"Now, Charde," Eliot began soothingly. Today he wore tweed pants and a smoking jacket. Did the man even own a pair of jeans? He said, "You and Buddy and Goldy have merely had an unfortunate misunderstanding. Howie, chap, come on over here and help me figure out how to defrost this thing in the microwave."

Charde snorted; Buddy crossed his arms and didn't budge. Michaela set her lips in a scowl. Howie and Eliot busied themselves with the microwave while Sukie ran the faucet full blast to rinse out the coffeepot. When the microwave beeped and Eliot pulled out the strudel, poor Howie looked from one adult to another, probably hoping someone would somehow break the tension.

"Uh," Howie said to me, his face crimson, "Arch is doing real well with the foil. The whole team is amazed at how he's come along."

"I'm glad," I said. Since no one had told me what they were doing in the kitchen at this hour, I ventured, "Do you all have an early practice today?"

"No, no," Howie replied, as Eliot handed him a piece of pastry that looked like iced cardboard. "I was just working with Michaela in her loft. My dad and Charde wanted to watch. We're going to school as soon as Charde leaves her stuff ... and then I guess we'll see you, uh - "

Sukie finished drying the coffeepot and wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n. "Buddy, Charde, Howie," she murmured. "Goldy and her family and her friend are staying with us through the fencing banquet."

"That's a mistake," Charde announced. I turned away and searched in the Hydes' refrigerator for unsalted b.u.t.ter and eggs. When I headed for the mixer, Charde c.o.c.ked her head at Eliot. "I hope she's paying you rent, Eliot."

Michaela interrupted to say it was time for her to leave. After she clomped out, Eliot slumped at the kitchen table, looking as chilled as the strudel. I pulled a loaf pan out of a cupboard and glanced at Buddy, who was stroking his dimpled chin and frowning. Should I ask him where little Patty was? With a nanny? Better off with a babysitter than with her parents, right? I rummaged in the cupboards and pulled out two types of dried fruit: pineapple and sour cherries. I found a cutting board and a knife, and placed everything on the kitchen table across from Eliot. Just concentrate on the cooking.

Buddy Lauderdale sauntered forward and pulled a fat catalog out from under the mountain of paint chips. With annoying deliberateness, he laid it on top of the cutting board. Then he asked in that oily voice 1 knew only too well, "Ever heard of Marvin, Goldy? They make windows."

Taken aback, I stared at the catalog jacket for Marvin Windows, cas.e.m.e.nts and bays floating against a background of blue sky.

"Are you trying to tell me something, Mr. Lauderdale?" I managed to say. "Or would you rather tell my husband, upstairs?"

"Oh, yeah," said Buddy, as he tapped his cheek in mock thoughtfulness, "how is your husband?"

I turned to Sukie, who was standing in front of the microwave cabinet. "I need to make a call. Someplace private."

"Don't you dare call the police again," Charde Lauderdale shrieked at me as she began gathering up her swatches and chips. She stopped only long enough to stab a scarlet-painted nail in my direction. "I am a good person. I don't want you to get in my way anymore. I don't want to run into you at Elk Park Prep, I don't want to run into you here, I don't want to see you at the luncheon tomorrow. You stay out of our lives, do you understand?"

"Please, people - " Eliot faltered. He had a pained expression on his face, like a king whose courtiers' conflicts were giving him a headache.

"I'm going to Elk Park Prep today, I'm staying here, and I'll be catering the lunch tomorrow," I informed Charde, getting angry myself. "So if you don't want to run into me, you'd better stay home. Oh, and that includes the banquet Friday night, too."

Sukie hustled over to Buddy, Howie, and Charde, helped scoop up the paint chips and catalogs, and murmured about coming another time to work on the new color schemes. Howie muttered that he needed to get to school, and Eliot announced that Buddy should take a look at his car. When they all left, I didn't offer any goodbyes.

Instead, I returned to the sweet bread I intended to make for breakfast. The combination of dried pineapple and cherries would make a not-too-sweet-or-too-tart, gloriously colorful loaf. I closed my eyes and imagined holding a bread slice up to the light.

Don't think about the Lauderdales, just cook.

I chopped the fragrant dried fruits, set them to soak, and revved up the mixer. The beaters whipped through the b.u.t.ter and sugar until it resembled spun gold. By the time I was adding flour, leavening, and orange juice, I had a name for the concoction: Stained-Gla.s.s Sweet Bread.

