Sticks & Scones (24 page)

Summoning everyone to sit, Tom and I served up sauté pans hot from the oven. Each one brimmed with creamy frittata-style eggs topped with a sunburst of chili, grated Cheddar, and sour cream. Tom had even made one without chili for Julian. When I took a bite of the spicy concoction, I nearly swooned.

“Good
show.”
mumbled Eliot Hyde, as he chewed. Julian, Sukie, Michaela, and Arch, too, murmured compliments as we wolfed the food down. When we finished, Sukie insisted she was cleaning the kitchen.

I pulled Tom outside the kitchen door. “Boyd phoned last night,” I murmured. “The guy who stole our computers was shot to death. Boyd wants you to be careful. He doesn’t want you going out without a police escort. And you’re supposed to give him a ring today.” Tom nodded once, instantly somber, and said he was going upstairs to make calls.

“You’re coming with me, Arch?” Michaela asked when I reentered the kitchen. I nodded that it was fine. Michaela added that the police had not allowed her to start setting up early for the luncheon, after all. So we would have to attend to the space heaters and serving tables, in addition to everything else. I told her that was no problem.

Tom wouldn’t have reached the upstairs phone yet, I knew, so I quickly called the sheriff’s department from the kitchen, to check on the status of the crime scene by
the chapel. A deputy informed me that the crime lab van had finished Tuesday, but they’d kept a guard these past three days and nights because investigators hadn’t quite finished. He put me on hold, then came back and assured me the guard and police ribbons would be gone by eight.

Last, I put in a quick call to Party Rental to make sure the long-promised dining tables were indeed being delivered that morning. I was told they’d arrive no earlier than eight, no later than eight-fifteen. Sweetly, I asked: If the tables weren’t there by eight-thirty, would they give me a refund, so I could call another company? The guy hung up on me.

It was going to be one of those days.

A
s Julian and I packed up our equipment, the president of Saint Luke’s Episcopal Church Women phoned. She said the church-owned plates, glasses, and silverware would be delivered to Hyde Chapel at nine-thirty, and would somebody besides the police be there to receive them? I assured her of our catering team’s presence.

I sighed. The tables, the dinnerware, our equipment, the set-up, the food, the cops. Maybe the first thing I should do at Hyde Chapel was
pray. Dear God
, my mind supplied,
can You please get me through this lunch? Thanks.

Outside, the ground boasted five inches of new snow, which formed a thick, sugary crust on the rocks surrounding the moat. Chickadees fluttered up and down ladders of pine branches and spilled showers of flakes. Everything was silent; the glittering blanket of snow seemed to muffle all sound. Instead of enjoying the winter splendor, though, I worried what the new white stuff would do to our lunch attendance.

Eliot, now dressed in Gatsby-esque tweeds, vest, and white satin scarf, insisted on driving ahead of us in his Jaguar. When we arrived ten minutes later in Hyde Chapel’s parking lot, two sheriff’s department cars were sending plumes of exhaust into the icy air. One of the deputies talked to Eliot for a few minutes, after which Eliot, his countenance subdued, trudged over and said he’d open up the chapel.

I’d been in Hyde Chapel for christenings and weddings. But I had not seen it since the money from Henry VIII’s letter had allowed for a complete refurbishment. The stone walls had been cleaned to a sparkling silver. The multicolored slate floor tiles set off the flat marble stones of the labyrinth’s winding path, which gave the floor an eerie, pure-white patterned centerpiece. Most spectacular were the stained-glass windows. When the just-risen sun shone through them, the effect was like being inside a lighted jewelry box. The ambience was serene, until honking erupted from the parking lot.

“Hey, boss?” asked Julian as he stuck his head outside the carved wooden doors. “The tables are here!” he called. “Where do you want ’em?”

“I’ll show them, thanks.”

While Eliot and I directed Party Rental, Julian placed champagne bottles in tubs he filled with ice, then ferried in wrapped trays of hors d’oeuvres. Things were going well until he brought out the electrified hot platters: Their cords refused to stretch to the outlets in the stone wall. Looking on, Eliot had become agitated at the prospect of the table people scratching his precious slate floors. Promising to oversee the last table setup, he pointed toward the left side of the chapel and told me there were more extension cords in the storage area.

I skirted the labyrinth and hustled to an unmarked door, which opened into an enormous storeroom that smelled of Sukie’s favorite antiseptic cleaner. Flipping on
the light revealed yet more evidence of
la Suisse
at work: Paint, glass cleaner, wood polish, tools, brushes, a ladder, and every other imaginable odd and end was laid out on shelves—alphabetically. The fancy folding wooden chairs Eliot had bought were stacked along one wall. I found
Extension Cords
after
Chair Cushions
and before
Fans
, then zipped back to the newly opened tables.

