Sticks & Scones (23 page)

Inside her door, Michaela flipped on lights that illuminated a golden-oak floor, a narrow, white-painted room lined with racks of swords, and a higgledy-piggledy arrangement of mats and open folding chairs. At first I thought we were in a gym of some kind, but I realized belatedly that this was the Kirovsky fencing loft, where Eliot’s father and grandfather had learned the Royal Sport from Michaela’s forebears.

“This is
so
cool,” said Arch, entranced.

“This is where I’ve been coaching Howie Lauderdale and a few other juniors and seniors before the state meet. Elk Park Prep doesn’t want us in the gym late at night or early in the morning, so we sometimes have to meet here. When you’re a member of the varsity, Arch, this is where I’ll coach you, too.”

“Great,” said my son, trying in vain to suppress a smile.
When you’re a member of the varsity.
To my son, those were magical words.

“Come into the rest of the apartment,” Michaela told us. “It’s set up like railroad cars, one room after the other. Loft, living room, kitchenette. The loft takes up so much space that we didn’t have much left for family quarters, upstairs. But it’s enough for me. Come on, I want you to see my collection.”

The living room, a spare, austere arrangement of old—not antique—furniture, consisted of a couch and one chair. A threadbare green rug lay on the floor. There was no coffee table, only two mismatched end tables. But brightly colored crocheted afghans and an assortment of garage-sale pillows gave the room a comfortable feel.

The walls immediately captured my attention. I slid beside the fraying couch and stared at row after row of cheaply framed photos, hundreds of them, all cut from magazines. Every one seemed to be of armor, castles, and the crowned heads of Europe. A magazine copy of a portrait of Queen Elizabeth I, her red hair swept up above her wide, white ruff, was hung next to a photograph of a youthful Prince Charles. There were dozens of photographs of stodgy-looking Queen Victoria, sometimes alone, sometimes with Prince Albert. Nicholas and Alexandra had a row all to themselves. This wasn’t really a collection: It was more like the room of a passionate Royal-watcher.

“What started all this?” I asked.

“Family tradition,” Michaela answered. “We were living in a castle, so when I was a kid I wondered about the people who lived in castles.”

“Did you take all this over to Furman County Elementary?” Arch demanded. “I mean, for Show and Tell, when you were little?”

Michaela laughed and shook her head. “I was home-schooled before it was fashionable, Arch. Then went to community college as a commuter student. But the kings and queens have always remained my friends, and the collection has grown over the years. I have a passion for
any
royal portrait.”

Ah, God
, I thought.
On stamps, too? No
, I decided in the same moment. No way. Michaela had no connection to Ray Wolff and Andy Balachek, except that she’d known Andy when he was little. She’d loved him, and truly deplored his descent into the gambling lifestyle. Plus, a woman who’d never ventured farther than the nearby community college, and had always and only known caretaking at the castle, wouldn’t take a flyer on a risky hijacking venture, would she?

“Got any more?” Arch asked eagerly.

A wall devoted to French royalty, Michaela announced, was actually the bottom of her Murphy bed. When she folded it down, there wasn’t much room in the place, she added, so she’d spare us the sight. Each night, she announced with a hint of naughtiness, it helped her to know she was sleeping on Louis XIV.

“Okay, enough of my nutty hobby. I make great hot chocolate,” she said to Arch. “Or tea or instant coffee or even instant hot spiced cider, if you’re interested,” she told me.

I said that hot spiced cider sounded terrific, and followed her into the tiny kitchenette. The cramped space had a stone floor, a small set of cupboards, and a narrow counter crowded with a hot plate, an ancient electric vat coffeepot—the same kind I used for catered events—and a cookie jar in the shape of the Kremlin. Inside the jar were Russian tea cakes. Michaela pulled the vat lever for hot water that made Arch’s cocoa and my cider, along with some tea for herself. I burned my tongue sipping the steaming cider, but it cleared my head.

Soon we were seated in the royal-photos living room, munching rich, buttery tea cakes while savoring our hot drinks. That’s the thing about a big dinner; you eat it and then half an hour later you’re wishing for a snack. I tried not to notice the grandmotherly eyes of Queen Victoria, or how that plump countenance seemed to watch my every bite. Arch and Michaela chatted happily. She really was wonderful with kids. Why, though, given her apparent animosity for Eliot and this crummy apartment, would she stay in the castle? Did Elk Park Prep pay their coaches so badly that she couldn’t afford a place of her own? Or did she stay because of the gorgeous fencing loft?

