Sticks & Scones gbcm-10

by Diane Mott Davidson

  violence.

  “Let’s go,” I said hastily, as Sukie disappeared through another pair of glass doors. I preferred to associate boiling oil with doughnuts and French fries, thank you very much.

  Now twenty steps ahead of us, Sukie was either turning off another security system or rejiggering a thermostat. I shuddered to think of the electric bills generated by heating and lighting these vast spaces. I hated even more thinking how to tell Sukie and Eliot that their security system might have to withstand a visit from the Jerk.

  Arch tugged on my elbow. “How many times have you been here?” he demanded, his voice just above a murmur. “Did she talk to you about the… earl’s nephew?” Ever wary of being dubbed a wimp, Arch was reluctant to use the word ghost.

  “I’ve been here once, and nobody talked to me about spirits,” I whispered back. “At some point, you can ask the Hydes about it. Just not today, okay?”

  He frowned, but joined me in following Sukie as she bustled down a dazzling rose-and-gray marble hallway. The marble, too, was from Colorado, Sukie had told me, and had been picked out by Chardé Lauderdale as the basis for the interior color scheme. Flickering electrified candles atop gleaming brass wall sconces lit our way as we walked down a plush carpet runway patterned with gold medallions on a royal-blue background. Arch stopped to touch one of the reproduction leaded-glass windows. Then he eyed a threadbare tapestry depicting a maiden patting her unicorn.

  “Do you think the Hydes will let Dad visit?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Probably you’ll go to his place, once we get things worked out.”

  Arch was silent. I looked around. On our right, a twentieth-century spiral staircase led up to a doorway into the gatehouse, put there, Eliot had told me, by his thoughtful grandfather. Old Theodore did not want his caretakers traversing the cold stone entryway to get to their apartment, once they finished nighttime kitchen duty. Personally, I would have preferred an escalator.

  Ahead of us, Sukie swept through more glass doors beneath another archway. The doors opened into the living room. But on my tea-visit, “living” in this room had seemed unimaginable. The room looked more like the lobby of a grand hotel than a place where people would actually snuggle down for conversation or reading. The vast space featured a polished dark wood floor covered by Oriental rugs in rich hues of scarlet, royal blue, and gold. Couches and wingback chairs upholstered in floral and paisley chintz, the shades chosen to match the rugs, sat beside massive antique tables of mahogany and cherry. The effect was impressive. No matter what else you said about Chardé Lauderdale, the woman knew what she was doing in the decorating department.

  Our boots made a shh-shh noise as we shuffled over the sumptuous carpets. I touched the cellular in my pocket. The moment we were situated, I promised myself, I would call Tom’s hotel.

  “You’re a member of the fencing team, right, Arch?” Sukie trilled over her shoulder. “When your teammates come to our banquet this week, you’ll be able to show them around. We have an indoor pool, now, on the ground floor west of the postern gate, if you want to go for a swim.”

  Arch mumbled, “Okay.” He hated to swim. He said, “Miss Kirovsky has been telling us about her collection of royal memorabilia. I’d really like to see that.”

  I exhaled. At least he hadn’t requested an interview with the phantom of the young duke-apparent.

  “Then ask her, my dear,” Sukie replied graciously as she paused by one of the glass doors. “And perhaps Michaela could take you to school today, after she unloads your mother’s equipment.”

  I felt a tad confused, as I hadn’t realized that Michaela was regarded as a general servant in addition to caretaker and local fencing coach. But it was too early in the day to delve into the particulars of the Hydes’ household arrangements.

  While Sukie held open the door, Arch turned to me and asked softly, “How will Dad even know I’m here?”

  “I’ll call the county lawyer, all right?” I was not about to call John Richard’s attorney, that pompous nerd responsible for mailing child support payments from John Richard’s fat hoard of cash, the result of the sale of his ob-gyn practice. Dealing with the Jerk’s attorney was like being forced to eat … well, that historic but unappetizing food: pottage. It was not something I chose to do.

  A hint of desperation threaded through Arch’s voice. “Look, Mom, I know you don’t want to see Dad. But I promised him we could get together as soon as he got out. It’s what he said he wanted more than anything. So could you please find him? Please?”

