eight, the over-scheduled Elk Park Prep fencers had Saturday morning commitments to indoor soccer and club basketball. So we were starting at six with the fencing demonstration and Elizabethan games, accompanied by bowls of mixed nuts and soft drinks. Julian and I would serve dinner at seven, after which Michaela would lead a brief awards ceremony. Would Tom be back from his rendezvous with Sara Beth in time for that?
Don’t think about it.
Instead, I began to peel the potatoes and thought about Michaela. What was the story on her?
I placed the potatoes into two vats of boiling water. Maybe I had found Michaela’s Royal-memento collection a tad unusual. But a number of my friends had oddball hobbies. Take Marla, for instance, who obsessively tracked the Jerk. Now there was an offbeat hobby—and not one for the squeamish.
And speaking of squeamish … tonight was another meal in the Great Hall. The last time I’d served food there, I’d glimpsed a long-dead duke-to-be. That ghostly fellow, dressed in what looked like a child-size suit of armor, had been there, I was certain of it. And in an instant, he’d vanished. Colorado was famous for ghost towns, not ghost dukes. Maybe I needed contact lenses.
I retrieved a huge bowl of prawns ready to be enrobed in the velvety curry sauce, and set them aside. For the potato casseroles, I slathered several whole bulbs of garlic with olive oil, wrapped them in foil, and popped them into the oven. In my mind, there is nothing better than roasted garlic to give mashed potatoes a rich, mellow bite. Not to mention that mashed potatoes in any form are good for the soul.
As I was grating mounds of Fontina and Parmesan, Julian called. He had picked up Arch, who had convinced him to go for a pizza snack. They were going to eat heaps of fancy food tonight anyway, Arch had claimed. Did I need help, Julian wanted to know? I said thanks, but reminded him that he had already done more than his share of catering work for the last four days. Did I mind that they were eating pizza, he asked? I laughed and asked him to bring some back to the castle. He promised they’d return by four to help set up.
Eliot bustled into the kitchen wearing a twenties-style, Scottish-inspired golf outfit. I didn’t know any other man who could wear (without deep embarrassment) tan wool bloomers—known in the golf world as plus-fours—forest-green knee socks, a tan-and-gray checked wool shirt, and a gray herringbone V-neck sport coat. Oh yes, and tan-and-white saddle shoes. To my credit, I didn’t stare. Instead, I asked him how he was doing.
“Terribly. I haven’t had a nibble of interest in the conference center.” He looked around the kitchen. “Sukie is cleaning up the Great Hall—”
“It’s clean.”
“Goldy, for six months I dated a woman who was an unrepentant slob. Dirty dishes, piled-up laundry, stacks of bills and papers, unmade beds, unrecognizable bathroom. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore, and we broke up. Now look at the woman I married. Nothing—nothing—is ever clean enough for her.” He shook his head, as if trying to remember what he had come down here for. “She’s going to set the tables up there, too. She’s using her own lace tablecloths and a set of silver plates she picked up at an estate sale. In Medieval and Renaissance England, diners went from consuming their food from bread trenchers, to eating on wood platters, until they graduated to pewter, and on from there to silver and ah, finally, to gold plates. But gold is so damnably expensive. Anyway, Sukie needs to know how many people are expected for dinner and if you need steak knives.”