“How about that dueling demonstration?” I suggested.

Arch and Michaela grinned, set aside their plates, and stood. While Arch donned his mask, Michaela explained,
“In 1547, two French noblemen fought the first private duel of honor. François de Vivonne,
seigneur
de La Châtaigneraie, insulted Guy Chabot, Baron de Jarnac, by publicly accusing de Jarnac of having sex with his own mother-in-law. De Jarnac immediately challenged Châtaigneraie to a duel, which was viewed by the French king, Henry the Second, and hundreds of courtiers.” She stopped to put on her mask.
“En garde
, Arch.”

Again the two of them went back and forth, grunting, thrusting, parrying, and offering aggressive ripostes. They seemed entirely focused on their match. When Arch scored a hit just below Michaela’s shoulder, she laughed out loud and asked him to stop for a moment. Removing her mask, she told me, “De Jarnac and Châtaigneraie did not solve their conflict so easily. Slowly, now, Arch, lunge and I will parry and riposte. Then stop.”

My son lunged. Michaela’s parry deftly flicked Arch’s sword aside. Then she did a slow-motion riposte onto Arch’s calf. He froze, as instructed.

“De Jarnac,” Michaela said, “instead of going for the heart, cut the major artery in Châtaigneraie’s leg. Then de Jarnac slashed his opponent’s
other
leg, and demanded that Châtaigneraie withdraw his insult. Châtaigneraie refused and bled to death in front of the king. That was the end of court-sanctioned dueling in France. The leg-attack became known as the ‘Coup de Jarnac.’”

“But you’re not allowed to hit in the leg,” Arch protested as he tugged off his mask. “Except in épée, I guess.”

Michaela laughed, pleased. “You’re right. End of demonstration.” I clapped and thanked them both. She said, “For tomorrow night, Arch, we’ll have Josh and Howie demonstrate épée. Then, if Kirsten’s over her mono, you and she can do foil. She has long arms, which is an advantage. Then we’ll have Chad and Scott do saber—”

The telephone rang. I hadn’t even noticed it in the sea of photos, probably because it was on a lower shelf of one of the end tables. Michaela drew it out and stared at it before answering. It took me a moment to realize she had been puzzling over a tiny screen with caller ID.

“Sheriff’s department?” she asked. “Sergeant Boyd?”

“It’s for me.” Without thinking, I launched myself across the couch, sloshing cider onto the rug. As I gabbled apologies, Michaela relieved me of my cup. Then she dropped some paper napkins on the rug and handed me the receiver, all in one smooth motion. If I ever did learn to fence, did that mean I’d become coordinated?

“This is Goldy,” I said.

“Boyd here. Where’s Tom?”

I murmured that he was in bed.

“And how’s he doing?”

“On the mend. He wants to start working again.”

Boyd
mm-hmmed.
It was past ten o’clock. He’d had all day to check on Tom. So what did he really want?

“Goldy, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

My heart lurched. Arch, Tom, and Julian were all here at the castle. Oh, God—
Marla.

“This is about your computers. And the guy who stole them.”

“Okay.” Puzzled at how this would warrant a late-night call, I waited.

“We went to visit Mr. Morris Hart, whose real name, it turns out, is Mo Hartfield. Hangs out in bars, does odd jobs for crooks, stays in the pipeline. When we got to his place this evening, somebody had already broken in. We found your computers trashed. A keyboard was in the toilet.” Boyd paused.

“Was he there?” But even as I asked it, I knew the answer.

“Yeah,” Boyd said tersely. “Shot dead.”

N
o.” The window guy killed? With our trashed computers all around? “Do you have any idea who—”

“Nope, nothing yet. We found him in his bathtub. I just wanted you to know, especially with what’s been going on. Tell Tom about it, okay? The ballistics guys should be back to us ASAP, since this case includes the shooting of a cop. And Tom needs to be careful. He shouldn’t go out without one of us along. Whoever’s doing this is killing mad about something. Have Tom give me a ring tomorrow, would you? If he’s up to it?”

“Sure. Thanks,” I murmured numbly, and signed off.
Somebody was so angry they’d kill a small-time thief? Angry about what?
That Andy Balachek had sent e-mails that landed Ray Wolff in jail? That I’d turned in a wealthy couple for child abuse? That Tom had married someone else?