  “I told you I would, hon. Just not this sec, okay?” Sukie waited politely until my son and I had finished our whispered conference. In tense silence, we went through yet another set of glass doors, which Sukie said they had installed as insulation against the cold. The need for insulation quickly became evident when we entered the tower. An arctic blast made us all pull our coats tightly around us.

  Unlike the hallway, the corner drum tower was not newly lined with marble. Frigid air poured through slits in the gray stone - more narrow openings used by archers.

  Sukie pointed to a smaller, covered stone cylinder on the tower floor. “This was the castle’s original well, Arch. Do you know why they placed the well inside the castle, instead of outside?”

  I knew she was trying to be nice, to make Arch feel welcome. I was not sure it was working. Arch frowned, as if deciding whether to indulge Sukie with an answer.

  “Actually,” he said finally, his voice raised over another sudden cold wind. “I do know about castle wells. People living in the castle had to have their water supply inside the fortress walls, in the event of siege. They didn’t want the enemy poisoning their drinking supply. Do you use it for the castle’s water?”

  “Oh, no,” Sukie answered, apparently delighted with his interest. “Eliot’s grandfather had a new water system put in, and Eliot’s father used insurance money to get the whole plumbing system upgraded, after Fox Creek flooded in

  ‘82.”

  She gestured for us to go through the door she’d opened to the next large space, the dining room. Here, the walls had been painted a creamy yellow, which was the perfect complement for the lime, pink, and cream Persian rug, walnut dining-room table and chairs, and large matching buffet and glass-fronted wine cabinet, one of the two places Eliot kept his jam supply. No doubt, this furniture was also gen-yoo-ine antique, the kind Tom, but not I, could have dated and placed.

  “And this is the buttery, Arch,” Sukie explained. “Or at least it used to be. Bottles of ale were kept here. The wine cellar was underneath. Next door to the buttery was the stillroom, where they made preserves, and next to that was a bedroom. We combined all three rooms for the dining room and kitchen. Eliot makes his jams in the kitchen, since the stillroom is kaput. Wait until you taste his goodies. Your mother loved them.”

  “I did indeed,” I murmured, as we entered the kitchen. I had been in this grand cooking-and-serving space on my earlier visit. Four electrified chandeliers provided the lighting. Glass-fronted maple cupboards with painted porcelain handles rose above a shiny backsplash of blue-and-white Delft tiles. A maple corner cupboard was also crammed with jars of preserves. Overhead, an immense, hook-studded iron rack hung from the ceiling. From each hook dangled a darkened pot or roasting pan, some of them massive enough to roast a flock of geese. One wall boasted framed photos and reproduction signs from English taverns. Along the other wall, cozy embers glowed in one of the two stone hearths. In spite of the flickering electrified candles, shadows filled the kitchen’s corners like smoke.

  Arch’s insistent voice cracked next to my ear. “I have to get ready for school. Now, Mom.”

  “I’m sure we’ll be going to a place where you can change in a minute,” I said quickly, feeling my irritation flare. But he was right. Sukie’s leisurely early-morning guided tour of her castle was getting on my nerves, too.

  Arch glared at me. “When?”

  I squared my shoulders, shot him a r
eproving look, and asked Sukie, who was donning heavy pot-holder mitts, “Is Michaela - Miss Kirovsky, that is - coming over here? I mean, to the kitchen?”

  “Any minute, just … agh!” Sukie had pulled open her oven door, and a cloud of black smoke billowed out. Somewhere nearby a smoke alarm started shrieking. “Oh, dam-mit!” she hollered. Dropping the pot holders, she pulled out the charred coffee cake with her bare

  hands. She immediately let go of the pan and screamed bloody murder.

  “Eeoyow! Hilft! Mutti!”

  “Cold water!” I cried. “Now! Now!”

  She didn’t move. I tugged her to the sink, where I ran cold water over her hands while murmuring comforting words. Tears streamed down Sukie’s perfectly made-up cheeks. When I was sure she was going to stay put, I grabbed two folded kitchen towels and picked up the offending coffee cake pan from the floor. One of the first things I’d learned working in a professional kitchen was not to dump smoking food into the trash. I tossed the coffee cake under a second faucet, then dashed to the ovens and turned on every ventilation fan I could find. Within minutes, the smoke had abated and the alarm had mercifully quieted.

