Over my shoulder I called, “I’ll be back tomorrow, Jake!”
He raised his howl several decibels, unconvinced. Scout, a.k.a. Kitty, took no notice.
-24-
Racing back to the castle, I could have sworn that letter was burning a hole in my purse. But I could not open it; I’d already committed all the invasion-of-privacy sins I cared to in this lifetime. Still: If Tom was asleep, this was one time I was going to shake him awake.
He was awake, sitting in one of the wingback chairs, talking on the telephone. From the bits of conversation I snatched before urgently waving the letter in his face, he was discussing the ongoing investigation into the whereabouts of Troy McIntire. Paying no heed to my antics, Tom turned his head toward the fireplace and continued talking. Troy McIntire, philatelic agent, seemed to have mailed himself somewhere without a known address. Clutching Andy’s letter, I scooted in front of the fireplace and did a few jumping jacks. Since Tom knows how much I hate to do jumping jacks, he cocked an eyebrow and signed off. I slapped the letter onto the coffee table.
“What’s this, Miss G., another stamp from Mauritius?” he asked, without looking at the missive. “You keep finding them, they’re going to think you stole ‘em. I just learned that stamp you found in the chapel was part of the heist. No discernible fingerprints besides yours.”
I slipped into the chair across from him. “Tom, this letter’s from Andy Balachek. Mailed to you. Postmarked Monday. Which probably means he mailed it sometime Sunday. A day before he died. Or rather, a day before someone murdered him.”
Tom, who is seldom surprised, leaned over the envelope and frowned.
“Is it Andy’s handwriting?” I demanded, increasingly impatient. In addition to Tom’s other skills, his ability to analyze handwriting means he is often called to testify in forgery cases. I held my breath.
“Maybe. All I’ve ever seen is his signature. It’s a long, skinny ‘A’ that’s a scripted ‘A, not a printed one. His ‘A’ looks like the back of a bald guy’s head, tilted to one side.” He picked up the envelope and examined it on both sides. “Trudy picked this up with the rest of our mail? What day?”
“My best guess is it came Tuesday.”
Tom whistled: “Could you get my tweezers out of my suitcase? Then you could use them to open the letter without getting your fingerprints on it, and put it down here for us both to read.”
“You trust me to open your mail?”
“No. But do it anyway.”
And so I did. The struggle with the damned tweezers I took an agonizing eight minutes.
Tom, the letter read. I’m getting scared now because I need to pay my dad back for his truck. If I don’t, hes going to die in the hospital. So I’m going to get the stamps tonight. If I don’t make it, if you get this and Im dead, then my gamble didn’t work. You tried to help me, so I owe you. I‘11 tell you what my partner told me. Maybe its a lie and thats what I’ll find out. Anyway, the stamps are in the Hydes’ chapel. If you get this and my dad has a new truck and I’ve gone to Monte Carlo, then you’ll know I made it. If not - well, then its up to you. A.
“Oh, crap!” I cried. “He told us where the stamps were, but didn’t tell us who his partner was! We’re not any closer than we were before!”
But Tom was thinking. “We know Andy believed the stamps were in the chapel, and they were, weren’t they? Or at least one was. Still, how would Andy know the lockbox combination? Would his partner have been so naďve as to tell him that? When that chapel’s locked, you can’t tell me it’s easy to get into, or it’d be the local site for every teenage beer bash.”
“Let me assure you,” I retorted, “our town doesn’t possess a single building that’s easier to get into than that chapel. Yesterday, Julian and I locked the door to keep out early lunch arrivals. But remember, I told you first Buddy and Chardé showed up, then the Jerk and Viv Martini. I’ll accept that Buddy and Chardé might have a key, and might not have completely shut the door before the Jerk barged in. But I don’t think so. I think Eliot told his dear close friend Chardé the decorator, and his ex-girlfriend Viv, how to get into the chapel. Or gave them keys. Or else they’re both splendid at picking locks.”
Tom pondered this for a minute. “Maybe Andy’s partner intercepted him, shot him, left his body in the creek by the chapel, put up a ladder and grabbed the stamps, but somehow missed one. And didn’t realize it until he’d made off with the loot.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been thinking. Except there’s no blood at the crime scene. No sign of a struggle. No obvious way Andy was electrocuted.”
“Right.” He stared at the cold fireplace. “Let me call down to the department, have somebody come get this letter.”
“Wait a minute!” We had to be close. I’d found a clue, and now Tom was just going to pass it off? “Let’s speculate.” I thought back to my visit to the shooter’s site, on the north side of the state highway, up on a cliff in a county park. “Say Andy’s partner uncovers Andy’s double-cross, electrocutes Andy, shoots him, removes all but one of the hidden stamps from the chapel, then plants Andy’s body in the creek. Okay, then he waits for you to show up.”
“How does the partner know I’m coming back Monday?”