After seeing Party Rental off, Eliot had set up the space heaters and serving tables. Now he was busy with his slide machine and screen. He helped me unwind the cords to the outlets, at which point Julian and I plugged everything in. Mercifully, no fuses blew. We then taped down all the cords, a trick to keep even the most inebriated guest from tripping and doing a face-plant on the floor.

We were so busy we didn’t hear two women banging on the wooden doors to be let in. They were emissaries from the Episcopal Church Women, there to set the tables. When they finished and I let them out, I was the one who reclosed the door. I was sure of this, just as I was sure Eliot had told me we had the only key to the chapel, retrieved from the lockbox outside. So … when Buddy and Chardé Lauderdale slithered unannounced and unadmitted into the chapel at ten after nine, I was more than a bit surprised.

“
What
are you two doing here?” I demanded.

Startled, Chardé dropped her lemon-colored Chanel purse, which matched a lemon-colored wool pantsuit and lemon beret set at a jaunty slant on her dark hair.
When life hands you a lemon … you get Chardé.
Buddy, ever the casual type, had his hands thrust into wool khaki pants beneath a black turtleneck shirt, an outfit meant to make him look attractive and powerful, and which succeeded in neither. “How did you get in?” I snapped.

“Eliot?” Chardé called sweetly, ignoring me.

Buddy, meanwhile, glanced nervously around the
chapel, obviously ill at ease. I knew he and Chardé had donated five thou to the labyrinth, but that he only came to church at Christmas. He was breathing deeply, and his face was pinched with the guilty expression of a holiday-only churchman. If he hyperventilated, I wondered, would I feel compelled to call 911?

“Chardé, darling!” crowed Eliot, striding forward. “Come to check that we’re using your beautiful cushions on our chairs? Of course we are!”

They smooched like old pals and began to murmur. With an air of concentration, Buddy made a shuffling circuit of the chapel.
If I stay near the edge, I’m not really here.
Meanwhile, I arranged the cups and helped Julian bring the first stack of wooden chairs out of the storage room. We were about to go back for more when the door to the chapel opened again. In walked John Richard Korman, with Viv Martini in tow.

What was this—Open House? I cursed myself for being so surprised by the Lauderdales that I’d neglected to check the chapel doors.

John Richard and Viv, dressed head to toe in black, looked like a couple of undertakers. Then again, maybe they were aiming for that chic eighties rock-star look. Eliot, who was still engaged in intimate conversation with Chardé, glanced up abruptly. His face registered shock, then a deep blush.
Now that’s a new look for the king
, I mused, intrigued.

“Well,
Eliot,”
said Viv in a mock-accusing tone. “Imagine seeing you here. And with a cute decorator, no less.”

“It is, uh, my family’s chapel,” Eliot began, but Viv only tilted up her pointed little chin and blew him a kiss. His face went from a patchy scarlet to an even crimson. I actually felt sorry for him.

“And Buddy,” Viv went on, still the charmer.

“Hey, Viv,” Buddy replied, his voice low and sexy.
Had Viv slept with
every
rich older guy in the county? Would John Richard mind being classified as a
rich older guy?
Ha.

Before I could ask my ex-husband if he remembered the restraining order, he strode across the space between us and wagged a finger in my face.

“I don’t want to hear any crap from you, understand? Arch said you were going to be against it, so
I’m
warning you
now.”
His blue eyes blazed in his handsome face. “Viv and I are coming to the fencing banquet. Whether you like it or not. Got it? So don’t give me any of this restraining-order crap. It’s for Arch, and you should recognize he wants me there.”

“Cocky when the cops aren’t around, eh?” I shot back. “Hey, Viv! You don’t know what you’re in for!”

Viv shook her pale hair, which stuck out at every possible angle. “I love what I’m in for!” she proclaimed, as she sashayed closer to the Jerk. Standing behind him, she opened her black leather jacket—
Is she carrying
, I wondered?
How do you slide a gun into pants that tight?
She cocked one elbow and used the other hand to pat John Richard’s behind. Her clear voice crooned, “We’re not going to cause any trouble, are we, honey? If my guy here gets out of line, I’ll use force.”

When John Richard blushed, I burst out laughing. “Promise?” I asked.

“Promise,” she replied in a deep, throaty voice that sent shivers down my spine. Well, she was John Richard’s choice. Or vice versa, if she was just using him as a rich-old-fart conquest. Wouldn’t I love to see that? Maybe not, if this blond bombshell ended up taking money designated for Arch. Viv snaked an arm around John Richard’s waist and tilted her head to murmur in his ear.
Ever done it in a chapel?
Or something like that, because John Richard let out a surprised grunt. I longed to ask my ex-husband if Viv was the type of gal recommended in your average
male-menopause support group, but for once I kept mum. I had work to do.

“If there’s nothing further—” I began.

“So do we understand each other?” the Jerk said to me. I think he wanted to shake his finger in my face again, but Viv had him entwined. Instead, I walked quietly toward him and pointed a finger less than an inch from his aristocratic nose.

