Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

I thought of the minuscule kitchen in Boyd’s bachelor apartment, and of the chaos Armstrong’s six children wrought wherever they went. “Thanks. I don’t - “

“We’ll get your window fixed, don’t worry. And your security system, too. But we need to find out who did this to you.”

“Okay,” I agreed reluctantly, knowing Tom would want me to do whatever Boyd recommended. “I’ll … make some arrangement.”

“Good. Talk to you later.” I thanked him, hung up, and told the deputies what Boyd had said. Both seemed relieved. After all, the house would be too cold and too dangerous to stay in, at least for that day. So what other impromptu arrangement was I supposed to come up with? What friend can you call at four-thirty in the morning, to ask for refuge and a large kitchen?

During the current remodeling of her guest bedroom, my best friend Marla Korman - who always claimed that the Jerk had married her for her inherited fortune, which she’d refused to share with him during their brief marriage - had staked out a suite at Denver’s Brown Palace Hotel. I knew Marla would have welcomed me, even at that ungodly morning hour. But the sixty-five-minute trip back from downtown Denver to Aspen Meadow, to cater at Hyde Chapel between ferrying Arch to and from school, was simply not feasible. Plus, the Brown probably wouldn’t look kindly on yours truly invading their restaurant kitchen.

Reluctantly, I realized that whatever I decided, I would soon have to call the Hydes - Eliot and Sukie - proprietors of Hyde Castle. The Elk Park Prep fencing coach, Michaela Kirovsky, doubled as a caretaker at the castle. She had mentioned to Arch that the couple who owned the castle would not mind if both of us stayed there while Tom was gone. Staying there, Michaela had kindly suggested, might even make my upcoming castle catering jobs easier for all concerned. But it was far too early to call the Hydes. And I didn’t know how impromptu Michaela Kirovsky’s invitation had been. Maybe the Hydes didn’t want their caterer underfoot. Their caterer and her son, I reminded myself.

What would Tom want us to do? I had no idea. I had stayed in the home of clients before, when my ex-husband had been making threats, and before our house had a security system. But those clients had been relatives of Marla’s. Working for Eliot and Sukie Hyde was purely a business arrangement.

Without enthusiasm, I made a decision: I’d just have to pack up my son, myself, and all the food, drive to the castle gates, and give the Hydes a ring from my cellular. If they said they wouldn’t have us, then I’d have to come up with another plan.

As Deputy Wyatt sent out a newly arrived pair of deputies to canvass my neighbors, the video team arrived. I went upstairs to pack a few things and asked Arch, to do the same. My son announced that the first thing we had to do was find someone to take care of Jake and Scout. I called Bill’s wife, Trudy - their lights were all on, so I knew she was up - and made arrangements for our pets. It would only be until I could come up with a repair plan, I assured Trudy, trying to sound confident and also apologetic, for calling at this hour. But she was wide-awake and glad to help. In fact, it seemed as if all the folks on our street were up. They were either entertaining neighbors in their kitchens, clomping up and down the icy sidewalk, or sipping coffee on the curbs while exchanging theories on the shooting. The incident at our home had turned into a predawn block party. Welcome to the mountains.

I tossed my pj’s, toothbrush, and a work outfit into a suitcase, then reentered the kitchen just as Wyatt finished interviewing the canvassing team. The deputy’s face pinched in dismay when I asked if any of my neighbors had seen anything. One woman - the wife of one of the gun-toters - had reported hearing something moving on the ice-slickened street. After the gunshot, she’d glanced out her window and made out someone bundled into a bulky coat hustling away from our house. Judging from the person’s muscular build and swaggering stride, she thought the figure was that of a man. The person she’d glimpsed, she insisted, had had a rifle tucked expertly under his arm.

“We’ll keep working on it,” Wyatt reassured me, in a kindly voice. “By the way, I called Captain Lambert. Since the department employs your husband, and this may be connected to an official inquiry, we’ll handle finding a janitorial service to clean up the glass and an electrician to redo your security system. The department will have the window replaced, too,” he added.

I thanked him and, trying to smile, asked if bulletproof glass was available.

Wyatt’s reply was humorless. “We’ll look into that. And Mrs. Schulz? We’ll need to know where you’re heading.”

“I’m going to show up a little early at a client’s house… . I have a booking today at Hyde Chapel, by the estate,” I replied. Wyatt copied the Hydes’ number from my client directory. “If that doesn’t work out, I’ll give you a call - “

“The Hydes?” Wyatt asked suspiciously. “They live in that big castle up on the hill? Poltergeist Palace?”

“I’ve heard it called that,” I said. “But I don’t truck in ghosts.”

He frowned. “The chapel you’re working at is that one down by Cottonwood Creek where people used to have weddings? Looks like a little cathedral?”

“The Hydes gave the chapel to Saint Luke’s,” I told him, “but they’re still involved in running the place. I’m… just starting to work for them,” I added, wondering at Wyatt’s sudden interest. My paranoia engine must have been in overdrive, though, because Wyatt merely grunted.

Just after five-thirty, Jake was ensconced, but not happily, at Bill and Trudy Quincy’s house. Trudy had promised to take in the mail, monitor the cleanup and window repairs, and care for Scout the cat, who’d refused to leave his post under Julian’s bed. Arch and I tucked two suitcases into the back of the van Tom had bought me for Christmas. My chest felt like stone. I hated leaving our house.

I filled a carton with my mixer, blender, favorite wooden spoons, and assorted culinary equipment. In our walk-in refrigerator, I’d already assembled the ingredients for the steak pies and chicken croquettes, plus their accompanying sauces. After transporting those boxes to my van, I packed up frozen containers of homemade chicken stock and frozen loaves of manchet bread - the sort eaten by Tudor royalty, Eliot Hyde had informed me - and fresh beans and field greens, along with almost-ripe dark Damson plums. Last, I packed two fragrant, freshly stewed chickens.

A chicken in every pot, Herbert Hoover had promised, when speaking of the delights of the prosperous household. What would Hoover have said about being forced from one’s home, clutching the cooked birds in a box?

-3-

My new van chugged the short distance to Main Street. There, darkened shop windows and ice-crusted pavement mirrored the gloomy glow from our town’s rustic street lamps. Exhaust-blackened heaps of snow clogged the gutters. A rusty van and what looked like an old BMW were parked across from the bank. Both had a forlorn look about them. I prayed that no homeless people were sleeping in those vehicles on this frigid morning. Not only did our small mountain town have no motels, it also possessed no shelters. The occasional homeless person who attempted to brave the winter at eight thousand feet above sea level usually gave up and hitchhiked to California.

My tires crunched up to the icy curb. On the north side of the street, the Bank of Aspen Meadow’s digital numerals blinked that it was three below zero at thirty-eight minutes after five. Beside me, Arch scrunched down in his jacket. Heat poured from the humming engine while I stared up at the sky and tried to plan what to do next.