¼ cup olive oil
¼ teaspoon salt
freshly ground black pepper to taste
8 cups field greens (“baby” variety, if possible), rinsed, drained, patted dry, wrapped in paper towels, and chilled
Cut the stems off the figs, rinse them, and pat dry. Place them in a small saucepan with the port and sugar and bring to a simmer over medium heat. Cover the pan, lower the heat to the lowest setting, and simmer gently for about 10 minutes, or until the figs are soft. Drain the figs, reserving the cooking liquid. Allow the figs to cool, then slice them into quarters and set aside.
Using a wide frying pan, toast the filberts over medium heat, stirring frequently, until they emit a nutty smell, about 5 to 10 minutes. Remove them from the heat, and when they are cool, coarsely chop them.
Reheat the cooking liquid over low heat and stir in the vinegar, shallot, chèvre, oil, and seasonings. Add the figs and raise the heat to medium-low. Stir the dressing until the cheese is completely melted.
Toss the field greens with the warm dressing and sprinkle the nuts on top. Serve immediately.
Makes 6 servings
“Chardé Lauderdale might be able to find her way in,” I ventured.
“I think I could deal with that skinny decorator,” Tom insisted with a chuckle.
I started piling goodies onto Tom’s plate and my own. “Before you turn down a hotel, you should know I saw Eliot having a nasty fight this afternoon with his caretaker, Michaela Kirovsky. Marla broke it up.”
“Yeah,” Tom replied. “Marla called while you were running Arch around. She said none of her sources know if Eliot and Michaela fight all the time, or if what you saw this afternoon was a one-time thing.” Tom laughed and shook his head. “I’d say Eliot Hyde is more than weird, maybe even certifiable. When we’re done eating, I’ll tell you all about his pranks.”
“Oh, tell us now,” I coaxed with a giggle, infinitely glad that Tom felt well enough to gossip. I finished heaping his plate with polenta and vegetables and set it in front of him.
Tom took a few bites, and complimented Julian. Then he said, “Eliot told the sheriff’s department, and townsfolk who would listen, that any castle-property trespasser would be attacked by a ghost.”
“I’ll bet that brought in the gawkers,” Julian said with a wry smile.
Tom laughed again. “You don’t know the half of it.”
CHAPTER 15
I knew better than to interrupt Tom when he began a Tale of Law Enforcement. I took a first luscious bite of Julian’s beautifully prepared salad. The warm, bittersweet dressing had melted the creamy chunks of chèvre and made a silky coating for the sweet, moist figs and bitter greens. It was a heavenly mélange. Was this really my recipe, or had Julian transformed it into something otherworldly? Maybe what made it delicious was someone else fixing it.
I felt myself relax. And I was thankful: That my husband was alive, that Julian was with us once again, that Arch and I had survived our first encounter with the Jerk-as-ex-con. As I munched the sumptuous grilled polenta, I ordered myself to set aside worries about Tom’s wound, the other woman he claimed not to love, and Andy Balachek’s corpse in Cottonwood Creek.
“Eliot had moved back from the East Coast and lived in this castle for almost, oh, five years,” Tom continued, “when he realized his tours were a flop and his inheritance was going to drain away soon. So. About four years ago, he took out a loan against the equity in the castle itself and used it to refurbish the chapel by the creek. Vandals had broken some windows and spray-painted the walls and floor. Eliot spent fifty thou on folding wooden chairs, heaters, an antique organ, a handmade gold cross, spotlights, repairs to the stained-glass windows, and installation of electricity. The first wedding went off well. Unfortunately, Eliot hadn’t thought of security, and vandals broke in after the celebration and stole the gold cross.”
“Wow,” said Julian, as he piled jewel-colored baby vegetables on our plates. “How much bad luck would that bring?”
Tom nodded. “Eliot’s next strategy, in addition to installing a lockbox, was to arrange an interview with the Mountain Journal. He claimed the dead duke, the rich young nephew from Tudor times, still haunted the place and roamed the grounds. Eliot called his own estate ‘Poltergeist Palace.’ He warned that anyone breaking into Hyde Chapel or the castle could be attacked by the ghost.”
“So he’s the one who came up with the name,” I muttered.
