Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

But Sukie’s blue eyes were full of worry as she handed me back the photo. “You did miss a call, Goldy, from the assistant district attorney. Her name is Pat Gerber? She wants you to call her.” She showed me the phone, tucked between the refrigerator and the glass-fronted kitchen cupboard of Eliot’s meticulously labeled Elizabethan conserves. I peered in at rows of chokecherry and redcurrant jellies, strawberry conserve with champagne, and plum jam. “This is just half of his insomniac production from this summer,” she said airily. “I was beginning to think we should not have destroyed the stillroom.”

As I dialed the district attorney’s office, I wondered how toasted brioche would taste with the plum jam, or whether I could make a good Cumberland sauce with the currant jelly. I was put on hold and amused myself with the image of a latter-day Jay Gatsby fretting over a bubbling vat of conserve. When I was finally connected with Pat, she said that since I hadn’t specified parental visitation for John Richard in the restraining order, he was squawking to anyone who would listen. If I could work it out with the lawyers, the best thing to do - since everything had become so acrimonious, Pat added - would be to take Arch to a neutral site for the hand-off. I suggested an Aspen Meadow counseling center that included such a service. Good idea, Pat agreed. I told her I’d call my lawyer about letting John Richard have Arch overnight.

“Sounds workable,” she said. I should be prepared for a battle royal in two weeks, she went on, when the temporary order expired and we had to go before a judge and argue about permanent visitation orders. “John Richard’s got a prison record, which should make some difference, but it may not, since he’s got money and position in the community. And by the way, if he does make any threats against you, write them down,” Pat advised sternly. “If you can, have witnesses.”

What do you know, I thought, that’s already happened. After we hung up, I scribbled down what had transpired at our house, put in a call to my lawyer, and outlined the overnight suggestion. He said he’d deal with the Jerk’s lawyer, who had already left three messages for him. Unless I heard to the contrary, I should drop Arch off at the counseling center today after fencing practice, around five-fifteen, with his overnight bag. Then I should pick up my son after school tomorrow. My heart sank as I hung up. Was this what I was looking forward to - a constant shuffling of poor Arch to and from his ex-con father?

Julian slid me a plate arranged with two hot croquettes and two small bowls of dipping sauces. The croquettes were crisp and crunchy on the outside, tasty with a homemade roux-binder and hot melted cheese on the inside. I made mm-mm noises and dunked the second one into both the spicy Dijon mustard and tart cranberry sauces. I virtuously declined more, saying I had to go check on Tom.

I wanted to see Tom, that was true. It was so much better than brooding about the Jerk. But in reality, I mused guiltily as I trod up the carpeted stairs to our suite, I wanted to boot up my laptop - assuming Tom was still asleep - and read all the contents of that disk with its revealing electronic mail.

But he was not asleep. He was talking on the portable telephone, which he carefully put on his end table when I entered the suite. I wondered with whom he’d been talking, wondered if I had the guts to confront him about his communication with Sara Beth O’Malley. Had his state of blood loss, pain, and shock meant he’d forgotten what he’d said to me by the creek?

Was I going to live the rest of my married life like this? “Sheriff’s department,” he said matter-of-factly, gesturing at the phone. Then he eyed me suspiciously. “What happened to you? You’re so late!”

“Oh, I got knocked out. Boyd will tell you all about it. Somebody stole our computers. How are you feeling?”

“What? Who knocked you out? Where? Miss G., I want you to tell me about it.”

“I was at the house.” I told him about being hit, the theft, the threatening visit of John Richard and Viv, and my trip to the shooter’s perch. “So we won’t be going home anytime soon.” I omitted any mention of the mysterious appearance of Sara Beth O’Malley, because I just couldn’t face talking about that. Yet.

Tom stared at me in stunned disbelief. “You put your life in danger for some pictures and a disk on food? Why didn’t you just get a police shot of Korman and go to the library for cookbooks?”

“Because I typed up very specific stuff for Eliot Hyde.”

“This is all my fault,” Tom said angrily. He shifted in the bed, obviously in pain, obviously peevish. “Damn this case.”

“Forget the case and just get better.”

He groaned and thumped his pillow, unable to get comfortable on the big bed. “I’ll get better if I can just figure out how Andy Balachek got himself killed, and who’s beating up on my wife.” He paused, then looked back at me. “The whole thing’s strange … .”

“I… saw Andy’s blackened hands. Tom, was he electrocuted?”

“If I tell you, will you promise me not to go back into our house?” When I nodded, Tom said, “He was, but he didn’t die of the shock. That’s what’s so weird. You get a huge electric shock, you figure you can’t go far. Right?”

“Did Andy go anywhere?” Tom’s eyes were grim. “It looks as if he was electrocuted, then shot. Then the killer put him in the creek, and either hightailed it out of there, or sat and waited for me to show up.”

-14-

Marla slipped into the room without knocking. “Goldy!” she whispered. Her eyes glowed. “I have news!” Then she was instantly apologetic. “Sorry, Tom! I didn’t knock because I thought you’d be asleep.” She tossed her head of brown curls and lifted an eyebrow at me. “Come out into the hall if you want gossip about you-know-who and his you-know- what.”

“Ah,” I said, understanding Marla-speak for the Jerk and his sex life, the Jerk and his money, or both.

“I don’t know about you girls,” Tom teased. His mischievous smile vanished, however, when he moved his shoulder.

“Need a painkiller?” I asked, immediately concerned.

“No.” Typical male response. “I just want some quiet.

Go visit with Marla.” To Marla, I said, “Let’s hear it.” She giggled and scurried out the door. I kissed Tom’s forehead and told him I’d be back soon to check on him.

Animosity manifests itself in a number of ways, I thought as I avoided another Wet Paint sign in the hall. I possessed a passive defensiveness toward the Jerk. I never knew when he might attack, but I had learned not to let down my guard. Active animosity, on the other hand, was Marla’s specialty. She fed her obsessive

hatred for the Jerk with information. She paid her lawyer a separate monthly fee to employ investigators to keep tabs on our mutual ex-husband’s shenanigans, sexual adventures, and - her favorite - his financial woes. From the triumphant tone in her voice, I suspected her latest news fell in the last category.

“You’re not going to believe what he’s up to now,” she began eagerly, once we were standing beside one of the tall windows that overlooked the courtyard.

“Try me.”

“Well,” she reported, her face set in mock disapproval, “it’s a shady financial deal.”

“Begin at the beginning.”

“My lawyer just called.” She ran a bejeweled hand through her hair. “Okay, you remember when he had to sell the Keystone condo?” I nodded. To offset monetary setbacks the previous year, John Richard had been forced to auction off his ski resort condominium. According to Marla, the condo had been the setting of much debauchery. “Okay, then he had to go through the inconvenience of being incarcerated, so he had to sell his practice. He realized about six hundred thou from that, after taxes and whatnot. His legal fees have reduced that by about half. So he’s back in his country-club house after … what? Serving less than five months of his sentence. Payments on the house are six thou a month and have never stopped. Add to that, paying you child support. On the plus side, his new salary at ACHMO is, don’t puke, eight hundred thou a year.”