"Dear Goldy, I am so sorry about the Lauderdales," Eliot announced in his kingly, regretful voice, as he swung through the door from the dining room. "Everything to them is a drama, and I do get tired of being their audience. We were at their New Year's Eve party, but did not see the conflict that so upset everyone." I stifled a response: No one saw it except for me. That's the problem. Meanwhile, Eliot turned his attention to the mixer bowl. "Let's chat about something more pleasant. Historic menus. "

I nodded an a.s.sent, finished scooping the thick batter into the prepared pan, and decided to let it rise a while to lighten the texture.

"May I use the phone first?" I asked him. "I need to make a couple of important calls. I'd like to do it where I won't be interrupted."

He wrinkled his brow, a sure sign of mental wheels whizzing. Is my caterer spreading more bad publicity for my castle? "Yes, yes, of course," he said, with effort. "My office is more private."

I set the timer, glanced at my watch, grabbed my extra sweater, and followed him out. We ran into Julian in the hallway. His brown hair was wet from his postswim shower, and he looked dapper in black chef pants and a white shirt. I begged him to preheat the oven, and put in the bread. He said he'd love to, then whistled cheerfully as he banged into the kitchen.

"d.a.m.n!" he yelled as the door swung closed. "It's cold in here! Who opened that window again?"

"Eliot?" I asked as he held open a door that led through the courtyard. "If you've got a loose catch on a window, why don't you have it fixed?"

Eliot's voice was rueful. "It's original gla.s.s."

Stained-Gla.s.s Sweet Bread 1 cups dried tart cherries cup chopped dried pineapple 4 tablespoons(1/2 stick) unsalted b.u.t.ter, softened 1 1/2 cups sugar 2 eggs 4 cups all-purpose flour (High alt.i.tude: add 2 tablespoons) 4 teaspoons baking powder (High alt.i.tude: 1 tablespoon) teaspoon baking soda 2 teaspoons salt 1 1/2 cups orange juice Place the cherries and chopped pineapple in a large bowl and cover with boiling water. Let stand 15 minutes, then drain and pat dry with paper towels. Set aside. b.u.t.ter and flour two 8 1/2 x 4 1/2-inch loaf pans. Set aside. Cream the b.u.t.ter with the sugar until well blended. (Mixture will look like wet sand.) Add the eggs and beat well. Sift the dry ingredients together twice. Add the flour mixture alternately to the creamed mixture with the orange juice, beginning and ending with the dry ingredients. Stir in the fruits, blending well Divide evenly between the pans. Allow to stand for 20 minutes. While the mixture is standing, preheat the oven to 350F. Bake the breads for 45 to 55 minutes, until toothpicks inserted in the loaves come out clean. Cool in the pans 10 minutes, then allow to cool completely on racks.

Makes 2 loaves Outside, a bitter wind smacked our faces. I pulled on my sweater and reflected that if I'd made millions selling some old letter, I'd get a new kitchen window, no matter what anyone told me about preservation. I gasped at the cold and caught the word "shortcut," as a cloud of steam issued from Eliot's mouth. I struggled to match his long strides as we trotted along an ice-edged brick pathway through the Tudor garden. Overhead, a red-tailed hawk teetered on the wind. Below, the snow-dusted, dun-colored plant stalks rattled and swayed.

"Even with all the money we made from the sale of our famous letter," Eliot called back to me, as if reading my mind, "we did not have sufficient funds to redo the entire castle. You see the north half of the east range?" I hugged myself, turned, and looked back obediently. "We did the first floor where the dining room and kitchen are. Above that, it's all closed off." He pointed to the window that Marla had banged on when she'd yelled at him. "That's the south side of the east range," Eliot continued. My eyes swept over the rapiers on the arch supports. "There, where you're staying in the guest suites, we re-did the upper story. On the south range - " He pointed to his right, to the wall with the postern gate " - we did restore both stories."

Okay, okay, my mind screamed. I don't need background on the refurbishing effort when I'm freezing to death!

"The Great Hall on the east side of the south range is on the second floor," Eliot blithely persisted, "while four conference rooms are below it. On the west side of the postern gate," his hand arched to the right, "there are the swimming pool and locker rooms on the lower level, and conference rooms above. My study is in the west range" - he gestured farther to the right, directly across the courtyard from the kitchen - "where we've only redone half of the lower story. Further down the hall from my study is Sukie's and my room."

