Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

“Tom,” I said when I’d finished, “I think all the stamps might have been there. They were all in the chapel. Then they were moved. By someone in a hurry.”

“Or by someone who didn’t know he’d left one behind.” He gazed into the cold fireplace. “The chapel has that big storeroom. If you were a crook trying to hide something in the chapel, why not put it in the storeroom? Especially since Ray Wolff was arrested while scoping out a storage area?”

“Because it’s too obvious?” I replied. “There’s something we’re missing.” I followed his line of sight to the hearth. “I keep thinking about Andy. Did he find the stamps after they were stolen and hidden away? He indicated to you that he knew where they were, so what’s the deal? How was he electrocuted? If he was shot in the chapel, why couldn’t the sheriff’s department find any evidence there? The stamps were in the chapel, and he was dumped in the creek by the chapel. But the crime scene itself was clean.” I paused, baffled. “I just don’t get it.”

“Here’s one more thing,” Tom commented. “The ballistics report came in on the bullet they took out of me. It came from the same gun that killed Andy and Mo Hartfield. The bullet that shattered our window came from a different gun. No match.”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Would anything in this case ever add up?

Tom surveyed the tea detritus. “Know what? That just felt like an appetizer to me. Let’s go see what we can find in that big kitchen.”

Delighted to see that his appetite was back, I followed him down to the kitchen, where we feasted on leftover meat pie, reheated green beans, manchet bread, and labyrinth cake. Arch and Julian came home, as did Sukie and Eliot. My son joyfully announced that because tomorrow, Friday, was a half school-day, and this Saturday was Valentine’s Day, the teachers were assigning no homework for tonight or the weekend.

“That calls for a toast,” decreed Eliot. “To our successful donor lunch, and to no homework.” He breezed out of the room and returned with a bottle of port.

“I think we have something special in the refrigerator, too,” murmured Sukie. Sukie brought out a chilled bottle of bubbly nonalcoholic cranberry stuff. Arch rewarded her with a murmured thanks and one of his suppressed smiles.

While we were sipping our drinks and nibbling on cake, I guiltily remembered Michaela. Shouldn’t we have invited her to join us?

But when I suggested it, Eliot waved this away. “Sometimes you see Michaela. Usually you don’t.”

Sukie added, “We don’t try to force it.”

I nodded and didn’t pursue the question. I wondered if I’d ever figure out the dynamic between Eliot and Sukie on the one hand, and between Eliot, Sukie, and Michaela on the other. Was she sort of an employee, sort of a tenant, sort of a neighbor, sort of a pain in the behind, or all of the above?

I didn’t know and was too tired to try to find out. We all loaded our dishes into the dishwasher, said good night, and headed our separate ways.

Before we went to bed, Tom told me we should be back in our own house by Sunday. “They put in the glass, finish the cleanup, fix our security system, and we go back.”

“Uh-huh. And what about the person who shot it out?”

“They’re still working on it,” said Tom. His green eyes sought me out. “I’m not feeling up to seeing Sara Beth at the dentist tomorrow.”

“Whatever feels right to you,” I said stiffly, as I snuggled into bed. He told me he loved me and that he hoped I slept well. I guess he wasn’t in the mood for one-armed lovemaking.

I lay there, staring at the dark ceiling, and made a decision. Sara Beth O’Malley may have been expecting Tom. But she was going to get me.

Friday the thirteenth dawned very cold and bright. I moved through my yoga routine while Tom slept. In the kitchen, Michaela and Arch were having miniature sugared doughnuts and tiny cans of a chemical concoction that claimed to be better than chocolate milk.

“Don’t get upset, Mom,” Arch begged as he stuffed a doughnut into his mouth. “Julian let me get these goodies last night. He was up late studying, and said you should wake him when you need help this morning. Otherwise his alarm is set for eleven. Julian is great, man. I can’t remember the last time I had two junk-food meals in a row.”

Michaela’s indulgent smile stopped me from scolding. At least Arch was amusing someone.

When they left at a quarter to eight, I made a swift overview of the fencing-banquet preparation. I’d already baked the plum tarts. The veal had only to be rubbed with oil, garlic, and spices, then roasted just before the banquet. The potato casseroles I could easily put together in the afternoon. That left the molded salad, shrimp curry, and raisin rice. I looked over my recipes. If I moved ahead with the salad and curry sauce, the former could jell while the latter mellowed before the arrival of the shrimp. With any luck, I could finish those dishes and take off for the dentist ahead of schedule.

While the pineapple juice for the gelatin was heating, I sliced bananas and more fat, juicy strawberries - bless Alicia - and reflected on everything I knew about the events of the past week. There were those acts someone - or ones - had committed. Shoot out our window. Kill Andy. Shoot Tom. Steal the computers. Murder the man who steals the computers. Somewhere in there, hide a multimillion-dollar stamp haul in the center of a rose window. Then move the loot. But accidentally leave one behind. The sequence of those acts, I realized, had to be part of the solution to the puzzle.

I wondered about Sara Beth. If jealousy were the motive for all this activity, could you remove shooting out our window and shooting Tom as being related to the stamp theft? If so, then how could you account for those acts being done by two separate guns?

You have to think the way the thief does, Tom was fond of saying. In this case, you had to start with the facts you knew, try to extrapolate the thinking behind them, and from all that, deduce the identity of the thief.

Yeah, sure. My mind was as clear as … well … unmolded salad.

I mixed the gelatin into the boiling juice, added chilled juice, then folded in all the fruits. Unlike my mother’s generation, I never waited before mixing ingredients into gelatin. No one ever seems to notice if the fruits sink or float, do they? Sinking or floating in real life, on the other hand, is another matter.

In an oversize Dutch oven, I gently sautéed chopped apples and onions in melted butter, then stirred in curry powder, flour, and spices. I shelled, deveined, and cooked the shrimp, then dropped the shrimp tails into bubbling chicken stock. Finally I stirred the stock, vermouth, and heavy cream into the sauce. The mixture gave off a divinely pungent scent.

Once the salad molds and shrimp were chilling in the refrigerator, and the curry sauce was cooling, I powered up with a double espresso, two reheated scones, two thick pats of unsalted butter, and generous dollops of blueberry preserves. Yum. Why Arch preferred chalky, store-bought doughnuts to homemade baked goods was one of the mysteries of the ages.

At quarter to nine, I was seated in my van, sipping another double espresso, and eyeing the front of Aspen Meadow’s endodontist office. What I was actually going to say to Sara Beth O’Malley I had not worked out yet. Of course then again, last time, outside my home, she hadn’t allowed me to say much.

Well, what was I going to say? Hey, Sara Beth! Why didn’t you tell anybody you were alive? Why’d you come back to taunt your old fiancé and his family.? Oh, and anonymously donated supplies notwithstanding, why didn’t you go to a dentist closer to home.? Was it because your “supplies” were from a big stamp deal going down here? So you decided to kill two birds with one stone? Or rather; two thieves with one gun?