Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

But if the thief-sniper thought he’d removed all the stolen stamps, why try to keep Tom, or any cop, away from the chapel? Because he was terrified Andy had confided in his good buddy, Tom Schulz? Confided not only regarding the whereabouts of the stamps, but also regarding the third partner’s identity? If that was the case, why did he shoot at our window - with a different gun - before Andy’s body was even discovered? It made no sense… unless the shooter was someone else altogether, not one of the three who heisted the stamps, someone with some agenda we hadn’t yet figured out.

I leaned back in the chair. Fatigue and frustration rolled over me. And it wasn’t even eleven in the morning.

When I glanced up, Tom gave me one of his soulful looks. I felt an overpowering desire to drag him into the four-poster bed for some Late Morning Delight - forget the gunshot wound, the bandage, and the sling. Forget the old fiancée, too. He smiled. “Don’t you have cooking to do for the fencing banquet?”

My heart sank. Maybe Tom couldn’t read my let’s-make-love signals anymore. Was that because I wasn’t sending out good signals? Or was his mind somewhere else… somewhere I didn’t want to go?

“Yes, I do have kitchen work waiting. But there’s one more thing I have to tell you.” I took a steadying breath. “Tom, I confronted Sara Beth this morning. She denies having any… ill intent. She still wants to see you. Says she needs a ride to the airport at four o’clock this afternoon. She claims to be staying at the Idaho Springs Inn under the name of Sara Brand.” I paused. “In case you are feeling up to it.”

He took a deep breath. “Look, I should go. I’m not feeling too bad now. If I take her and we can talk about what’s happened, then we’d all have closure - you, me, her, everybody.”

“Uh-huh.” I didn’t ask how he was going to pilot a car with his one good hand. I didn’t want to discuss his driving or his desire for closure with his ex-fiancée. Or whether he would take a gun.

He said quietly, “They towed my Chrysler to the department garage. May I borrow your van?”

I didn’t trust my voice, so I just nodded. Tom said, “Goldy? We’ve talked about this. You’re my wife, and I love you. Don’t you believe me?”

With my lips pressed together and an unseen force squeezing my heart, I nodded mutely and handed him the van keys. Then I picked up my laptop, walked quickly out of our big English-castle bedroom, and quietly shut the massive door. Trying not to think, I headed down to the castle kitchen.

When you feel really low, focus on the food.

While my laptop was booting on the trestle table, I took a bite of one of the strawberry salads - still half-liquid - and tasted the curry sauce, which was spicy-hot, creamy, and mellowing superbly. Then I inserted my disk to check the recipes for the potato casserole and raisin rice. I may have teased Julian about thinking of me as old. But the fact was that my memory for recipes was not butcher-knife sharp.

I reflected on that evening’s schedule. Although adult-only banquets usually start at eight, the over-scheduled Elk Park Prep fencers had Saturday morning commitments to indoor soccer and club basketball. So we were starting at six with the fencing demonstration and Elizabethan games, accompanied by bowls of mixed nuts and soft drinks. Julian and I would serve dinner at seven, after which Michaela would lead a brief awards ceremony. Would Tom be back from his rendezvous with Sara Beth in time for that?

Don’t think about it. Instead, I began to peel the potatoes and thought about Michaela. What was the story on her?

I placed the potatoes into two vats of boiling water. Maybe I had found Michaela’s Royal-memento collection a tad unusual. But a number of my friends had oddball hobbies. Take Marla, for instance, who obsessively tracked the Jerk. Now there was an offbeat hobby - and not one for the squeamish.

And speaking of squeamish … tonight was another meal in the Great Hall. The last time I’d served food there, I’d glimpsed a long-dead duke-to-be. That ghostly fellow, dressed in what looked like a child-size suit of armor, had been there, I was certain of it. And in an instant, he’d vanished. Colorado was famous for ghost towns, not ghost dukes. Maybe I needed contact lenses.

I retrieved a huge bowl of prawns ready to be enrobed in the velvety curry sauce, and set them aside. For the potato casseroles, I slathered several whole bulbs of garlic with olive oil, wrapped them in foil, and popped them into the oven. In my mind, there is nothing better than roasted garlic to give mashed potatoes a rich, mellow bite. Not to mention that mashed potatoes in any form are good for the soul.

As I was grating mounds of Fontina and Parmesan, Julian called. He had picked up Arch, who had convinced him to go for a pizza snack. They were going to eat heaps of fancy food tonight anyway, Arch had claimed. Did I need help, Julian wanted to know? I said thanks, but reminded him that he had already done more than his share of catering work for the last four days. Did I mind that they were eating pizza, he asked? I laughed and asked him to bring some back to the castle. He promised they’d return by four to help set up.

Eliot bustled into the kitchen wearing a twenties-style, Scottish-inspired golf outfit. I didn’t know any other man who could wear (without deep embarrassment) tan wool bloomers - known in the golf world as plus-fours-forest-green knee socks, a tan-and-gray checked wool shirt, and a gray herringbone V-neck sport coat. Oh yes, and tan-and-white saddle shoes. To my credit, I didn’t stare. Instead, I asked him how he was doing.

“Terribly. I haven’t had a nibble of interest in the conference center.” He looked around the kitchen. “Sukie is cleaning up the Great Hall - “

“It’s clean.”

“Goldy, for six months I dated a woman who was an unrepentant slob. Dirty dishes, piled-up laundry, stacks of bills and papers, unmade beds, unrecognizable bathroom. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore, and we broke up. Now look at the woman I married. Nothing – nothing - is ever clean enough for her.” He shook his head, as if trying to remember what he had come down here for. “She’s going to set the tables up there, too. She’s using her own lace tablecloths and a set of silver plates she picked up at an estate sale. In Medieval and Renaissance England, diners went from consuming their food from bread trenchers, to eating on wood platters, until they graduated to pewter, and on from there to silver and ah, finally, to gold plates. But gold is so damnably expensive. Anyway, Sukie needs to know how many people are expected for dinner and if you need steak knives.”

“We’re expecting thirty-five. Fourteen kids, twenty-one adults, give or take. If she sets us up for forty, that should work.” I thought of the veal roasts. “And sure, steak knives would be great. Plus a dozen serving spoons, and a couple of carving sets.

“All right,” he said, scribbling on an index card he’d found in the pocket of his plus-fours. “Before Michaela gives out the awards, I’m going to pitch the castle again. I’m going back now to set up my pamphlets and information. Do you think the literature should go on the serving tables?”

“Better to have it at the door,” I advised. “It’ll be the first thing people see.”

He nodded, a golfer attending his caddy. “Good thought. I’m going to set up the games, too, while Sukie’s working. Oh - and the Lauderdales are sending flower arrangements with small swords in them. They really are good people, Goldy.”

“Uh-huh.” I don’t think so.

He disappeared. I sautéed rice kernels in butter until they sizzled and gave off a nutty scent, then mixed in broth and raisins. While the rice simmered, I pulverized the roasted garlic. Finally, I mashed batch after batch of potatoes with butter, the roasted garlic mush, cream, cheeses, and spices, and managed to have only eight spoonfuls - using eight different spoons, of course - to make sure the seasoning was exactly right. I kept telling myself that I hadn’t really had any lunch.