Sticks & Scones

by Diane Mott Davidson

  The telephone rang. I hadn’t even noticed it in the sea of photos, probably because it was on a lower shelf of one of the end tables. Michaela drew it out and stared at it before answering. It took me a moment to realize she had been puzzling over a tiny screen with caller ID.

  “Sheriff’s department?” she asked. “Sergeant Boyd?”

  “It’s for me.” Without thinking, I launched myself across the couch, sloshing cider onto the rug. As I gabbled apologies, Michaela relieved me of my cup. Then she dropped some paper napkins on the rug and handed me the receiver, all in one smooth motion. If I ever did learn to fence, did that mean I’d become coordinated?

  “This is Goldy,” I said.

  “Boyd here. Where’s Tom?”

  I murmured that he was in bed.

  “And how’s he doing?”

  “On the mend. He wants to start working again.”

  Boyd mm-hmmed. It was past ten o’clock. He’d had all day to check on Tom. So what did he really want?

  “Goldy, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

  My heart lurched. Arch, Tom, and Julian were all here at the castle. Oh, God—Marla.

  “This is about your computers. And the guy who stole them.”

  “Okay.” Puzzled at how this would warrant a late-night call, I waited.

  “We went to visit Mr. Morris Hart, whose real name, it turns out, is Mo Hartfield. Hangs out in bars, does odd jobs for crooks, stays in the pipeline. When we got to his place this evening, somebody had already broken in. We found your computers trashed. A keyboard was in the toilet.” Boyd paused.

  “Was he there?” But even as I asked it, I knew the answer.

  “Yeah,” Boyd said tersely. “Shot dead.”

  CHAPTER 21

  No.” The window guy killed? With our trashed computers all around? “Do you have any idea who—”

  “Nope, nothing yet. We found him in his bathtub. I just wanted you to know, especially with what’s been going on. Tell Tom about it, okay? The ballistics guys should be back to us ASAP, since this case includes the shooting of a cop. And Tom needs to be careful. He shouldn’t go out without one of us along. Whoever’s doing this is killing mad about something. Have Tom give me a ring tomorrow, would you? If he’s up to it?”

  “Sure. Thanks,” I murmured numbly, and signed off. Somebody was so angry they’d kill a small-time thief? Angry about what? That Andy Balachek had sent e-mails that landed Ray Wolff in jail? That I’d turned in a wealthy couple for child abuse? That Tom had married someone else?

  “Bad news?” asked Michaela softly.

  “No.” I paused. Never divulge anything about a case, Tom had warned me on many occasions. “Thanks for asking, though. And it was very nice of you to have us over. Come on, Arch, time to rock.”

  He groaned, but scrambled to his feet and thanked Michaela. We walked across the second floor of the gatehouse itself, looked down at the empty entryway through the meurtriers, then descended the darkly paneled spiral staircase into the living room. When we entered the hush of the living room, it was bathed in shadows.

  Arch said, “I need to check on Orion and those other constellations. Do you have my high-powered binoculars? They’re not in with my stuff.”

  I promised to get them from our room. We entered the frigid drum tower, passed the well and the garderobe, then moved into the silent hall by the dining room and kitchen. The castle was a spooky place at night. Although I’d planned to do some night-time cooking for the next day’s luncheon, there was no way that was going to happen. As we passed the kitchen, icy shivers ran down my neck. I was glad Arch had his foil with him.

  Finally upstairs, I disarmed our door, tiptoed into our room, retrieved the binoculars, and tiptoed back out. In the hallway, Arch whispered a request for assistance. This was the first time in three weeks that he’d asked for my help with the astronomy. Then again, I wouldn’t want to be up later than everyone else in the castle, working alone. It would be like reading The Exorcist on an overnight camp-out: not something you wanted to do.

  I followed Arch into the room he was sharing with Julian. Arch shuffled around for his notebook. Inside his sleeping bag on Arch’s couch, Julian’s form rose and fell. I felt a pang of guilt that our dear family friend had done all the dishes again. Bless Julian Teller’s wonderful heart.

