Sticks & Scones (19 page)

To my left, double glass doors opened onto the hallway that led to the north range and the gatehouse, where Michaela resided. I hesitated when I read a hand-lettered sign spanning the glass doors: UNDER CONSTRUCTION—NO ADMITTANCE! I listened for the bang and clatter of construction workers, but heard nothing. Was this northern side of the west range where Chardé was doing intensive new decorating work, I wondered? Did she insist on being left alone? Did I care?

I wondered what kind of construction could be taking place. The castle already had a pool, a Great Hall, and a fencing loft. Maybe a movie theater was next. Surely they didn’t mean
I
couldn’t be admitted, I reasoned, as I pushed through the door. If I ran into Chardé, I could use the tray as a shield.

The hall looked almost identical to the one next to Eliot’s office. Pale green Oriental runners bisected the dark hardwood floor. Medieval-looking tapestries lined
the walls. There were two doors. The first one, Eliot had told me, led to his and Sukie’s bedroom. Past the door at the far end, another glass entryway led, presumably, into the northwest drum tower. I walked down the hall with great care, just in case I encountered a hole in the floor or an unfriendly decorator.

The construction, such as it was, was used-to-be-fresh paint by the far door—more of the same paint that was elsewhere in the castle—with another
Wet Paint
sign by the door. Here, it looked as if someone had spilled or thrown a can of the viscous beige stuff on the wall, on the floor, and on the lower half of the wooden door. The door itself had no security pad, but had some holes in it at regular intervals. Above the doorknob was a formidable, new-looking brass padlock.

I stared at the spilled paint. The hardened, abstract pool of beige looked worse than in the living room or up in the hall by our room. It was so unsightly and random that I wondered if this was what the argument between Eliot and Michaela had been about.
Chardé keeps asking when she gets to do my place.
Maybe Michaela had spilled the paint, when she was just supposed to dab it around artistically. Had Eliot suspected Michaela of making the mess, and accused her, or caught her? And they’d fought? That seemed pretty silly.

Hold on. I put down the tray and peered intently at the padlock. Only half of it was completely screwed into place; the other hung limply from a single screw, as if the package containing the lock had not yielded enough of the little suckers that you needed to attach it to whatever you were trying to lock.

And I thought buying a not-enough-nails package only happened to me.

I knocked on the door. No reply. Quickly, before I could think about it, I applied the same principle to this
door that I had to Eliot’s unsecured desk drawers.
If you don’t want me checking on things, better make sure they’re locked up.
I pushed through the door.

“What the heck—” I said aloud, as I stared at stained white walls, arched windows filled with plain, not leaded, glass, and a jumble of bookshelves bursting with toys, worn picture books, wooden blocks, and boxed games. Ranged at the edges of a stained, odd-size pink rug, was battered furniture in shades of green, blue, and pink. What was
this
room used for? Was Eliot so eccentric that he kept a playroom for the dead duke, in case Ghost-Boy got tired of haunting the castle and wanted a quick game of Chutes and Ladders? Or was this a nursery where Eliot and Michaela had played as children—a place that would be turned into a baby-sitting room for the conference center?

I thought I heard footsteps coming from the direction of the study. When I peeked around the doorjamb, however, the hall was empty. I scurried out, carefully closing the door behind me, and picked up my tray. Then I continued away from the study, soldiering on down toward the drum tower.

It must have been some kind of baby-sitter’s room, I decided as I scurried along. I shoved through the second set of glass doors—also marked with NO ADMITTANCE signs—and again encountered the chill of a corner tower. Was the door to the sitter’s room getting a padlock because the Hydes didn’t want Chardé to give it a decorating overhaul? Had visitors in Eliot’s father’s time come to the castle for a tour, and brought the children because there was free baby-sitting? Later, I’d have to check my snitched pamphlets for a Hyde Castle floor plan.

I pushed into the last hallway, which was identical to the one by Eliot’s office. These two doors, however, were marked with small brass plates that read
Private Residence.
Hoping to find Michaela, I knocked on each one, but received no reply.

Finally I walked out onto the ground floor of the gatehouse, where Arch and I had entered upon our arrival. The front portcullis and the massive wooden gates were closed; the alarm was set. Good, I thought. No way for the Jerk to push his way in.

When I arrived in the empty kitchen minutes later, the air was once again frigid from the open window. I banged my tray down, looked out the window—a forty-foot drop to the moat, with no way for the Jerk or the Lauderdales to climb up—and slammed the errant window shut. I was thankful that the kitchen held only a tiny reminder that the Lauderdales had even been there: Chardé had left a pile of decorating magazines and folders by the hearth.

