Free Sticks & Scones by Diane Mott Davidson

chokecherry jelly,” he said shyly, with a regal wave. “I also make fig preserves, blueberry jam, mint jelly, lemon curd—”
    At that moment, Michaela Kirovsky clomped into the kitchen toting the last of my boxes. Abruptly, Eliot fell silent and bustled out the door.
    Once again feeling responsible for someone else’s rudeness, I thanked Michaela profusely for her help. She waggled her head and told me not to mention it. I looked closely at her. When I’d first met her at Elk Park Prep and talked about the banquet, I’d judged her to be about sixty. Now I saw that the prematurely white hair made her look older than she was, probably forty-five. She had that slightly pudgy, built-like-a-brick body often seen in high-school athletic coaches. Her wrinkled baby-face was exceptionally pale. Like Arch, she wore the school fencing jacket and khakis. When she heaved her load up on the trestle table next to my three other boxes, Eliot flowed back into the kitchen, clutching another jar.
    “I’m sure today’s luncheon will go beautifully. And we’re very excited about the fencing banquet. Please remember, though, Goldy,” he said as he placed the new offering—plum jam—on the table, “I want the Friday-night feast to conclude with a plum tart baked withjewels inside.” He swept his hair back with his hand. I sighed: The fencing banquet was four days away, for crying out loud. “The jewels will be zirconia, of course, but the children don’t need to know that. That’s a typical Elizabethan treat,” he informed us with a smile, “to bake treasures into something sweet. Only they used
real
jewels, of course. And sometimes they put in
other
surprises, such as, shall we say, four-and-twenty blackbirds? Goldy, how soon will you be able to get your recipes?”
    “As soon as I pick up my disk,” I replied. I fumbled inside the box containing my laptop to make sure I had my power cord, too. “I promise I won’t take long getting it,” I added firmly, before he could start fretting again.
    “So you’ll return when?” Eliot asked anxiously.
    “I’ll follow Michaela out,” I replied. “Worst-case scenario puts me back here by eight.”
    “Eliot, darling,” Sukie murmured as her husband opened his mouth to protest. “The recipes can wait. You are too enthusiastic, sometimes. And—”
    “That’s all your boxes,” Michaela interrupted.
    “Thanks again,” I said, and meant it.
    She nodded, warmed her hands at the hearth, and grinned at Arch. “Ready to go, mister? Blastoff is in seven minutes.”
    Arch shouldered his pack, nodded a mature farewell to me, and told Michaela he’d meet her by the portcullis. He even managed to thank Sukie and Eliot before making his way out of the kitchen.
    To me, Michaela said softly, “Eliot mentioned that someone took a shot at your house last night?”
    “Yes,” I said. “The police don’t have any leads yet. But I took a call on my cell phone on the way over here. There’s something I need to warn you about.” All three faces became immediately curious. “My ex-husband, Dr. John Richard Korman, has just been granted an early release from serving a sentence for assault. If he shows uphere, please do not let him in. I’m checking on the status of a restraining order,” I added. “He’ll have to see Arch at some point, but we haven’t figured that out yet.”
    Their questions tumbled out as I put the chicken and other perishables into the refrigerator: Was John Richard the one who’d shot at our window? Did he know I was here at the castle? Did he know how to get here?
    “We have no idea what the man looks like,” Eliot mused, his voice concerned. “If we could have a photograph …”
    “Yes, definitely, no problem,” I replied. “I’ll get one when I pick up the disk.”
    The snow had stopped as Michaela, Arch, and I drove off. My van followed Michaela’s Elk Park Prep minibus down the slick, winding driveway. Her tires cut twin black tracks in the