  From the tall window, Arch and I could make out Orion, complete with belt and sword, the Little Dipper, Cassiopeia, the lovely W that had been my favorite constellation since I was little, and even the Big Dipper, just above the horizon. Once Arch had noted the Big Dipper pointing to the North Star, he was done.

  “Thanks, Mom.” He closed his notebook. “You can leave now.”

  I didn’t mind being summarily dismissed, as that was the way of almost-fifteen-year-olds. I thanked Arch again for the fencing demonstration, made him promise to arm his door, then did the same in our room. I set the tiny alarm for five A.M. and snuggled in next to Tom. Finally, I said a prayer for Mo Hartfield, even if he had hit me over the head.

  As often happens on the day of a catered event, I awoke seconds before the buzzer went off. Outside, the sky was dark as tar. I turned on a small lamp on the far side of the room, moved through my yoga routine, showered, dressed, and congratulated myself on getting up early. I had over two hours before Arch had to be off for school, more than enough to get a good start on the labyrinth luncheon.

  For some reason, I seemed to be making no noise. The castle, I reflected, had two moods: Either it creaked and moaned and you saw and heard things that weren’t there, or your every sound and movement was absorbed by the palatial trappings and walls.

  “I’m coming down to fix breakfast,” Tom mumbled, deep in his pillow.

  “With one arm? No way. You should sleep,” I said softly.

  He moaned and turned over.

  Julian met me in the hall, his brown hair damp from showering. He wore his bistro work outfit: white T-shirt, paisley-printed balloon chef pants, and high-top sneakers. “I heard you running your shower,” he murmured. So all my sounds had not been muffled, after all. “Didn’t want you to have to work alone.”

  “Julian, please. You’ve done so much. Why don’t you just sleep?”

  “For-get it.” His voice had that stubborn tone I’d come to know well.

  In the kitchen, I made two cups of espresso. I drank mine black, but Julian doused his with two tablespoons each of cream and sugar. The kid had the metabolism of the speed of light.

  Because we’d always worked so well before, we knew how to divide the chores and estimate the time required for prep. Reservations for twenty, but expect thirty, the church had said. We decided I’d make the steak pies, while Julian would do the Figgy Salad and green beans with artichoke hearts. We would cook until seven, then we would make breakfast for Arch and anyone else who showed up.

  As we started our prep, we discussed the schedule. If Michaela was willing to take Arch to school again, then at eight, we could start setting up the food and drinks in Hyde Chapel. This was provided the police were gone, which they’d promised they would be, and the Party Rental tables had finally arrived. We’d take the same chafers and electrified hot platters that we’d used the previous evening, along with packaged, chilled salad ingredients. We’d bring the rest of the foodstuffs down at ten-thirty. At eleven, we would start serving the guests champagne, cheese puffs, onion toasts, and caviar.

  Before all hell broke loose on Monday, I’d planned to bring my portable ovens to bake the pies. I often did this for catered events at kitchenless sites; I’d just forgotten to pack them after our window was shot out. Still, after the debacle with the computers, there was no way I was going back to our house to get the portable ovens. Instead, one of us would drive back to the castle to put the pies into the oven at eleven-fifteen. Meanwhile, the other would keep the appetizers and soup going until the hot pies came down around noon. As long as the tables had been delivered and the labyrinth cake arrived at ten as ordered,
we’d be in great shape.

  For the pies, I chopped carrots, onions, and parsley for what the French called a mirepoix, and started butter melting in a Dutch oven. Julian steamed the haricots verts, then moved on to preparing a complex sauce. With the mirepoix sizzling in the pool of butter, I sharpened my largest chef’s knife before tackling the slabs of steak. Eliot had argued for steak-and-kidney pies, but I’d been adamantly opposed. The Olde English crowd may have loved ’em, but your modern American diner was going to think a kidney tasted like liver, and give it a pass.

  “So what did the Elizabethan folks eat besides meat?” Julian asked as he swished balsamic vinegar into the fig salad dressing.