“A second couple tying the knot in Hyde Chapel didn’t even finish their ceremony. The bride was spooked to begin with, because the groom had lost his first wife in a car accident. Before they got to ‘I do,’ a screaming started up in the chapel. Or near the chapel; the witnesses couldn’t agree. Nobody could find the screamer. So the bride got hysterical and started hollering herself, claiming it was the ghost of her husband’s first wife.”
“How come none of this was publicized at Saint Luke’s when Eliot gave them Hyde Chapel?” I asked, fascinated.
“Because Episcopalians have the Holy Ghost,” Julian interjected.
“That’s the Holy Spirit to you,” I shot back.
Tom grinned. “You guys want me to finish this story?” When we both nodded, he went on: “The bride in the second ceremony refused to go on with the service. The groom demanded his money back. Eliot said no. The groom gave Eliot a fist to the jaw, and knocked him out. One of the guests called us. By the time we got there, the guests had all dispersed, and the bride and groom had skedaddled to a justice of the peace. Somebody had given Eliot Hyde smelling salts. We found him in the chapel storage area, where he was rewinding a tape of screaming sounds, probably broadcast through speakers in the chapel. He said he’d set up the tape to go off if the chapel was broken into, but somehow the recorder had gotten tripped by the wedding party. We told him to get rid of the tape, or next time we’d arrest him for creating a public nuisance.”
“Poor Eliot,” I said.
Julian rolled his muscled swimmer’s shoulders as he polished off his plate of veggies. “Way I heard it, when I was at Elk Park Prep? Someone actually did die here. A child. And not four centuries ago, either.”
“What?” Tom and I demanded.
Julian shrugged. “The story at school was that a couple came up here to have an illegitimate baby, and it was a stillbirth. They threw the baby’s corpse down the well. As I said, this isn’t an ancient ghost rumor, either. It was something in the last ten years.”
“No one reported it to the sheriff’s department,” Tom replied, “or I would have heard about it.”
“Search warrant!” I cried.
“Forget it,” said Tom.
“Here’s my opinion,” Julian said, picking up our plates. “Eliot may have acted weird by scaring folks off. But if you ask me, Sukie’s the nutcase.” He frowned. “There is such a thing as too clean, you know. I finish with a bowl, she washes it. She wipes down the walls, then cleans the windows. Done with that? She sweeps the floor, gets on her hands and knees, and scrubs it. Why would a rich person with a hired cleaning service be so anal?”
“Julian!” Tom and I cried.
He went on: “I’ve only been here one day. Sukie seemed to like the lunch, right? But then I began thinking she was just keeping an eye on me, to make sure I didn’t steal anything. When she grabbed away a sauté pan I was still using, I told her she didn’t need to worry, I was bonded. She apologized. She says she cleans because she’s Swiss. Next week, she’s hiring a specialist to wax all the wood floors. She told me that while she was at a church meeting Sunday night, Chardé came in and she and Eliot splashed paint samples all over the place. Sukie went absolutely nuts. Then the paint guys came back today with more paint samples. Eliot told her not to worry, brighter colors would make the castle more attractive as a conference center.” He motioned with the tray he had now filled with plates. “Anyway, if I don’t put these in the dishwasher before I go to bed, she’ll come around in the middle of the night looking for them.”
>
I didn’t like the idea of Julian wandering around the castle alone at night, but tried to keep my voice serene. “Listen, Julian, do me a favor, okay? When you finish in the kitchen and come back up, just knock gently on our door. One knock. So we can be sure you’re all right.”
“So you know the ghost didn’t snag me?” Julian said with a wink. He heaved up the tray. “Okay, Ma and Pa. I’ll knock.” We thanked him again for the marvelous meal. He grinned, delighted with our praise, and backed out the door.
When Tom and I were alone at last, I washed my hands and began the task of removing his bandage, cleaning the wound, then taping it back up. Lord knows, I longed to ask him about Sara Beth O’Malley. But I couldn’t. The newly bloodied bandage, the ugly bruising around the wound, the black stitches on his swollen flesh, made me resolve to say nothing.
