Sticks & Scones

Julian surreptitiously rolled his eyes, then offered to clear the table and return with dessert and coffee. I nodded and thanked him. Eliot tapped Michaela to play the first game of shuttlecock as teammate to Arch, with Eliot and Sukie for opponents. Tom kept score, and I straightened up the table while cheering for both teams.

When the score was nine to nine, a cold sweat rolled over me. Had I really detected movement in the shadows of the postern-gate corner? Without warning, a shift in the flickering light revealed-what was it? A miniature knight, dressed in plate armor? Watching the game?

“Agh!” I yelled, pointing at the corner. “What the hell is that?”

The badminton game ceased. Eliot, Sukie, Michaela, and Arch gaped at me. I looked at them, then squinted at the corner, now suddenly empty. I sprinted over to where the two walls met, only to find no statue, no movement, no miniature knight. I tore open the door that led to the postern gate. The tower was icy cold and deserted. Disappointed, I slammed back inside.

“Miss G.?” Tom’s voice was full of concern.

“Sorry, everybody. I thought I saw something … .” I felt acutely embarrassed. I really did seem to be losing my mind. Except Tom had had a similar vision/hallucination/whatever. What was going on?

Sukie shot Eliot a stern look and murmured that sometimes it was better not to share the legends of the castle with guests. Eliot tossed his hair off his forehead and replied that he hadn’t told me any ghost stories. But I noticed that his eyes had become anxious. Tom tilted his head at me: Did my Tale of Law Enforcement scare you? I shook my head, as in, It’s okay.

“Let’s do the fencing demonstration,” Michaela interjected, and I was thankful for the change in subject. The last thing a caterer wants to make is a gaffe, especially when the guests then proceed to discuss it for the rest of the evening.

Michaela and Arch took swords and masks from a bag stored under the buffet table. While Arch rolled out a mat, I kept an eye on the dark corner. So, I noticed, did Sukie. Tom, meanwhile, engaged Eliot in a spirited discussion of the escalating prices of antique furniture. But I couldn’t help noticing that Eliot’s gaze also kept straying to the shadows through which I’d seen the armored figure glide.

“This is an épée,” Michaela announced in her gravelly voice, commanding our immediate attention. “With the foil, which Arch and I usually use in practice, one may score a point by a touch on the upper torso. With the épée, touches anywhere on the body count. Arch, come here, please.” My son dutifully hopped up from the mat and strode over.

“The first thing we teach,” Michaela said, pointing to Arch’s feet, “is how to advance and retreat. Okay, Arch.” My son obliged by stepping deftly forward and back. Michaela continued: “The front arm and hand holding the weapon are parallel to the ground.”

At this she handed Arch an épée, which he brandished: in showmanlike fashion, Tom grinned.

“The back arm,” Michaela went on, “is crooked up at the elbow, hand facing the sky, for balance, until someone attacks, and lunges. Go ahead.”

Arch lunged. As he straightened his back leg and arm, he thrust the sword forward, It gleamed dangerously in the light from the chandelier. My son, the swashbuckler.

Michaela picked up a weapon. “The final skill we teach newcomers is parry, riposte. Your opponent attacks. You slap his sword aside, then counterattack.” She lowered the mask over her face. “En garde, Arch.”

Michaela and Arch touched their swords to their masks in formal greeting. And then they went at it, back and forth across the mat, moving with remarkable swiftness and an impressive snapping of swords. Clink, clink, swoosh, clink. I found myself growing more nervous with every flourish. I didn’t know if Michaela was letting Arch win, or making a good show. Arch scored a hit. Both took off their masks, bowed deeply to each other, then to us.

We all clapped enthusiastically. All of us, that is, except Eliot, who appeared increasingly anxious. As if on cue, Julian entered with a tray. He had shortbread cookies, ice cream, and frosting-slathered Chocolate Emergency Cookies, plus an insulated coffeepot and cream and sugar containers.

“And now,” Michaela said, “we will - “

Somewhat rudely, I thought, Eliot interrupted her with, “Great! Come on everybody, time for our sweets!” Tom and Sukie attempted halfhearted applause for the fencers.

Downcast, clutching his weapon, Arch raised his eyes to me for a cue. I gave a tiny shrug. Michaela murmured to him that the demo was over, and would he please roll up the mat.

With exclamations of pleasure, Eliot and Sukie received demitasse cups of coffee and crystal bowls of ice cream, with cookies perched on the scoops. Ignoring Michaela and Arch, Eliot resumed his somewhat shrill monologue on the exorbitant prices of antiques. Julian, his intuition alerting him that something had run amuck, appeared at my side.

“What’s going on?” he murmured.

“I thought I saw a ghost, and now Eliot’s acting a little uptight,” I said under my breath.

“Oh, is that all?”

“Julian, I saw something. So did Tom, when he woke up today. So either there is a ghost here, my husband and I are both having hallucinations, or a kid or midget or something is romping through the castle, wearing knight’s armor.”

“If it’s a girl in her late teens, tell her I’m available.”

“Julian!”

“Early twenties would be okay.” He scanned the Great Hall. Eliot and Sukie called their thanks to us and waved good night. Standing not far from us, Arch looked crestfallen.

“Jeez, Goldy, Arch looks like a friend just died,” Julian commented, concerned.

“He was enjoying being the center of attention for once - “

“Mom!” Arch appeared by my elbow and I yelped. It was his silent disappearing-reappearing act, learned in his eleventh and twelfth years, otherwise known as his magic-trick phase. I didn’t like it any more now than I had then.

“Michaela wants you and Tom and me to come over and see the fencing loft,” my son said eagerly. “And Julian, too, if he’d like to. We can finish our demonstration over there, if everybody still wants …”

“Oh, no, thanks,” Tom said. His face was haggard, and I knew the evening had worn him out more than he was willing to admit. “I’m going to turn in, if that’s all right.”

“Mom?” asked Arch, his face pleading.

“I have to do the dishes,” I said, with a pang. “Sorry.”

“Forget the dishes,” Julian told me firmly. “Go watch the demonstration. And, hey! I’m getting good at cleaning up. Makes me feel helpful.”

Arch’s expectant look, Julian’s offer, Michaela’s generosity, and, of course, my admonition to Arch not to go anywhere in the castle alone, made me say yes, I’d love to watch the demonstration. But not for long, I told Arch hastily: I still had prep to do on the labyrinth lunch, and he had astronomy homework. Not to mention, I added silently, if there was going to be a ghost-knight flitting around the castle, I wanted to be at my son’s side when the specter made his next appearance.

Toting armloads of fencing equipment, we wended our way through the cold, dimly lit postern gate tower, then down a drab hall to a set of steps leading to the first floor.

“How come part of the inhabited section of the castle is downstairs,” I asked Michaela, “and part is up?”

“In Eliot’s grandfather’s time,” she replied, “two of the castle’s original four stories were what their family and our family lived in and used. Then when the flood of ‘82 came, Eliot had to make some decisions. The wall of water blasted down Fox Creek, broke the dam, and flooded the basement and first-floor rooms on the west range. Eliot wanted the study redone, because of the beautiful old fireplace in there, and his and Sukie’s bedroom. Chardé has worked hard on the place.” She shook her head. “But, whoa, did we all get tired of her, begging to refurbish the rest of the flood-damaged rooms, telling Eliot that he’d look cheap if he didn’t spend more money getting everything redecorated. That woman’s a money-grubber if I ever saw one.”

Don’thold back on your feelings, I thought as we tramped past the entry to the indoor pool, the door to Eliot’s study, and then through the glass doors marked UNDER CONSTRUCTION - NO ADMITTANCE. The Wet Paint sign was gone. The splattered paint, however, was still allover the place, and the new padlock was securely fastened.

“Was Chardé working over here?” I asked casually, trying to disguise my interest. I couldn’t exactly admit to breaking into a playroom.

“I hope not,” said Michaela. “We try to keep that woman as contained as possible. Or at least, I do,” she added with a sourness that was impossible to miss.

I stopped in front of the playroom and tilted my head at the door. “What’s in here?”

“It used to be old living quarters,” said Michaela with a smile. “But we’re having them fixed up. Without Chardé, hopefully. Let’s go.”

To my surprise, Michaela did not live on the ground floor of the north range-the castle front - but through a door and up another set of stairs to the second story. At the top of the steps, she slipped a brass key from under a plastic welcome mat. Interesting to note that while the Hydes were extremely security-conscious, Michaela was not… .

“In the flood of ‘82?” she explained as she fiddled with the lock. “The west side of the north range’s first story was also completely flooded. This side of the gatehouse has been our living quarters since my grandfather’s time.” She sighed and pushed open the door. “We lost boxes of books and letters that I had stored in closets. Our family used to have the two stories, but now my whole operation is upstairs. Downstairs is more storage area.”

Inside her door, Michaela flipped on lights that illuminated a golden-oak floor, a narrow, white-painted room lined with racks of swords, and a higgledy-piggledy arrangement of mats and open folding chairs. At first I thought we were in a gym of some kind, but I realized belatedly that this was the Kirovsky fencing loft, where Eliot’s father and grandfather had learned the Royal Sport from Michaela’s forebears.

“This is so cool,” said Arch, entranced.

“This is where I’ve been coaching Howie Lauderdale and a few other juniors and seniors before the state meet. Elk Park Prep doesn’t want us in the gym late at night or early in the morning, so we sometimes have to meet here. When you’re a member of the varsity, Arch, this is where I’ll coach you, too.”

“Great,” said my son, trying in vain to suppress a smile. When you’re a member of the varsity. To my son, those were magical words.

“Come into the rest of the apartment,” Michaela told, us. “It’s set up like railroad cars, one room after the other. Loft, living room, kitchenette. The loft takes up so much space that we didn’t have much left for family quarters, upstairs. But it’s enough for me. Come on, I want you to see my collection.”

The living room, a spare, austere arrangement of old - not antique - furniture, consisted of a couch and one chair. A threadbare green rug lay on the floor. There was no coffee table, only two mismatched end tables. But brightly colored crocheted afghans and an assortment of garage-sale pillows gave the room a comfortable feel.

The walls immediately captured my attention. I slid beside the fraying couch and stared at row after row of cheaply framed photos, hundreds of them, all cut from magazines. Every one seemed to be of armor, castles, and the crowned heads of Europe. A magazine copy of a portrait of Queen Elizabeth I, her red hair swept up above her wide, white ruff, was hung next to a photograph of a: youthful Prince Charles. There were dozens of photographs of stodgy-looking Queen Victoria, sometimes alone, sometimes with Prince Albert. Nicholas and Alexandra had a row all to themselves. This wasn’t really a collection: It was more like the room of a passionate Royal-watcher.

“What started all this?” I asked.

“Family tradition,” Michaela answered. “We were living in a castle, so when I was a kid I wondered about the people who lived in castles.”

“Did you take all this over to Furman County Elementary?” Arch demanded. “I mean, for Show and Tell, when you were little?”

Michaela laughed and shook her head. “I was home-schooled before it was fashionable, Arch. Then went to community college as a commuter student. But the kings and queens have always remained my friends, and the collection has grown over the years. I have a passion for any royal portrait.”

Ah, God, I thought. On stamps, too? No, I decided in the same moment. No way. Michaela had no connection to Ray Wolff and Andy Balachek, except that she’d known Andy when he was little. She’d loved him, and truly deplored his descent into the gambling lifestyle. Plus, a woman who’d never ventured farther than the nearby community college, and had always and only known caretaking at the castle, wouldn’t take a flyer on a risky hijacking venture, would she?

“Got any more?” Arch asked eagerly.

A wall devoted to French royalty, Michaela announced, was actually the bottom of her Murphy bed. When she folded it down, there wasn’t much room in the place, she added, so she’d spare us the sight. Each night, she announced with a hint of naughtiness, it helped her to know she was sleeping on Louis XIV.

“Okay, enough of my nutty hobby. I make great hot chocolate,” she said to Arch. “Or tea or instant coffee or even instant hot spiced cider, if you’re interested,” she told me. I said that hot spiced cider sounded terrific, and followed her into the tiny kitchenette. The cramped space had a stone floor, a small set of cupboards, and a narrow counter crowded with a hot plate, an ancient electric vat coffeepot - the same kind I used for catered events - and a cookie jar in the shape of the Kremlin. Inside the jar were Russian tea cakes. Michaela pulled the vat lever for hot water that made Arch’s cocoa and my cider, along with some tea for herself. I burned my tongue sipping the steaming cider, but it cleared my head.

Soon we were seated in the royal-photos living room, munching rich, buttery tea cakes while savoring our hot drinks. That’s the thing about a big dinner; you eat it and then half an hour later you’re wishing for a snack. I tried not to notice the grandmotherly eyes of Queen Victoria, or how that plump countenance seemed to watch my every bite. Arch and Michaela chatted happily. She really was wonderful with kids. Why, though, given her apparent animosity for Eliot and this crummy apartment, would she stay in the castle? Did Elk Park Prep pay their coaches so badly that she couldn’t afford a place of her own? Or did she stay because of the gorgeous fencing loft?

“How about that dueling demonstration?” I suggested.

Arch and Michaela grinned, set aside their plates, and stood. While Arch donned his mask, Michaela explained, “In 1547, two French noblemen fought the first private duel of honor. François de Vivonne, seigneur de La Châtaigneraie, insulted Guy Chabot, Baron de Jarnac, by publicly accusing de Jarnac of having sex with his own motherin-law. De Jarnac immediately challenged Châtaigneraie to a duel, which was viewed by the French king, Henry the Second, and hundreds of courtiers.” She stopped to put on her mask. “En garde, Arch.”

Again the two of them went back and forth, grunting, thrusting, parrying, and offering aggressive ripostes. They seemed entirely focused on their match. When Arch scored a hit just below Michaela’s shoulder, she laughed out loud and asked him to stop for a moment Removing her mask, she told me, “De Jarnac and Châtaigneraie did not solve their conflict so easily. Slowly, now, Arch, lunge and I will parry and riposte. Then stop.”

My son lunged. Michaela’s parry deftly flicked Arch’s sword aside. Then she did a slow-motion riposte onto Arch’s calf. He froze, as instructed.

“De Jarnac,” Michaela said; “instead of going for the heart, cut the major artery in Châtaigneraie’s leg. Then de Jarnac slashed his opponent’s other leg, and demanded that Châtaigneraie withdraw his insult. Châtaigneraie refused and bled to death in front of the king. That was the end of court-sanctioned dueling in France. The leg-attack became known as the ‘Coup de Jarnac.’”

“But you’re not allowed to hit in the leg,” Arch protested as he tugged off his mask. “Except in épée, I guess.”