  I finished cutting the steaks, floured and seasoned the pieces, and laid them over the sautéed vegetables. “Every meal offered the ever-present manchet bread,” I replied. “It was actually a small loaf. I used Julia Child’s hamburger-bun recipe last week and made a bunch of them, which I brought. Odd as it may seem, sixteenth-century folks also had sweet dishes with each course. At least, the rich ones did. Gingerbreads, tarts, marzipan, and cakes, plus conserves, preserves, and marmalades of every type. Served alongside the cooked sparrows.”

  “Now there’s a healthful diet.”

  “The theory is that Henry the Eighth died of scurvy.”

  “Wha’d I tell you?”

  I went hunting for the bottles of burgundy I’d brought in one of my boxes. Judicious amounts of red wine would be poured over the meat mixture, before it was covered with pie dough. With any luck, we’d have juicy, tender, flavorful pieces of steak topped with a golden flaky crust.

  Yikes! I was making myself hungry. Tom must have received my telepathic message, for he chose that moment to amble into the kitchen.

  Shakespeare’s Steak Pie

  This is an expensive recipe. Because tenderloin cooks so quickly and is easily overcooked, it is imperative that you purchase a low-cost meat thermometer with a digital read-out so that the beef is cooked to an ideal medium-rare temperature.

  2 tablespoons (¼ stick) unsalted butter

  1 medium or ½ large onion, chopped

  1 medium carrot, chopped

  2 cloves garlic, pressed and minced

  2 tablespoons minced fresh parsley

  6 tablespoons all-purpose flour

  ½ teaspoon crumbled dried thyme

  ½ teaspoon crumbled dried oregano

  ½ teaspoon crumbled dried sage

  1½ teaspoons salt

  ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

  2½ pounds beef tenderloin, trimmed, cut into 1½-inch cubes (You should have 2 pounds of trimmed, cubed beef)

  ¼ cup high-quality dry red wine

  Upper Crust Pastry (recipe follows)

  In a wide sauté pan, melt the butter over medium-low heat. Gently sauté the onion, carrot, garlic, and parsley for a moment, stirring until the vegetables are well mixed. Cover the pan and cook over medium to low heat, stirring occasionally, until the onion is limp and translucent and the carrot has lost some of its crunch, about 10 minutes. Uncover the pan and set aside to cool.

  Place the flour, thyme, oregano, sage, salt, and pepper into a large, heavy-duty zip-type plastic bag and mix well. Add the beef to the bag, zip the top closed, and shake until all the cubes are evenly-covered with the dry mixture.

  Butter a 9 × 12-inch oval au gratin pan. Place the floured cubes into the pan along with the sautéed vegetables, mixing very lightly with your hands, just until the vegetables and meat are evenly distributed. Place the filled pan in the refrigerator while you prepare the crust. (Or you can cover the filled pan with plastic wrap, place it in the refrigerator, and chill until you are ready to prepare the crust and cook the pie. It is best not to prepare the crust in advance.)

  Preheat the oven to 350°F. Remove the pan of meat and vegetables from the refrigerator and pour the wine into the pan. Gently fit the crust over the pan, fluting the edges and slashing the center in 3 places to vent and decorating the top as directed in the pastry recipe. Carefully insert the thermometer through a slash in _ the crust, making sure it spears a piece of beef.

  Bake until the meat thermometer reads 125°F for medium rare, about 25 minutes. Serve immediately.

  Makes 4 large servings

  Upper-Crust Pastry:

  1¼ cups all-purpose flour

  ½ teaspoon salt

  6 tablespoons (¾ stick) chilled unsalted butter, cut into 6 pieces

  1 egg, beaten, 1 tablespoon reserved and set aside

  1 tablespoon milk

  In the bowl of a large food processor, combine the flour and salt and process for 5 seconds. With the motor running, drop in the butter, one piece at a time.

  Combine the egg and milk and pour intothe food processor. Process for a few moments, just until the dough pulls into a ball. Gently flatten the dough and place it into a rectangular jumbo-size zip-type plastic bag. Using a rolling pin, roll the pastry to the edges of the bag, or until it will fit over your pan. Open the bag at the zipper, and using scissors, carefully cut down the sides of the bag. Remove one whole side of the bag and place the pastry side down on the pan. Gently peel off the top of the bag. Flute the edges of the pastry and make the slashes in the top as directed in the recipe. Using a pastry brush, paint the reserved tablespoon of beaten egg on top of the pastry.