“Bad news?” asked Michaela softly.

“No.” I paused.
Never divulge anything about a case
, Tom had warned me on many occasions. “Thanks for asking,
though. And it was very nice of you to have us over. Come on, Arch, time to rock.”

He groaned, but scrambled to his feet and thanked Michaela. We walked across the second floor of the gatehouse itself, looked down at the empty entryway through the
meurtriers
, then descended the darkly paneled spiral staircase into the living room. When we entered the hush of the living room, it was bathed in shadows.

Arch said, “I need to check on Orion and those other constellations. Do you have my high-powered binoculars? They’re not in with my stuff.”

I promised to get them from our room. We entered the frigid drum tower, passed the well and the garderobe, then moved into the silent hall by the dining room and kitchen. The castle was a spooky place at night. Although I’d planned to do some night-time cooking for the next day’s luncheon, there was no way that was going to happen. As we passed the kitchen, icy shivers ran down my neck. I was glad Arch had his foil with him.

Finally upstairs, I disarmed our door, tiptoed into our room, retrieved the binoculars, and tiptoed back out. In the hallway, Arch whispered a request for assistance. This was the first time in three weeks that he’d asked for my help with the astronomy. Then again, I wouldn’t want to be up later than everyone else in the castle, working alone. It would be like reading
The Exorcist
on an overnight camp-out: not something you wanted to do.

I followed Arch into the room he was sharing with Julian. Arch shuffled around for his notebook. Inside his sleeping bag on Arch’s couch, Julian’s form rose and fell. I felt a pang of guilt that our dear family friend had done all the dishes
again.
Bless Julian Teller’s wonderful heart.

From the tall window, Arch and I could make out Orion, complete with belt and sword, the Little Dipper, Cassiopeia, the lovely W that had been my favorite constellation since I was little, and even the Big Dipper, just
above the horizon. Once Arch had noted the Big Dipper pointing to the North Star, he was done.

“Thanks, Mom.” He closed his notebook. “You can leave now.”

I didn’t mind being summarily dismissed, as that was the way of almost-fifteen-year-olds. I thanked Arch again for the fencing demonstration, made him promise to arm his door, then did the same in our room. I set the tiny alarm for five
A.M.
and snuggled in next to Tom. Finally, I said a prayer for Mo Hartfield, even if he had hit me over the head.

As often happens on the day of a catered event, I awoke seconds before the buzzer went off. Outside, the sky was dark as tar. I turned on a small lamp on the far side of the room, moved through my yoga routine, showered, dressed, and congratulated myself on getting up early. I had over two hours before Arch had to be off for school, more than enough to get a good start on the labyrinth luncheon.

For some reason, I seemed to be making no noise. The castle, I reflected, had two moods: Either it creaked and moaned and you saw and heard things that weren’t there, or your every sound and movement was absorbed by the palatial trappings and walls.

“I’m coming down to fix breakfast,” Tom mumbled, deep in his pillow.

“With one arm? No way. You should sleep,” I said softly.

He moaned and turned over.

Julian met me in the hall, his brown hair damp from showering. He wore his bistro work outfit: white T-shirt, paisley-printed balloon chef pants, and high-top sneakers. “I heard you running your shower,” he murmured. So all my sounds had not been muffled, after all. “Didn’t want you to have to work alone.”

“Julian, please. You’ve done so much. Why don’t you just sleep?”

“For-
get
it.” His voice had that stubborn tone I’d come to know well.

In the kitchen, I made two cups of espresso. I drank mine black, but Julian doused his with two tablespoons each of cream and sugar. The kid had the metabolism of the speed of light.

Because we’d always worked so well before, we knew how to divide the chores and estimate the time required for prep.
Reservations for twenty, but expect thirty
, the church had said. We decided I’d make the steak pies, while Julian would do the Figgy Salad and green beans with artichoke hearts. We would cook until seven, then we would make breakfast for Arch and anyone else who showed up.

As we started our prep, we discussed the schedule. If Michaela was willing to take Arch to school again, then at eight, we could start setting up the food and drinks in Hyde Chapel. This was provided the police were gone, which they’d promised they would be, and the Party Rental tables had finally arrived. We’d take the same chafers and electrified hot platters that we’d used the previous evening, along with packaged, chilled salad ingredients. We’d bring the rest of the foodstuffs down at ten-thirty. At eleven, we would start serving the guests champagne, cheese puffs, onion toasts, and caviar.

