Sticks & Scones (18 page)

“Yes,” I replied. “Thanks to you all. You … seemed to be … more experienced than most flight nurses.” Once you passed thirty, I’d observed, being
experienced
was the euphemism for being
older.

She laughed. “I’ve been doing it a long time. Too long, I think sometimes.” She paused. “Weren’t you married to Dr. John Richard Korman?” When I replied that I was, she went on: “I worked with him one time, after we brought in an Aspen Meadow woman with a retained placenta.”

I made a noncommittal
mm-mm
noise.

“Don’t worry, he did a fine job,” she said, reading my mind. “What can I do for you now?”

“I don’t want to keep you, Norma, but I’m … trying to locate a cousin who’s a flight nurse. Where did you do your nursing training?”

“Nebraska.”

“Well,” I said boldly, “do you know anyone at the hospital who would have gone to The Front Range School of Nursing in the late sixties? I’m particularly interested in
women
who would have had flight nurse training.”

She said she didn’t know anyone off the top of her head, but her relief had just come in, and she could ask a few people, if I wanted. I thanked her and said I didn’t mind being put on hold.

“I found one of the older ER techs,” she informed me triumphantly on her return. “He told me there was a flight nurse named Connie Oliver who graduated from Front Range at about the time you’re talking about. He thinks she may have switched to being a school nurse. Denver or Furman County.”

I thanked Nurse Randall and signed off, then decided to bypass Denver and hope for luck with Furman County Schools’ central office. I was listening to the choices of an automated phone-answering system when rapping at the study door nearly made me drop the phone.

Julian cried, “Breakfast! And it came from across the North Pole, via the castle garden!” Flourishing a large silver tray, he pushed through the heavy door. Michaela Kirovsky followed him, holding a coffeepot. Julian’s energy filled the study as he bounced forward. “Hey, boss?” he asked me with a grin. “Don’t give me that look like you can’t eat.” When I hastily hung up, he cried, “Hey! Wha’d you swallow, a canary?”

Y
ou’re going to love this,” Julian announced as he set the tray laden with golden-glazed miniature Bundt cakes on Eliot’s desk. It was actually two trays, one on top of the other.

“Got multiple orders for room service?” I asked mildly. “When in doubt, Bundt?”

“I’m putting half of this on the other tray for Tom. He’s still asleep, I just checked. Michaela’s helping because she forgot some equipment and had to come back to the castle.” In addition to the cakes sparkling with orange zest and sugar, there were two plastic-wrapped crystal bowls. Julian pulled off the plastic and revealed snowy yogurt artfully topped with slices of kiwi, strawberry, banana, apple, and plum. “Oh,” he said, “I’m saving that sweet bread you made for later, since it was too hot to cut. I made these orange cakes last night while the dinner was cooking.” He glanced around the study and wrinkled his nose. “Man! What decade is it?”

“Any decade you want, for a price,” Michaela supplied with a wicked smile.

“Do I detect animosity toward the decorator?” I asked mildly.

Michaela snorted. “Chardé keeps asking when she gets to do my place. I keep telling Eliot: Never.”

When she didn’t elaborate, I said, “Thanks for bringing the goodies over, guys. I thought if I didn’t have caffeine soon, I was going to pass out.”

Michaela nodded wordlessly as Julian relieved her of the coffeepot and poured me a steaming cup. I thanked him, took a sip—
Zowie!
good stuff—and glanced at Michaela. Her pale skin glowed in the daylight. But her eyes remained clouded. She pressed her lips together, and I wondered if she thought she’d said too much about Chardé. But there was something else there…. What? Did she know something she wasn’t sharing?

“Michaela, I need to ask you a question.” When I put down my cup, it clattered in the china saucer. “As you know, my husband was shot next to Hyde Chapel. By Cottonwood Creek, near where poor Andy Balachek’s body was found. You live in the gatehouse, with a view of the front of the castle. Did you see anything at all late Sunday night? Or early Monday morning? People moving? Cars parked?”

She flushed deeply. “No. Sorry. The police already asked me about that, when they came over to talk to Eliot and Sukie. I don’t have a view of the creek. I didn’t see anything.”

She’s not telling the truth
, my mind insisted.
Why?
“How about Andy Balachek? Did you keep up with him after his father fixed the dam?”

More blushing. “Yes,” she replied, “I knew Andy. His mother died when he was little. We used to have a small … club, I guess you’d call it, for locals of Russian
and eastern European descent. In my father’s time, we gathered here at the castle, for the holidays. We’d visit and make our favorite foods. Peter and Roberta Balachek always brought baby Andy.” She cleared her throat uneasily. “And then Roberta got cancer and died, and little Andy grew up and became big Andy. We got gambling in the state, and Andy—well, his addiction just about killed poor Peter.” She looked at her hands, struggling visibly to compose herself. “I know Andy was found near where your husband was shot. You want to know all you can about him. There just isn’t much.” She inhaled. “My free period’s almost over. I need to get back to school….”