  “Enter the one-armed breakfast chef,” he announced jovially. He wore dark chef pants—a gift from Julian—and a buttoned white Broncos shirt. “Please don’t try to talk me out of anything. Just give me an apron. I’m not leaving. If either one of you protests, you’ll only raise my stress level and make me ill.”

  Julian and I laughed while Tom rooted around in Alicia’s delivered boxes of foodstuffs for chili ingredients. With a pang of guilt, I realized I’d mishandled the confrontation over Sara Beth. Besides, what had I promised myself in the hospital? That I didn’t care if there was another woman; I would love Tom always. Now I just had to behave as if I didn’t care about her.

  I sighed and got back to work. Within thirty minutes, Julian and I had completed our preparation. Tom, meanwhile, worked assiduously on his breakfast concoction. The Hydes, wearing matching royal blue robes, floated into the kitchen and offered to prepare juices and hot drinks. Michaela, dressed for coach work, showed up a few minutes later, surveyed the goings-on, and announced she’d toast English muffins for all. I gladly acquiesced. I was ravenous.

  Arch appeared just after seven, wearing an oversize olive shirt and large khaki pants. Did anyone at that school actually wear anything in the correct size? Sheepishly, he asked if I’d be willing to wash his fencing outfit today, so he could have it fresh for the banquet. To my surprise, Sukie volunteered to do it; she had state-of-the-art washing and drying machines, she explained, that no one else could understand.

  Arch thanked her and peered into the wide frying pan on the stove. Tom was stirring his aromatic, bubbling Boulder Chili: sautéed ground chuck, onions, garlic, chili beans, and the most hearty collection of spices north of the Rio Grande. Arch frowned.

  “I’m pretty sure the Elizabethans didn’t have chili first thing in the morning.”

  “Oh, yeah?” said Tom. “Too bad. Huevos Palacios are coming up.” His voice was still buoyant, but I could see lines of wear in his face and eyes. Maybe I shouldn’t have let him do any cooking.

  Summoning everyone to sit, Tom and I served up sauté pans hot from the oven. Each one brimmed with creamy frittata-style eggs topped with a sunburst of chili, grated Cheddar, and sour cream. Tom had even made one without chili for Julian. When I took a bite of the spicy concoction, I nearly swooned.

  “Good show.” mumbled Eliot Hyde, as he chewed. Julian, Sukie, Michaela, and Arch, too, murmured compliments as we wolfed the food down. When we finished, Sukie insisted she was cleaning the kitchen.

  I pulled Tom outside the kitchen door. “Boyd phoned last night,” I murmured. “The guy who stole our computers was shot to death. Boyd wants you to be careful. He doe
sn’t want you going out without a police escort. And you’re supposed to give him a ring today.” Tom nodded once, instantly somber, and said he was going upstairs to make calls.

  “You’re coming with me, Arch?” Michaela asked when I reentered the kitchen. I nodded that it was fine. Michaela added that the police had not allowed her to start setting up early for the luncheon, after all. So we would have to attend to the space heaters and serving tables, in addition to everything else. I told her that was no problem.

  Tom wouldn’t have reached the upstairs phone yet, I knew, so I quickly called the sheriff’s department from the kitchen, to check on the status of the crime scene by the chapel. A deputy informed me that the crime lab van had finished Tuesday, but they’d kept a guard these past three days and nights because investigators hadn’t quite finished. He put me on hold, then came back and assured me the guard and police ribbons would be gone by eight.

  Huevos Palacios

  1 cup Boulder Chili (recipe follows)

  4 large eggs

  ¼ cup whipping cream

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

  2 tablespoons (¼ stick) unsalted butter

  ½ cup sour cream

  1 cup grated Cheddar cheese

  1 medium tomato, peeled, seed pockets removed, and chopped

  2 scallions, chopped

  Make the chili and allow it to cool.

  Lightly beat the eggs with the cream, salt, and pepper. Melt the butter over medium-low heat in a medium-sized, ovenproof nonstick frying pan. When the pan is hot, pour in the egg mixture.