Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

“But you’re not allowed to hit in the leg,” Arch protested as he tugged off his mask. “Except in épée, I guess.”

Michaela laughed, pleased. “You’re right. End of demonstration.” I clapped and thanked them both. She said, “For tomorrow night, Arch, we’ll have Josh and Howie demonstrate épée. Then, if Kirsten’s over her mono, you and she can do foil. She has long arms, which is an advantage. Then we’ll have Chad and Scott do saber - “

The telephone rang. I hadn’t even noticed it in the sea of photos, probably because it was on a lower shelf of one of the end tables. Michaela drew it out and stared at it before answering. It took me a moment to realize she had been puzzling over a tiny screen with caller ID.

“Sheriff’s department?” she asked. “Sergeant Boyd?”

“It’s for me.” Without thinking, I launched myself across the couch, sloshing cider onto the rug. As I gabbled apologies, Michaela relieved me of my cup. Then she dropped some paper napkins on the rug and handed me the receiver, all in one smooth motion. If I ever did learn to fence, did that mean I’d become coordinated?

“This is Goldy,” I said.

“Boyd here. Where’s Tom?”

I murmured that he was in bed. “And how’s he doing?”

“On the mend. He wants to start working again.”

Boyd mm-hmmed. It was past ten o’clock. He’d had all day to check on Tom. So what did he really want?

“Goldy, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

My heart lurched. Arch, Tom, and Julian were all here at the castle. Oh, God - Marla.

“This is about your computers. And the guy who stole them.”

“Okay.” Puzzled at how this would warrant a late-night call, I waited.

“We went to visit Mr. Morris Hart, whose real name, it turns out, is Mo Hartfield. Hangs out in bars, does odd jobs for crooks, stays in the pipeline. When we got to his place this evening, somebody had already broken in. We found your computers trashed. A keyboard was in the toilet.” Boyd paused.

“Was he there?” But even as I asked it, I knew the answer.

“Yeah,” Boyd said tersely. “Shot dead.”

-21-

“No.” The window guy killed? With our trashed computers all around? “Do you have any idea who - “

“Nope, nothing yet. We found him in his bathtub. I just wanted you to know, especially with what’s been going on. Tell Tom about it, okay? The ballistics guys should be back to us ASAP, since this case includes the shooting of a cop. And Tom needs to be careful. He shouldn’t go out without one of us along. Whoever’s doing this is killing mad about something. Have Tom give me a ring tomorrow, would you? If he’s up to it?”

“Sure. Thanks,” I murmured numbly, and signed off. Somebody was so angry they’d kill a small-time thief? Angry about what? That Andy Balachek had sent e-mails that landed Ray Wolff in jail? That I’d turned in a wealthy couple for child abuse? That Tom had married someone else?

“Bad news?” asked Michaela softly. “No.” I paused. Never divulge anything about a case, Tom had warned me on many occasions. “Thanks for asking, though. And it was very nice of you to have us over. Come on, Arch, time to rock.”

He groaned, but scrambled to his feet and thanked Michaela. We walked across the second floor of the gatehouse itself, looked down at the empty entryway through the meurtriers, then descended the darkly paneled spiral staircase into the living room. When we entered the hush of the living room, it was bathed in shadows.

Arch said, “I need to check on Orion and those other constellations. Do you have my high-powered binoculars? They’re not in with my stuff.”

I promised to get them from our room. We entered the frigid drum tower, passed the well and the garderobe, then moved into the silent hall by the dining room and kitchen. The castle was a spooky place at night. Although I’d planned to do some nighttime cooking for the next day’s luncheon, there was no way that was going to happen. As we passed the kitchen, icy shivers ran down my neck. I was glad Arch had his foil with him.

Finally upstairs, I disarmed our door, tiptoed into our room, retrieved the binoculars, and tiptoed back out. In the hallway, Arch whispered a request for assistance. This was the first time in three weeks that he’d asked for my help with the astronomy. Then again, I wouldn’t want to be up later than everyone else in the castle, working alone. It would be like reading Tile Exorcist on an overnight camp-out: not something you wanted to do.

I followed Arch into the room he was sharing with Julian. Arch shuffled around for his notebook. Inside his It sleeping bag on Arch’s couch, Julian’s form rose and fell. I felt a pang of guilt that our dear family friend had done all the dishes again. Bless Julian Teller’s wonderful heart.

From the tall window, Arch and I could make out Orion, complete with belt and sword, the Little Dipper, Cassiopeia, the lovely W that had been my favorite constellation since I was little, and even the Big Dipper, just above the horizon. Once Arch had noted the Big Dipper pointing to the North Star, he was done.

“Thanks, Mom.” He closed his notebook. “You can leave now.”

I didn’t mind being summarily dismissed, as that was the way of almost-fifteen-year-olds. I thanked Arch again for the fencing demonstration, made him promise to arm his door, then did the same in our room. I set the tiny alarm for five A.M. and snuggled in next to Tom. Finally, I said a prayer for Mo Hartfield, even if he had hit me over the head.

As often happens on the day of a catered event, I awoke seconds before the buzzer went off. Outside, the sky was dark as tar. I turned on a small lamp on the far side of the room, moved through my yoga routine, showered, dressed, and congratulated myself on getting up early. I had over two hours before Arch had to be off for school, more than enough to get a good start on the labyrinth luncheon.

For some reason, I seemed to be making no noise. The castle, I reflected, had two moods: Either it creaked and moaned and you saw and heard things that weren’t there, or your every sound and movement was absorbed by the palatial trappings and walls.

“I’m coming down to fix breakfast,” Tom mumbled, deep in his pillow.

“With one arm? No way. You should sleep,” I said softly.

He moaned and turned over.

Julian met me in the hall, his brown hair damp from showering. He wore his bistro work outfit: white T-shirt, paisley-printed balloon chef pants, and high-top sneakers. “I heard you running your shower,” he murmured. So all my sounds had not been muffled, after all. “Didn’t want you to have to work alone.”

“Julian, please. You’ve done so much. Why don’t you just sleep?”

“For-get it.” His voice had that stubborn tone I’d come to know well.

In the kitchen, I made two cups of espresso. I drank mine black, but Julian doused his with two tablespoons each of cream and sugar. The kid had the metabolism of the speed of light.

Because we’d always worked so well before, we knew how to divide the chores and estimate the time required for prep. Reservations for twenty, but expect thirty, the church had said. We decided I’d make the steak pies, while Julian would do the Figgy Salad and green beans with artichoke hearts. We would cook until seven, then we would make breakfast for Arch and anyone else who showed up.

As we started our prep, we discussed the schedule. If Michaela was willing to take Arch to school again, then at eight, we could start setting up the food and drinks in Hyde Chapel. This was provided the police were gone, which they’d promised they would be, and the Party Rental tables had finally arrived. We’d take the same chafers and electrified hot platters that we’d used the previous evening, along with packaged, chilled salad ingredients. We’d bring the rest of the foodstuffs down at ten-thirty. At eleven, we would start serving the guests champagne, cheese puffs, onion toasts, and caviar.