Shuttlecock Shrimp Curry
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
2 cups unpeeled chopped Granny Smith apples
2 cups chopped yellow onions
3 large cloves garlic, pressed
4 teaspoons curry powder, or more to taste
3 tablespoons flour
½ teaspoon dry mustard
½ teaspoon salt, or more to taste
¼ teaspoon paprika
¼ teaspoon crumbled dried thyme
¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, or more to taste
2 cups homemade chicken stock
1 pound (39 to 40) large peeled cooked shrimp (shrimp cocktail–style shrimp), deveined, tails removed and reserved
1 tablespoon catsup
¼ cup dry white vermouth
½ cup whipping cream
Side dishes: best-quality chutney, dry- roasted peanuts, chopped hard-boiled egg, sweet pickle relish, crushed pineapple, flaked coconut, mandarin oranges, chopped scallions, chopped crisp-cooked bacon, chopped olives, raisins, yogurt, and orange marmalade
Raisin Rice (recipe is in Killer Pancake)
In a wide frying pan, melt the butter over low heat. Add the apples, onions, and garlic, and cook gently over medium-low heat for a few minutes, until the onions start to become translucent. Add the curry powder, flour, mustard, salt, paprika, thyme, and pepper, and stir well. Keeping the heat low, cook and stir occasionally for a few more minutes, while you prepare the stock.
In a large saucepan, combine the stock and shrimp tails. Bring to a boil, then turn off the heat. Drain and reserve the stock. Discard the shells.
Keeping the heat low, add the shrimp-flavored stock to the apple mixture, stirring well. When all the stock has been added, raise the heat to medium-high, stirring constantly, and add the catsup and vermouth. Stir and cook until the mixture is thickened. Lower the heat and add the cream, stirring well, until the mixture has heated through. Add the shrimp, and stir and cook until the shrimp are heated through but not overcooked.
Serve with the side dishes and Raisin Rice. Beer is the traditional beverage.
Makes 4 servings
Penny-Prick Potato Casserole
6 medium-sized or 12 small potatoes (2 pounds, 9 ounces), peeled (recommended type: Yukon Gold)
1 small garlic bulb, or ½ large garlic bulb
1 tablespoon olive oil
2 tablespoons (¼ stick) unsalted butter
½ cup milk (approximately)
½ cup whipping cream
1 cup freshly shredded Fontina cheese
⅓ cup freshly shredded Parmesan cheese
½ teaspoon salt, or to taste
¼ teaspoon white pepper, or to taste
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Butter a 9 × 13-inch pan.
Bring a large quantity of salted water to a boil. Place the potatoes in the boiling water and cook until done, about 40 minutes.
While the potatoes are cooking, cut a piece of foil into an 8-inch square. Quickly rinse the garlic bulb under cold running water and pat it dry. Place the bulb in the middle of the foil square and carefully pour the olive oil over it. Bring up the corners of the foil and twist to make a closed packet. Put the foil packet with the garlic inside into the oven and bake about 30 to 40 minutes, or until the clov
es are soft but not brown. Carefully open the package, remove the garlic bulb with tongs so it can cool, and reserve the olive oil.
When the garlic cloves are cool, remove them from their skins. Using a small food processor, process the garlic until it is a paste.
Drain the potatoes and place them in the large bowl of an electric mixer. Add the garlic, reserved olive oil, butter, milk, cream, cheeses, salt, and pepper. Beat until creamy and well combined. If the mixture seems dry, add a little milk. Scrape the potato mixture into the prepared pan. (If you are not going to bake the casserole immediately, allow it to cool, then cover it with plastic wrap and refrigerate for up to 8 hours.)
Bake for 15 to 20 minutes (10 or 15 minutes longer if the casserole has been refrigerated). The casserole should be hot through and slightly browned. Test for doneness by scooping out a small spoonful from the middle of the casserole and tasting it.
Makes 4 servings
“We’re expecting thirty-five. Fourteen kids, twenty-one adults, give or take. If she sets us up for forty, that should work.” I thought of the veal roasts. “And sure, steak knives would be great. Plus a dozen serving spoons, and a couple of carving sets.”
“All right,” he said, scribbling on an index card he’d found in the pocket of his plus-fours. “Before Michaela gives out the awards, I’m going to pitch the castle again. I’m going back now to set up my pamphlets and information. Do you think the literature should go on the serving tables?”
“Better to have it at the door,” I advised. “It’ll be the first thing people see.”