Michaela laughed, pleased. “You’re right. End of demonstration.” I clapped and thanked them both. She said, “For tomorrow night, Arch, we’ll have Josh and Howie demonstrate épée. Then, if Kirsten’s over her mono, you and she can do foil. She has long arms, which is an advantage. Then we’ll have Chad and Scott do saber - “

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.”

-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 nighttime 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 Tile 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 It 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 I 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.

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 (1/4 stick) unsalted butter 1 medium or large onion, chopped 1 medium carrot, chopped 2 cloves garlic, pressed and minced 2 tablespoons minced fresh parsley 6 tablespoons all-purpose flour ˝ teaspoon crumbled dried thyme ˝ teaspoon crumbled dried oregano ˝ teaspoon crumbled dried sage 1 ˝ teaspoons salt ź teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 2 1/2 pounds beef tenderloin, trimmed, cut into 1 1/2-inch cubes (You should have 2 pounds of trimmed, cubed beef) 1/4 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 x l2-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 I 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:

1 1/4 cups all-purpose flour ˝ teaspoon salt 6 tablespoons (3/4 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 into the 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.

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

“Enter the one-armed breakfast chef,” he announced jovially. He wore dark chef pants - a gift from Julian - and a buttoned white Broncos shin. “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.

Huevos Palacios

1 cup Boulder Chili (recipe follows) 4 large eggs ź cup whipping cream ˝ teaspoon salt ź teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 2 tablespoons (1/4 stick) unsalted butter ˝ 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. Cook over low heat until the edges begin to congeal. With a heatproof rubber spatula, gently push the edges of cooked egg into the center of the pan, using a minimum number of strokes. Tilt the pan so that the uncooked portion of egg flows out into the bottom of the pan, making an almost-even overall layer of egg. Preheat the broiler. Mix the sour cream with the grated Cheddar and set aside. When the eggs are about halfway done (i.e., when they are about half liquid and half solid), spoon on the chili in 3 spoke-like lines that bisect the eggs to make 6 equal sections. (The eggs will look like a pie.) Scatter the chopped tomato and scallions between the lines of chili. Carefully spoon the sour cream-cheese mixture on top of the chili spokes. Do not worry if some spreads off the chili. Place the pan 6 inches from the hot broiler and broil, watching carefully, between 5 and 7 minutes, or until the eggs are done and the cheese has melted and puffed slightly. Serve immediately.

Makes 4 large servings

Boulder Chili:

1 ˝ pounds lean ground beef 1 large onion, chopped 2 large or 3 small cloves garlic, pressed 5 tablespoons tomato paste 1 tablespoon prepared powdered chile mix (recommended brand: Fernandez) 1 tablespoon Dijon mustard 1 ˝ teaspoons salt 1 cup plum tomatoes, chopped (about a 14 1/2-ounce can) 1 tablespoon Italian herb seasoning 1 15-oz. can chili beans in chili gravy, undrained 2 to 4 tablespoons water 2 tablespoons red burgundy wine

Sauté the beef, onion, and garlic over medium heat until the beef is just browned and the onion and garlic are tender. Turn the heat down to low and add the tomato paste, chile mix, mustard, salt, tomatoes, herb seasoning, and beans. Pour 2 tablespoons water and the wine into the chili bean can and scrape down the sides, then pour into the beef mixture. If the mixture is too thick, add the extra water. Heat over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until bubbly.

“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 doesn’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 sheriffs 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.

Last, I put in a quick call to Party Rental to make sure the long-promised dining tables were indeed being delivered that morning. I was told they’d arrive no earlier than eight, no later than eight-fifteen. Sweetly, I asked: If the tables weren’t there by eight-thirty, would they give me a refund, so I could call another company? The guy hung up on me.

It was going to be one of those days.

-22-

As Julian and I packed up our equipment, the president of Saint Luke’s Episcopal Church Women phoned. She said the church-owned plates, glasses, and silverware would be delivered to Hyde Chapel at nine-thirty, and would somebody besides the police be there to receive them? I assured her of our catering team’s presence.

I sighed. The tables, the dinnerware, our equipment, the set-up, the food, the cops. Maybe the first thing I should do at Hyde Chapel was pray. Dear God, my mind supplied, can You please get me through this lunch? Thanks.

Outside, the ground boasted five inches of new snow, which formed a thick, sugary crust on the rocks surrounding the moat. Chickadees fluttered up and down ladders of pine branches and spilled showers of flakes. Everything was silent; the glittering blanket of snow seemed to muffle all sound. Instead of enjoying the winter splendor, though, I worried what the new white stuff would do to our lunch attendance. Eliot, now dressed in Gatsby-esque tweeds, vest, and white satin scarf, insisted on driving ahead of us in his Jaguar. When we arrived ten minutes later in Hyde Chapel’s parking lot, two sheriff’s department cars were sending plumes of exhaust into the icy air. One of the deputies talked to Eliot for a few minutes, after which Eliot, his countenance subdued, trudged over and said he’d open up the chapel.

I’d been in Hyde Chapel for christenings and weddings. But I had not seen it since the money from Henry VIII’s letter had allowed for a complete refurbishment. The stone walls had been cleaned to a sparkling silver. The multicolored slate floor tiles set off the flat marble stones of the labyrinth’s winding path, which gave the floor an eerie, pure-white patterned centerpiece. Most spectacular were the stained-glass windows. When the just-risen sun shone through them, the effect was like being inside a lighted jewelry box. The ambience was serene, until honking erupted from the parking lot.

“Hey, boss?” asked Julian as he stuck his head outside the carved wooden doors. “The tables are here!” he called. “Where do you want ‘em?”

“I’ll show them, thanks.”

While Eliot and I directed Party Rental, Julian placed champagne bottles in tubs he filled with ice, then ferried in wrapped trays of hors d’oeuvres. Things were going well until he brought out the electrified hot platters: Their cords refused to stretch to the outlets in the stone wall. Looking on, Eliot had become agitated at the prospect of the table people scratching his precious slate floors. Promising to oversee the last table setup, he pointed toward the left side of the chapel and told me there were more extension cords in the storage area.

I skirted the labyrinth and hustled to an unmarked door, which opened into an enormous storeroom that smelled of Sukie’s favorite antiseptic cleaner. Flipping on the light revealed yet more evidence of la Suisse at work: Paint, glass cleaner, wood polish, tools, brushes, a ladder, and every other imaginable odd and end was laid out on shelves - alphabetically. The fancy folding wooden chairs Eliot had bought were stacked along one wall. I found Extension Cords after Choir Cushions and before Fans, then zipped back to the newly opened tables.

After seeing Party Rental off, Eliot had set up the space heaters and serving tables. Now he was busy with his slide machine and screen. He helped me unwind the cords to the outlets, at which point Julian and I plugged everything in. Mercifully, no fuses blew. We then taped down all the cords, a trick to keep even the most inebriated guest from tripping and doing a face-plant on the floor. We were so busy we didn’t hear two women banging on the wooden doors to be let in. They were emissaries from the Episcopal Church Women, there to set the tables. When they finished and I let them out, I was the one .Who reclosed the door. I was sure of this, just as I was sure Eliot had told me we had the only key to the chapel, retrieved from the lockbox outside. So… when Buddy and Chardé Lauderdale slithered unannounced and unadmitted into the chapel at ten after nine, I was more than a bit surprised.

“What are you two doing here?” I demanded.

Startled, Chardé dropped her lemon-colored Chanel purse, which matched a lemon-colored wool pantsuit and lemon beret set at a jaunty slant on her dark hair. When life hands you a lemon… you get Chardé. Buddy, ever the casual type, had his hands thrust into wool khaki pants beneath a black turtleneck shirt, an outfit meant to make him look attractive and powerful, and which succeeded in neither. “How did you get in?” I snapped.

“Eliot?” Chardé called sweetly, ignoring me.

Buddy, meanwhile, glanced nervously around the chapel, obviously ill at ease. I knew he and Chardé had donated five thou to the labyrinth, but that he only came to church at Christmas. He was breathing deeply, and his face was pinched with the guilty expression of a holiday-only churchman. If he hyperventilated, I wondered, would I feel compelled to ca11 911?

“Chardé, darling!” crowed Eliot, striding forward. “Come to check that we’re using your beautiful cushions on our chairs? Of course we are!”

They smooched like old pals and began to murmur. With an air of concentration, Buddy made a shuffling circuit of the chapel. If I stay near the edge, I’m not really here. Meanwhile, I arranged the cups and helped Julian bring the first stack of wooden chairs out of the storage room. We were about to go back for more when the door to the chapel opened again. In walked John Richard Korman, with Viv Martini in tow.

What was this - Open House? I cursed myself for being so surprised by the Lauderdales that I’d neglected to check the chapel doors.

John Richard and Viv, dressed head to toe in black, looked like a couple of undertakers. Then again, maybe they were aiming for that chic eighties rock-star look. Eliot, who was still engaged in intimate conversation with Chardé, glanced up abruptly. His face registered shock, then a deep blush. Now that’s a new look for the king, I mused, intrigued.

“Well, Eliot,” said Viv in a mock-accusing tone. “Imagine seeing you here. And with a cute decorator, no less.”

“It is, uh, my family’s chapel,” Eliot began, but Viv only tilted up her pointed little chin and blew him a kiss. His face went from a patchy scarlet to an even crimson. I actually felt sorry for him.

“And Buddy,” Viv went on, still the charmer. “Hey, Viv,” Buddy replied, his voice low and sexy.

Had Viv slept with every rich older guy in the county? Would John Richard mind being classified as a rich older guy? Ha.

Before I could ask my ex-husband if he remembered the restraining order, he strode across the space between us and wagged a finger in my face.

“I don’t want to hear any crap from you, understand? Arch said you were going to be against it, so I’m warning you now.” His blue eyes blazed in his handsome face. “Viv and I are coming to the fencing banquet. Whether you like it or not. Got it? So don’t give me any of this restraining-order crap. It’s for Arch, and you should recognize he wants me there.”

“Cocky when the cops aren’t around, eh?” I shot back. “Hey, Viv! You don’t know what you’re in for!”

Viv shook her pale hair, which stuck out at every possible angle. “I love what I’m in for!” she proclaimed, as she sashayed closer to the Jerk. Standing behind him, she opened her black leather jacket - Is size carrying, I wondered? How do you slide a gun into pants that tight? She cocked one elbow and used the other hand to pat John Richard’s behind. Her clear voice crooned, “We’re not going to cause any trouble, are we, honey? If my guy here gets out of line, I’ll use force.”

When John Richard blushed, I burst out laughing. “Promise?” I asked.

“Promise,” she replied in a deep, throaty voice that sent shivers down my spine. Well, she was John Richard’s choice. Or vice versa, if she was just using him as a rich-old-fart conquest. Wouldn’t I love to see that? Maybe not, if this blond bombshell ended up taking money designated for Arch. Viv snaked an arm around John Richard’s waist and tilted her head to murmur in his ear. Ever done it in a chapel? Or something like that, because John Richard let out a surprised grunt. I longed to ask my ex-husband if Viv was the type of gal recommended in your average male-menopause support group, but for once I kept mum. I had work to do.

“If there’s nothing further - ” I began.

“So do we understand each other?” the Jerk said to me. I think he wanted to shake his finger in my face again, but Viv had him entwined. Instead, I walked quietly toward him and pointed a finger less than an inch from his aristocratic nose.

“Split. Now. You understand? I heard you. Remember General Farquhar, who could kill people without making any noise? I make a ton of noise. Now, buzz off before the nice neighbors have to hear it.”

“Now, now, Goldy,” Viv said, her voice conciliatory. “Let’s not make threats we can’t back up.” She gave me a knowing look. “I make a ton of noise, too, don’t I, baby? Let’s go.”

John Richard pressed his lips together and swallowed. Come to think of it, he did look kind of tired, especially in his noir outfit. Buddy and Eliot stood aghast: Were we actually hooked up with this woman? How’d we survive? Chardé seized the opportunity of this dramatic tableau to stride toward me: Lemon in Motion.

“We’re coming to the fencing banquet, too,” she declared, her pert nose in the air. I prayed that the yellow beret would plop to the floor, but it didn’t slip. “We eat no undercooked meat, no raw eggs, and no sugar in any form. And by the way, our son Howie is lactose-intolerant. You probably don’t remember any of this from when you catered for us. You were too busy being nosy, isn’t that right?”

“I - “

“Howie likes lime sorbet. No dairy. Got it?” Chardé said.

“Okay!” Julian bellowed, extending his arms. “That’s it! Everybody out! Out! You, you, you, and you!” he snarled, pointing to the Jerk, Viv, Buddy, and Chardé. “We cannot work for our clients with you here. Leave.”

“We are your clients,” chimed in Buddy Lauderdale, with that nasal arrogance I knew only too well.

“Then please come back at lunchtime,” Julian said firmly. No question, the kid had it all ver yours truly in the assertiveness department.

Eliot made soft cooing noises that were meant to reassure his good chums, the Lauderdales. The Jerk and Viv banged out through the chapel door. When Eliot and the Lauderdales also departed, I slumped down in one of the wooden chairs. Julian made sure the doors were firmly shut and locked. He called to us that there was also an inside bolt, and he was throwing it until lunchtime.

“I’m not sure I can make it through this day,” I moaned when he returned.

“Sure you can. There’ll be new deep-pocket folks here who’ll love your food. They will line up to book you for their next catered event.”

He made me laugh. I was about to tell him how proud I was of him when thunderous pounding interrupted us yet again. This time, I unbolted the door and opened it myself. It was the baker’s assistant, come to set up the labyrinth cake. It looked scrumptious, a huge fudge-frosted round cake with white-iced loops reflecting the intricate pattern on the chapel floor.

“Ibrought you something,” Julian said, when I had firmly locked up behind the baker’s assistant. He was holding an upscale shopping bag. “Chocolate Emergency cookies, remember? I figure we’re in one now.” He drew out a wrapped packet and a small hot-drink container. “I even brought you an espresso.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Julian.” I bit into the cookie. Dark fudgy flavor exploded in my mouth and a burst of chocolate euphoria sparked up my spine. The cookies were chewy without being too sweet, with the smooth, buttery vanilla icing a perfect complement to the rich chocolate. A heartswig of the espresso sent all worries about the Lauderdales, the Jerk, and Viv down Cottonwood Creek.

For the nonce, anyway.

Two hours later I was letting the mood fit the food by being upbeat while serving trays of mail-order English cheese puffs, onion toasts, and caviar with toast points. The big donors, a handful of vestry members, and a few Episcopal Church Women, along with our parish priest, were all chugging champagne while gushing that Eliot had been so generous to donate the chapel to Saint Luke’s. The Lauderdales had snubbed me, of course, and recommended that others do so as well, Marla reported. Meanwhile, Marla announced that she didn’t understand why she’d given so much money to the labyrinth, when walking it was going to be so confusing after all this champagne.

