STICKS AND SCONES.

DIANE MOTT DAVIDSON.

-1-.

Nighttime noises are torture. When a midnight wind shrieks through our window jambs, or footsteps clomp past the house, I think, It could be anything. Once a s...o...b..nk slid from our roof and thundered onto the deck. I awoke, heart pounding, convinced I'd been shot.

It isn't logical, of course. But living with terror for seven years had not made me the most rational of thinkers, least of all when roused from sleep. A sound could be anything? No.

It was something.

When I awoke at four o'clock on Monday morning, February ninth, those years of dread were long over. Still, I was certain I'd heard a tiny sc.r.a.ping noise, like boots chafing against ice. Think, I warned myself. Don't panic.

Heart pulsing, throat dry, I waited for my brain to clear, for the sound to come again. My husband Tom was I out of town. Even when he's at home, noise rarely interrupts his slumber. Tom is a big hulking cop, and isn't afraid of much.

I shifted in the chilled sheets. The temperature outside was close to zero. Frigid air poured through tiny leaks in our bedroom windows. The noise had come from outdoors, from below, of that I was fairly certain.

Now all was quiet. No sound emanated from Arch's room down the hall. Two months from turning fifteen, my son slept so soundly even a howling blizzard would not rouse him. On the first floor, our bloodhound, Jake, was not growling or pacing in his enclosed area next to the kitchen. These were good signs.

Maybe I was imagining things. I'd gone to bed too late, after cooking all evening for today's catered event. And I was stressed out, anyway. In December, our family life had been in an uproar. My in-home commercial kitchen had been shut down, and Tom and I had ended up involved in a homicide case at a nearby ski area. To make things worse, on New Year's Eve, right after the official reopening of my kitchen, I'd catered my first party in months. It had gone very badly.

Wait. Another unmistakable sc.r.a.pe was followed by a tiny crack. It was like ... what? Elk hooves shattering ice? A pine bough creaking under its burden of snow? Like... someone opening a suitcase across the street?

Who unpacks bags at four in the morning?

Henry Kissinger said, Even a paranoid has real enemies. With that in mind, I decided against getting out of bed and peering out a window. My eyes traveled to the bedside table and I reached stealthily for the portable phone. In addition to being paranoid, I sometimes suspected I was an alarmist, or, as the ninth-grade tough guys at Arch's school would say, a wimp. Now, I bargained with myself. One more sound, and I would speed-dial the sheriff's department.

I shivered, waited, and longed for the heavy terry-cloth robe hanging in my closet, an early Valentine's present from Tom. Caterers need to rest after cooking, Miss G., he'd said. Wrap yourself in this when I'm gone, and pretend its me.

Of course, I would have much preferred Tom himself to the robe. For the past week, he'd been in New Jersey working a case. There, he reported, the weather was rainy. In Aspen Meadow, I'd told him in our evening calls, each day had brought more snow. Arch and I had made a morning ritual of shoveling our front walk. But daytime temperatures in the mid-thirties had melted our man-made s...o...b..nks, and the nightly freezes transformed the sidewalk into a sheet of ice.

So. If someone was on our sidewalk, he or she was on a very slippery slope.

I propped myself up on my elbow, yanked up the bedspread, and listened intently. In the neon light cast by the street lamp outside, I could just make out my own reflection in our mirror: blond curly hair, dark eyes, thirty-four- year-old face just a tad round from an excess of chocolate. It was a face that had been happy for almost two years, since I'd married Tom. But now Tom's absence was an ache.

Back in my old life, my ex-husband had often stumbled in late. I'd become used to the drunken harangues, the flaunted infidelities, the midnight arguments. Sometimes I even thought his girlfriends used to follow him home, to stake out our house.

Of course, I absolutely believed in Tom's fidelity, even if he had been both secretive and preoccupied lately. Before he left, he'd even seemed low. I hadn't quite known how to help. Try as I might, I was still getting used to being a cop's wife.

