lights blinked across the snow-sculpted yard. Should I call Tom now, or should I wait? Would they assign this case to him?
In the basement, I could hear Wyatt’s scraping shuffle as he moved from Tom’s office into the storage room, bathroom, laundry room, closets… . The hole in the window meant I could just hear Vaughan’s low murmur on the front porch, interspersed with responses from one or the other of the neighbors. How much longer would they leave me here? Could the shooter be inside? Impossible. But might he not still be somewhere outside? Unlikely, I reasoned.
I hugged myself as cold air streamed under the door between the kitchen and the hall. How was I supposed to work in my kitchen today if it was so doggone cold? And anyway, a hot oven wasn’t going to make me feel any better unless I actually put something into it. Something hot and flaky, something you could slather with jam and butter, or even whipped cream… .
Again the gunshot echoed in my ears. I couldn’t stop trembling. Where were the cops? Why was it so cold in here?
I needed comfort. I was going to make scones. I felt better immediately.
I heated water to plump the currants, powered up my kitchen computer, and rummaged in our walk-in refrigerator for unsalted butter. I’d done a great deal of research on English food for the catering stint I was starting, and what I’d learned had been fascinating. Scones had first been mentioned as a Scottish food in the sixteenth century. Since that meant the Tudors might have indulged in the darling little pastries, my new client was desperate for a good recipe.
Intriguing as the notion of the perfect scone might be, the ability to concentrate eluded me. Fretting about how long it might take to get our window repaired, I smeared a stick of butter on the marble counter. When the gunshot blast reechoed in my brain, I forgot the stopper for the food processor. A blizzard of flour whirled up to the ceiling, then settled on my face. When I coughed and jumped back, my elbow smacked a carton; a river of heavy whipping cream glug-glug-glugged onto my computer keyboard. I was cursing mightily when Wyatt and Vaughan finally pounded into the kitchen. Surveying the mess, their eyes widened.
“I’m cooking,” I told them, my voice fierce.
“So I see,” said Wyatt. He cleared his throat. “Umm… Why don’t you have a seat for a minute?”
I shut down the computer and unplugged it, turned the keyboard over to drain, turned off the food processor, and wiped the flour from my face. Without missing a beat, Wyatt launched into his report. Thankfully, he’d found nothing amiss - no sign of forced entry, no strangers lurking in closets or under beds. Investigators and techs, he assured me, would be along in no time to process the scene.
I offered them hot drinks. Both declined as they settled at our oak kitchen table. I fixed myself an espresso, picked up the dripping cream carton, and poured the last of the white stuff into my coffee. Fortitude, I reminded myself. The kitchen air was like the inside of a refrigerator. I should have put on two sweatshirts.
“I remember you,” Wyatt said, a mischievous smile playing over his lips. “And not just because you’re married to Tom Schulz. You’re the one who’s gotten kinda involved in some investigations, right?”
I sighed and nodded. Vaughan chuckled. “Seems to me we’ve ribbed Schulz about that a time or two. We asked him, why don’t you just give her a job?”
Didn’t these guys care about our shattered window? Why weren’t they digging bullets out of my living-room wall? Or searching for footprints in the snow? “Thanks, guys,” I replied. ?‘I’ve got a job. A business. Which this incident is not going to help. And I also have a son who needs to be protected,” I reminded them grimly.
Getting serious, the deputies fired questions at me. What had I heard? When? Why was I so sure it was a gunshot? Had I actually seen anything out the window? Had Arch?
Warmed by the coffee, I gave short answers while Wyatt took notes. But I faltered when he asked if any member of our family had received threats lately.
“There was something involving the department about a month ago,” Wyatt prompted me, when I didn’t immediately answer. “You’re the caterer who turned in the Lauderdales. New Year’s Eve? Child abuse, right?”