While Julian served the soup, I hustled up to the castle and put in the Shakespeare’s Steak Pies. The Lauderdales were bad-mouthing me? Those creeps! “Anger’s my meat,” I whispered, congratulating myself on remembering something from Coriolanus. What was the rest of it? Oh, yes. Anger’s my meat: I sup upon myself / And so shall starve with feeding. So there! One more word from the Lauderdales and they’d be supping on raw hamburger with manchet bread. New play from the Bard: MacDEATH.

After we set out the pies, salad, and bread, the guests happily moved through the buffet line. Julian bustled about, teased by his Aunt Marla and admired by the women. As far from the buffet tables as possible, the Lauderdales had seated themselves with Sukie, Eliot, and another couple from the church. Buddy and Chardé were working hard to appear deep in intellectual conversation. I, of course, was not fooled.

At length, Eliot dimmed the chandeliers and began his talk. He clicked on a slide of the Chartres labyrinth, and offered the same historical and architectural background I’d heard on the audiotape. While he was showing Before and After slides of the chapel restoration, Marla sneaked up to my side.

“No more on the Jerk’s real estate deal, sorry to report,” she whispered, with one eye on the cake table.

“The lunch was scrumptious. The only historic food I have is in my refrigerator!”

“Thanks. And thanks for checking on the town-house deal. I still think John Richard’s up to something.”

“He’s always up to something.” Then she hustled off toward the untouched cake that the guests were going to have after the slide show.

“Please, sir,” Marla whispered to Julian, “may I have some more? Or just a nibble, anyway?” Before I could protest, Julian had carved an enormous piece of cake, heaped it on a plate, and handed it to her.

“Call it reverse nepotism, Goldy,” she stage-whispered, fingering up a dollop of icing. Heads turned and I sighed.

Eliot had moved on to Before and After shots of the renovation of his castle. He ended with effusive thanks to the donors, and an invitation to have cake and to book their conferences into the castle next year. Then he invited them to quiet their souls and walk the labyrinth to arrive at their spiritual truth.

If the clapping from twenty-six people wasn’t thunderous, it was at least enthusiastic. Julian and I served cake and coffee, which I hoped would tame any aftereffects of champagne. When they finished their dessert, the guests began to process single-file through the labyrinth.

An eerie silence fell over the chapel as the silent parade went back and forth over the stones, all the way to the end. The few people who spoke as they were leaving did so in hushed tones. By two o’clock, the crowd had dispersed. Wow, I thought. Next time I felt uptight, I would give the labyrinth a try.

The churchwomen gathered up their plates, silver, and glasses, to trek them back to the Saint Luke’s kitchen for washing. Eliot and Julian broke down the Hydes’ serving tables and chairs, and hauled them back to the storage area. Then Julian and I folded up the rented dining tables and left them in the gravel parking lot under a tarpaulin. Party Rental would return before four to pick them up. Sukie and Eliot conveyed their video equipment back to the castle. I emphatically told Julian that he was going to take the rest of the afternoon off. He’d earned it, I insisted.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he said, scanning the chapel interior, which still contained remnants of the party. “And what are you going to do if the Lauderdales show up again?”

“I’ll throw the bolt while I’m finishing up,” I said diffidently. “And I’ll park the van right next to the door.”

“Tell you what, boss, I’ll take the ice tubs, the chafers, and the last of the serving dishes. If you want, you can bring the platters and trash.”

“I’ll be okay.” I strode to the door and pointed to the dead bolt. “Chardé and Buddy, even Viv, might all have keys. My mistake was in trusting Eliot’s memory that we were the only ones who had one.”

“That guy’s nice,” Julian commented, “but he’s a birdbrain, for sure.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Julian still looked unconvinced. “All right, listen. I’ll take my load up while you finish here. You’re not back at the castle in an hour and a half, I’m coming back.”

I agreed. It would not take me more than twenty minutes to load the platters, then pack the trash and toss it into the castle Dumpster, located on the far side of the moat by a service road. Each time Julian overestimated how long I needed to do a chore, I accused him of treating me as if I were old and decrepit. He never denied it, drat him.

I bolted the door and reflected on what I had not told Julian: that I wanted to have a good look at the chapel myself, as it was awfully close to the crime scene created by Andy’s body and Tom’s being shot. First I applied myself to finishing the cleanup, which took seventeen minutes. I scrutinized the interior space to make sure we had not forgotten anything. The chapel looked spanking clean. Even with Marla’s premature dive into the cake, the luncheon had been a success, and I was thankful.

At that moment I felt as if the shiny stones of the labyrinth were beckoning to me. Pink light from the rose window skipped across the marble, and my skin prickled. What had Eliot said? You walk the labyrinth to arrive at your spiritual truth. I hadn’t been doing too well in the truth department lately, so why not try it before I snooped around?

My mind dredged up a bit of Scripture: I still my soul and make it quiet, / like a child upon its mothers breast; / my soul is quieted within me.

After a few moments, I moved forward, feeling strangely hesitant. As I walked, concentrating on the tortuous path seemed to clear my mind of the questions currently plaguing me - who’d killed Andy and why, who’d shot Tom and why, who’d shot at our window and why, and who’d killed Mo Hartfield after he’d inexplicably stolen our computers. As I put one foot in front of the other, I felt a calming presence. I was moving forward - either into or away from my life, I couldn’t tell which.

Finally I arrived at the labyrinth’s center. I could have sworn I heard my heart beating. Gazing back at the swirls and turns of the flat marble stones, I felt serenity - for the first time in a week. Outside, the sun emerged from behind a cloud and splattered pink light over the path. Eliot’s audiotape as well as his lecture had detailed the mystical significance of distances at Chartres. From the center of the labyrinth to the base of the portal was the same distance as from the base of the portal to the center of the rose window. I looked up at the rosy pattern of stained glass.

Now there was a surprise. Instead of Sukie-inspired cleanliness on the multicolored sections of glass, the center of the rose window looked as if someone had left a blotch of dirt… .

At the center you will find God, the tape had said. Maybe what was up there wasn’t dirt. Maybe someone: who knew the symbolism of the labyrinth had put something else there, something important. Or maybe my paranoia was kicking in again.

I checked my watch. I had thirty minutes before Julian would start to worry. Undoubtedly breaking all rules of labyrinth-walking, I sprinted across the tiles to the storage room and hauled out the ladder. It was one of those extension affairs that creak horribly and feel rickety as the devil. Nevertheless, after five minutes of struggling, I wrestled the thing open and laid the top just above the center of the rose window. I took a deep breath and started climbing.

Outside, the wind whipped around the chapel walls. As I ascended, I could hear the cold air whistling through tiny cracks in the glass. Finally I reached the fourth rung from the top. I peered into the center of the rose window, which was actually a pocket of pink glass soldered inside a metal circle. What I saw there didn’t make sense. I was looking at - torn tape, paper, and plastic.

I reached in and gently tried to remove the paper and tape. It was not easy. The paper had become wedged underneath the soldering, and all my attempts to scoot it out were unsuccessful. At length, I had the bright idea to reach into the adjoining pocket of enclosed yellow glass and coax the paper the other way. Ten minutes of scraping and pushing later, the scrap of paper slipped free.

I examined it, hoping against hope that it wasn’t just an invoice from Bill’s Stained-Glass Repairs, left as a joke.

What I held in my hands was not a bill. It was the torn half of an envelope. I reached into the envelope and pulled out a small, plastic case. Inside the clear envelope was a stamp. I gasped and grabbed the rung to keep from toppling off the ladder.

The color: red-orange. The printing around the sides: One Penny, Post Office, Postage, Mauritius. And in the center, the profile of a woman: Chubby cheeks. Severe hair. Grandmotherly eyes.

Queen Victoria.

-23-

I hastily tucked the paper envelope with the plastic case and its eight-hundred-thousand-dollar stamp deep in my apron pocket. After a few heart-stopping teeters on the ladder, I finally reached the bottom, rattled the ladder down, and scooted it back to the storeroom. Then I pulled out the envelope and dropped it into a clean brown paper bag - Tom had taught me a thing or two, such as, try not to muck up evidence - before serenely transporting it out to the van along with the trash.

No one was in the Hyde Chapel lot, but I tried to act normal anyway, just in case I was being watched from somewhere, anywhere. I relocked the chapel, deposited the key in the lockbox, and revved my van up the service road, to the edge of the moat, by the castle Dumpster. I heaved in the lunch trash, hopped back into the driver’s seat, and called Sergeant Boyd on my cellular.

“Part of the loot, eh?” said Boyd, who sounded either amused or skeptical, I couldn’t tell which. “In the middle of a stained-glass window, way up high? Uh-huh.” Skeptical, definitely.

“Listen, would you?” I gulped down the impatience I in my voice, trying to remember Boyd was just doing his I job. “The Lauderdales and John Richard and Viv Manini all came into the chapel this morning right after you guys pulled off your detail. Maybe this is what they were looking for.”

“That’s an awkward place to check, without a bunch of witnesses noticing. You know - how do you disguise the fact you’re pulling out a twenty-foot ladder?”

“Sergeant!”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Stay where you are. I’ll send somebody up to get the evidence from you.”

“I’m not staying on this service road, thanks. I just finished a catering event and I’ve still got to prep for another one tomorrow. Tell your people to meet me at the Aspen Meadow Library in twenty minutes.”

“Gee, Goldy, our homicide guys will gladly work around your catering timetable. Especially since we’re dealing with evidence worth close to a million dollars and connected to three homicides and a cop-shooting.”

“One more thing,” I said, unfazed. “Did your guys find anything in Hyde Chapel, after you took Andy’s body from the creek?”

“Nope, it was clean. In fact, that chapel brought a whole new meaning to the word clean.” He sighed. “I thought you were in a hurry to get to the library.”

I signed off, realized I’d neglected to close the lid on the Dumpster, rushed out and whacked it down, then raced to the library to meet the deputy. A uniformed young man with red hair and a red mustache unceremoniously plucked the bag from my hand and roared away.

I waved at Julian in the castle driveway. He was coming out as I was headed in. He rolled down his window and yelled that I was over my ninety-minute limit.

“I’m just an old lady caterer who can’t move as fast as you young folks!” I hollered back.

“As fast as us young folks?” Julian yelled gleefully. “Check this out!” He clanked the Rover into reverse and backed up the icy driveway. As if that weren’t enough, he then gunned the SUV backward across the causeway, over the moat. I watched from the far side, shaking my head. One error of steering, and Julian would be sleeping with the fishes.

When I caught up with him at the gatehouse, I said, “That’s not a quick path home, Julian, that’s a quick path to drowning.”

He grinned and pressed the buttons for entry to the gatehouse. Once inside, I glanced overhead into the space above the murder holes. No one appeared to be in that empty room next to Michaela’s kitchen. But in the remote event that my paranoia was translating into imagining hidden electronic eavesdropping devices, I decided not to tell Julian about the stamp.

In the kitchen, a note from the Hydes was propped up against the toaster. The luncheon had been fabulous, Sukie wrote, but utterly exhausting. She went on to say that she’d felt so sorry for me, she’d washed all the serving dishes. Now she and Eliot were eating dinner out, and we were to feel free to scrounge whatever we wanted.

“Ah, speaking of going out to dinner, Goldy?” said Julian. “Arch asked me to take him to McDonald’s, after his fencing practice. I know, I know, even the salads aren’t up to your culinary standard. But I figured, what the heck, give the kid a break from the gourmet stuff for one night.”

I smiled, paid Julian for his afternoon of work, and gave him some extra money to treat Arch and himself. Then I asked about Tom.

Julian shrugged. “I don’t know. When I looked in on him, he said he was going to change his own bandage. I have to run to Boulder to get some books before I pick up Arch, so I’m taking off. Why don’t you bring Tom some tea with fixin’s?”

Julian quickstepped away. I looked at my watch: just after three. Tea, goodies, and puzzling over an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar stamp I’d found in Hyde Chapel … was Tom up to it?

Half an hour later, I had baked a fresh batch of steaming scones and set them on a tray next to a plate of dewy butter slices, a jar of Eliot’s chokecherry jelly, and a pot of steeping English Breakfast tea. Making my way up to our room, I noticed that the courtyard looked magical under its fresh blanket of snow. If I lived here, I decided as I disarmed our door, I’d turn it into a school. A cooking school, where we ate our cookies and cakes out in the courtyard, while black-suited butlers served tea and sherry.

“I was just about to ring for all that,” Tom commented as I sashayed in with the tray. He was sitting in one of the wingback chairs doing leg-extension exercises. “I missed you today, Miss G.”

I set the tray down and gave him a careful hug. “Poor Tom. Sorry I had to work. Want to hear about it?”

And so I ran through the whole thing for him, from the early intrusions of Buddy, Chardé, John Richard, and Viv, to discovering the stamp from Mauritius in the center of the window. He whistled.

“Tom,” I said when I’d finished, “I think all the stamps might have been there. They were all in the chapel. Then they were moved. By someone in a hurry.”

“Or by someone who didn’t know he’d left one behind.” He gazed into the cold fireplace. “The chapel has that big storeroom. If you were a crook trying to hide something in the chapel, why not put it in the storeroom? Especially since Ray Wolff was arrested while scoping out a storage area?”

“Because it’s too obvious?” I replied. “There’s something we’re missing.” I followed his line of sight to the hearth. “I keep thinking about Andy. Did he find the stamps after they were stolen and hidden away? He indicated to you that he knew where they were, so what’s the deal? How was he electrocuted? If he was shot in the chapel, why couldn’t the sheriff’s department find any evidence there? The stamps were in the chapel, and he was dumped in the creek by the chapel. But the crime scene itself was clean.” I paused, baffled. “I just don’t get it.”

“Here’s one more thing,” Tom commented. “The ballistics report came in on the bullet they took out of me. It came from the same gun that killed Andy and Mo Hartfield. The bullet that shattered our window came from a different gun. No match.”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Would anything in this case ever add up?

Tom surveyed the tea detritus. “Know what? That just felt like an appetizer to me. Let’s go see what we can find in that big kitchen.”

Delighted to see that his appetite was back, I followed him down to the kitchen, where we feasted on leftover meat pie, reheated green beans, manchet bread, and labyrinth cake. Arch and Julian came home, as did Sukie and Eliot. My son joyfully announced that because tomorrow, Friday, was a half school-day, and this Saturday was Valentine’s Day, the teachers were assigning no homework for tonight or the weekend.

“That calls for a toast,” decreed Eliot. “To our successful donor lunch, and to no homework.” He breezed out of the room and returned with a bottle of port.

