Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

For the nonce, anyway.

Two hours later I was letting the mood fit the food by being upbeat while serving trays of mail-order English cheese puffs, onion toasts, and caviar with toast points. The big donors, a handful of vestry members, and a few Episcopal Church Women, along with our parish priest, were all chugging champagne while gushing that Eliot had been so generous to donate the chapel to Saint Luke’s. The Lauderdales had snubbed me, of course, and recommended that others do so as well, Marla reported. Meanwhile, Marla announced that she didn’t understand why she’d given so much money to the labyrinth, when walking it was going to be so confusing after all this champagne.

While Julian served the soup, I hustled up to the castle and put in the Shakespeare’s Steak Pies. The Lauderdales were bad-mouthing me? Those creeps! “Anger’s my meat,” I whispered, congratulating myself on remembering something from Coriolanus. What was the rest of it? Oh, yes. Anger’s my meat: I sup upon myself / And so shall starve with feeding. So there! One more word from the Lauderdales and they’d be supping on raw hamburger with manchet bread. New play from the Bard: MacDEATH.

After we set out the pies, salad, and bread, the guests happily moved through the buffet line. Julian bustled about, teased by his Aunt Marla and admired by the women. As far from the buffet tables as possible, the Lauderdales had seated themselves with Sukie, Eliot, and another couple from the church. Buddy and Chardé were working hard to appear deep in intellectual conversation. I, of course, was not fooled.

At length, Eliot dimmed the chandeliers and began his talk. He clicked on a slide of the Chartres labyrinth, and offered the same historical and architectural background I’d heard on the audiotape. While he was showing Before and After slides of the chapel restoration, Marla sneaked up to my side.

“No more on the Jerk’s real estate deal, sorry to report,” she whispered, with one eye on the cake table.

“The lunch was scrumptious. The only historic food I have is in my refrigerator!”

“Thanks. And thanks for checking on the town-house deal. I still think John Richard’s up to something.”

“He’s always up to something.” Then she hustled off toward the untouched cake that the guests were going to have after the slide show.

“Please, sir,” Marla whispered to Julian, “may I have some more? Or just a nibble, anyway?” Before I could protest, Julian had carved an enormous piece of cake, heaped it on a plate, and handed it to her.

“Call it reverse nepotism, Goldy,” she stage-whispered, fingering up a dollop of icing. Heads turned and I sighed.

Eliot had moved on to Before and After shots of the renovation of his castle. He ended with effusive thanks to the donors, and an invitation to have cake and to book their conferences into the castle next year. Then he invited them to quiet their souls and walk the labyrinth to arrive at their spiritual truth.

If the clapping from twenty-six people wasn’t thunderous, it was at least enthusiastic. Julian and I served cake and coffee, which I hoped would tame any aftereffects of champagne. When they finished their dessert, the guests began to process single-file through the labyrinth.

An eerie silence fell over the chapel as the silent parade went back and forth over the stones, all the way to the end. The few people who spoke as they were leaving did so in hushed tones. By two o’clock, the crowd had dispersed. Wow, I thought. Next time I felt uptight, I would give the labyrinth a try.

The churchwomen gathered up their plates, silver, and glasses, to trek them back to the Saint Luke’s kitchen for washing. Eliot and Julian broke down the Hydes’ serving tables and chairs, and hauled them back to the storage area. Then Julian and I folded up the rented dining tables and left them in the gravel parking lot under a tarpaulin. Party Rental would return before four to pick them up. Sukie and Eliot conveyed their video equipment back to the castle. I emphatically told Julian that he was going to take the rest of the afternoon off. He’d earned it, I insisted.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, scanning the chapel interior, which still contained remnants of the party. “And what are you going to do if the Lauderdales show up again?”

“I’ll throw the bolt while I’m finishing up,” I said diffidently. “And I’ll park the van right next to the door.”

“Tell you what, boss, I’ll take the ice tubs, the chafers, and the last of the serving dishes. If you want, you can bring the platters and trash.”

“I’ll be okay.” I strode to the door and pointed to the dead bolt. “Chardé and Buddy, even Viv, might all have keys. My mistake was in trusting Eliot’s memory that we were the only ones who had one.”

“That guy’s nice,” Julian commented, “but he’s a birdbrain, for sure.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Julian still looked unconvinced. “All right, listen. I’ll take my load up while you finish here. You’re not back at the castle in an hour and a half, I’m coming back.”

I agreed. It would not take me more than twenty minutes to load the platters, then pack the trash and toss it into the castle Dumpster, located on the far side of the moat by a service road. Each time Julian overestimated how long I needed to do a chore, I accused him of treating me as if I were old and decrepit. He never denied it, drat him.

I bolted the door and reflected on what I had not told Julian: that I wanted to have a good look at the chapel myself, as it was awfully close to the crime scene created by Andy’s body and Tom’s being shot. First I applied myself to finishing the cleanup, which took seventeen minutes. I scrutinized the interior space to make sure we had not forgotten anything. The chapel looked spanking clean. Even with Marla’s premature dive into the cake, the luncheon had been a success, and I was thankful.

At that moment I felt as if the shiny stones of the labyrinth were beckoning to me. Pink light from the rose window skipped across the marble, and my skin prickled. What had Eliot said? You walk the labyrinth to arrive at your spiritual truth. I hadn’t been doing too well in the truth department lately, so why not try it before I snooped around?

My mind dredged up a bit of Scripture: I still my soul and make it quiet, / like a child upon its mothers breast; / my soul is quieted within me.

After a few moments, I moved forward, feeling strangely hesitant. As I walked, concentrating on the tortuous path seemed to clear my mind of the questions currently plaguing me - who’d killed Andy and why, who’d shot Tom and why, who’d shot at our window and why, and who’d killed Mo Hartfield after he’d inexplicably stolen our computers. As I put one foot in front of the other, I felt a calming presence. I was moving forward - either into or away from my life, I couldn’t tell which.

Finally I arrived at the labyrinth’s center. I could have sworn I heard my heart beating. Gazing back at the swirls and turns of the flat marble stones, I felt serenity - for the first time in a week. Outside, the sun emerged from behind a cloud and splattered pink light over the path. Eliot’s audiotape as well as his lecture had detailed the mystical significance of distances at Chartres. From the center of the labyrinth to the base of the portal was the same distance as from the base of the portal to the center of the rose window. I looked up at the rosy pattern of stained glass.

Now there was a surprise. Instead of Sukie-inspired cleanliness on the multicolored sections of glass, the center of the rose window looked as if someone had left a blotch of dirt… .

At the center you will find God, the tape had said. Maybe what was up there wasn’t dirt. Maybe someone: who knew the symbolism of the labyrinth had put something else there, something important. Or maybe my paranoia was kicking in again.