“You seem very sensitive to boys. Andy Balachek. My Arch. It’s a gift.”

She hesitated at the study door. “I didn’t do Andy much good, though, did I?”

“Whoa,”
observed Julian when she’d left. He refilled my cup. “What was
that
about?”

“I don’t know. What was she like at Elk Park Prep?”

A frown wrinkled Julian’s handsome face. “Quiet. Really hard-working. Lonely, it seemed to me, but I didn’t fence, so I didn’t know her very well. One time when we had a senior tour here, we asked her about the baby who’d supposedly been thrown down the well. She said that story was borscht, a mix-up from the ghost story about the duke. She isn’t the most charismatic coach at Elk Park Prep, but she’s, you know, a
stalwart.
Like Tom. Everybody likes her. Everybody likes Tom. What’s the matter?”

My ears were ringing.
Everybody likes Tom.
At this point, I couldn’t talk to Tom, Arch, or gossip-hungry Marla. But I had to talk to
somebody
I trusted, or the secret was going to explode inside of me. “Julian.” I looked him straight in the eyes. “I’m afraid Tom is having an affair—”

“Bull!”

“Or maybe he
was
having an affair and broke it off.” I
choked. “I think he might have been shot by this other woman, who could be his ex-fiancée. Then again, unless she was somehow involved with Andy Balachek, she couldn’t have guessed he would show up at the chapel, right?”

“Tom’s
ex-fiancée?
What are you talking about?”

“Her name is Sara Beth O’Malley. She was a nurse who supposedly died at the end of the Vietnam war.”

“What?”

“She reportedly died in a helo crash on the Mekong Delta, but she didn’t. I’m telling you, she’s not dead. She sent him e-mails.” I gulped. “And she was watching our house, too.”

“Watching the house? When? Did you tell the police?”

I tore my gaze away from his face: His concern and love tugged at my heart. Outside, the moat reflected the sky. “I told the investigators a woman was there, not who she was.”

He plopped into one of Eliot’s leather armchairs and softened his tone. “When did you first think this woman wasn’t dead?”

“After Tom was shot, he said, ‘I don’t love her.’ Then he passed out. Since he got out of surgery, he hasn’t talked about who he meant. I’m not even sure he remembers saying anything.” I felt blood seep into my cheeks.

“And you saw this same woman outside the house?”

“Trudy next door saw her first, the morning after our window was shattered. This woman parked outside our house and kept staring at it. I tried to talk to her, but she refused to talk to me. She just took off. From old photographs, I thought she looked just like an older version of the woman Tom was once engaged to. She’s very pretty…. And her name’s Sara Beth O’Malley. Those old photographs? Signed just like the recent e-mails: ‘S.B.’”

“So she
didn’t
die over there. Incredible. And now she’s back. But why?”

“According to her e-mail, she’s here to get supplies. To get her teeth fixed. To hook up with her old flame. All of the above, or none. Besides e-mails from her, there was one from the State Department. Tom had written them to see if there’d been any old or new reports of Sara Beth O’Malley surviving the attack that supposedly killed her. State said no.”

Julian was pensive. “Goldy … do you want me to ask Tom about it?”

“No!” My hands clenched. “I just don’t know what to do.”

Julian stood, picked up the top tray, then moved a silver place setting and the coffeepot to the bottom tray. Using tongs, he transferred one of the miniature Bundt cakes to a small plate, then set out a place mat and silverware on the desk.

He hefted up the tray and studied me a moment. “Boss, you’ve got a sleep debt the size of a jumbo mortgage. You need to rest, have something to eat, wait until you can think again. There’s too much going on to keep it all straight. Why don’t you just concentrate on Tom, Arch, and our catering jobs this week? We’ll get Tom better, then we’ll ask him.” When I said nothing, he headed for the door. “Look,” he said over his shoulder, “how ’bout I tell Tom about one of my old high-school girlfriends who showed up at C.U. We broke up and she got cancer, supposedly. Then it turns out she got better and decided to go to college, where she looked me up.” He balanced the tray and opened the door. “See what he says.”

“An old girlfriend of yours? With cancer? Is that true?”

He flashed a smile back at me. “I wouldn’t tell
you
, Miss Nosy, if it was.”

“Thanks, Julian.”

“Don’t mention it.”

I swigged the rich coffee, spooned up the yogurt, downed half of the succulent cake, licked my fingers, and
redialed the Furman County Schools’ central office. After maneuvering through the options network, I was finally connected to an administrator in charge of student medical care.

“I’m from Aspen Meadow, and I’m looking for a school nurse named Connie Oliver,” I began pleasantly. “I need to check on an outbreak of strep.”

When I was put on hold, I scanned Eliot’s elegant office. To the right of the glowing bay window, Chardé had placed an Oriental-style silk screen. On the other, I noticed, was a molding-framed opening. With sudden recognition, I realized it was one of those wall indentations that indicated a garderobe. Sheesh! Those medieval folks must have had to go to the bathroom a
lot
—

“What strep outbreak?” I was rudely asked. I’d almost forgotten I was on the phone.