He nodded, a golfer attending his caddy. “Good thought. I’m going to set up the games, too, while Sukie’s working. Oh—and the Lauderdales are sending flower arrangements with small swords in them. They really are good people, Goldy.”
“Uh-huh.” I don’t think so.
He disappeared. I sautéed rice kernels in butter until they sizzled and gave off a nutty scent, then mixed in broth and raisins. While the rice simmered, I pulverized the roasted garlic. Finally, I mashed batch after batch of potatoes with butter, the roasted garlic mush, cream, cheeses, and spices, and managed to have only eight spoonfuls—using eight different spoons, of course—to make sure the seasoning was exactly right. I kept telling myself that I hadn’t really had any lunch.
At three o’clock, Tom walked through the kitchen door. He’d retrieved some clothing from the suitcase he’d taken to New Jersey, and now looked businesslike and dashing in a black wool shirt and khaki pants, with a black down jacket over his good shoulder. I realized with a jolt that I’d been so busy cooking, I’d forgotten to take him lunch.
“I’m on my way to Idaho Springs, then the airport,” he announced. “And I’m going to stay at the gate until Sara Beth’s flight gets off. So I might not be back until after the banquet, especially if the flight’s delayed.” I said nothing. “Please understand,” he said, then gave me a one-armed hug and headed off.
What kind of farewell, I thought forlornly, was that?
Don’t dwell on it.
So I didn’t. Cooking consumed the next hour. At half-past four, I scuttled to the gatehouse to let in the floral delivery man. He opened his van to reveal four miniature sword-bedecked, English-style arrangements of roses, lilies, daffodils, freesia, and ivy. I breathed in the perfumed scent of flowers, picked up two of the overflowing baskets, and led the florist up to the Great Hall, where Eliot and Sukie exclaimed over the generosity of the Lauderdales. That’s the problem with rich folks, I concluded silently, as I placed the baskets on Sukie’s flawlessly set, lace-and-silver-covered tables. They think they can make up for large-scale bad deeds with a couple of superficially good ones. In the catering biz, I’d seen the adulterer who builds a new Sunday School, the thieving bank president who sponsors a dozen soccer teams. Now we had a child-abuser sending flowers.
Ah well, who made me World Moral Cop? I trotted back to the kitchen, where I was greeted by a blast of cold air. Once again, the errant window was open. Michaela, Julian, and Arch were all out; Sukie and Eliot were up in the Great Hall. I marched over to the window, pushed it all the way open—the metal sash shrieked in protest—and looked down. There was no walkway, there were no metal rungs. The moat glimmered far below. Its surface riffled with a slight breeze, but no one was swimming across it. At the edge, the castle Dumpster shimmered in the sun. There was no sign of life anywhere. So how was the window being opened?
I examined the latch. It was not broken. I slammed the window shut again, then searched through the highly organized kitchen drawers until I found some mailing tape. Cursing under my breath, I assiduously pressed a double layer of sticky strips all the way around the window sash. I stepped away from my work and admired it.
“Take that,” I muttered to the window.
Repair job complete, I hustled back to the Great Hall with bowls of mixed nuts. Eliot had once again laid out the penny-prick game. This time the boys would toss their plastic knives at a Susan B. Anthony coin set on the lip of a wine bottle. I didn’t particularly like the antifeminist symbolism inherent in that, but I kept my mouth shut. Sensing my lack of enthusiasm, Eliot insisted the kids wouldn’t play for less than a dollar prize.
I zipped back to the kitchen and was greeted by Arch, Julian, Michaela, a cold extra-cheese pizza, and a still-closed window. I wolfed down the pizza without reheating it. Hunger, as my fourth-grade teacher always said, makes the best sauce.
“I’m changing the schedule a little, Arch,” Michaela was saying. “I’m going to have you and Howie Lauder-dale demonstrate foil first. The Lauderdales called and specifically requested it.”
My heart plummeted. “Forget it,” I retorted. “They’re up to something. The Lauderdales, I mean. Use the kids you already have scheduled. Howie’s too old to be paired with Arch. Arch might get hurt.”