Five minutes went by with no sound. My mind continued to meander. I wondered again about Tom. Six A.M. on the East Coast; was he up? Was he still planning on flying back this morning, as he'd promised us? Had he made any progress in his investigation?

The case Tom was working on involved the hijacking - on a Furman County road - of a FedEx delivery truck. The driver had been killed. Only one of the suspected three hijackers had been arrested. His name was Ray Wolff, and he was now in the same cell block as my ex-husband, Dr. John Richard Korman. The Jerk, as his other ex-wife and I called him, was currently serving a sentence for a.s.sault. During Arch's weekly visit, John Richard had boasted to his son of his acquaintance with Ray Wolff, the famous killer-hijacker. How low things had sunk, I thought, when a father reveled in his own criminal infamy.

I shivered again and tried not to think of the threats my ex-husband had sent from jail. They'd been both implied and overt. When I get out of here, I'll set you straight, Goldy. To Arch, he'd said, You can tell your mother your father has a plan. I guess I wasn't surprised that those tiny signs of remorse John Richard had shown at his trial had all been for the benefit of the judge. I jumped at the sound of a third, louder crack. Downstairs, Jake let out a tentative woof I hit the phone's power b.u.t.ton as an explosion rocked our house.

What was that? My brain reeled. Cold and trembling, I realized I'd fallen off the bed. A gunshot? A bomb? It had sounded like a rocket launcher. A grenade. An earthquake. Downstairs, gla.s.s crashed to the floor. What the h.e.l.l is going on?

I clutched the phone, scuttled across the cold floor, and tried to call for Arch. Unfortunately, my voice no longer seemed to be working. Below, our security system shrieked. I cursed as I made a tripping dash down the unlit hall.

The noise had been a gunshot. It had to have been. Someone had shot at our home. At least one downstairs window had been shattered, of that I was certain. Where is the shooter now? Where is my son?

"Arch!" I squawked in the dark hallway. Dwarfed by the alarm, my voice sounded tinny and far away. "Are you all right? Can you hear me?"

The alarm's wail melded with Jake's baying. What good did a security system do, anyway? Alarms are meant to protect you from intruders wanting your stuff - not from shooters wanting your life. Yelling that it was me, it was Mom, I stumbled through my son's bedroom door.

Arch had turned on his aquarium light and was sitting up in bed. In the eerie light, his pale face glowed. His toast-brown hair had fanned out in an electric halo, and his hastily donned tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses were askew. He clutched a raised sword - a gleaming foil used for his school fencing practice. I punched the phone b.u.t.tons for 911, but was trembling so badly I messed it up. Now the phone was braying in my ear.

Panic tensed Arch's face as he leaned toward the watery light and squinted at me.

"Mom! What was that?"

Shuddering, I fumbled with the phone again and finally pushed the automatic dial for the Furman County Sheriff's Department.

"I don't know," I managed to shout to Arch. Blood gurgled in my ears. I wanted to be in control, to be comforting, to be a good mother. I wanted to a.s.sure him this was all some terrible mistake. "Better get on the - " With the phone, I gestured toward the floor.

Still gripping the sword, Arch obediently scrambled onto a braided rug I'd made during our financial dark days. He was wearing a navy sweat suit - his subst.i.tute for pajamas - and thick gray socks, protection from the cold. Protection. I thought belatedly of Tom's rifle and the handgun he kept hidden behind a false wall in our detached garage. Lot of good they did me now, especially since I didn't know how to shoot.

"We'll be right there," announced a distant telephone voice after I babbled where we were and what had happened. Jake's howl and the screaming security system made it almost impossible to make out the operator's clipped instructions. "Mrs. Schulz?" she repeated. "Lock the bedroom door. If any of your neighbors call, tell them not to do anything. We should have a car there in less than fifteen minutes."

Please, G.o.d, I prayed, disconnecting. With numb fingers, I locked Arch's door, then eased to the floor beside him. I glanced upward. Could the glow from the aquarium light be seen from outside? Could the shooter get a good purchase on Arch's window?