Once my dishes were stowed in the dishwasher, I scanned the menu for the following day’s lunch. The boxes of frozen homemade chicken stock I’d brought would form the base for the luncheon’s cream of chicken soup and the banquet’s shrimp curry. I chewed the inside of my cheek and used the kitchen phone to reconfirm with Alicia, my supplier. She had been scheduled to bring all the ingredients for the banquet—veal roasts, frozen jumbo shrimp, fresh strawberries and bananas for the molded salad, and bunches of broccoli—to our house on Friday morning. I left a message asking that the foodstuffs, plus a lamb roast and a couple of extra bags of
haricots verts
and Yukon Gold potatoes, be brought to Hyde Castle today, if possible. I provided the phone number and a warning that she’d have to alert the residents to the time of her arrival, so they could open the portcullis. Knowing Alicia, she’d think portcullis was a drink, and want some.

While giving my message to Alicia’s voice mail, I’d found a second, larger microwave oven cleverly hidden inside what looked like a bread box. After some experimentation with programming, I started the chicken stock
defrosting, then minced a mountain of shallots, carrots, and celery. Soon the hearty scent of vegetables simmering in a pool of melted butter filled the kitchen. I tried to recall what I’d read that morning from my research disk on English food. After some thought, I sketched out a simple plan for the evening meal: lamb roast with pan gravy and mint jelly, baked potatoes, steamed
haricots verts
, a large tossed salad with grated fresh Parmesan cheese, and homemade bread. I’d brought the potatoes, beans, bread, and greens from home. If Alicia couldn’t make it today, Julian could go out and pick up the lamb roast.

For dessert, it would probably be good to make a dish with some historic significance. But the Elizabethans had favored marzipan, and I wasn’t up to doing marzipan
anything.
My eyes fell on the Stained-Glass Sweet Bread I’d made earlier that morning, but decided it would be better for tea. I chewed the inside of my cheek some more.

The Hydes’ freezer yielded a gallon of premium ice cream: Swiss Chocolate, no surprise. With ice cream, I’d learned long ago, it’s better to serve at least two different kinds of cookies. One should be crunchy and redolent of a spice, such as ginger, or a flavoring, like vanilla or almond. The other should be soft and rich, smeared with a creamy icing, if possible. After some deliberation, I decided on a shortbread for the former, which I’d name after Queen Elizabeth’s rival to the north, Mary, Queen of Scots. The other, a chocolate cookie whose dark, fudgy essence and brownie-like texture I could already savor, I would call 911 Cookies—for chocolate emergencies. I was in an extended one right now.

I beat confectioners’ sugar into butter, added a hint of vanilla, and mixed in two kinds of flour sifted with a tad of leavening. I patted the shortbread dough into round cake pans, scored each into wedges, and fluted the rims. Once I’d started the buttery shortbreads on their slow bake to divine flakiness, I melted dark bittersweet chocolate with
butter and sifted dry ingredients for the 911’s. Like the sweet bread, these, too, would benefit from a brief mellowing, only in the refrigerator. Once I’d mixed the dough, I covered the bowl with plastic wrap, set it to chill, and slipped up to see Tom.

“He said he wants to rest,” Julian whispered to me as he precariously balanced the tray while closing the door. “I changed the bandage after he ate. He only had a few bites, but we did have a good visit. He didn’t say anything about getting any on the side.”

“Julian!” I scolded, “I need to set our security system,” I said, feeling guilty that I hadn’t come up earlier.

“I did that, too. I found the directions in the bedside drawer of the room Arch and I are in.” Gripping Tom’s tray, he looked all around before whispering, “Both of ’em are set to Arch’s birthday.”

“Thanks, Julian.” Arch had been born on April the fifteenth, a happy respite from thoughts of the Internal Revenue Service. At least, that was the way I had always viewed it:
Joy and Taxes.
Julian showed me the red light on our armed door, and the green-lit keypad beside it.

“One more thing,” Julian warned as we started back down the hall. “Tom wants to start cooking again.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope. He has an idea for a hearty breakfast dish.”

“Good Lord.”

“Well, at least that means his mind is geting hungry, even if his body hasn’t caught up. He says he’s going to start tomorrow. He wants to get on with his life.”

I rolled my eyes. “Did you tell him your girlfriend story?”

“Nah. Didn’t seem right—trying to get the truth out of a cop who’s confined to bed because he’s been shot.”

After a few moments, we banged back into the kitchen, where—miraculously—the window had stayed closed. I showed Julian the beginnings of the soup and
the shortbreads, and told him about the now-thickened fudgy chocolate cookie dough. When I pulled out the shortbreads, Julian dug into Sukie’s perfectly organized kitchen-equipment drawer, extracted an ice-cream scoop, and offered to make the chocolate cookies.