“I think we have something special in the refrigerator, too,” murmured Sukie. Sukie brought out a chilled bottle of bubbly nonalcoholic cranberry stuff. Arch rewarded her with a murmured thanks and one of his suppressed smiles.

While we were sipping our drinks and nibbling on cake, I guiltily remembered Michaela. Shouldn’t we have invited her to join us?

But when I suggested it, Eliot waved this away. “Sometimes you see Michaela. Usually you don’t.”

Sukie added, “We don’t try to force it.”

I nodded and didn’t pursue the question. I wondered if I’d ever figure out the dynamic between Eliot and Sukie on the one hand, and between Eliot, Sukie, and Michaela on the other. Was she sort of an employee, sort of a tenant, sort of a neighbor, sort of a pain in the behind, or all of the above?

I didn’t know and was too tired to try to find out. We all loaded our dishes into the dishwasher, said good night, and headed our separate ways.

Before we went to bed, Tom told me we should be back in our own house by Sunday. “They put in the glass, finish the cleanup, fix our security system, and we go back.”

“Uh-huh. And what about the person who shot it out?”

“They’re still working on it,” said Tom. His green eyes sought me out. “I’m not feeling up to seeing Sara Beth at the dentist tomorrow.”

“Whatever feels right to you,” I said stiffly, as I snuggled into bed. He told me he loved me and that he hoped I slept well. I guess he wasn’t in the mood for one-armed lovemaking.

I lay there, staring at the dark ceiling, and made a decision. Sara Beth O’Malley may have been expecting Tom. But she was going to get me.

Friday the thirteenth dawned very cold and bright. I moved through my yoga routine while Tom slept. In the kitchen, Michaela and Arch were having miniature sugared doughnuts and tiny cans of a chemical concoction that claimed to be better than chocolate milk.

“Don’t get upset, Mom,” Arch begged as he stuffed a doughnut into his mouth. “Julian let me get these goodies last night. He was up late studying, and said you should wake him when you need help this morning. Otherwise his alarm is set for eleven. Julian is great, man. I can’t remember the last time I had two junk-food meals in a row.”

Michaela’s indulgent smile stopped me from scolding. At least Arch was amusing someone.

When they left at a quarter to eight, I made a swift overview of the fencing-banquet preparation. I’d already baked the plum tarts. The veal had only to be rubbed with oil, garlic, and spices, then roasted just before the banquet. The potato casseroles I could easily put together in the afternoon. That left the molded salad, shrimp curry, and raisin rice. I looked over my recipes. If I moved ahead with the salad and curry sauce, the former could jell while the latter mellowed before the arrival of the shrimp. With any luck, I could finish those dishes and take off for the dentist ahead of schedule.

While the pineapple juice for the gelatin was heating, I sliced bananas and more fat, juicy strawberries - bless Alicia - and reflected on everything I knew about the events of the past week. There were those acts someone - or ones - had committed. Shoot out our window. Kill Andy. Shoot Tom. Steal the computers. Murder the man who steals the computers. Somewhere in there, hide a multimillion-dollar stamp haul in the center of a rose window. Then move the loot. But accidentally leave one behind. The sequence of those acts, I realized, had to be part of the solution to the puzzle.

I wondered about Sara Beth. If jealousy were the motive for all this activity, could you remove shooting out our window and shooting Tom as being related to the stamp theft? If so, then how could you account for those acts being done by two separate guns?

You have to think the way the thief does, Tom was fond of saying. In this case, you had to start with the facts you knew, try to extrapolate the thinking behind them, and from all that, deduce the identity of the thief.

Yeah, sure. My mind was as clear as … well … unmolded salad.

I mixed the gelatin into the boiling juice, added chilled juice, then folded in all the fruits. Unlike my mother’s generation, I never waited before mixing ingredients into gelatin. No one ever seems to notice if the fruits sink or float, do they? Sinking or floating in real life, on the other hand, is another matter.

In an oversize Dutch oven, I gently sautéed chopped apples and onions in melted butter, then stirred in curry powder, flour, and spices. I shelled, deveined, and cooked the shrimp, then dropped the shrimp tails into bubbling chicken stock. Finally I stirred the stock, vermouth, and heavy cream into the sauce. The mixture gave off a divinely pungent scent.

Once the salad molds and shrimp were chilling in the refrigerator, and the curry sauce was cooling, I powered up with a double espresso, two reheated scones, two thick pats of unsalted butter, and generous dollops of blueberry preserves. Yum. Why Arch preferred chalky, store-bought doughnuts to homemade baked goods was one of the mysteries of the ages.

At quarter to nine, I was seated in my van, sipping another double espresso, and eyeing the front of Aspen Meadow’s endodontist office. What I was actually going to say to Sara Beth O’Malley I had not worked out yet. Of course then again, last time, outside my home, she hadn’t allowed me to say much.

Well, what was I going to say? Hey, Sara Beth! Why didn’t you tell anybody you were alive? Why’d you come back to taunt your old fiancé and his family.? Oh, and anonymously donated supplies notwithstanding, why didn’t you go to a dentist closer to home.? Was it because your “supplies” were from a big stamp deal going down here? So you decided to kill two birds with one stone? Or rather; two thieves with one gun?

She came walking up the steps by the dentist’s office as stealthily as a cat, and just as quietly. Had she acquired get-around-in-the-jungle skills? Her eyes scanned the upper lot for Tom. Her distinguished, Jackie Kennedy face and dark hair streaked with gray once again gave me a frisson.

I believed Tom when he said he hadn’t met with Sara Beth - or done worse - in the last month. She was a woman from his past who’d just appeared out of nowhere. What I wasn’t sure of was whether he still loved her. She was certainly one of the most striking women I’d ever seen, especially since in twenty-degree weather she was dressed only in a clingy gray turtleneck and long gray pants. I look fat in gray, and never wear it. Sara Beth didn’t look fat in anything. I sighed, and wondered. The ability to survive cold, the ability to move stealthily. Despite my first impression that she was a nonshooting type, had she also learned the jungle skill of killing a target?

Before I could chicken out, I assumed a friendly demeanor and walked up to her.

“Please don’t run away,” were the first words out of my mouth. “I’m Tom’s wife. Won’t you just talk to me? I’m not going to turn you in. For anything.”

She lifted her chin. She wore no makeup, and looked younger and better for it. Stop it, I scolded myself. In her quiet, rusty-from-disuse English, Sara Beth said, “I am sorry I ever tried to contact Tom.”

“You’ve got a few minutes, right? Please. Just come sit in my van and talk. I need to talk to you about Tom being shot,” I added, studying her face.

She turned so pale I thought she might faint. Startled, she almost lost her balance. When she faltered, I tucked my arm in hers and led her to the van.

Once I’d coaxed her inside, I turned the heat on full blast. She rubbed her hands and shivered.

“I’m Goldy Schulz,” I said.

She gave me a slight smile. “That’s what you said last time. What happened to Tom?”

“Some bad guy shot him Monday morning. He was hit in the shoulder, but he’s mobile and recovering.”

“Was this before or after the window?”

“After. Do you know anything about either shooting?”

Her face darkened and she stared at the windshield. “No. I just came here to get supplies and have my teeth fixed.”

“Here?” I asked calmly. I tried to make my voice soothing, the better to coax out information. “You’ve been away twenty-some years. Why’d you stay in Southeast Asia all that time? Why didn’t you come home to your fiancé?”

“Look, I attempted to let him know I’d survived. Not right away, of course. It was too dangerous. I was afraid of trying to get back.”

“So you became a village doctor?”

“I did it for survival,” she replied. Her face was chiseled into seriousness, and I suddenly imagined interviewing her for some postwar documentary. Sheesh! “Stories came back about Saigon as a madhouse,” she was saying. “People were trying to get out before all hell broke loose. Many of them failed. I’d broken my back when the copter crashed. By the time I recovered, the Americans were long gone. The Vietcong weren’t going to say, ‘You forgot somebody! Come on back and pick her up!’ The village people told me I’d never get out alive.

So I stayed, and worked hard, so the villagers would want me there. So they would keep my secret. They adopted me,” she added, “and I grew to love them. The American government did a terrible thing to that country.”

“Uh, thanks. We figured that out, but only after thousands of our own soldiers died.”

“I tried to communicate with Tom. I just never had any luck. For example, fifteen years ago - “

“Fifteen years ago?”

She ran her fingers through her streaked hair. Her voice had turned calm. She was finally reciting a story she’d prepared for a long time. “Fifteen years ago I gave a letter to Tom to a French agricultural worker who showed up in the village. But the Frenchman died when he stepped on a mine beside the railroad track. After that, I didn’t try to communicate anymore, because I figured it would be too disruptive to Tom’s life. And then I had to pick up some supplies and deal with this tooth problem. Another visitor to the village told us about e-mail, so I… changed my mind and tried that once I got to the States, through a friend’s account.” The face she turned to me seemed profoundly sad. “You always think, or hope, maybe, that people haven’t changed. That somehow you can touch base with your old life. I’m sorry I did.” She hesitated. “I’d still like to see Tom, if he isn’t too badly hurt.”

Not so fast, I thought. I still have a couple of questions. Again, I reminded myself to be sweet and polite. “Do you happen to know anything about stamps? As in, the valuable kind that are so easy to fence overseas? Especially in the Far East?”

“What are you talking about? I told you, I used e-mail.” She gave me a wide-eyed Tom-marrid-a-nut look, then reached for the door handle. “I have to go. If Tom can manage, I’d like him to drive me to the airport at four o’clock this afternoon. The dental pain meds will be wearing off by then, and talking will be a challenge. But I’d like to see him before I go. I’m staying in the Idaho Springs Inn, under the name Sara Brand. If he’s not there, I’ll take the shuttle bus.” She opened the door and swiveled one of her slender legs out of the van.

“Wait,” I said. “Just … tell me, do you still love him? Are you here because you’re trying to steal him back? I have to know.”

She lowered her chin and gave me the full benefit of her intense brown eyes. “We had a good relationship, but it’s been over for a long time. Enjoy what you have, Goldy. He’s a good man.”

Without saying goodbye, she trotted toward the dentist’s office.

Great. Either she was telling the truth, or she was an incredibly good actress. Did I care? I wasn’t sure.

The maxim When you feel really low, focus on the food had always proved useful. This time would be no exception. I torqued the van out of the lot and drove to the grocery store, where I bought not one but two quarts of nondairy lime sorbet for lactose-intolerant Howie Lauderdale. I knew he probably wouldn’t eat all sixty-four ounces, even if he was a teenager. But a Caterer’s Basic Rule of Dessert is that you must have plenty of backup food, even for a single special-request treat. Then if eight more folks communicate a sudden desire for lime sorbet, they won’t feel cheated when you say you don’t have any.

I hit the brakes hard halfway through the store parking lot. Behind me, a VW Bug beeped. What had I just said to myself? If eight more folks communicate a desire …

I pulled into a vacant parking space. What had Sara Beth said about my husband? I tried to communicate with Tom. I just never had any luck.

Who else ran out of luck communicating? How about Andy Balachek? First by a letter to Tom at the department, then by e-mail, and finally by telephone, that young man had been obsessed with staying in touch. The last time we’d heard from Andy had been via cell phone from Central City. Or had it?

You have to think the way the thief does.

Trudy Quincy had been taking in our mail all week. Was it possible Andy had somehow tried to communicate, and we just hadn’t had any luck receiving it?

Heart in mouth, I threw the gearshift into drive, stepped on the gas, and thankfully only skidded once while racing over the snow-packed streets back to our house. I avoided looking at our plywood-covered window, leapt from the van, and hopped through the new snow to the Quincys’ house. Please let my neighbor be home, I prayed. Please let her not think I’ve gone bananas.

When Trudy opened her door, she was cuddling our cat on her left shoulder. Scout gave me that slit-eyed feline greeting: Who the hell are you? Then he snuggled in closer to Trudy.

“Goldy!” Trudy cried. “C’mon in! This kitty thinks he’s my baby. I fried him up some trout Bill caught and froze last summer, and now I don’t think he’s ever going back to your place.”

“Oh, well - ” I began, but got no further before Jake bounded around a corner, leaped up on me, and started slathering my face. No way I’m staying at the Quincys’! Leave that stupid cat here and let’s go home! I told him to get down, then patted him feverishly so Trudy and I could talk without further interruption.

“Do you have our mail?” I said casually. “I’m looking for something in particular. Something important.”

“Sure.” She frowned and glanced down at Scout. “It’s in a big pile on the dining-room table. We can walk in there, but not too fast. Kitty doesn’t like to be hurried.”

I sidled into the Quincys’ dining room. Scout and Jake eyed each other, but I ignored them. I asked Trudy - who was no Sukie Hyde in the organizational department - if there happened to be any order to the mountain of letters. She said the new stuff was on top of the old stuff. I turned the heap over and started going through it.

From Monday there were two bills, seven ads, three catalogs, the sheriff’s department newsletter, and a postcard for Arch.

From Tuesday, there were nine ads, six catalogs, a bill, notice of a cooking equipment sale, and a bulk-mail fundraising letter from Elk Park Prep.

And then. His handwriting was uneven and loopy, the b’s and l’s tall and unevenly slanted, the j’s dotted with tiny circles. The letter was addressed to Tom, with “Gambler” scrawled in the upper left-hand corner. Postmarked Monday. No return address. I snatched it, thanked Trudy, and sprinted out. Behind me, Jake wailed.

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, he’s 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 I’m 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 it’s a lie and that’s 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.

What kind of farewell, I thought forlornly, was that?

Don’t dwell on it.

So I didn’t. Cooking consumed the next hour. At half-past four, I scuttled to the gatehouse to let in the floral delivery man. He opened his van to reveal four miniature sword-bedecked, English-style arrangements of roses, lilies, daffodils, freesia, and ivy. I breathed in the perfumed scent of flowers, picked up two of the overflowing baskets, and led the florist up to the Great Hall, where Eliot and Sukie exclaimed over the generosity of the Lauderdales. That’s the problem with rich folks, I concluded silently, as I placed the baskets on Sukie’s flawlessly set, lace-and-silver-covered tables. They think they can make up for large-scale bad deeds with a couple of superficially good ones. In the catering biz, I’d seen the adulterer who builds a new Sunday School, the thieving bank president who sponsors a dozen soccer teams. Now we had a child-abuser sending flowers.

Ah well, who made me World Moral Cop? I trotted back to the kitchen, where I was greeted by a blast of cold air. Once again, the errant window was open. Michaela, Julian, and Arch were all out; Sukie and Eliot were up in the Great Hall. I marched over to the window, pushed it all the way open - the metal sash shrieked in protest - and looked down. There was no walkway, there were no metal rungs. The moat glimmered far below. Its surface riffled with a slight breeze, but no one was swimming across it. At the edge, the castle Dumpster shimmered in the sun. There was no sign of life anywhere. So how was the window being opened?