I shrugged. “Let’s say he doesn’t know what cop will show up when the body’s discovered. He just suspects Andy’s been communicating with the sheriff’s department, because he caught Andy in the double-cross. Or thought he caught Andy in a double-cross.”
“It’s weak.” I closed my eyes, thinking back to that morning, running it through my mind in slow motion. Tom gets out of his car; motions for me to move away from the edge of the creek. Then he walks - not toward Andy s body, but straight west, toward me, which is also the direction of the chapel… .
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.
Shuttlecock Shrimp Curry
3 tablespoons unsalted butter 2 cups unpeeled chopped Granny Smith apples 2 cups chopped yellow onions 3 large cloves garlic, pressed 4 teaspoons curry powder, or more to taste 3 tablespoons flour ˝ teaspoon dry mustard 1/2 teaspoon salt, or more to taste ź teaspoon paprika ź teaspoon crumbled dried thyme ź teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, or more to taste 2 cups homemade chicken stock 1 pound (39 to 40) large peeled cooked shrimp (shrimp cocktail-style shrimp), deveined, tails removed and reserved 1 tablespoon catsup ź cup dry white vermouth ˝ cup whipping cream
Side dishes: best-quality chutney, dry-roasted peanuts, chopped hard-boiled egg, sweet pickle relish, crushed pineapple, flaked coconut, mandarin oranges, chopped scallions, chopped crisp-cooked bacon, chopped olives, raisins, yogurt, and orange marmalade
Raisin Rice (recipe is in Killer Pancake)
In a wide frying pan, melt the butter over low heat. Add the apples, onions, and garlic, and cook gently over medium-low heat for a few minutes, until the onions start to become translucent. Add the curry powder, flour, mustard, salt, paprika, thyme. and pepper, and stir well. Keeping the heat low, cook and stir occasionally for a few more minutes, while you prepare the stock. In a large saucepan, combine the stock and shrimp tails. Bring to a boil, then turn off the heat. Drain and reserve the stock. Discard the shells. Keeping the heat low, add the shrimp-flavored stock to the apple mixture, stirring well. When all the stock has been added, raise the heat to medium-high, stirring constantly, and add the catsup and vermouth. Stir and cook until the mixture is thickened. Lower the heat and add the cream, stirring well, until the mixture has heated through. Add the shrimp, and stir and cook until the shrimp are heated through but not overcooked. Serve with the side dishes and Raisin Rice. Beer is the traditional beverage.
Makes 4 servings
Penny-Prick Potato Casserole
6 medium-sized or 12 small potatoes (2 pounds, 9 ounces), peeled (recommended type: Yukon Gold) 1 small garlic bulb, or large garlic bulb 1 tablespoon olive oil 2 tablespoons (1/4 stick) unsalted butter ˝ cup milk (approximately) ˝ cup whipping cream 1 cup freshly shredded Fontina cheese 1/3 cup freshly shredded Parmesan cheese ˝ teaspoon salt, or to taste ź teaspoon white pepper, or to taste
Preheat the oven to 350°F. Butter a 9 x 13-inch pan. Bring a large quantity of salted water to a boil. Place the potatoes in the boiling water and cook until done,
about 40 minutes. While the potatoes are cooking, cut a piece of foil into an 8-inch square. Quickly rinse the garlic bulb under cold running water and pat it dry. Place the bulb in the middle of the foil square and carefully pour the olive oil over it. Bring up the corners of the foil and twist to make a closed packet. Put the foil packet with the garlic inside into the oven and bake about 30 to 40 minutes, or until the cloves are soft but not brown. Carefully open the package, remove the garlic bulb with tongs so it can cool, and reserve the olive oil. When the garlic cloves are cool, remove them from their skins. Using a small food processor, process the garlic until it is a paste. Drain the potatoes and place them in the large bowl of an electric mixer. Add the garlic, reserved olive oil, butter, milk, cream, cheeses, salt, and pepper. Beat until creamy and well combined. If the mixture seems dry, add a little milk. Scrape the potato mixture into the prepared pan. (If you are not going to bake the casserole immediately, allow it to cool, then cover it with plastic wrap and refrigerate for up to 8 hours.) Bake for 15 to 20 minutes (10 or 15 minutes longer if the casserole has been refrigerated). The casserole should be hot through and slightly browned. Test for doneness by scooping out a small spoonful from the middle of the casserole and tasting it.
Makes 4 servings
At three o’clock, Tom walked through the kitchen door. He’d retrieved some clothing from the suitcase he’d taken to New Jersey, and now looked businesslike and dashing in a black wool shirt and khaki pants, with a black down jacket over his good shoulder. I realized with a jolt that I’d been so busy cooking, I’d forgotten to take him lunch.
“I’m on my way to Idaho Springs, then the airport,” he announced. “And I’m going to stay at the gate until Sara Beth’s flight gets off. So I might not be back until after the banquet, especially if the flight’s delayed.” I said nothing. “Please understand,” he said, then gave me a one-armed hug and headed off.
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