“Split.
Now.
You understand? I
heard
you. Remember General Farquhar, who could kill people without making any noise?
I
make a
ton
of noise. Now, buzz off before the nice neighbors have to hear it.”

“Now, now, Goldy,” Viv said, her voice conciliatory. “Let’s not make threats we can’t back up.” She gave me a knowing look. “I make a ton of noise, too, don’t I, baby? Let’s go.”

John Richard pressed his lips together and swallowed. Come to think of it, he
did
look kind of tired, especially in his
noir
outfit. Buddy and Eliot stood aghast:
Were we actually hooked up with this woman? How’d we survive?
Chardé seized the opportunity of this dramatic tableau to stride toward me:
Lemon in Motion.

“We’re
coming to the fencing banquet, too,” she declared, her pert nose in the air. I prayed that the yellow beret would plop to the floor, but it didn’t slip. “We eat
no
undercooked meat,
no
raw eggs, and
no
sugar in any form. And by the way, our son Howie is lactose-intolerant. You probably don’t remember any of this from when you catered for us. You were too busy being
nosy
, isn’t that right?”

“I—”

“Howie likes lime sorbet. No dairy. Got it?” Chardé said.

“Okay!” Julian bellowed, extending his arms. “That’s
it!
Everybody
out! Out!
You, you, you, and you!” he
snarled, pointing to the Jerk, Viv, Buddy, and Chardé. “We cannot work for our clients with
you
here.
Leave.”

“We
are your clients,” chimed in Buddy Lauderdale, with that nasal arrogance I knew only too well.

“Then please come back at
lunchtime.”
Julian said firmly. No question, the kid had it all over yours truly in the assertiveness department.

Eliot made soft cooing noises that were meant to reassure his good chums, the Lauderdales. The Jerk and Viv banged out through the chapel door. When Eliot and the Lauderdales also departed, I slumped down in one of the wooden chairs. Julian made sure the doors were firmly shut and locked. He called to us that there was also an inside bolt, and he was throwing it until lunchtime.

“I’m not sure I can make it through this day,” I moaned when he returned.

“Sure you can. There’ll be new deep-pocket folks here who’ll love your food. They will line up to book you for their next catered event.”

He made me laugh. I was about to tell him how proud I was of him when thunderous pounding interrupted us yet again. This time, I unbolted the door and opened it myself. It was the baker’s assistant, come to set up the labyrinth cake. It looked scrumptious, a huge fudge-frosted round cake with white-iced loops reflecting the intricate pattern on the chapel floor.

“I brought you something,” Julian said, when I had firmly locked up behind the baker’s assistant. He was holding an upscale shopping bag. “Chocolate Emergency cookies, remember? I figure we’re in one now.” He drew out a wrapped packet and a small hot-drink container. “I even brought you an espresso.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Julian.” I bit into the cookie. Dark fudgy flavor exploded in my mouth and a burst of chocolate euphoria sparked up my spine. The cookies were
chewy without being too sweet, with the smooth, buttery vanilla icing a perfect complement to the rich chocolate. A hearty swig of the espresso sent all worries about the Lauderdales, the Jerk, and Viv down Cottonwood Creek.

For the nonce, anyway.

Two hours later I was letting the mood fit the food by being upbeat while serving trays of mail-order English cheese puffs, onion toasts, and caviar with toast points. The big donors, a handful of vestry members, and a few Episcopal Church Women, along with our parish priest, were all chugging champagne while gushing that Eliot had been
so
generous to donate the chapel to Saint Luke’s. The Lauderdales had snubbed me, of course, and recommended that others do so as well, Marla reported. Meanwhile, Marla announced that she didn’t understand why she’d given so much money to the labyrinth, when walking it was going to be so confusing after all this champagne.

While Julian served the soup, I hustled up to the castle and put in the Shakespeare’s Steak Pies. The Lauderdales were bad-mouthing me? Those
creeps!
“Anger’s my meat,” I whispered, congratulating myself on remembering something from
Coriolanus.
What was the rest of it? Oh, yes.
Anger’s my meat: I sup upon myself/And so shall starve with feeding.
So there! One more word from the Lauderdales and they’d be supping on raw hamburger with manchet bread. New play from the Bard:
MacDEATH.

After we set out the pies, salad, and bread, the guests happily moved through the buffet line. Julian bustled about, teased by his Aunt Marla and admired by the women. As far from the buffet tables as possible, the Lauderdales had seated themselves with Sukie, Eliot, and another couple from the church. Buddy and Chardé
were working hard to appear deep in intellectual conversation. I, of course, was not fooled.

At length, Eliot dimmed the chandeliers and began his talk. He clicked on a slide of the Chartres labyrinth, and offered the same historical and architectural background I’d heard on the audiotape. While he was showing Before and After slides of the chapel restoration, Marla sneaked up to my side.