Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

Boyd sighed. “They finished the autopsy last night. Did it extra fast because Tom was shot at the scene. But Goldy,” he added hastily, “we need to run through what happened with the window shooting first. Who you think might have done it and why. It may be connected to this attack on you. Then we’ll talk about Balachek.”

And so, for the third time, I told my story. I played Chardé‘s message for them. They asked for the tape and I gave it to them.

“There’s something else,” I added. “I saw Chardé Lauderdale at the hospital while I was waiting to see how Tom was.”

Boyd stopped scribbling and looked up, frowning.

“What was she doing?”

“Nothing. Standing at the waiting-room window.”

Boyd and Armstrong exchanged a look. Then Boyd took a deep breath. “Mrs. Lauderdale has already complained to Captain Lambert about being questioned over your window shooting. She gave him an earful, especially since she and her husband keep getting calls about the child-abuse case. I guess the newspaper article didn’t help.”

I shuddered when I thought back to the sensationalist Mountain Journal headline: “Caterer in Hot Water Over Attempt to Save Child.” I said, “I’m supposed to see the Lauderdales Thursday at a lunch I’m catering. Chardé‘ll probably behave herself there. And if she shows up here or at the castle, I’ll call you right away.”

“All right,” said Boyd, nodding. “Now we need to know about what happened yesterday morning after you left here, up to the point where Tom was shot.”

I recited the events of the previous morning. I added that I hadn’t heard back from Pat Gerber, and they mumbled something about the A.D.A. being the hardest person in the county to reach. I told them Eliot and Sukie Hyde had been extraordinarily nice and welcoming.

Boyd said, “Tell us about finding Balachek.” I hesitated. Boyd and Armstrong worked well together. They dug for the right data and usually shed light on a case. Before, when I’d wanted information on an investigation that involved someone I knew, I’d had to wheedle it out of them. Now I needed their theory on who had murdered Andy Balachek and why. It was highly probable, I reasoned, that Andy’s killer either shot Tom or knew who had. But looking at their impassive, suspicious-cop faces, I was reminded of oysters that no pliers were ever going to open.

“I had to check the chapel to see if the portable dining tables had been delivered for the luncheon. When I parked and looked down at the creek, Andy was in it.” Boyd and Armstrong waited for me to go on. I asked, “So: what was the cause of death?”

When they resolutely said nothing, I thought back. Andy had been wearing a lumberjack plaid shirt and jeans. I didn’t remember seeing a jacket on him, much less blood staining his clothes. What he had had was … wait.

“His hands were black,” I exclaimed. “Was he tortured before he died? Then someone shot him and threw his body there?” The oyster faces looked mildly surprised. I was right. “Now are you going to tell me what your theory is?”

Boyd shook his head. “We don’t know who dumped Balachek in the creek.” He stabbed a stubby finger at me. “And you, Sherlock, can’t divulge anything about the color of his hands.”

“Was he shocked electrically?” I asked. They groaned. I pressed on. “Seems as if I remember somebody else dying of electrocution. The former spouse of someone at the castle, yes? Ring any bells?”

Again, the two cops looked at one another. Boyd sighed. “Carl Rourke, Sukie Hyde’s first husband, died in a freak electrical accident while working on a roof.”

“Do you think there’s any correlation between the two deaths?” I asked.

“Not yet,” Armstrong said. “I repeat, Goldy, you can not talk about Balachek’s burned hands, or the possibility of electric shock, with anyone. It’s a key.”

Uh-huh. Before I could protest or reply, our doorbell rang again. Three men from the sheriffs department had arrived to process the basement. I showed them in, then murmured to Boyd and Armstrong that if they weren’t going to share their theories on what had happened to Balachek, I really needed to get back to my injured husband.

“We’ll be calling Tom,” Boyd told me. “We’ve got copies of all of Andy’s e-mails. Last one was ten days ago.

Then he called you, wanting Tom. Said he was in Central City, but might go to Jersey after that. We’re wondering If Balachek tried to communicate after that phone call. Like by another e-mail, phone call, whatever.”

Maybe he sent Tom something by FedEx, I almost joked, but, for once, refrained. Had Tom mentioned anything else, they wanted to know?

Well, there’s some woman. “No,” I replied without looking at them. “He didn’t. At least, not that I know of.”

They said that was all for now, but they were staying at our house for a while, if that was all right. The doorbell bonged again and I went to get it. Thinking it was more cops, I pulled the door open without checking the peephole.

It was the Jerk, with Viv Martini at his side.

He looked thin and pale, and his face seemed hard, a tad less confident. The effect of several months in prison, no doubt. He wore charcoal pants, a yellow pullover, and what looked like a new reversible down jacket, black on one side, bright blue on the other, visible at the open neck. His still good-looking face, though, revealed a dark mood. Viv, with her thin face and body, spiked blond hair, black-heeled boots, tight black pants, and fashionably poufed black nylon jacket, looked as if she were on her way to a stint with a punk rock band. When she unzipped the jacket, a tight V-neck revealing her significant cleavage sprang into view.

“Get out here,” ordered John Richard, his command rigid with anger.

Without saying a word, I slammed the door and dashed back to the dining room. I told Boyd and Armstrong what was going on and asked them to accompany me back to the porch. Just in case, I added.

Oh, my, how I delighted in the look of dismayed surprise that clouded the Jerk’s face when the conspicuously armed Boyd and Armstrong stepped onto the porch behind me. When we were all outside - John Richard and Viv to one side, me with my cop buddies beside the porch swing - Sharks and Jets - I asked the Jerk what he wanted.

“I want my son.” His voice was thick with the attempt to be simultaneously mean and conciliatory. “How dare you slap a restraining order on me? It’s a good thing it’s temporary, because I am going to stomp you so bad in two weeks, you’re going to wish you’d moved to Florida. I already got the story on what happened to you here, by the way.”

“You’re in violation of a restraining order, and you’re out on probation, buster,” said Boyd. “So watch your mouth. And if you move even an inch closer to your ex-wife, I’m going to arrest you.”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” the Jerk retorted. Viv sidled closer to John Richard, slipped her hands around his waist, then slid her fingers inside his belt. John Richard stiffened and actually blushed.

“Move back, ma’am,” Boyd ordered. This Viv did, but with a reluctant pout. John Richard gulped. His time in jail must have made him awfully horny. Apparently, he’d found just the right gal to meet his needs.

Boyd walked up to John Richard. He folded his arms, lifted his chin, and waited. John Richard took a step backward, right onto Viv’s toes, and she squawked. I wondered if she was having the tiniest flicker of doubt about her new boyfriend’s power. After a moment’s hesitation, she took another precarious step back from John Richard. I felt… well… triumphant.

“I’ll make arrangements for you to see Arch,” I told John Richard. “Call your lawyer.”