Even if I suspected Tom’s old girlfriend had shot him for being disloyal to her and marrying me, what good would it do to confront Tom? I gently laid new gauze in place. What I really wanted to know, I decided, was if he still cared about her, and if he’d acted on that by … whatever. Stop, I ordered myself, as I gently pressed down the last bit of tape. The Jerk had betrayed me for years, years when I’d stuck my head in the proverbial sandbox so much I might as well have been living at the beach. By the end of our marriage I’d turned into a suspicious harpy who thought everything John Richard told me was a lie. If I got back into mistrustful thinking, I was going to make myself miserable.
“Something wrong, Goldy?” Tom gave me the full benefit of those all-knowing green eyes.
“I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t, I’ll be fine.” He paused. “Is Arch on your mind?”
“Yes, that’s it.” My voice cracked.
“The kid’ll be all right. Korman won’t try anything while he’s on parole. Why don’t you come to bed?”
And so I did. I wanted to ask Tom if he still loved me, but I couldn’t. It had been a long day, a very long day. Still, once I was between the crisp cotton sheets and down comforter that were worthy of the most luxurious hotel, sleep eluded me. I switched from fretting about Tom, to wondering if I could safely boot my laptop and read his e-mails, to worrying about Arch. Where was my son at that moment? Did he miss me? I turned over and sighed.
“Goldy, what is it?”
“I’m just thinking about when Arch was a newborn. I’d lie in bed and fret about whether he was breathing, even though he was just down the hall. I found that if I lay very still and listened, I could hear him. It was like your eyes adjusting to the dark. My ears took in all the sounds of the night, and finally made out his tiny infant breath. In and out. It was comforting. Does that sound nuts?”
“He’s breathing now, Miss G., in his bed at Korman’s house. He’s all right. If he wasn’t, we would have heard about it.”
At that moment a muffled knock on the door indicated Julian was retiring to his room. A few moments later, Tom snored softly beside me.
My eyes remained wide open, my body tense. Finally, I eased from beneath the comforter. Despite the heat pouring from the baseboards, the air in the big room was chilly. I sat down on the velvety wool rug.
Tom wasn’t in a deep enough sleep for me to start tapping away on a keyboard. Besides, if I read the e-mails tonight, I’d feel too guilty to sleep. Especially if he caught me.
I hugged myself against the cold and thought about Arch. Yes, he was with John Richard, and no, I couldn’t phone at midnight to check that he’d brushed his teeth and been tucked in. (Question: How do you tuck in an almost-fifteen-year-old, anyway? Answer: You don’t.) And what if Viv decided to tell Arch a bedtime story about automatic weapons?
Don’t think about it.
Very quietly, I slipped into my heavy coat, boots, and mittens. There was something I could do, a ritual that had always helped with worry about Arch’s safety when he was spending the night at a friend’s, or camping with the Cub Scouts in the wildlife preserve. I’d face in the direction of my son’s location and send him good vibes. This was not a spiritual exercise sanctioned in your neighborhood Episcopal church. But I’d always found it reassuring, and believed that God would understand.
I quietly maneuvered through the set of double doors to the southeast tower. My boots scraped the floor. The sharp air was dense with ice crystals. The dim light illuminating the tower cast long shadows on the dark stone.
John Richard’s house lay southwest of the castle, in the Aspen Meadow Country Club area. I shivered, oriented myself, then stood by the window that faced southwest. I closed my eyes. Then I brought up the vision of Arch sleeping. I willed myself to be very still.
After a few moments, I could have sworn I heard breathing. It was not my own breath, but the rapid, shallow inhale-exhale of a child. Fear rippled through my veins. I opened my eyes and glanced around quickly: nothing. When I tipped forward to check out the window, there was only the barely lit black water of the moat below, and across the moat, a small neon light by the castle Dumpster. Ghosts didn’t usually breathe, did they? Being dead and all? I’m losing it, I decided, as I tiptoed back to our room, shed my outerwear, and slipped into bed. I need sleep.
But I lay awake for a long time, thinking about what to do next.
Dawn brought frigid air and charcoal clouds hemmed with a bright blue sliver of sky. To my chagrin, my neck had stiffened from my nasty encounter with the computer thief. What sleep I’d managed to get had brought some clarity, however. Boyd and Armstrong had promised to touch base today. I would call them first, with some questions of my own. And I had to talk with Eliot about the new arrangements for the next day’s labyrinth lunch. With Tom still asleep, I rolled quietly out of bed, emptied my mind, and began a slow yoga routine. Breathe, stretch, breathe, hold. Before long, I felt better.