  Sukie stopped crying, inspected her fingers, and wrapped a wet towel around her left hand. Arch continued to give me his I-really-need-to-talk-to-you look. I didn’t know what to say. Excuse me, Sukie, but may my son and I leave you, your burned hands, and your smoke-stinking kitchen so we can confer in your nondairy buttery?

  Arch tugged my sleeve. “Ah, I need to drop my stuff somewhere before I go to school. I need to do my hair, too, and finish getting ready. Okay? Please? And I do want Miss Kirovsky to take me to school, so you, Mom, can track down that lawyer and find out where Dad is.”

  “Okay,” I promised in a low voice. I pressed the power button on my cell phone. The tiny screen told me the phone was Looking for service, which is the telecommunications euphemism for You’re out of luck! “Sukie, I’m desperate for a telephone. Is there one nearby?”

  She said patiently, “It is just half past six.”

  “It’s okay,” I replied. It’s half past eight in New Jersey, and that’s the only time that counts right now. I said, “I really need to talk to my husband before he leaves for the airport.” After that, I would fulfill my promise to Arch and leave a message for Pat Gerber, the assistant district attorney for Furman County. Clearly, the Department of Corrections was taking its sweet time getting around to informing us of its plans for the Jerk. Pat Gerber would give me the straight scoop - if I could find her.

  “There is a phone on that wall - ” Sukie began, but we were interrupted at that moment by the entrance of Eliot Hyde. He banged open the heavy wooden door, glided into the kitchen, and surveyed his wife, his caterer, and his caterer’s son. Then he sniffed the air suspiciously. The flickering chandelier turned errant strands of his hair to gold. This morning, Eliot’s movie-star features and sad brown eyes seemed even more striking than before. He wore the ubiquitous silk scarf above a long, flowing bathrobe of royal blue velvet. Tender Is the Nightgown. Arch stared at Eliot Hyde with his mouth open.

  “Cheerio!” Eliot called to us, as if we numbered in the hundreds, instead of just three. “Welcome to our castle!”

  “Mom!” Arch was tugging on my sleeve again. “When can we - “

  “Honey,” I pleaded. “Stop! You’re driving me nuts!”

  Ignoring this, Eliot Hyde sniffed the air again and looked around. “Aw, honeykins, did you burn another one?”

  To my dismay, before Sukie could reply, my son turned and bolted from the kitchen. After a stunned second, I scooted after him, paddling hard through an ocean of guilt.

  Eliot called plaintively after us, “What did I say?”

  -5-

  I caught up with Arch by the well. “Look, hon - “

  “I want to leave. I want to see Dad. I want to know why our window was shot at. What if someone tried to shoot at Dad, too? Maybe that’s why he hasn’t gotten in touch with me. Did you ever think of that, Mom? Maybe somebody’s trying to get us all.”

  Most of the time, Arch kept his feelings well in control. Now he was worried about his father, worried about the house, worried about me. Added up, this was too big a burden for a teenager.

  “Arch, please,” I told him, “the cops are working on the bullet through the window. Once, when I was little? Somebody threw a snowball packed with gravel through our picture window. Who ever heard of such a thing happening in a nice neighborhood of a small New Jersey town? The kid who threw it said it was a prank. So that’s what I think. Whoever shot out our window was either drunk or playing a joke. Trust me, your father can take care of himself. Please, let’s go back.”

  He mumbled, “If that’s true, then it’s a stupid joke,” but grudgingly returned to the kitchen. Sukie had her hands in a bowl of ice water. Eliot had moved to the counter to make tea, and Arch squinted at the back of the royal blue robe, which we could now see was embroidered with the words “His Highness.” His water-heating mission complete, Eliot flowed back to the island and cocked an aristocratic eyebrow at Arch and me. The robe swirled around his ankles.

  “I understand you two had a spot of trouble.”

  “We did,” I replied. I did not want to discuss the window anymore. “Thank you so much for taking us in. Now if we could just - “

  Eliot treated me to a dazzling grin. “You are ready to do the lunch today, aren’t you? We should probably chat.”