Arch’s lips thinned in disgust. His cheeks reddened with anger. “Howie will not hurt me.”
“I said no!”
“Mom! Howie’s the best fencer on the team!”
“I don’t care!”
Michaela made her voice reassuring. “Goldy, I promise, I know Howie. He’s a good kid. Arch is definitely up to fencing him.”
Julian murmured, “C’mon, Goldy. Let him do it. The kids wear masks. Everyone will be there. It’s an honor for Arch to go first, to fence with Howie.”
“Yeah, Mom,” Arch cried. “Stop making me out to be a wimp.”
I gestured helplessly. With the three of them staring at me, I said, “Okay, I give up. Fence away. But it wouldn’t surprise me if Buddy was paying his son to hurt you.”
Arch snorted. Michaela silently shook her head. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, she said she’d bring the ice and drink coolers up to the Great Hall. Arch offered to help, and they both left.
Julian and I now set to our work in earnest, putting in the veal for a slow roasting, timing the reheating of the curry, rice, and potatoes, and deciding on the flow of the buffet. Julian got the chafers going and set up the electrified serving platters. This was the third time this week we’d transported keep-stuff-hot equipment hither and yon. No wonder the medieval folks built their kitchen close to the Great Hall.
As my last culinary act before the guests arrived, I prepared the curry condiments. Americans rarely take more than a spoonful of chutney, raisins, or peanuts from that classic dozen side dishes known as a twelve-boy But they feel gypped if they cannot at least survey lots of extra bowls containing chopped bacon, chopped hard-cooked egg yolks, chopped hard-cooked egg whites, shredded coconut, crushed pineapple, chopped green onion, sweet pickle relish, orange marmalade, and yogurt.
Just before six, Eliot and Sukie breezed into the kitchen. Eliot had changed from the golf outfit into another dapper double-breasted suit—this one charcoal gray—and a snowy white shirt. Sukie’s blond hair was swept up in an elegant French twist, and she glowed in a long, bright-red wool dress. She retrieved a silver tray, glasses, and napkins, while Eliot clanked b
ottles around in the dining room and proudly emerged with two bottles of vintage dry sherry. They announced that they were on their way to the gatehouse to greet guests in the grand fashion. Murmuring that the kids needed to be welcomed in style, too, Julian snagged two twelve-packs of soft drinks and hustled after the Hydes.
I dashed up to the Great Hall with the covered curry side dishes and quickly checked the buffet, the tables, the makeshift bars, the ice, and the bottles of water and wine. Eliot had straightened the fencing mats and marked out the shuttlecock court with masking tape. Michaela had set up a small table for the trophies. Overhead, the chandeliers flickered. The gold trophies, silver plates, and crystal glasses reflected the glimmering light. Everything looked perfect.
Always a bad sign.
CHAPTER 25
Tom was still gone on his airport errand when John Richard and Viv Martini sashayed in, the first to arrive. Standing alone behind the makeshift bar, I was unnerved by their appearance. They glanced in my direction, then sniffed and looked away. John Richard looked handsome in an open-necked blue shirt, charcoal vest, and black pants. His twenty-nine-year-old girlfriend, slinking along in a clingy silver dress with matching spike heels, made my stomach turn over. Her dress was slit so far up the side, she should have been doing jumping jacks.
I, on the other hand, feared the worst, appearance-wise. Not only did I pale in comparison to Viv, I couldn’t bear the thought of how Tom would assess my appearance vis-à-vis that of Sara Beth, with her aristocrat-in-the-Peace-Corps beauty and moral high ground. I glanced at myself in the reflection of a silver tray. Working in the hot castle kitchen had made my hair very curly. My makeup was long gone; my face shone with exertion. The cavernous Great Hall was cold, and I needed a sweater over my thin caterers’ top, not to mention a new apron, as the one I had on was liberally dappled with curry sauce.
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