Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

So yes, I’d called the cops. Patty had been removed from the family home for a week. After an investigation, the Lauderdales, who had no priors, had been cleared of child abuse. Little Patty, reportedly still undergoing neurological tests, had been returned to her parents. But I’ve learned to suspect the corrupting power of money, influence, and lawyers. Through friends, I’d heard that the Lauderdales had sworn they were going to get Goldy. They insisted that good old Buddy had just been trying to be a good parent. And they also claimed that their name and their business had been irreparably harmed by my call to law enforcement. A hysterically toned Mountain Journal article, discussing the incident and my own history of spouse abuse, had not helped the situation. Beside the article had been two pictures. The first was of Buddy Lauderdale from his Jag’s-in-the-bag TV commercials, where he wore a hunting outfit, toted a rifle, and had a large bag slung over his shoulder. The second was of him being led away from his home in handcuffs.

“Heard from the Lauderdales lately?” Wyatt asked now.

I shook my head, but my heart sank. Unfortunately, Chardé Lauderdale was designing and implementing the makeover for the interior of Hyde Castle, where I would be catering later in the week. Chardé had also overseen the redecoration of Hyde Chapel, where I would be working later today. Make that, where I was hoping to work later today, if I could find a place to cook that had heat, ovens, and windows without bullet holes.

“Do you know of any recent threats made against Tom?” asked Vaughan.

I sighed and said no. If anyone had threatened him, I reminded them, there ought to be a record of it at the department. The hijacking-homicide case that had taken Tom out of state involved a heist from a Furman County store named The Stamp Fox. One of the envelopes in the hijacked delivery truck - the main target of the thieves - had contained collectible stamps worth over three million dollars. The Stamp Fox had been shipping the stamps in a plain FedEx envelope to a philatelic show in Tucson. So much for transmitting valuables incognito. When the FedEx driver resisted, he’d been shot dead.

“Tom’s supposed to come back today,” I told Wyatt and Vaughan. “He’s been looking for a local fellow who’s been connected to the delivery-truck hijacking. Name’s Andy Balachek.”

“Isn’t Balachek the kid with a gambling problem?” demanded Wyatt. “Stole his dad’s excavation truck and then sold it? Got involved with Ray Wolff?”

I nodded. This, too, had been in the papers. Andy Balachek’s friendship with Ray Wolff, the infamous hijacker now behind bars in the Furman County Jail, had proved costly to the naďve twenty-year-old. As one of Wolffs known associates, Andy had been questioned. The night of the hijacking, Andy’s father had had a heart attack. Then Tom had arrested Ray Wolff, who’d left a fingerprint on the steering wheel of the hijacked FedEx truck, at a storage area on the county

line. Wolff, vowing revenge, had spat in Tom’s face before being led away in handcuffs.

I knew, but I was not sure that Wyatt and Vaughan knew, that Andy Balachek had confirmed the department’s suspicions of his partnership with Ray Wolff. A few days after the theft, Andy had contacted Tom, requesting Tom communicate with him via e-mail. Andy was interested in a plea deal. The county D.A. had told Tom to string Andy along. Fearing his father was not long for this world, and needing to clear his conscience, Andy had been the one who’d tipped Tom off to Wolff’s visit to the storage area. Then Andy had e-mailed Tom saying that he’d gotten a stake and was heading for Atlantic City. And off Tom had gone - to find him.

“Any other problematic cases Tom might have mentioned?” Deputy Vaughan persisted. “Somebody else have an ax to grind with him?”

I frowned and thought back to the e-mail account Tom had been forced to set up on his computer at home, because Andy Balachek had insisted he wouldn’t send any correspondence directly to the sheriff’s department. It had been out of character for Tom to take so much time to work at home. But he had, until he’d packed up for New Jersey. No, I didn’t know whether Tom was working on other problematic cases. What I did know was that he’d been working too hard.

“Did he mention threats from Balachek?” asked Vaughan.

“When Balachek e-mailed Tom that he was leaving the state, Tom immediately got approval from Captain Lambert to go looking for him.”

Vaughan raised his eyebrows, as in, That’s it?

“And you, Mrs. Schulz?” asked Wyatt. “Aside from the Lauderdales. Anyone else you know might want to take a shot at you? Or your son, for that matter?”

Wyatt scribbled as I told him that Arch’s father, my ex-husband, was being considered for parole, actually an early release, because of his so-called “good behavior.” I added that serving less than five months of a three-year sentence didn’t seem like much of a punishment for beating the daylights out of a woman. No, I told them, John Richard wasn’t in jail for assaulting me. Or his other ex-wife, my best friend, Marla Korman. Not this time. I added that the idea of the Jerk being a model prisoner was an oxymoron on the order of fat-free butter. I told both deputies that John Richard could be out of jail anytime. But I was supposed to receive a notice from the Department of Corrections before that happened.

I fell silent. Wyatt and Vaughan studied me. The coffee was no longer hot; my teeth were chattering. Wyatt got up and called to the team who’d arrived and begun working in our living room. A policewoman brought in a quilt. I thanked her and wrapped myself up in the thick handmade comforter, sewn by county volunteers for crime victims.

“Any neighbors who might pose problems?” Wyatt’s partner asked patiently. “Those guys outside look a tad trigger-happy.” Was that a hint of a grin on Wyatt’s face? I gushed that our neighbors were all terrific. The last time a neighbor had shot at anything, it had been a woodpecker. But he’d really hated that bird; his skirmishes with it were the stuff of neighborhood legend. And anyway, after he’d fired, the woodpecker had flown away, unscathed.

“Are there any other folks,” Vaughan pressed, “any other clients, you might have had trouble with?”

“Ordinarily,” I replied, “my clients only get upset if I don’t show up.” My throat closed. What was I supposed to do about the lunch? The bullet-smashed window made it too cold to do the crucial last part of the necessary food-prep here at home, unless I could quickly find a repairman to put plywood over the window. I had to honor my luncheon commitment at Hyde Chapel. If I wasn’t able to get the window fixed, could I do my cooking in the castle kitchen? Would the Hydes want me to arrive at the castle before sunup? Gooseflesh pimpled my arms, and I sighed.

Wyatt closed his notebook. The phone rang. I bolted for it, hoping it was Tom.

“Goldy, it’s Boyd,” said the gravelly voice of Sergeant Boyd, one of Tom’s closest friends in the department.

“Oh,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. “Did you hear about the -

“

“It’s why I’m calling,” he interrupted. Boyd had a no-nonsense attitude that was complemented by his barrel-shaped body and unfashionable crew cut, all of which I had come to cherish. Tom trusted his life to Boyd, as did I. “Listen,” he said now. “I want you out of there.”

“I’m thinking about it,” I protested. “I’m also thinking our window just needs some plywood - “

“Forget it. Your security system needs to be rewired and the house may not be safe. I’ve already talked to Armstrong.” Sergeant Armstrong, who worked with Boyd, was another friend and ace investigator. “We want you to get out and stay out until Tom gets back. It is not safe there. You and Arch can hole up in my spare bedroom if you want. Armstrong’s family is willing to have you, too.”