As I started to get dressed, I remembered the disk and Sara Beth O’Malley. I frowned, remembering Tom’s story. Talk about a ghost.
Tom’s snoring was deep and sonorous. With my laptop tucked under my arm, I tiptoed into the bathroom. I didn’t give myself time to think, much less feel guilty. I plugged in the computer and booted it up, covered the toilet seat with warm towels, and sat down to break into my husband’s e-mail.
There were seven messages: three from “The Gambler,” as Andy apparently called himself, three from “S.B.,” and one from the State Department. I had already opened the first of S.B.’s messages: Do you remember me? You said you’d love me forever. Now I went straight to the second.
I need to prove myself to you? I smiled. Good old Tom. Figure out if she is who she says she is. I’m putting myself in danger just writing to you. Nobody knows I’m here. Remember our secret engagement ring? We didn’t want people to criticize us for being too young to know what we were doing. So you picked out a tiny ruby, my birthstone, set in platinum. In answer to your other question, I’ve been in a little village. After my so-called death, I went from being a nurse to being a doctor.—S.B.
At least she wasn’t calling herself “Your S.B.” anymore. I battled guilt as I opened the third and final communication from her, dated three weeks ago.
Tom, I saw your wife and son today. I read in the paper that she’s a caterer. I don’t want to upset your life. I just would like to see you. Why am I here, you asked. An anonymous donor is giving us medical supplies. I’m picking them up. I also have a dental abscess and need a root canal. They don’t have neighborhood endodontists in my country, although they can manage fake passports and counterfeit checks. I’m taking the risk to tell you all this for a reason. I have an appointment at High Country Dental on February 13 at 9 A.M. I’d like to see you before my appointment, if possible. S.B.
Wait a minute. My country?
The next communication, the one from the State Department, was unemotional and to the point.
Officer Schulz: As you were notified by the DOD in 1975, Major Sara Beth O’Malley, R.N., was listed as missing, presumed dead. Her Mobile Army Surgical Hospital unit was dest
royed during an attack three months before American forces withdrew from Saigon. Her body was not recovered, and the DOD has not had reason to change its assessment.
From time to time, we get unsubstantiated reports of warera Americans still living in Vietnam. Neither we nor the Defense Department has any way of investigating these claims.
We urge all persons who have eyewitness reports of missing veterans to fill out a Form 626—3A, available on-line at the above address.
This happy epistle was signed by a minor dignitary of the Department.
So: Sara Beth O’Malley had somehow survived the war, unbeknownst to Washington bureaucrats. She’d also become a doctor for a village whose plumbing facilities undoubtedly wouldn’t appeal to Sukie. The part I couldn’t fathom was why she’d risk coming back to Colorado after twenty-five years to pick up supplies and have her teeth fixed, and oh, by the way, to check on her old fiancé, who had long believed her dead.
I don’t love her. Tom had probably been afraid that if he died from the shot, I’d find the e-mails. Which I had anyway. She thought Arch was his son. If she read in the paper that I was a caterer, she knew I did local events, like the one at Hyde Chapel. Had she been waiting for me to show up for the labyrinth lunch, and shot Tom by accident, instead of me? I wondered if the army or her villagers had taught her to shoot, after all.
I stared at the blinking cursor. Was Sara Beth O’Malley telling the truth? Where was she staying? If she wasn’t in Aspen Meadow, where was she?
Suddenly I remembered what Captain Lambert had quoted from the owner of The Stamp Fox: If you have contacts in the Far East …you can fence anything.
Maybe this was too far-fetched. Could Sara Beth O’Malley possibly be hooked up with Ray Wolff and his thieving gang? And, most importantly for my psyche and marriage: In the last month, has Tom seen her?
I sighed, rode a wave of caffeine-craving, and opened the first of the e-mails from “The Gambler,” Andy Balachek himself. Whoever had shot Tom must have known about Andy’s body right there in the creek. If I was going to figure out who the shooter was, it might help to know what had been going on with Andy before he died.
Sticks & Scones Page 15
