Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

I thanked Trudy and told her I’d be home soon. Then I replaced the receiver, filled a glass of water for Tom, and went back into our room. Holding the glass, I stared out the leaded-glass windows lining the wall of the suite. A snow flurry sent swirls of thick flakes into the moat. She didn’t look like one of John Richards bimbos …

“I’m awake,” Tom said from the bed. Was that a suspicious note in his voice, or was I being paranoid again? “Miss G.? Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I need to get my computer disk with the research for this week’s food prep,” I replied lightly. I didn’t mention the woman lurking on our street. Why worry Tom when he was immobilized? On the other hand, I was not going back to our place without giving the cops - that is, the cops who could do something - advance warning. I needed to call Sergeants Boyd and Armstrong. I went on, “I also have to get a picture of the Jerk, so that the Hydes can know not to let him in.” And I have to check out that woman, I added silently. Not to mention that my curiosity was demanding a trip down to the creek. If the sheriff’s department was no longer processing the crime scene, I wanted to have a look at the place myself.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go home alone,” Tom replied. “And did you talk to A.D.A. Gerber about visitations for Arch?” So he was worried about John Richard Korman, too. Good old Tom.

“Not yet. On my way over, I’ll call Boyd and Armstrong on the cellular. Not to worry. I’ll be fine at the house. Plus, Trudy will be right next door. How are you doing?”

“I’m bored. I want to get up and call my office. I want to get cracking on this case.”

I kissed his cheek, which smelled of rubbing alcohol.

“I shouldn’t be gone more than an hour,” I promised, as I handed him the water glass and a long straw. “Unless by some miracle the window repair guy shows up. Then I’ll stay and supervise.”

“I’ll be fine,” Tom assured me, stubbornly placing the glass on the end table. “Just find me a portable phone, would you?”

I brought him the phone from the bathroom, then left. As I drove down the castle driveway, I put in a cell call to Sergeant Boyd’s voice mail: I was headed to our house, I reported, since I had to pick up a few things, and hoped to meet him there. Oh, and a neighbor had reported a strange woman hanging out in a car across the street. Could the sheriffs department check it out?

The snow flurry ended. In its wake, winds in the upper atmosphere had left feathery traces of cirrus clouds. I crossed Cottonwood Creek and waited for the traffic to clear. Below, the narrow stream furrowing through ice banks winked in the winter sunlight. As I passed the bridge that led to the chapel, two uniformed sheriffs deputies stood outside the yellow crime-scene ribbons, conferring with Eliot and Sukie.

Next to the Hydes’ matching silver Jaguars was another, newer Jag. To my horror, I recognized the car and its driver. Leaning against her sleek black vehicle, her arms crossed, was Chardé Lauderdale. She lifted her eyes and glanced at the road as I drove by. Recognizing me, she immediately turned back to the Hydes.

Clearly, I would have to return at a later time.

I stepped on the accelerator and the tires spun in the snow-frosted road. I needed to see what was going on at our house.

She was alone, sitting up very straight in the driver’s seat of a beat-up, rust-spotted station wagon that had once been white. The car was parked directly across the street from our house. I drove by slowly and looked at the woman. She had shoulder-length black hair dramatically shot with gray, and Trudy was right: her unmade-up, slender face was quite beautiful.

Hmm.

She wasn’t so much staring at our house as gazing at the framed crag that had been our living-room window. To keep out snow and deter looters, the cops had

put up plywood behind what was left of the glass. If the woman was a crook or even the shooter, she wasn’t acting very smart. A criminal simply didn’t sit out here in the open in a small-town neighborhood, waiting to have her license plate recorded by an armed Neighborhood Watch.

Further up the street, I pulled into a driveway. I was about to reverse when I heard an engine revving, then groaning, like a sports car being downshifted. I felt a familiar unease. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I saw a shiny gold Mercedes descending our street. A laughing Viv Martini, her luminescent hair rippling in the frigid breeze from her open window, sat in the passenger seat. The driver was the Jerk.

I hunched over the steering wheel until they’d passed our house. They continued down to Main Street, then turned left, in the direction of the Grizzly Saloon. I waited five minutes and tried to catch my breath. What in heaven’s name were they doing here? Even if the Jerk was looking for Arch, he had to know he was in school. Or had he heard about Tom’s shooting and hoped to find a hearse in our driveway? Maybe Viv would get the flu from exposure to the elements.

I turned and piloted my van back toward our house. I eased into Trudy’s driveway, hopped out, and headed toward the station wagon.

The woman in the wagon looked about fifty or fifty-five. She was even more lovely than I’d first thought, with high cheekbones, wide-set eyes, a full, sensuous mouth, and delicate chin. Now she tore her gaze from our front door to give me a perplexed glance. She didn’t look like a crook, she looked like Jackie Kennedy. She certainly didn’t seem like someone who knew her way around a gun. My legs wobbled the last few steps to the car, but I was not going to be scared off my own street.

“I’m Goldy Schulz,” I announced with a courage I was far from feeling. “Are you from the window repair shop?”

The woman’s mouth fell slightly open, and the gorgeous face darkened. I peered boldly into the station wagon. She wore a green sweatshirt with jeans, and no discernible jewelry. A newspaper and thermos were perched on the tattered seats. No tools, no plate glass. No weapon. No camera, either, trademark of the tourists who flood our rustic mountain town in the summer. And of course, this was winter.

So what was she doing here? “I’m just waiting,” the woman replied, as if she’d read my mind. Her voice sounded as rusty as the exterior of the wagon, and she spoke in a half-whisper, as if English were her second language.

Shouting my name, Trudy launched out her front door with our howling bloodhound in tow. Red-haired and pear-shaped, Trudy has the kind of complexion that turns crimson when she is upset. The mystery woman turned the key in her ignition as Jake, bellowing mightily, I tugged Trudy in our direction. Before I could think of another thing to say, such as Do you need directions to Main Street?, the station wagon had roared off.

“What was that about?” Trudy demanded. “What did she say?”

“Nothing.” I took Jake’s leash from her and ordered him to be quiet. He ignored me.

“A piece about that Balachek boy’s body in the creek was on TV this morning. All the Denver channels. Did you see it?” When I shook my head, Trudy continued, “They also showed the front of your house and that window. They had a bit about Tom, too. Was Tom investigating Andy Balachek? The reason I ask is that a couple of nosy media people have called me wanting to know if it was a case of vengeance run amuck. Andy shoots out a cop’s window, the cops gun down Andy.”

“That is ridiculous!” I said fiercely.

“That’s what I told them.” Trudy nodded, as if to confirm the absurdity of such a notion. She squinted in the direction the old station wagon had taken. “Anyway, after all the fuss in the news, I guess you have to figure you’re going to get some gawkers.”