I examined the latch. It was not broken. I slammed the window shut again, then searched through the highly organized kitchen drawers until I found some mailing tape. Cursing under my breath, I assiduously pressed a double layer of sticky strips all the way around the window sash. I stepped away from my work and admired it.

“Take that,” I muttered to the window. Repair job complete, I hustled back to the Great Hall with bowls of mixed nuts. Eliot had once again laid out the penny-prick game. This time the boys would toss their plastic knives at a Susan B. Anthony coin set on the lip of a wine bottle. I didn’t particularly like the antifeminist symbolism inherent in that, but I kept my mouth shut. Sensing my lack of enthusiasm, Eliot insisted the kids wouldn’t play for less than a dollar prize.

I zipped back to the kitchen and was greeted by Arch, Julian, Michaela, a cold extra-cheese pizza, and a still-closed window. I wolfed down the pizza without reheating it. Hunger, as my fourth-grade teacher always said, makes the best sauce.

“I’m changing the schedule a little, Arch,” Michaela was saying. “I’m going to have you and Howie Lauderdale demonstrate foil first. The Lauderdales called and specifically requested it.”

My heart plummeted. “Forget it,” I retorted. “They’re up to something. The Lauderdales, I mean. Use the kids you already have scheduled. Howie’s too old to be paired with Arch. Arch might get hurt.”

Arch’s lips thinned in disgust. His cheeks reddened with anger. “Howie will not hurt me.”

“I said no!”

“Mom! Howie’s the best fencer on the team!”

“I don’t care!”

Michaela made her voice reassuring. “Goldy, I promise, I know Howie. He’s a good kid. Arch is definitely up to fencing him.”

Julian murmured, “C’mon, Goldy. Let him do it. The kids wear masks. Everyone will be there. It’s an honor for Arch to go first, to fence with Howie.”

“Yeah, Mom,” Arch cried. “Stop making me out to be a wimp.”

I gestured helplessly. With the three of them staring at me, I said, “Okay, I give up. Fence away. But it wouldn’t surprise me if Buddy was paying his son to hurt you.”

Arch snorted. Michaela silently shook her head. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, she said she’d bring the ice and drink coolers up to the Great Hall. Arch offered to help, and they both left.

Julian and I now set to our work in earnest, putting in the veal for a slow roasting, timing the reheating of the curry, rice, and potatoes, and deciding on the flow of the buffet. Julian got the chafers going and set up the electrified serving platters. This was the third time this week we’d transported keep-stuff-hot equipment hither and yon. No wonder the medieval folks built their kitchen close to the Great Hall.

As my last culinary act before the guests arrived, I prepared the curry condiments. Americans rarely take more than a spoonful of chutney, raisins, or peanuts from that classic dozen side dishes known as a twelve-boy. But they feel gypped if they cannot at least survey lots of extra bowls containing chopped bacon, chopped hard-cooked egg yolks, chopped hard-cooked egg whites, shredded coconut, crushed pineapple, chopped green onion, sweet pickle relish, orange marmalade, and yogurt.

Just before six, Eliot and Sukie breezed into the kitchen. Eliot had changed from the golf outfit into another dapper double-breasted suit - this one charcoal gray - and a snowy white shirt. Sukie’s blond hair was swept up in an elegant French twist, and she glowed in a long, bright-red wool dress. She retrieved a silver tray, glasses, and napkins, while Eliot clanked bottles around in the dining room and proudly emerged with two bottles of vintage dry sherry. They announced that they were on their way to the gatehouse to greet guests in the grand fashion. Murmuring that the kids needed to be welcomed in style, too, Julian snagged two twelve-packs of soft drinks and hustled after the Hydes.

I dashed up to the Great Hall with the covered curry side dishes and quickly checked the buffet, the tables, the makeshift bars, the ice, and the bottles of water and wine. Eliot had straightened the fencing mats and marked out the shuttlecock court with masking tape. Michaela had set up a small table for the trophies. Overhead, the chandeliers flickered. The gold trophies, silver plates, and crystal glasses reflected the glimmering light. Everything looked perfect.

Always a bad sign.

-25-

Tom was still gone on his airport errand when John Richard and Viv Martini sashayed in, the first to arrive. Standing alone behind the makeshift bar, I was unnerved by their appearance. They glanced in my direction, then sniffed and looked away. John Richard looked handsome in an open-necked blue shirt, charcoal vest, and black pants. His twenty-nine-year-old girlfriend, slinking along in a clingy silver dress with matching spike heels, made my stomach turn over. Her dress was slit so far up the side, she should have been doing jumping jacks.

I, on the other hand, feared the worst, appearance-wise. Not only did I pale in comparison to Viv, I couldn’t bear the thought of how Tom would assess my appearance vis-ŕ-vis that of Sara Beth, with her aristocrat-in-the-Peace-Corps beauty and moral high ground. I glanced at myself in the reflection of a silver tray. Working in the hot castle kitchen had made my hair very curly. My makeup was long gone; my face shone with exertion. The cavernous Great Hall was cold, and I needed a sweater over my thin caterers’ top, not to mention a new apron, as the one I had on was liberally dappled with curry sauce.

Julian took over the bar while I dashed back to our room, dragged a comb through my hair, dabbed on makeup and lipstick, and grabbed the only sweater I’d brought, the cardigan I’d worn to Eliot’s office. As an afterthought, I seized my cell phone from its charger and dropped it into one of the sweater pockets. Reception in the castle was iffy, but carrying a phone somehow made me feel more secure.

In the kitchen, I tied on a clean apron, rechecked my list, made sure the roasts weren’t cooking too quickly, started reheating the rice, and slid the potato casseroles into the oven. In forty-five minutes, Julian and I would bring forth all the food. I launched myself back up to the Great Hall. I didn’t care if I looked like a plump little ex-wife who was also the caterer; I didn’t care how I would stack up to the tall, gorgeous nurse from the jungle. I was not going to miss Arch’s fifteen minutes of fencing fame.

“The attack in foil is like a charge,” Michaela was saying to the assembled group of parents and students. Most were listening, but a few were milling about the shuttlecock court, where no one was playing, and the penny-prick game, where someone had already swiped the Susan B. Anthony dollar. Eliot, standing to one side of the group, looked depressed.

Arch and Howie, in fencing uniforms and masks, stood on the mat. Arch had his back to me; Howie, who looked frighteningly anonymous in his mask, faced me.

“We will have Arch,” Michaela gestured in my son’s direction, “and Howie,” she nodded to the taller boy, “demonstrate attack, parry, riposte. Then one of them will charge. En garde, boys.”

Arch and Howie moved smartly back and forth, their foils clanging, their feet slapping the mat. Howie attacked. Arch swiftly parried and riposted. The spectators tightened into a semicircle in front of the mat. Watching Arch, my heart swelled with pride and I didn’t care if John Richard was only fifteen feet away. I wanted to holler, That’s my son!

Without warning, Howie leaned forward, extended his sword, and ran toward Arch. I gasped so loudly half a dozen parents turned and glared. As Howie hurled himself toward Arch, my son froze, unsure what to do.

“Stop!” I shrieked, then wished I hadn’t. Arch tumbled backward just as Howie’s sword whacked his chest, then his leg. Unable to keep his balance, Arch flailed off the mat. Howie, in full launch, could not stop. I watched helplessly as his right foot came down hard on Arch’s left ankle. Arch screamed. Howie fell on top of him.

Michaela, John Richard, Julian, Buddy Lauderdale, and I all rushed forward. Howie seemed to be unable to extricate himself from the tangle of limbs. Buddy Lauderdale wrenched his son’s arm and demanded to know if he was hurt. Howie muttered something I couldn’t hear and clumsily righted himself. Leaning over Arch, Howie kept saying that he was sorry, very sorry, and why didn’t Arch parry? I was so intensely angry that I had to restrain myself from shaking Howie Lauderdale. How could a supposedly “good kid” have taken advantage of a younger boy like this?

Tears slid out of Arch’s eyes as Michaela and I removed his mask. His cheeks had purpled, but he made no noise to indicate he was crying. Instead, he croaked, “I think my foot’s broken. Dad, is it broken? Dad?”

John Richard shoved past Buddy and Howie Lauderdale. He removed Arch’s shoe, then probed with both hands along the foot and ankle. “Hard to tell.” He looked up, not at Arch, but at Viv, who had sidled up to the action. John Richard said, “It should be x-rayed.”

Viv said, “Now?”

“I’m taking him.” It was Julian’s voice. Our friend pushed forward to kneel beside Arch, who gave him an imploring look as tears continued to flow down his dark cheeks. “The father of my best friend at Elk Park is an orthopedist,” Julian explained matter-of-factly. “Dr. Ling. He lives by the lake, five minutes from his office, where he does X rays. He made me promise if I ever needed anything, I would give him a call.”

“I know Ling,” John Richard said.

You idiot Jerk, I raged internally, take your son to the orthopedic surgeon yourself. I turned my attention back to Arch.

He was trying not to writhe in pain. Tears still streamed down his cheeks. I knelt beside him and asked what I could do. Miserably, he shook his head. Michaela appeared with a plastic bag filled with ice. She gently laid it on the rapidly swelling ankle. I wondered if she was thinking of the coup de Jarnac.

I said, “Maybe he should go to the emergency room at Southwest - “

“Let me go with Julian,” Arch said to me, his voice low. “Just let me, okay?”

“Dr. Ling is closer and better than Southwest,” Julian insisted. “If the X rays show Arch needs to go to the hospital, I can take him. Arch, can you sit up, put your arm around my shoulders?” When Arch nodded mutely, Julian deftly hauled him to a standing position. My son’s left ankle dangled, and he winced.

“I’m going with you - “

“No way,” Julian told me firmly. “Stay and handle the banquet. Have a couple of parents help you out. I’ll call as soon as I know anything.”

“Arch, honey, do you want me to come with you?” I asked.

“I’m okay, Mom.”

“I’m really, really sorry,” Howie Lauderdale gargled, increasingly distraught. “I was just trying to be aggressive, the way Dad - “

“Howie!” Buddy snapped. To avoid strangling Howie, Buddy, or both of them, I accompanied Julian, who supported a hobbling Arch, to the hall’s east door.

“Wait!” called Michaela in her commanding-coach voice. “We have something for Arch.” She snatched a trophy from her table and strode over to us. She announced loudly, “For Ninth-Grade Fencer of the Year.”

Arch’s tear-streaked face instantly lit up. The parents and kids all clapped. I would have been elated, if I hadn’t felt so miserable.

Easing Arch into the Rover proved difficult. Away from his peers, he squawked at every move that jiggled his injured foot. Around us, midwinter darkness pressed in. A high-pressure system must have moved across Colorado, though, because the air felt unusually warm - which probably meant it was forty degrees instead of five.

“Friday the thirteenth,” commented Julian as he slid into the driver’s seat. “Go figure.”

“You all right, hon?” I asked Arch for the hundredth time.

“I’m fine, Mom. We’ll call you.”

I cursed myself all the way back up to the Great Hall. Buddy Lauderdale must have told his son to press hard in the attack. I’d heard enough tales of fathers sharpening football spikes and bribing sons to crash into hockey and soccer goalies not to be certain of that. But I never would have thought Howie would play along. Of course, I’d seen Howie fence, and beneath that cherubic face was an ambitious athlete. Once he was in a competitive situation, he might be unable to stop himself. No doubt that was what Buddy Lauderdale had been counting on, when he’d called Michaela and said he wanted the two boys to fence tonight.

Arch had frozen when Howie commenced his attack. Why? Because I’d gasped, and ruined his concentration?

Was everything that went wrong with my child ultimately my fault? I didn’t want to contemplate that one.

Lost in thought, I stared at one of the Wet Paint signs plastered in our bedroom hallway. Was it really my gasp that had distracted Arch? Or could it have been something else? Was it possible Arch had seen something under the minstrels’ gallery? He’d been standing in virtually the same place where I’d been the previous night, when the boy-duke apparition had materialized. But if he had seen the ghost, why hadn’t he mentioned it? Too afraid of looking like a wimp?

In the castle kitchen, two team moms had somehow found Eliot’s key ring, unlocked the cupboards, and were poking around. Both expressed concern for Arch; I said he’d be fine. The women told me they were trying to help with the buffet. They’d lit the burners under the chafers and lugged in the hot platters. They’d had to be as quiet as possible, since Eliot was doing his castle-as-conference-center monologue. At least I wouldn’t have to hear that again.

One of the moms said, “He was looking for clients. And tossing in a little history.”

“Like croutons,” the other one added, giggling.

I smiled, thanked them for helping, and checked my watch: quarter to seven. The women gushed over the scent of the roasted veal and the garlic-laden, cheesy potatoes. They were only too glad to carry trays with the molded salads upstairs. I gently stirred the pans of shrimp curry and rice. When my helpers returned, we turned the rest of the food into the serving dishes, then trooped back upstairs.

“Ah, our feast!” Eliot cried when we made our entrance. He turned to his audience. “You are probably not aware that in Henry the Eighth’s time, one of the favorite meats was peacock, more for its glory than for its taste. So! In the kitchens of Hampton Court, a peacock would be skinned and roasted. The head, skin, and feathers would be set aside until the meat was cooked, and afterwards be replaced on the roast. The peacock’s beak would then be gilded, and the roast bird in all its feathered glory would be carried forth to the Great Hall!”

Under the low sparkle of the chandeliers, it looked as if all the guests’ stomachs had knotted and their faces turned chartreuse. By the time Eliot finished the peacock story, the students were mock-gagging. That would teach Eliot to discuss uncooked bird head, skin, and feathers. The exception was the Lauderdales, who were deep in a whispered conference. Howie Lauderdale, his head hung with guilt, would not meet my gaze. And then there was John Richard, who had refused to leave with his son, because his girlfriend had demanded they stay and eat the Hyde-subsidized dinner for which they’d paid. Now the Jerk sported his own plucked-peacock look, an expression of embarrassed surprise I had come to associate with Viv massaging one of his nether parts. Sure enough, her hands had disappeared under the table.

Eliot asked if there were any questions. The guests murmured. I didn’t quite have the food set up, so I was desperate for someone to ask something. Is it true chambermaids were sexpots? Anything. Does that woman with Dr. Korman count? On second thought, maybe we could skip the questions.

A parent called out, “Was this castle ever under siege?”