“Yes,” I replied. “I turned in Buddy’s-your-buddy, the
Castle Scones
4 cup currants 2 cups all-purpose flour 2 tablespoons sugar 1 tablespoon baking powder 1 teaspoon salt 4 tablespoons well-chilled unsalted butter, cut into 4 pieces 1 large egg 4 cup whipping cream 4 cup milk 2 teaspoons sugar (optional) butter, whipped cream, jams, curds, and marmalades
Place the currants in a medium-sized bowl and pour boiling water over them just to cover. Allow to stand for 10 minutes. Drain the currants, pat them dry with paper towels, and set aside.
Preheat the oven to 400°F.
Mix the flour, sugar, baking powder, and, a food processor fitted with a steel blade. With the motor running, add the butter and process until the mixture looks like cornmeal. In a separate bowl, beat the egg slightly with the cream and milk. With the motor still running, pour the egg mixture in a thin stream into the flour mixture just until the dough holds together in a ball. Fold in the currants. On a floured surface, lightly pat the dough into 2 circles, each about 7 inches in diameter. Cut each circle into 6 even pieces. Place the scones on a buttered, baking sheet 2 inches apart. Sprinkle them with the optional sugar, if desired.
Bake about 15 minutes, or until the scones are puffed, golden, and cooked through. Serve with butter, whipped cream, and jams.
Makes 12 scones
Jag’s-in-the-bag Lauderdale. He shook his baby daughter until the poor child passed out.”
Wyatt looked up from his notebook and scowled. “You were doing a party there, isn’t that what I heard?” he asked. “Big party, even though the guy’s facing bankruptcy or something?”
Or something. Buddy Lauderdale’s rumored financial difficulties had been widely reported, along with his arrest. According to the whispers, dutifully conveyed in the newspapers, the new, expanded Lauderdale Luxury Imports, situated near the fancy new Furman East Shopping Center, was about to go belly-up.
Buddy Lauderdale, fiftyish, swarthy, and boasting a full head of newly plugged hair, had scoffed at the rumors. With his ultrachic, fifteen-years-his-junior second wife Charde, Buddy had thrown an extravagant New Year’s party to show the world just how rich and confident he was. And I’d been booked to do the catering, thanks to the recommendation of Howie Lauderdale, a star sophomore on the Elk Park Prep fencing team. Sixteen-year-old Howie, who’d befriended Arch, was the product of Buddy’s first marriage. Nadvely, I’d thought the father would be as nice as the son.
All had gone well on New Year’s Eve, I recounted at the cops’ prompting, until about eleven-thirty, when Buddy and Howie had put on a fencing demonstration for their guests. Unfortunately, Patty Lauderdale, the cute- as-a-button one-year-old daughter of Buddy and Charde had started to wail just as the demonstration began. Buddy had ordered me to take the baby away, which I had. In the kitchen, I’d rocked, cooed, and sung to the screaming Patty, all to no avail. The child should have been in bed, of course, but the parents had wanted to show her off to their guests. Impatient with the racket, Buddy had stormed into the kitchen. In the presence of no other adult but me, he’d grabbed little Patty from my arms. Over my protests, he’d shaken that poor child until she choked, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she lost consciousness.
So yes, I’d called the cops. Patty had been removed from the family home for a week. After an investigation, the Lauderdales, who had no priors, had been cleared of child abuse. Little Patty, reportedly still undergoing neurological tests, had been returned to her parents. But I’ve learned to suspect the corrupting power of money, influence, and lawyers. Through friends, I’d heard that the Lauderdales had sworn they were going to get Goldy. They insisted that good old Buddy had just been trying to be a good parent. And they also claimed that their name and their business had been irreparably harmed by my call to law enforcement. A hysterically toned Mountain Journal article, discussing the incident and my own history of spouse abuse, had not helped the situation. Beside the article had been two pictures. The first was of Buddy Lauderdale from his Jag’s-in-the-bag TV commercials, where he wore a hunting outfit, toted a rifle, and had a large bag slung over his shoulder. The second was of him being led away from his home in handcuffs.
“Heard from the Lauderdales lately?” Wyatt asked now.