  My mind swam. The lunch would start in five hours. I was earlier than I’d be for a wedding reception, which required much more labor-intensive preparation. But he was my employer. And my host, I reminded myself. “I am ready,” I replied dutifully. “I brought the ingredients with me. You won’t mind if I use your kitchen?”

  “Certainly not,” Eliot replied. “But … I never heard from the table people. Was the rental company supposed to call me when the tables arrived?”

  My heart sank. The food might be ready, but if the notoriously unreliable folks at Party Rental had screwed up… “You don’t know if they showed up? At the chapel, I mean?”

  Eliot frowned. “I don’t know. Oh, God! A glitch in our first event!”

  “It’s not a glitch - “I said weakly.

  “I will call the table people,” Sukie offered, soon as we get Goldy and her son up to their suites and I can bandage my hands.”

  Eliot crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling, always the first sign that a client was going neurotic on me. He pleaded, “I beg you, Goldy, tell me you remembered to bring all your recipes and notes with you.”

  Crap and double crap. My recipes and notes. I’d brought my laptop, but not, I suddenly realized, the disk with all my Hyde Castle recipes and the research I’d done over the past two weeks on the history of English cuisine. “No. I’m sorry. I’ll go home for them the minute we get settled.” I added apologetically, “I mean, if that’s all right, and the cops allow me in. And,” I promised with a nod to Sukie, “I’ll check on the tables at the same time.”

  Eliot circumnavigated the kitchen island, tapping his left hand pensively on the wood. I could almost see the wheels in his head turning. At the Hyde Chapel luncheon, Eliot intended to pitch the audience on his plans to transform the castle into a conference center. If that didn’t go well, then the guests might think that he was just an academic who couldn’t make the move to real business… that he was a failure in this, too… .

  “Let’s move you two up to your suites,” Sukie interjected, as she wiped her hands. “I have a very special room

  for you, Arch. Right next to your mom.”

  “We’re not sure how long we’ll be here,” I murmured.

  “We are practicing on you!” Sukie said cheerfully.

  “Our first guests in the refurbished rooms!”

  Relieved to be out of Eliot’s tranquilizer-needing I presence, we followed Sukie down another marble hallway to carpeted steps leading to the castle’s second floor.

  The second story f
eatured floors of darkly polished cherry wood. Matching English-club cherry paneling on the walls gave the place an elegantly homey look. Floor-to-ceiling leaded-glass windows lined the side of the hallway overlooking the courtyard. I peeked out at the garden. In the early-morning light, the iced pattern of plants had taken on a pearly cast.

  We skirted a sawhorse and a splotch of dried beige paint on the floor. Sukie murmured something about Eliot and one of his new messes. Next we passed a closed door and rounded a corner, where Sukie opened another door. This, she announced as she switched on more electrified brass wall sconces, would be Arch’s room. Awed, Arch walked into the palatial space, where a black-and-gray Aubusson rug set the decor for a mahogany four-poster bed and silver-tasseled spread, black wingback chairs, a long gray couch, and an ornately carved desk beside a fireplace. Pen-and-ink drawings of ships hung on walls that looked as if they’d been papered with silver silk. A subdued set of black-and-gray nautical-theme fabrics had been used for the floor-to- ceiling draperies.

  Sukie led me through a set of wooden doors in the corner of the room, through another corner drum tower and another set of doors, then into the bedroom whose door we’d passed earlier. This place, equally spacious, was a homage to lime and coral.

  “This will be your suite,” she announced with a smile. The lofty space reminded me of those magazine photos featuring Europe’s most elegant hotels. The walls were covered with glowing pale green silk. A pink-tinted marble fireplace graced the wall facing the massive four-poster bed. Between the bed and the fireplace, Chardé had thoughtfully grouped a pair of rose-and- lime chintz-covered wingback chairs. Against a wall with new windows looking out on the moat stood a long cherry-wood desk.

  “Gorgeous, Sukie, really,” I gushed, overwhelmed. “You haven’t seen your bathroom!” she exclaimed, eyes gleaming.