“Ah,” said Eliot, warming instantly to his topic. “Yes. But the siege ultimately failed. Now, when a siege succeeded, it was usually because there was a confederate within, or because the besieging army was able to bore underneath the castle foundations, or because the attackers had found another way to undermine the self-sufficiency of the castle, say, by poisoning their well.”

“What about that high-priced letter from that king?” another parent called. “Found any more of those?”

Eliot’s chuckle was indulgent. “Alas, no. The toilets, or garderobes, have all been thoroughly cleaned and restored, with no further finds. We got a royal flush the first time, what?”

Only a few people laughed. I grabbed a silver spoon, tapped a crystal glass, and announced that dinner was served. I asked the guests first to thank Eliot for his enlightening presentation. The parents and students clapped with much relief, then made a beeline toward the buffet table. I had the two team moms go first, demonstrating the way lines should go down each side of the buffet. Once that was under way, I hustled back to the kitchen for the plum tarts-with-zirconia, two cartons of vanilla ice cream, and the first quart of lime sorbet. As I sped back up to the Great Hall with my rich cargo, I wondered if any of those self-sufficient castles had ever had to deal with melting ice cream.

What? What did I just say to myself?

I pushed into the Great Hall and was thinking so hard I almost upended the Jerk, plate and all. He cursed under his breath. I sincerely hoped he’d served himself lots of molded salad. He was allergic to strawberries.

I sandwiched the ice cream cartons between the ice cubes in the cooler, then began to cut the plum tarts. The castles were self-sufficient. All of the needs of the courtiers and servants were met within the walls: food, water, entertainment, and, oh Lord, forgive me for not thinking of it before now: worship.

Every castle had a chapel, of course it did. But where was the chapel in this castle? I’d been so focused on the Gothic structure down the road, Hyde Chapel, I’d forgotten to ask the question. Andy had written to Tom, The stamps are in the Hydes’ chapel. Could there be more than one? And which one had he been talking about?

Folks were already clustered back at the buffet line for seconds. One of the team moms zipped to my side and gushed that she had to have my recipes for potato casserole and shrimp curry. I told her no problem. The buffet line did not need my attention. So, acting as if I had business there I strode over to the rack of pamphlets Eliot had set up by the east door.

The only two pamphlets on display both looked newly printed: Hide Away at Hyde Castle! and A History of Hyde Castle. I glanced quickly through both of them. The second had a current floor plan, but no indication of how the spaces of the castle had been used in the Middle Ages, when the building had been constructed. The living room, for example, was designated by Eliot as “The Grand Parlor,” when Sukie herself had told me it once stabled the horses. The playroom I’d discovered was labeled “Moat Pump Room.” Why would Eliot, with all his concern for casting out historical tidbits, not tell how the spaces were originally used?

And then I remembered the pamphlets in Eliot’s study. I’d grabbed one entitled Medieval Castles and Their Secrets, as well as Have Your Wedding at Hyde Chapel! But hadn’t I taken another old one, one on taking a tour of the historic castle? Where was that thing?

Out of habit, I patted my pockets. Nothing in my apron. I prayed and felt inside my sweater pockets. Ah: paper. I pulled out all three pamphlets that I’d picked up in Eliot’s office. As the guests had no immediate food needs, I quickly opened A Tour of Hyde Castle and pored over it.

It contained a historic floor plan. I ran my finger across the space allotted to the stables, the old kitchen next to the Great Hall - now the bedroom suite where Julian and Arch were quartered - the duke’s bedroom, now the new kitchen, and, in the area marked Moat Pump Room in the new floor plan, next to what was now Eliot’s study on the west range: Chapel. But I hadn’t seen a pump, broken or no. I’d seen games and toys and kiddie-style furniture. I’d also seen a new lock, a lot of spilled paint, and a Wet Paint sign.

Plus, I’d asked both Michaela and Eliot about the current uses of that room. They’d both either lied or been evasive.

So what did all this tell me? I wasn’t sure. And I didn’t have time to think about it, because at that moment the second mom who’d helped me came trundling up.

“Goldy? What are you doing? Several of the guests have asked what you were reading so intently. Mr. Hyde said it was an old map of the castle.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Well, the Lauderdales want the nondairy dessert for Howie now. They said they asked you to buy lime sorbet.”

I stuffed the pamphlet back into my pocket. “I haven’t started to serve dessert yet.” My voice was stiff with anger. After what the Lauderdales had put Arch through, they had some nerve demanding early dessert service.

“I told Buddy that,” the mom explained, “but he said he wants to get Howie home, in case he was hurt in the collision. I‘11 serve him his special dessert, if you want. Just tell me where it is. The Lauderdales are very anxious. Chardé says she wants to get her money’s worth from the banquet, and neither she nor Buddy are having any of the plum tart.”

Oh, man, would these people never stop? “All right. Howie’s sorbet is resting on ice in the cooler. If they must have it now, you can serve it to them. Eliot wants to say a few words about the jewels in the plum tart, so I’m not going to start with the whole dessert service yet.”

“Okay. Except here’s the thing. I thought the sorbet was in the cooler, too,” she explained. “At least, I thought I saw it there. But now it’s gone.”

Clearly, this evening was not going to rank among my Top Ten Easily Catered Affairs. I stopped arguing with Team Mom Number Two and strode over to the cooler.

My heart sank. The sorbet was gone. No carton. No telltale drips. I counted the bowls. None missing. No missing spoons, either. So, someone had come along, swiped the sorbet, taken the box into a bathroom, then eaten the contents with their fingers?

I sighed. I missed having Julian to help. Among other things, we managed to keep a close eye on the food, because people do steal at catered events, and not just because they want to take something home to Fido.

Thank heaven I’d bought two containers of sorbet! I asked the team moms to signal Eliot to start his discourse on How English Nobility Loved Hidden Treasure in Dessert. The women enthusiastically agreed to serve up tart slices with scoops of vanilla ice cream. If anyone asked, I told them, I was going back for sorbet for a demanding guest, and would return soon. They smiled in sympathy.

I sailed out of the Great Hall door, intent on my dessert-retrieval mission. But in the hallway between the Great Hall and Arch and Julian’s bedroom door, I came face-to-face with one of those ubiquitous Wet Paint signs. We’d been here four days. The mistress of the castle, Sukie Hyde, was the neatest neatnik I’d ever met. So how come these signs were still up?

Was any real painting going on? If you were trying to conceal something with a Wet Paint sign, wouldn’t you put up lots of Wet Paint signs, to confuse the issue?

My curiosity got the better of me. Eliot wouldn’t have left all the alarms on, would he? Especially since he had promised to take the guests on a tour later? I raced down the stairs to the ground floor and crossed the courtyard. The door to the hall leading to the “Moat Pump Room” opened easily. I wanted another look at the entry to that room, which had actually been filled with toys, and which had formerly served as the castle’s chapel.

-26-

The hallway glowed from the same overhead crystal fixtures and flickering wall sconces that were everywhere in the castle. Eliot had left on all the lights, probably because of the promised post-dessert tour. After his lengthy discourses and Arch’s accident, however, I thought it unlikely anyone would stick around to explore.

Unlikely for anyone except me, that is. By the entrance to the old chapel, I removed the Wet Paint sign and scraped the wall with my fingernail. Underneath the new splotch of paint was a dark spot. What was I looking for? Blood? If I found it, what would I do? And would the police accuse me of destroying evidence?

All right, think, I ordered myself as I studied the empty hallway. What exactly was I looking for? When Andy Balachek had been getting antsy, I was willing to bet, his partner-in-crime had strung him along with the information that the precious stamps were in the Hydes’ chapel.

Andy’s father Peter had worked on the west range after the flood of ‘82. According to Michaela, Andy had explored this side of the castle extensively as a child. So maybe Andy had figured in the Hydes’ chapel meant in the castle chapel. Say he had broken into the castle looking for those stamps. What was the one thing that had most haunted Tom and me since the discovery of Andy Balachek?

How he’d been electrocuted.

Using my fingernails to scrape was going to be too slow. I unscrewed the thin brass base from the bottom of one of the wall sconces. With this brass disk, I began to scrape random spots on the splash-painted wall. At last I uncovered another dark spot. Following it from the base of the wall to the door of the chapel/playroom, I quickly scratched out a dark, smoked arch.

This was it. It had to be. This was the arc left by a high-voltage bolt of electricity. Had Andy Balachek’s body been a part of the arc? Had the electrocution been delivered on purpose, or had Andy made a deadly mistake in trying to penetrate security? Why would this door have its own electric lock, anyway?

I was getting the creeps in that deserted hallway. I still had to replace the sorbet and finish the banquet. I sprinted across the courtyard toward the kitchen. Andy Balachek had sneaked into the castle because he’d thought the stamps were hidden in the castle chapel. I doubted very much that the stamps had ever been there; I’d found where they’d been stashed, in the chapel by the creek.

How had Andy gotten in here, anyway?

But even as I moved into the kitchen, I knew the answer to that question: Michaela and Sukie had given it to me. Michaela had mentioned that while Peter Balachek ran his excavation equipment to rebuild the moat dam, his little son Andy had been fascinated, and had followed the reconstruction each day. What would the boy have learned during all those hours of watching? What Sukie had told us that very first night: the same knowledge that attackers of Richard the Lionheart’s castle on the Seine had cleverly employed to invade - that the way in and out of the castle was into the water… and up through the garderobes.

Instinctively, I glanced up at the taped kitchen window. Could someone have been coming up a garderobe and through the window into the kitchen? I couldn’t imagine it, as there was no ledge on the outside wall. This had been a bedroom - that of the child-duke - and some of the garderobes were corbeled out from the living quarters, as in our suite. But Sukie had shown me the closest garderobe to the kitchen. It was down past the dining room, in the drum tower with the well.

Andy, on the other hand, had known exactly where the garderobe was that led to Eliot’s study. Believing the stolen stamps were in the castle chapel, Andy had planned to cheat his partner by sneaking in through the moat - wearing a wetsuit, perhaps? The moat was aerated for the ducks, so it wouldn’t freeze. Sukie herself had told me she’d had mesh grilles installed on the bottom of the garderobes to keep rodents from making their way into the castle. But grilles could be popped off, I knew, and loosely bolted tops could be crashed through with a hammer. In this way, a garderobe could open a way into the castle, a way unprotected by security.

I stared at the kitchen windows. Once in the castle, Andy had encountered some kind of electric force he hadn’t expected - a lock? A light? A security guard box! What had I found when I’d burst into the former chapel a space that clearly had been ruined by the flood and never remodeled? I’d discovered a cheaply furnished playroom, with a new bolt that was missing one screw. The arc of electricity leading to the door seemed to point to an armed security device that had blown out when someone had unwisely tried to disarm it. Sukie had told me the room with the moat’s pump was the only dangerous place in the castle. But I’d discovered the moat pump room, with no pump. Had the pump been in a closet I just hadn’t seen? I doubted it.

No, I was willing to bet several rare stamps that that arc of electricity I’d just discovered was at the very spot where poor Andy had received his fatal or near-fatal shock. He’d been trying to break into the playroom, and had failed, miserably. And then he’d been discovered by someone. And shot by someone. And moved to the creek.

I stared down at the trestle table, almost forgetting what I’d come for. Oh, yes, the sorbet! But I couldn’t concentrate; my mind raced. In Hyde Chapel, down by the creek, where had the stamps been hidden? I’d found a solitary stamp, in the one place that represented the mystical treasure - the very heart of the rose window. Who would have hidden an eight-hundred-thousand-dollar stamp there?

My first thought was Eliot. Eliot was the one who was big on labyrinth symbolism. But he was also loaded with money, and didn’t need proceeds from a theft. Still, he dearly wanted his precious conference center to be a success, and anyone, no matter how rich, could be greedy for more cash. On the other hand, even before he’d profited from Henry VIII’s letter, he’d turned down Viv’s gambling idea, which could have garnered oodles of cash. But that didn’t account for the utmost importance of Eliot’s name to him. Illegal gambling would have been very bad for his beloved reputation, if he’d been caught.

I tapped the freezer door. You had to conclude that whoever hid the stamps in the center of the rose window knew Eliot’s passions. You have to think the way the thief does. If the stamps had been found by the authorities, who would have been blamed?

Why, Eliot, of course. He’d been my first suspect, and he’d surely be the cops, too.

I snatched the second carton of sorbet from the freezer, but felt no compulsion to go rushing back to the Great Hall. I was in a mental zone, the kind where you know the ideas will keep coming if you persist in asking the questions. I didn’t intend to leave that zone until I’d explored every inch of it.

Okay: Say the person who hid the stolen stamps wanted Eliot to be blamed and arrested, and to take the fall, if anything went wrong. Something did go terribly wrong when Andy double-crossed his hijacking partners and tried to swipe the stamps himself. Then the killer shot Andy, and left him … near where the stamps had been. Somehow the killer must have figured out that Andy - had broken into the wrong chapel in the process of trying to steal back the stamps. Since the killer couldn’t be too sure that Andy hadn’t told somebody “the stamps are in the chapel,” he or she had had to move the stamps again, before they could be discovered. But where would the killer hide them this time?

I whacked the frozen sorbet carton onto the counter. Figure it out, I ordered myself. Think. If you’re trying to think along the same lines as the murderer, aren’t you going to once again put the booty somewhere relatively accessible … but still somewhere that Eliot would be blamed if the booty were found?

Where would Eliot hide something?

What had Eliot said to me? The Elizabethans hid surprises in their desserts. Wait. I struggled to recall his exact words. A typical Elizabethan treat … to bake treasure into something sweet … Giving me cooking directions in a rhymed couplet, no less. But what something sweet was Eliot’s special preserve? What place would he be likely to hide something extremely valuable, where it probably wouldn’t be found? But if the loot were discovered, what place would point directly to Eliot as the culprit - ?

Wait a second. Eliot’s special preserve?

My eyes traveled to the jam cabinet. It was in plain sight, but locked with a key that was available to anyone who had the slightest knowledge of the ways of the castle. Too obvious? Still, like the labyrinth, the stillroom products were Eliot’s pride and joy… was there any other place where he stored them?

My mind cast up a memory. This is just half of his insomniac production, Sukie had told us, referring to the jams in the kitchen. Think.

Last night when we’d had lamb, I’d requested mint jelly. Julian had searched in the kitchen jam cabinet, with no luck. Then he’d disappeared into the buttery/dining room … the same place he’d gone to get the equally recherché sherry jelly… .

No, that’s stupid, I corrected myself. This castle is enormous. You could hide something in a million places.

With trembling fingers, I shoved aside the rapidly softening sorbet and reached for the key ring where the team moms had left it, on the counter. Swiftly, I sorted through the keys, heart pounding, until I found the tiny skeleton key used for the kitchen preserves cupboard. Maybe… I thought. Tom was at the airport with his high-school sweetheart, thirty-some people were waiting for me to provide dessert upstairs, my son and Julian were racing to the doctor, and I intended to solve a major murder case by ransacking shelves of… jelly?