“It was reported in January at our middle school,” I shot back. I knew about the strep outbreak from the
Mountain Journal.
After several more long minutes of holding, the administrator returned.

“We can’t search the medical files over the phone.”

“That’s all right. If I could just speak to Nurse Oliver, we could clear up the question of my son’s medication. She treated him.”

“Without the files, Ms. Oliver cannot be expected—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take the responsibility!” I replied, trying to sound chipper. “I just want to chat for a sec, if she’s available. Do you know which schools she’ll be visiting today?”

A sigh. “Ms. Oliver will be overseeing vision tests at Fox Meadows Elementary from ten-thirty to noon,” the woman informed me tartly. “Please identify yourself at the school office before seeking her out.” She hung up before I could thank her.

Bureaucrats!

I finished the last of the luscious cake and considered
what to do next. It was quarter to nine. I needed to work out the prep for the next day’s lunch and then check on Tom. And of course we all had to eat tonight, so there was also dinner for six to consider. But not yet. First, I had to think.

The drawers to Eliot’s desk were not locked. With only a slight pang of guilt—
if he didn’t want folks going through his drawers, he’d lock them, right?
—I rummaged for a clean sheet of paper. One drawer yielded pamphlets from conference centers across the country. Under that lay a legal pad filled with painstaking notes comparing prices, accommodations, and length of stay. Apparently, Eliot had no truck with computers, which could have produced such a spreadsheet in seconds. There was no blank paper. The next drawer held worn, slightly dusty pamphlets:
Medieval Castles and Their Secrets. Have Your Wedding at Hyde Chapel!
And
A Brief Tour of Hyde Castle.
There were also several copies of the audiotape Eliot had been urging me to listen to:
The History of the Labyrinth.
I slipped one of the audiotapes in my sweater pocket, then rifled through the pamphlets: There were between six and ten banded copies of each one, so I helped myself to one of each—the better to know the place where I was doing my job, I rationalized—then stuck them in my pocket, too. Finally, I went back to the first drawer and ripped a clean sheet of paper from the back of the legal pad.

CHRONOLOGY, I wrote at the top of the page.

1. January 1.
   The Lauderdales, in financial trouble, have New Year’s party. Buddy shakes baby. I call cops. The Lauderdales swear revenge.
   

2. January 15.
   Valuable stamps—easily fenced in the Far East—are stolen from FedEx truck. The driver is killed. Witnesses say there were three robbers. Peter Balachek has a heart attack.
   

3. January 20.
   Frightened, worried that his father will die, Andy Balachek identifies himself to Tom as one of the truck-hijacking gang. Andy tries to make a plea deal. Tells Tom where Ray Wolff will be.
   

4. January 22.
   Tom arrests Ray Wolff on Andy’s tip. In another e-mail, Andy refuses to give location of valuable stamps.
   

5. January 24.
   Andy sends a third e-mail to Tom, saying he has a stake and is going to Atlantic City to gamble. Tom takes off for New Jersey.
   

6. February 6.
   Andy calls me from Central City, desperate to talk to Tom. John Richard Kor-man gets out of jail early. He immediately hooks up with his new girlfriend, Ray Wolff’s old lover, who is also Eliot Hyde’s old lover, Viv Martini. He has told Arch he’s going to buy an expensive present for Viv.
   

7. February 9.
   Our window is shot out.
   

8. February 9.
   I find Andy’s dead body in the creek, near Hyde Chapel, where I’m supposed to cater later in the day. Andy had an electric shock, then was shot and killed. Tom is shot.
   

9. February 10.
   Our computers are stolen. I discover that Tom’s long-lost fiancée, Sara Beth O’Malley, has reappeared after many years of “death.” Supposedly, she is living under an assumed identity in Vietnam, and works as a village doctor. The Jerk is driving a new gold Mercedes from Lauderdale Imports. He and Viv Martini have entered into an unusual real estate venture.
   

10. February 11.
    Michaela Kirovsky says she knew Andy Balachek when he visited the castle, but acts as if she’s covering something up.
    

How were these people—Andy, Viv, John Richard, Eliot, Sukie, Chardé and Buddy, Sara Beth, and Michaela—linked? Or were they? Had Tom been the target of the shooter, or had I? And what event would disrupt our lives next? I did not know.

I
did
know one thing, contrary to Michaela’s assertion:
Andy was the key.
Andy who stole, Andy who gambled, Andy who talked, Andy who ended up dead in Cotton-wood Creek. And I wasn’t going to learn any more about him sitting in Eliot Hyde’s fit-for-a-prime-minister office.

I tucked the packet of zirconia into my pocket with the pamphlets and tape, then scooped up the tray. I maneuvered my load into the hall and decided that before checking on Tom, I would see if Michaela was still in the castle. If I could convince her that whoever had shot Tom had to be connected to Andy’s death, maybe she’d come up with some information about the dead young man.