Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

“Need chocolate?” asked Julian. “I was thinking of making cookies or cake after I get back from the grocery store. Plus I just put a frittata and some rolls into the oven. They’ll be done in about ten minutes.”

“Maybe later.” Tom’s smile was thin. My heart squeezed in sympathy. “Arch.” He tilted his head at my son. “I need to laugh. I need to hear some jokes. It’ll make me feel better.”

“I just had to write a poem for my Shakespeare and His Times class,” Arch piped up, straightening his glasses. “I could read that to you, if you want.”

“I do,” Tom said, with a small grin. Arch pulled a sheet of paper out of his backpack. He warned, “It’s, you know, aa, bb, cc, dd, like that.” He poised himself at the foot of the carved four-poster bed. He cleared his throat twice, then read:

Two enemies met in a foreign field, Each pointed his spear; each clasped his bright shield. I watched from afar; to see the pair fight, Chivalry would bind them! Each was a knight. Their horses raced forward, a cold wind blew; One knight was gored, the spear went right through! Bloodied, he fell; the terrain was rocky. “Wow!” I thought. “This is worse than hockey!”

It was nice to have a laugh; it was great to be together. After a moment, Tom said he needed rest. Julian and Arch raced off for the kitchen, while I sat at Tom’s side. By the time Julian poked his head back into the suite to invite me down for rolls, frittata, fresh fruit, Cheshire cheese, and tea, Tom was asleep. The Elizabethans hadn’t eaten frittata, I was pretty sure. Nor, I’d been surprised to learn in my research, had they drunk tea. But having substituted packaged crackers for regular meals for the past twenty hours, I was ravenous. The heck with food history. Besides, I couldn’t remember what the Elizabethans had for breakfast. That’s what I was going back to our house for, right? To get the disk with all my research. I promised Julian I’d be right down.

When I entered the enormous kitchen moments later, Julian, Arch, and Michaela were already sitting at the oak trestle table. A cozy fire crackled in one of the kitchen hearths. Soon, I was slathering one of Julian’s hot rolls with soft butter and homemade plum jam that Michaela had retrieved from Eliot’s backup stash in the dining room. Heaven. The creamy, custardlike texture of the frittata provided a tangy complement to the sharp cheese. Relishing the delicious breakfast, I recalled that, indeed, Queen Elizabeth herself had indulged in enormous breakfasts - before she went hunting. I told Arch, Michaela, and Julian as much as I could remember of one menu: cold sausages and powdered neat’s tongue. Arch asked what a neat was, and I replied that “neat” was an archaic term for cow or ox. Michaela grinned and served us steaming cups of strong English Breakfast tea. I asked Arch how the fencing was going.

“Pretty well,” he answered cautiously, wary of appearing boastful in front of his coach.

“He’s done brilliantly,” Michaela declared as she split her third roll and piled the center with cheese slices. “I’m going to have him be part of our demonstration Friday night.”

Arch blushed. Julian slyly added, “That’s not because your former girlfriend is on the team? Maybe Lettie -

“

“Stop!” warned Arch. His face had turned scarlet. I decided to say nothing. Arch had kept me in the dark about his post-Christmas breakup with Lettie, also fourteen. When he’d told me after the fact, he said that he wasn’t going to tell me the reasons, because then I would try to argue with them. Oh-kay, I’d said. Now I wondered idly if the breakup had been so bad that Lettie might have shot at our window.

I took another sip of tea and told myself not to be ridiculous.

“Couple of messages for you,” said Michaela as she gathered up the dishes. “One, your tables were delivered yesterday morning to the chapel. Or rather, they weren’t delivered. The police turned the delivery guys away. Eliot asked them to come back early on Thursday.”

I sighed. If I hadn’t had so much on my plate, I would have called Party Rental and told them what was going on. “Thanks.”

“No problem. The police have given me the go-ahead to setup the chapel tomorrow. I’ll be unpacking our space heaters, opening our own serving tables and folding chairs, and setting up our screen for Eliot’s slides.” She paused. “Eliot wants to review the menu with you this afternoon. If you’re up to it.”

I nodded. “No problem. And the second message?”

“Two detectives want you to call them.” She handed me a note with the names of Boyd and Armstrong, as well as their office and cell phone numbers. Then she loaded the rest of the dishes into the wood-paneled dishwasher, one of the kitchen’s numerous disguised amenities. I thanked Michaela again for helping. She looked at the floor and said it was the least she could do, after what we’d been through.

After the boys had been assured that Tom and I would be fine, just fine, they gathered up Arch’s gear and Julian’s grocery list - he insisted he was making dinner tonight for everybody - and hustled down to Julian’s Rover. From one of the narrow windows in the well tower, I watched them roar away.

Back in our room, Tom was still sleeping. I knew I had to go back to our house. I needed to check on the animals, too, and so I used the phone - a portable device placed in our magisterial bathroom, which I hadn’t seen when we’d first arrived - to call Trudy. She reported that Jake the bloodhound and Scout the cat were in good shape. She’d collected today’s mail and would continue to do so until we were home again. The police had come by early this morning, she said, and told her that deputies were working hard on the Balachek murder and the window shooting.

“Everybody on the street’s watching the place till then,” Trudy added. “We’re even keeping track of unfamiliar license plates.”

I murmured that that wasn’t necessary. But Trudy interrupted me, her voice insistent. “There’s a strange car out there right now. It looks as if the driver is keeping a close eye on your place.”

“Is it someone from the sheriff’s department?”

“I don’t think an unmarked car would be covered with rust, Goldy. Plus, a cop would be more obvious. This guy is being very surreptitious. Actually, it’s a woman.”

My skin turned to ice. “Trudy, are you sure she’s watching our house - “

“Goldy, she’s been sitting in her car for two hours now. She’s hiding behind a newspaper. I know she’s not reading it because when I took out my binoculars, I could see her eyes peering over the top of the paper. I’m telling you, she’s just staring at your broken window.”

-11-

Did you c-call the sheriff’s department?” I asked, cursing the choke in my voice.

“Not yet. The woman hasn’t actually done anything. I took Jake out there on a leash, though, so I could talk to her. I said we’d just had a shooting on our street and that there were cops all over.”

“What did she say?”

“She asked if anyone had been hurt. I said no and very obviously looked inside her car for a weapon. She didn’t have one, or at least, not one that I could see. She said she was waiting for someone. When I asked who, she just drove away. Then a while ago, she came back.”

It was as if I’d been punched in the solar plexus. Could it be Viv? If the Jerk’s new girlfriend was haunting our street, I would sic Jake on her myself. “Is she skinny, with white-blond hair, big boobs, and a sort of rock-star face? Late twenties?”

“Nah, she’s older,” Trudy replied promptly. “Probably fifty. Dark hair. Pretty face, but weathered. Looks like she might be tall and slender. Maybe she’s an ex-model who wants Tom to do some investigating for her. Anyway, she doesn’t look like one of John Richard’s bimbos, if that’s what you’re worried about.”