Goldy Bear - Sticks And Scones Part 19

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 ca.s.serole 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 ca.s.seroles, 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 embarra.s.sment) tan wool bloomers - known in the golf world as plus-fours-forest-green knee socks, a tan-and-gray checked wool s.h.i.+rt, 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 d.a.m.nably 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 sauteed rice kernels in b.u.t.ter 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 b.u.t.ter, 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.

Shuttlec.o.c.k Shrimp Curry 3 tablespoons unsalted b.u.t.ter 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 teaspoon paprika teaspoon crumbled dried thyme teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, or more to taste 2 cups homemade chicken stock 1 pound (39 to 40) large peeled cooked shrimp (shrimp c.o.c.ktail-style shrimp), deveined, tails removed and reserved 1 tablespoon catsup 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 b.u.t.ter 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 sh.e.l.ls. 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-p.r.i.c.k Potato Ca.s.serole 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 b.u.t.ter cup milk (approximately) cup whipping cream 1 cup freshly shredded Fontina cheese 1/3 cup freshly shredded Parmesan cheese teaspoon salt, or to taste teaspoon white pepper, or to taste Preheat the oven to 350F. b.u.t.ter a 9 x 13-inch pan. Bring a large quant.i.ty 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, b.u.t.ter, milk, cream, cheeses, salt, and pepper. Beat until creamy and well combined. If the mixture seems dry, add a little milk. Sc.r.a.pe the potato mixture into the prepared pan. (If you are not going to bake the ca.s.serole 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 ca.s.serole has been refrigerated). The ca.s.serole should be hot through and slightly browned. Test for doneness by scooping out a small spoonful from the middle of the ca.s.serole 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 das.h.i.+ng in a black wool s.h.i.+rt 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 s.h.i.+mmered 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 a.s.siduously 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-p.r.i.c.k 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 rea.s.suring. "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 cla.s.sic 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 s.h.i.+rt. 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, gla.s.ses, 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 fas.h.i.+on. 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 makes.h.i.+ft bars, the ice, and the bottles of water and wine. Eliot had straightened the fencing mats and marked out the shuttlec.o.c.k 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 gla.s.ses 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 makes.h.i.+ft 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 s.h.i.+rt, 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 a.s.sess my appearance vis--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 ap.r.o.n, 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 ap.r.o.n, rechecked my list, made sure the roasts weren't cooking too quickly, started reheating the rice, and slid the potato ca.s.seroles 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 a.s.sembled group of parents and students. Most were listening, but a few were milling about the shuttlec.o.c.k court, where no one was playing, and the penny-p.r.i.c.k 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 compet.i.tive 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 peac.o.c.k, more for its glory than for its taste. So! In the kitchens of Hampton Court, a peac.o.c.k 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 peac.o.c.k'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 peac.o.c.k 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-peac.o.c.k look, an expression of embarra.s.sed surprise I had come to a.s.sociate with Viv ma.s.saging 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 s.e.xpots? 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 gla.s.s, 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?