"Somebody has to go get Jake," Arch whispered. "We can't just leave him barking. You told the operator you heard a shot. Did you really think it was from a gun? I thought it was a cannonball."

"I don't know." If any of your neighbors call ... My neighbors' names had all slid from my head.

The front doorbell rang. My eyes locked with Arch's. Neither of us moved. The bell rang again. A male voice shouted, "Goldy? Arch? It's Bill! Three other guys are here with me!" Bill? Ah, Bill Quincy... from next door. "Goldy," Bill boomed. "We're armed!"

I took a steadying breath. This was Colorado, not England or Canada or some other place where folks don't keep guns and wield them freely. In Aspen Meadow, no self-respecting gun-owner who heard a shot at four A.M. was going to wait to be summoned. One man had even glued a decal over the Neighborhood Watch sign: This Street Guarded by Colts. Although the county had sent out a graffiti-removal company to sc.r.a.pe off the sticker, the sentiment remained the same.

"Goldy? Arch?" Bill Quincy hollered again. "You okay? It doesn't look as if anybody's broken in! Could you let me check? Goldy!"

Would the cops object? I didn't know.

"Goldy?" Bill bellowed. "Answer me, or I'm breaking down the door!"

"All right!" I called. "I'm coming!" I told Arch to stay put and tentatively made my way down the stairs.

Freezing air swirled through the first floor. In the living room, gla.s.s shards glittered where they'd landed on the couch, chairs, and carpet. I turned off the deafening alarm, flipped on the outside light, and swung open the door.

Four grizzled, goose-down-jacketed men stood on my front step. I was wearing red plaid flannel pj's and my feet were bare, but I told them law enforcement was en route and invited them in. Clouds of steam billowed from the men's mouths as Bill insisted his companions weren't budging. As if to make his point, Bill's posse settled creakily onto our frosted porch. The men's weapons - two rifles and two pistols - glinted in the ghostly light.

Bill Quincy, his wide, chinless face grim, his broad shoulders tense, announced that he intended to go through the house, to see if the shooter had broken in. I should wait until he'd inspected the first floor, he ordered, pushing past me without further ceremony. Bill stomped resolutely through the kitchen and dining room, peered into the tiny half-bath, then returned to the hallway and c.o.c.ked his head at me. I tiptoed behind him to the kitchen. He shouted a warning into the bas.e.m.e.nt, then banged down the steps. If the intruder was indeed inside, there could be no mistake that my neighbor intended to roust him out.

Jake bounded up to Arch's room ahead of me. Scout, our adopted stray cat, slunk along behind the bloodhound, his long gray-and-brown hair, like Arch's, turned electric from being suddenly roused. Following my animal escort, I silently thanked G.o.d that none of us had been hurt, and that we had great neighbors. The cat scooted under the bed used by Julian Teller, our former boarder, now a soph.o.m.ore at the University of Colorado. Arch asked for a third time what had happened. I didn't want to frighten him. So I lied.

"It just...looks as if some drunk staggered up from the Grizzly Saloon, took aim at our living-room window, and shot it out. I don't know whether the guy used a shotgun or a rifle. Whatever it was, he wasn't too plastered to miss."

My son nodded slowly, not sure whether to believe me. He shouldn't have, of course. The Grizzly closed early on Sunday night.

I stared at the hands on Arch's new clock, a gift from his fencing coach. The clock was in the shape of a tiny knight holding a sword, from which a timepiece dangled. When the hands pointed to four-twenty-five, a wail of sirens broke the tense silence. I pushed aside Arch's faded orange curtains and peeked out his window. Two sheriff's department vehicles hurtled down our street and parked at the curb.

I raced back to Tom's and my bedroom and slid into jeans, a sweatshirt, and clogs. Had someone unintentionally fired a gun? Was the damage to our window just some stupid accident? Surely it couldn't have been deliberate. And of all the times for this to happen...