Tomorrow might bring better ideas, but for now, I moved in rows, holding each jam jar up to the light. Currant. Blackberry. Cherry. Blueberry. Marionberry. All these preserves were just what the labels said they were. Orange, Fig, and Grapefruit Marmalade, ditto. Feeling increasingly foolish, I began lifting the last row of jars: Strawberry Jam. Nothing.

I hastened into the buttery/dining room. The antique wine cabinet, an elegant mahogany piece with diamond. shaped leaded glass, had a tiny keyhole. I thought back. Julian had come in here, probably with the keys in his pocket. He’d only taken a moment to locate the mint and sherry jellies. I tried the smallest key on the ring. After a minute of my jiggling it in the lock, the glass door popped open.

The light in the dining room was dimmer than in the kitchen. I stared hard at each jam jar as I held it up to the light. Mint Jelly, Sherry Jelly, Pear Chutney. I was beginning to feel stupid. I started on the last row of jars, Lemon Curd.

On the tenth jar, I inhaled sharply. Pay dirt? Instead of being filled with pale golden curd, this jar was lined with… paper. I unscrewed the top and peered inside.

Clear plastic envelopes. I pulled out one and detected the unmistakable homely profile of Queen Victoria.

Unfortunately, before I could shout “Eureka” or even “God save the Queen,” the floor in the hallway creaked ominously. The hairs shot up on the back of my neck. As I pivoted toward the sound, Michaela burst into the kitchen, then ran into the dining room. She was clutching a saber.

“Where are they?” she demanded. She was enraged. Her white hair, lit from behind, made her look like a banshee.

“Where are who?”

Michaela’s wild eyes fastened on the jar in my hand. “What is that? What are you doing?”

“Trying to figure out why you put the stamps in here.” I took a deep breath. “It’s because you want Eliot to get caught, isn’t it? I know you hate him. I saw you fighting - “

She burst into a humorless laugh that was more like a cackle. “You don’t know anything! I don’t hate Eliot! Quite the opposite!”

At that moment, the lights in the kitchen and dining room went out. In the hazy light cast by the hall sconces, I could see only the silhouette of another human form, holding a glinting sword aloft. I heard two people grunting, fighting, pushing furniture over, whacking each other, shouting whenever they were hit.

Time to scram, my brain screamed, and I obeyed. I shoved the precious jam jar in my sweater pocket, pushed blindly forward, fell onto the dining-room table, then scrambled upright, knocking over a chair. The combatants in the kitchen barged into something. The crash of exploding glass shattered the darkness.

Run, I ordered my frozen legs. I groped out in the darkness; my knuckles whacked the china cupboard. Where was the door to the dining room? Run. I stumbled forward.

Someone was in the dining room with me. A sword slashed the air, with the sound of a cold wind. I screamed and reached out again. My hand closed around something - one of Eliot’s wine bottles. Again the rapier hissed, this time closer. I whirled and parried hard with the bottle. It broke as it smashed on my attacker’s shoulder. Whoever it was went reeling backward.

I had seconds to move. I stumbled. Found the edge of the dining-room door. Slipped through and ran for my life.

Down the hall, into the well tower, past the well and garderobe, into the spacious living room. Run, Run, Run, my mind screamed. The cell phone and jar of stamps I bobbled around in my sweater pocket. I was still clutching the neck of the broken bottle. It would be little use against a sword. I had to get away from that slashing weapon, had to get out of the castle, had to escape.

Behind me, footsteps pounded. Whoever it was could move, I’d give ‘em that. Run, I told myself. Run faster. I slammed through the glass doors to the gatehouse, punched the code into the security keypad, and waited I for the portcullis to rise. Panting, I grabbed the front door.

Behind me, there were no more footsteps. Had whoever it was given up? Or had my attacker gone to get a confederate? I stared at the front door, wheezing. What next? It was cold outside, and I had no car keys. I had no car: What was I going to do - run all the way into town? Whoever was chasing me was in much better shape than I could ever hope to be.

I whirled and looked across the courtyard. Just a couple of hundred feet away were parents who could help. Should I chance it? Or should I run out into the night, over the causeway spanning the moat?

Indecision is the enemy of mortality. Overhead, there was a clunk. Without warning, a splash of boiling liquid bit into my skin. I screamed as pain flared from my shoulder to my elbow. I jumped out of the way of the steaming cascade.

“Help!” I yelled as I jumped aside. More boiling water poured implacably down. “Help!”

The water was coming through the arched ceiling, through the ancient murder holes. My elbow and left arm were alive with agony. From the floor above came a woman’s scream. I looked up and saw blond hair, a pretty child’s face. Then I heard a thwack, and another, followed by more struggling and crashing. I was shaking, trying to open the front gatehouse door. My skin was on fire. I couldn’t turn the knob.

“Flee, cook!” a child’s voice hollered over the din above me. “Flee!” There was the sound of whacking, followed by grunts. “We tried to warn you not to come!”

And so I ran, back the way I’d come, my arm on fire, my skin melting. Dear God, I prayed, help me.

And then, like a miracle, I had a vision of pulling Sukie to the sink when she’d burned her hands trying to rescue the scorched coffee cake. Water. Cold water:

I was slowing down. Could my attacker have made it back to the kitchen? I was going to faint. I was going to die from my burns. I’d never see Arch or Tom or Julian again.

I was sobbing now. My body was a current of liquid fear and pain. Water. The top of the well was sealed tight with canvas. Water. I was going to die if I didn’t find it. I unbolted the seat to the garderobe, yanked it up, and scrambled up on the ledge. Then I dropped feet first, down, down, down the latrine shaft. My feet whacked a grille and it gave way.

The shock of the icy moat was such an instant relief that I shouted with joy - underwater. I was rewarded with a choking lungful of creek water. Heaving and gasping, I flailed my way to the surface. Just as I thought Grab the cell phone and jar of stamps, I felt them fall away from my sweater pocket and drop, along with my shoes, deep into the dark water.

My head bumped against something and I recoiled. A duck? A fish? A rat? What else was there in this damn moat? I blinked, moved my arms and legs, and shoved through the icy water. The spotlights from the castle revealed what I’d bumped into. The missing sorbet carton.

Huh? Swim. Suddenly I was so deathly cold I knew I was going to sink to the bottom. Swim, paddle, kick, do some damn thing, I commanded myself. And, miraculously, my body obeyed. A hundred feet away, I could see the edge of the moat. A swimming-pool length. No sweat. I lunged through the water. Swim. Kick. Move your arms.

My scalded arm was numb with pain. My feet felt bruised from crashing through the grille. When I reached the side, what was I going to do? Was someone still after me? Wet and chilled to the bone, how would I get through the dark woods that surrounded the castle? I didn’t have a clue.

Swim, dammit. I raised one arm, then the other. The burnt arm wouldn’t obey my mind’s commands, so with great effort, I turned on my side and started an awkward, slow side-stroke. I gasped for breath. Swimming had never been so hard.

Finally, my fingers touched the slimy moat rim. The slippery rock wall, covered with algae, gave me no footing. Wheezing, I grabbed an overhanging aspen branch, only to slide backward into the icy water, gasping. With a huge effort, I hauled myself up on the rocks. One foot in front of the other: Get out of the water; get through the woods, go back to town. Call Boyd. Call the police. Get a grip.

Flee.

I heaved myself over the rock wall and tumbled hard into a bank of snow and leaves. All around, unseen trees rattled and swayed. I couldn’t feel my feet. But I was in snow, I knew that. My burning skin began to sweat and scream with pain.

I glanced back at the castle. The kitchen was lit by an eerie glow that did not come from the sconces or chandeliers. I squinted: There was a figure, a small figure, beside the window, which was once again open. Who was it?

I’d heard a child yell, “Flee, cook!” It had sounded like a girl, and she’d been in Michaela’s overhead rooms, by the murder holes. I peered at the figure, which stood motionless, framed by the open window. Was I dreaming, or was it a young boy wearing a ruff? None of the kids at the fencing banquet had been sporting one of those stiff Elizabethan collars.

Crap, I thought. Either I’m seeing a ghost or I’m losing my mind.

-27-

I turned away from the castle and tried to get oriented. Close by, light from a solitary lamp shone through the pines. I sniffed a putrid smell. Coming from… what? I steadied myself, knelt carefully, and whisked soothing snow up my left arm. I belatedly recalled hungry mountain cougars, who did their hunting at night. Was I soon to become a feline hors d’oeuvre? I laughed aloud. Put that worry out of your head, dummy. The human hunter who stalked me was far more dangerous than any four-footed ones who might prowl through these woods.

I staggered to my feet, almost overwhelmed by the smell of… garbage. Suddenly I realized I stood about half a dozen yards from the castle Dumpster, and the light beside it. I needed to get to help, I knew that. But all my thinking of the evening had not brought resolution to the questions that kept cropping up. When I was very young, my mother’s first act whenever she came home from shopping was to check the garbage. This was especially true if I looked guilty. Had I broken a glass? Burned a pan with popcorn? Eaten forbidden ice cream bars? All the evidence my mother ever needed was in the trash.

I stumbled through the snow and threw open the top to the trash bin. Inside were my tied bags of trash from the labyrinth lunch. I leaned in, snatched them, and tossed them aside. Beneath those bags were two more black garbage bags, tied with yellow plastic ribbons. I ripped into the first one and was rewarded with household trash: aluminum platters and sauce-splattered folding boxes from Chinese carry-out. I leaned out of the bin and took a couple of deep, cleansing breaths.

I heaved myself back up the side of the bin and savagely tore into the final bag. Paint cans. Brushes. And below them, a metal sign and what looked like metal attached to a bunch of wires. I grabbed both, pulled them up, and held them to the light.

The sign said: PUMP ROOM! HIGH VOLTAGE! DO NOT ENTER! DANGER - ELECTRIC SHOCK! The other was an electric lock, complete with dangling wires. One side was blackened.

“Andy!” I gasped. “You got yourself into a real mess, didn’t you, kid?”

I dropped the lock and the chain back into the trash, and tried to figure out where to go. A small service road ran up to the Dumpster. It was slick with ice, but traveling along it would bring me back to the driveway. Think, I ordered myself.

But I couldn’t think: my burned skin felt so hot I flung myself back into the snow. I felt dizzy, swimming against the movement of the earth.

After a few moments, I felt a bit better. I blinked. The blur in my vision had cleared. So what did I need to do? Pretend you’re Dorothy and follow the Yellow Brick Road. Or in this case, the Iced Service Road. My own spontaneous, halfhearted chuckle surprised me. Humor in despair. I heaved myself to my feet and lurched forward.

How far was I from the driveway? A quarter of a mile? Half a mile? Overhead, through the swaying branches, I could just make out the Big Dipper, pointing to the North Star, at the end of the Little Dipper. You can do this. Flee, I told myself.

And I did, clutching my pained left arm. My stockinged feet had turned numb in the snow. I was going to make it, I told myself. Half a mile at the most.

The pine boughs swayed and creaked. Who had done this to me? The answer remained tantalizingly elusive: someone in the Great Hall, someone who saw me read Eliot’s pamphlet, perhaps, someone who had followed me to the chapel and watched from afar as I’d scraped the new paint off the incriminating arc, the arc of electricity made where a young man had been electrocuted. Had it been Michaela? And if so, who had attacked her and rescued me? What had really happened back there?

My mind spun: Flee, cook! We tried to warn you not to come! I’d looked up into a face, with blond hair.

Andy had broken into a playroom, a playroom guarded by an electrified lock. I don’t hate him, Michaela had said. Quite the opposite … The electric-locked playroom had been cheaply furnished, and the toys had been old, but not covered with dust.

The only dangerous place in the castle is the moat pump room, Sukie had said. But don’t worry, it’s all locked up. Was the room without a pump truly dangerous? Or was it locked to keep Our Lady Swiss-Clean out?

Tonight, I’d seen the face of a child, a little girl, I was almost sure. I was almost sure I’d heard that girl attacking my attacker, up in Michaela’s apartment.

There was a child-a living, nonghostly little girl - in Hyde Castle.

The rumor of the baby drowning in the well had been just that: a rumor, started in a deliberate attempt to ward off the curious. And what about the screaming in Hyde Chapel? There hadn’t been any ghost of a dead wife, I realized. The real child had been crying; maybe she had been hiding in the chapel storeroom when the ill-fated wedding had started. Eliot could have put together his whole tape-and-player show to cover up for it.

So Eliot had to know. He had to know something. He had to know why and how Andy had been electrocuted. Did he also know who had murdered Andy? Or had Eliot murdered Andy?

I was nearing the driveway. I had to be. But I couldn’t hear cars from the state highway, only the moaning of the trees. Of course Eliot knew. Poor Andy had broken into the chapel - not the chapel where the stamps were hidden, but the castle chapel where the child was hidden, in its playroom… behind an electric lock and a sign saying that it was a pump room, to keep Sukie out.

But whose child… ?

Stories in town had him living like a hermit in one room of the castle.

For how long had Eliot lived like that? From the time he lost his teaching position on the East Coast to the time he met Sukie, almost nine years had passed. He’d had at least one girlfriend during that time: Viv Martini. That relationship hadn’t lasted long, according to Boyd.

The family of the original fencing-master; meanwhile, had been given permission to live in a section of the castle rent-free …

Uh-huh. Almost nine years in a desolate, falling-down castle was a long time. Before his relationship with Viv, I was willing to bet, Eliot had found solace in the arms of his caretaker.

I don’t hate Eliot … quite the opposite.

I was also willing to bet Michaela had had a child she wouldn’t give up, but whose existence had to be kept secret, if Eliot was going to realize his dreams for the castle, with his reputation intact. The child, I wagered, occasionally wandered away from her playroom and made sudden appearances around the castle, perhaps even wearing a miniature suit of armor. Perhaps it was one of those appearances that had somehow provoked the nasty falling-out between Eliot and Michaela I’d witnessed in the courtyard…

Not only that, but the news of Andy Balachek’s murder had brought the hard glare of publicity to the castle, a glare that might very well reveal a desperate secret that would undo all the owner’s ambitious plans.

The child. I’d heard her breathing … that night I’d stood in the drum tower by our room. I’d glimpsed her once, in the shadows of the Great Hall, wearing her little suit of armor, undoubtedly lured by the fencing demonstration my own son was putting on. Even Tom had seen her, but had put it down to hallucinogenic drugs. This curious child, I was willing to wager, could get around the castle through the unrenovated areas, climb up into the towers, and scare us with unexpected appearances… .

Flee, cook! We tried to warn you!