Before all hell broke loose on Monday, I’d planned to bring my portable ovens to bake the pies. I often did this for catered events at kitchenless sites; I’d just forgotten to pack them after our window was shot out. Still, after the debacle with the computers, there was
no way
I was going back to our house to get the portable ovens. Instead, one of us would drive back to the castle to put the pies into the oven at eleven-fifteen. Meanwhile, the other would keep the appetizers and soup going until the hot pies
came down around noon. As long as the tables had been delivered and the labyrinth cake arrived at ten as ordered, we’d be in great shape.

For the pies, I chopped carrots, onions, and parsley for what the French called a
mirepoix
, and started butter melting in a Dutch oven. Julian steamed the
haricots verts
, then moved on to preparing a complex sauce. With the
mirepoix
sizzling in the pool of butter, I sharpened my largest chef’s knife before tackling the slabs of steak. Eliot had argued for steak-and-kidney pies, but I’d been adamantly opposed. The Olde English crowd may have loved ’em, but your modern American diner was going to think a kidney tasted like liver, and give it a pass.

“So what did the Elizabethan folks eat besides meat?” Julian asked as he swished balsamic vinegar into the fig salad dressing.

I finished cutting the steaks, floured and seasoned the pieces, and laid them over the sautéed vegetables. “Every meal offered the ever-present manchet bread,” I replied. “It was actually a small loaf. I used Julia Child’s hamburger-bun recipe last week and made a bunch of them, which I brought. Odd as it may seem, sixteenth-century folks also had sweet dishes with each course. At least, the rich ones did. Gingerbreads, tarts, marzipan, and cakes, plus conserves, preserves, and marmalades of every type. Served alongside the cooked sparrows.”

“Now there’s a healthful diet.”

“The theory is that Henry the Eighth died of scurvy.”

“Wha’d I tell you?”

I went hunting for the bottles of burgundy I’d brought in one of my boxes. Judicious amounts of red wine would be poured over the meat mixture, before it was covered with pie dough. With any luck, we’d have juicy, tender, flavorful pieces of steak topped with a golden flaky crust.

Yikes! I was making myself hungry. Tom must have
received my telepathic message, for he chose that moment to amble into the kitchen.

“Enter the one-armed breakfast chef,” he announced jovially. He wore dark chef pants—a gift from Julian—and a buttoned white Broncos shirt. “Please don’t try to talk me out of anything. Just give me an apron. I’m not leaving. If either one of you protests, you’ll only raise my stress level and make me ill.”

Julian and I laughed while Tom rooted around in Alicia’s delivered boxes of foodstuffs for chili ingredients. With a pang of guilt, I realized I’d mishandled the confrontation over Sara Beth. Besides, what had I promised myself in the hospital? That I didn’t care if there was another woman; I would love Tom always. Now I just had to behave as if I didn’t care about her.

I sighed and got back to work. Within thirty minutes, Julian and I had completed our preparation. Tom, meanwhile, worked assiduously on his breakfast concoction. The Hydes, wearing matching royal blue robes, floated into the kitchen and offered to prepare juices and hot drinks. Michaela, dressed for coach work, showed up a few minutes later, surveyed the goings-on, and announced she’d toast English muffins for all. I gladly acquiesced. I was ravenous.

Arch appeared just after seven, wearing an oversize olive shirt and large khaki pants. Did anyone at that school actually wear anything in the correct size? Sheepishly, he asked if I’d be willing to wash his fencing outfit today, so he could have it fresh for the banquet. To my surprise, Sukie volunteered to do it; she had state-of-the-art washing and drying machines, she explained, that no one else could understand.

Arch thanked her and peered into the wide frying pan on the stove. Tom was stirring his aromatic, bubbling Boulder Chili: sautéed ground chuck, onions, garlic, chili
beans, and the most hearty collection of spices north of the Rio Grande. Arch frowned.

“I’m pretty sure the Elizabethans didn’t have chili first thing in the morning.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Tom. “Too bad. Huevos Palacios are coming up.” His voice was still buoyant, but I could see lines of wear in his face and eyes. Maybe I shouldn’t have let him do any cooking.