I started downstairs. Today was supposed to herald my first big job in five weeks, a luncheon gig at a Gothic chapel on an estate dominated by a genuine English castle. The castle was one of Aspen Meadow's gorgeous but - weird landmarks. If things went well, the castle-owner - who was hoping to open a conference center at the site - promised to be a huge client. I didn't want anything to mess up today's job.

Then again, I fretted as I gripped the railing, I was a caterer married to a cop, a cop working on a case so difficult he'd been forced to search for a suspect two thousand miles away. Perhaps the gunshot had been a message for Tom.

Outside, the red-and-blue lights flashing on snow-covered pines created monstrous shadows. The sight of cop cars was not unfamiliar to me. Still, my throat tightened as I wrenched open our front door. Bill and the other gun-toters looked at me sympathetically.

Why would someone shoot at the house of a caterer.?

I swallowed hard Did I really wont to know?

-2-.

Two cops trod up the icy path to our door. The first was tall and decidedly corpulent, the second short and slight, with a dark mustache set off by pale skin. "Mrs. Schulz?" asked the tall one. "I'm Deputy Wyatt. This is Deputy Vaughan."

I nodded and shook their hands. I remembered both of them from the department Christmas party, which was actually held three days before New Year's, since Christmas and New Year's themselves are always high-crime days. While the impromptu posse, three neighbors plus Bill, looked on curiously, I thanked the cops for responding so quickly.

Wyatt, who had dark, intelligent eyes, addressed me in a low, terse voice. "We're going to secure your house. Then we'll need to talk to your neighbors." He took off his hat, revealing a head thinly covered with dark brown hair. "After that, we'll want to talk to you."

I let him in while Vaughan stepped aside and talked quietly to the men on the porch. With most of the front window missing, it seemed silly to shut the door firmly behind Wyatt. But I did anyway. Amazing how old habits diehard.

Once I'd turned on the living-room lights, Wyatt stepped toward the window. He frowned at the gla.s.s fangs hanging from the cas.e.m.e.nt. Frigid air poured through the hole. The deputy gave a barely perceptible nod and began to move through the house.

Arch's music wafted down from upstairs. Unrhythmic thumps - Jake's tail hitting the floor - indicated the bloodhound had stayed with him. Now there was a recipe for comfort: rock and roll, plus a canine companion.

The icy February air made me shiver. I headed to the kitchen, where I could close the hall door against the chill. There, I could also turn on the oven. My oven was to me what Arch's music was to him.

But heating the oven wasn't enough. My mind continued to cough up questions, and I moved nervously from one window to the next. Who shot at us? Why would someone do such a thing? Outside, flashes of the police car lights blinked across the snow-sculpted yard. Should I call Tom now, or should I wait? Would they a.s.sign this case to him?

In the bas.e.m.e.nt, I could hear Wyatt's sc.r.a.ping 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 b.u.t.ter, 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 b.u.t.ter. 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 b.u.t.ter 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 a.s.sured 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. Fort.i.tude, 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 b.u.t.ter, cut into 4 pieces 1 large egg 4 cup whipping cream 4 cup milk 2 teaspoons sugar (optional) b.u.t.ter, 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 400F.

Mix the flour, sugar, baking powder, and, a food processor fitted with a steel blade. With the motor running, add the b.u.t.ter 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 b.u.t.tered, 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 b.u.t.ter, whipped cream, and jams.

Makes 12 scones Jag's-in-the-bag Lauderdale. He shook his baby daughter until the poor child pa.s.sed 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 soph.o.m.ore on the Elk Park Prep fencing team. Sixteen-year-old Howie, who'd befriended Arch, was the product of Buddy's first marriage. Navely, 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-b.u.t.ton 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.

I shook my head, but my heart sank. Unfortunately, Charde Lauderdale was designing and implementing the makeover for the interior of Hyde Castle, where I would be catering later in the week. Charde had also overseen the redecoration of Hyde Chapel, where I would be working later today. Make that, where I was hoping to work later today, if I could find a place to cook that had heat, ovens, and windows without bullet holes.