I stumbled down the service road, my thoughts spinning. After what seemed like an eternity, my ears made out another sound, a roaring noise… the creek. I thanked God. And when had I heard another roaring noise? Not long ago.

We tried to warn you… .

I lurched to the driveway, and saw the lights of a distant vehicle. Was it on the road? I tripped on the snow-covered ground and fell to my knees. A wave of nausea rolled over me.

What had Boyd said? The bullet that hit your house was not from the gun that shot Andy, Tom, and “Morris Hart,” the computer thief… The bullet was a warning. Somebody had tried to warn not Tom, but me. Away from what? From catering at Hyde Chapel. From catering at Hyde Castle. Why? Because a murder had been committed in the castle, and the body had been dumped not fifty feet from the doors of Hyde Chapel.

Who lived in that upstairs apartment where the child’s voice had come from? Michaela. Michaela who loved children, Michaela who had her own child, I was almost sure. Michaela had tried to warn me away by shooting out our window. Scare her; she must have thought, close down the catering business for a while, anything to keep the mother of one of my favorite fencers away from this place where Andy died I walked forward. I stayed in the shadows, knowing the person who’d perpetrated these crimes, who’d struck at me with a sword and poured boiling water onto my arm, was probably still searching for me.

And who was that person? Who had access to both the castle and Hyde Chapel? Who knew about the Lauderdales’ demand for sorbet for their son, and could ensure my return to the kitchen by tossing the first carton into the moat?

As soon as I started to dig through the pamphlets, and started to unravel the lethal web spun through the castle and its history, somebody had gotten very scared.

Who had access to Tom’s return time from New Jersey? The only way to get that was to have access to our family’s private doings… through Tom, through me … or through Arch. Whom did Arch visit every week? His father. And who had latched onto John Richard of late, convinced him, I was willing to wager, to fence some stamps and use his doctor-status and real estate greed to buy an expensive town house? No doubt she’d also figured she’d be able to follow our every move while planning her disposal of millions of dollars’ worth of stolen stamps.

The roar of an approaching van interrupted my thoughts. My van. Tom! I waved at him with my good arm. He braked, jumped out, and insisted on helping me into the passenger seat. Relief and love for him overwhelmed me.

“Miss G., look at you!” His face was wracked with worry. “You’re all wet! How did you ever - “

“Listen, Tom,” I interrupted him, shivering like a madwoman. “You need to arrest Viv Martini.”

-28-

My only question,” said Julian the next night, as he poured bubbling ginger ale into a punch bowl, “is what’s going to happen to Eliot and the castle?” We were in the Elk Park Prep gym, readying for the Valentine’s Day Dance. My left arm, which had received second-degree burns, was bandaged. I was sitting in a chair beside the table, unable to help much beyond dispensing advice, which I did freely.

Tom was not there yet. I hoped he would come, believed he would come. After all, he’d been willing to accept my rapid explanation of what had transpired at the castle, before he’d found Viv Martini, barely conscious, on the floor beside the murder holes. He’d brought her to her feet, told her her rights, and cuffed her. When a parent had offered to drive me to the hospital emergency room, it had been my great pleasure to see a defeated Viv being guarded by Tom in my van, where they were waiting for police cars to show up.

My mind turned back to Julian’s question: What was going to happen to Eliot? I didn’t know. He’d had to tell first the cops, and then Sukie, who had been oblivious to his hidden life, the truth: that Andy Balachek had climbed through the west-side garderobe into the study. That Balachek had received a nearly lethal charge of electricity trying to break into the castle’s former chapel. That the sudden loss of electricity had brought Michaela to the room, and that she had run to Eliot, working on jams in the kitchen, as was his wont in the wee hours. She had told him of Andy’s comatose state.

Eliot, panicked and desperate, had called Viv Martini, the third partner in the stamp heist. Viv, Eliot claimed, had been blackmailing him, threatening to expose the secret of his bastard daughter, whom Viv had discovered when she and Eliot were having one of their trysts.

All these years after their affair, Viv had decided to use Hyde Chapel as a hiding place for the stolen stamps, after Ray was arrested. She had not told Eliot what she was doing. But when Andy, who’d been getting restless to sell the stamps, had misinterpreted what Viv had finally told him about the stamps’ whereabouts, he’d been killed in his attempt to steal them. Everything had gone south, just at the very moment all Eliot’s dreams for a well-financed Elizabethan conference center seemed to be coming to fruition.

Eliot and Michaela had told police - in exchange for immunity from charges of complicity - that Viv had driven Andy away from the castle. She had used her pickup truck - her other vehicle besides the Mercedes - the same truck she later loaned to Mo Hartfield. Eliot, meanwhile, hastily threw paint over the blood, the arc, and other random spots in the castle, hoping to hide the incriminating evidence of Andy’s near-fatal accident.

The police were speculating that there was one thing Viv had been unsure of: What Andy had told Tom. She must have been certain that Andy had betrayed Ray Wolff to the police. She knew he’d tried to steal the stamps before she was ready to fence them. After he’d been electrocuted attempting the double-cross, she’d shot him and thrown his body in the creek. Then hastily, too hastily, she’d removed the stolen stamps from Hyde Chapel, leaving one behind. Unbeknownst to Eliot, Viv had sneaked back into the castle and hidden the remaining stolen stamps in the jam jar, again using her knowledge of his security system and his stillroom hobby to conceal the valuables in a way that would point away from her, if they were discovered. After that, the theory went, she’d sat in Cottonwood Park and waited to see if Tom had an inkling of what was going on. If he started to walk toward the chapel, instead of toward Andy’s body, she had to conclude he knew not only where the stamps were hidden, but her identity as well.

And when Tom headed toward me - toward the chapel-she decided he had to die.

And then there were all the other aspects of the story that we suspected, but could not prove: that at the instigation of her true boyfriend, Ray Wolff, Viv had wormed her way into the Jerk’s affections. Ray knew John Richard’s ex-wife was married to the cop who’d arrested him, because John Richard had told him so. John Richard, for once, had been the one who’d been used. As a source of data and a sex object, no less. If he wasn’t in a male-menopause support group, he certainly was going to need one now. Not to mention the help he was soon going to need if it could be proven he’d fenced stolen stamps. Plus there was that three-million-dollar, highly leveraged Beaver Creek town house to unload. Marla was going to be in heaven.

After I was released from the hospital, the helpful parent had driven me back to the castle. The police were questioning Eliot in the Great Hall. I’d gone looking for Sukie. She was alone in the kitchen, not cleaning for once. She’d been crying. She said when she’d survived cancer and her first husband’s death, then found the historic letter that had led her to a new husband, she’d thought God was finally helping her get her life back. Now she wasn’t so sure. I’d hugged her and murmured that Eliot loved her and wanted to protect her. And so did God.

Now, a commotion at the gym door made me look up. Julian and Arch, hobbling on the crutches required for his ankle sprain, had moved to greet Michaela and her daughter, a beautiful, seven-year-old child. I stood to greet them, too.

The little girl had thick blond hair that wound into spiral curls, held back with twin gold barrettes. She wore a calf-length blue taffeta party dress that looked old-fashioned, a pair of white socks, and black patent leather Mary Janes.

“I’m the cook,” I told her, as I extended my hand.

She took my hand and curtsied. “I know.” Her voice was clear and lovely. She hesitated, unsure how to use social graces that she’d been taught. “My name is Mildred. Tonight is my debut into society.”

I nodded, unable to find words. This little child had tripped Viv Martini with a sword after Viv, her sword broken, crashed into Michaela’s apartment through the living-room staircase. Viv had been looking for another weapon when she’d been tripped. Unfortunately, Viv had regained her balance, grabbed Michaela’s old electrified cauldron, and poured scalding water down on me through the murder holes. But then this little girl had whacked Viv Martini unconscious with Eliot’s precious copy of Burke’s Peerage. This darling little thing, whose delicate-featured face was so uncannily like that of Eliot Hyde, her father, had done all that. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“Thank you, Goldy,” Michaela said, her voice trembling. “I’m sorry I yelled at you last night. I knew Viv had caused all the problems, and I was afraid she’d gone after Eliot. I wanted to find them and, and …” She stopped, aware of her daughter’s gaze.

Mildred looked back at me, let go of my hand, and curtsied again. In the past twenty-four hours, I had learned more about why Michaela had kept Mildred’s existence secret all these years. Eliot had guiltily confessed the rest of the story: Michaela did love him; she also adored their child. Michaela was also reluctant to leave her own father, the old fencing-master, and the castle home she’d always known and loved. And Eliot had been afraid to kick out Michaela and their daughter: That would guarantee the publication of his paternity. So Eliot had promised to let Michaela and Mildred stay in the Kirovsky family home, and to pay for all the child’s expenses, until Michaela could take early retirement from Elk Park Prep next year. Then, she’d promised, she would take Mildred to a new home, when the conference center opened. Eliot would finance Michaela and Mildred doing all this, he had sworn to his caretaker, as long as no one - especially Sukie, whom he genuinely loved - knew that he was Mildred’s father. This was why Mildred’s playroom had boasted its heavy-duty electric lock.

But secrets do have a way of getting out. Mildred curtsied again and allowed Michaela to lead her to the punch table.

Arch was enthralled. “Oh, Mom! A hidden kid! That’s even cooler than a boy ghost who opens windows!”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“From Michaela,” Arch said, pivoting on his crutches to watch Mildred. “While you were in the hospital. The ghost opens the window to get fresh air, because he died of pneumonia in that room. That was where he couldn’t breathe. Every once in a while, they see him at the window of what’s now the kitchen. He’s wearing his little Elizabethan outfit with the ruffled collar, and he always opens the window.”

Good heavens, I thought.

“Michaela also told me Mildred doesn’t officially exist. When Michaela got real sick after she had Mildred? They evacuated her by helo out of the castle, and the medics saw the baby there with Michaela’s father, who helped raise Mildred before he died.”

The retained placenta mentioned by the flight nurse? Probably. I’d almost forgotten it.

“But Mildred never got a birth certificate,” Arch said. “Michaela’s going to have to get her one so Mildred can get an official name, and Social Security, and immunizations and all that stuff. Problem is, Michaela will probably get into lots of trouble for shooting out our window.”

“I’m pretty sure Mildred will become Mildred Kirovsky,” I told my son. “And the way I heard it, Michaela’s not being charged with anything regarding our window, as long as she cooperates with the police on the Viv Martini investigation. We’re certainly not going to press charges.”

“That’s good, anyway,” said Arch as he bumped away. He was getting awfully agile on his crutches. “The fencing team needs her back before the state meet. Oh,” he added as an afterthought, “Howie Lauderdale called and apologized. He said his father offered him a hundred dollars to win the bout with me. He felt really bad, and of course he didn’t take any money. I told him I forgave him.” He smiled, and so did I.

“Tom called on my cellular,” Julian informed me when I reached the refreshments table, “since you lost yours in the moat. He’s tying up some loose ends with

Boyd and will be here as soon as he can. He says Eliot signed the immunity deal. Eliot has promised to cooperate fully.” He served punch to the first three student couples to arrive. “And, uh, it looks like John Richard’s probation might have come to an end, although that’s being debated, too. Oh, and they’re draining the moat, to try to find the stamps.”

I smiled. “How about our house?”

Julian grinned. “Saving the best until last. The window’s fixed, and so is the security system. You guys can go back there tonight.”

The music started. Overhead rotating lights, covered with red cellophane, began to swirl, bathing the gym in a scarlet-tinted, festive air. Arch was hopping back and forth on his crutches. I looked more closely. He was dancing with Lettie, she of the recent breakup. Incredible. But then again, it was Valentine’s Day.

The cookies and punch were a hit. Julian served with efficiency and panache. I wished I could have helped. him, because just sitting and brooding was making me nuts. I hadn’t asked Tom how his meeting with Sara Beth had gone. I hadn’t had the heart.

At length, Tom entered the gym. He had a new sling on his arm, I noticed, and a jauntier-than-usual air about him. He made straight for our table.

“Miss G.,” he said.

“We should talk,” I said nervously.

He held up his hand. “Before you ask, when I left Sara Beth, she told me how much she liked you. I’m… sorry I didn’t tell you sooner that she’d contacted me. Like right away, the first of January.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t trust you,” I replied.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but keeping secrets can… .

Fearing he might lose his wife, Eliot had kept Mildred’s existence secret from Sukie. Sukie, in turn, had kept her history of cancer secret from Eliot, fearing it would make her look flawed and undesirable. That’s why she never mentioned knowing my ex-husband. Viv had deceived John Richard by blinding him with sex, and Andy Balachek’s attempts to double-cross his partners had cost him his life.

But now Viv was under arrest, and John Richard was in all kinds of trouble with his parole officer. Sukie had told me that she and Eliot were staying together, no matter what. She wanted to have a relationship with Mildred, and Eliot sheepishly admitted that he wanted to get to know his daughter better, too, no matter how it would tarnish his reputation. Still, Michaela was moving out of the castle, Sukie had added, but only when she and Mildred were ready.

Tom and I, unfortunately, had not done much better than these folks in the full-disclosure department. We stood there, bathed in the crimson lights, facing each other. The first test of honesty in our marriage had ended in about a C+. But we’d survived and remained committed to each other. And wasn’t that what counted?

Tom bowed as low as his injury would allow him. “Miss G or should I say, my dear Valentine, would you dance with me?”

I allowed him to tug me gently upright. The music had turned slow and romantic. An unexpected thrill darted up my spine. Then the two of us, looking like wounded veterans, stepped onto the dance floor. With infinite care, I put my hands around Tom’s waist. My burned arm wouldn’t reach to a proper dance position. Tom put his good hand around my waist. We started to move together.

“Sara Beth is on her way back to Vietnam,” he said matter-of-factly. “She doesn’t plan on returning. Her reality is in another part of the world now. Goldy - ” He lifted his hand to touch my cheek. “Thanks for understanding.”

I wouldn’t go so far as to say I understood. Maybe I never would - totally.

I said, “I’ve heard about guys with gunshot wounds. Apparently, if they’re real careful, they can make love after five days of healing.”

Tom pulled me to him with his good arm, then swung me around. He leaned in close to my ear and murmured, “Oh, yeah? Where’d you hear that?”

And so I danced with my husband, my Valentine. After a few blissful moments, I checked the food table. It was unmanned. Scanning the dance floor, I saw Julian dancing with a lovely, dark-haired girl. An Elk Park Prep faculty member? An alum? Why had I never seen her before? Had Julian just met her? Or were they old friends?

“Tom,” I whispered, “who’s that girl dancing with Julian?”

Tom pulled me close. “Goldy,” he murmured in my ear. Tingles again raced up my spine. “Will you never stop?