"And Michaela?" I couldn't help asking. "Where does she live?"

He gave me a sharp look, then pointed back to the gatehouse. "She occupies the western section of the north range, including the gatehouse. According to my grandfather's will, Vladimir Kirovsky's descendants may stay there as long as their family remain the castle caretakers. Sukie and I intend to hire a whole staff of caretakers, of course, as soon as the conversion to a conference center is complete." He exhaled without saying where all those worker-bees were slated to reside. "And you've already seen our lovely living room, decorated by Charde, who does have talent, even if she's a tad rough around the edges."

Not merely rough around the edges, my mind supplied, but sharp and dangerous.

We entered the arcade on the west side of the courtyard. Eliot tapped numbers on a security keypad beside a ma.s.sive wooden door. "Of course," he added, "Charde does disrupt us sometimes, coming in unannounced to try new paints and toss swatches all over the place. I b.u.mped into her one night when I was coming over to work on my jams. I didn't even realize Sukie had given her the security code, but Sukie said Charde insisted, that it would make the decorating effort easier for everyone."

Doggone it, I thought as I moved through the wooden doorway into a hallway lit by new windows on the arcade side. The last thing I could tolerate in the middle of the night was crashing into Charde Lauderdale. Eliot touched a switch, and electrified torches on the far wall illuminated tapestries of battle scenes.

"Mr. Hyde," I began, as I hugged myself to warm up. "We're very thankful you could have us here. But if Charde and Buddy Lauderdale can't be kept out of the castle, then my husband and I need to take Arch and Julian somewhere else. The Lauderdales and I... are in conflict, as you know, from that New Year's party. They might have shot at our house. They might even be the ones who shot Tom."

Eliot's brown eyes shone with indulgence. "They would never do such things. In any case, dear Goldy, you, your husband, your child, your dear young friend - you are all perfectly safe. Each suite has a security pad outside the room, did Sukie not show you? You determine your own code. Once you set it inside your room, no one can come through your door. The instructions are in your night tables." He waved at a tapestry of a unicorn. "When Charde figures out the colors for the last paint jobs, we'll change the gatehouse codes and she won't be back."

I asked hesitantly, "How much do you really know about the Lauderdales?"

"We've been friends ... well, since all the hoopla about the letter, and I bought our first Jaguar. I'll tell you what I know: The Lauderdales are so concerned about looking rich, they're lavishing money they don't have on charity. For example, we're happy Buddy helped pay for the refurbishment of the labyrinth. But when I tried to convince him to have a salesman recognition dinner here, he said entertaining his employees was not something he really did. My take on it was that a salesmen's dinner doesn't pack as much prestigious punch as a lavish gift to the church, and therefore isn't worth more debt."

"Do you know I saw him shake his baby until she pa.s.sed out? That he was arrested?"

"Of course," Eliot replied, with more regal regret. "And I know his reputation has suffered. But I can't believe that he would go out shooting windows and people."

I shook my head. How did you get through to someone who believed the only problem with being caught half killing a child was what it did to your reputation? Without further discussion, Eliot ushered me into his study, a large, mahogany-paneled room. Outside, the clouds had softened to luminescent puffs, and light streamed through a leaded-gla.s.s bay window. In the room itself, the illuminated bookcases and ma.s.sive desk were decorated with models of ships and castles, bra.s.s flasks and horns, and other British-male accoutrements. Royal-blue carpeting, blue-and-gold draperies, bra.s.s fixtures, and oxblood leather chairs all screamed English Club - no I doubt exactly what Eliot had told Chardt he wanted.

"Lovely," I breathed.

"Thank you." He seated himself at his gargantuan desk and launched into an explanation of what we needed to do. "The lunch menu for the labyrinth donors we have all set, with two minor changes. The priest from Saint Luke's is allowing me to give a pitch about the conference center after the lunch." Eliot sniffed. "Awfully big of him, seeing as how Saint Luke's now possesses a genuine medieval chapel. Anyway, Sukie would like to simplify things and offer caviar with toast points, onion toasts, and English cheese puffs for hors d'oeuvres." He waved his hand. "We already have these from mail order. But we still need a first course, which should be English-y."

English-y. I nodded.

"Do you have a recipe on your disk for an Elizabethan-style soup?" he asked, worried. "A soup not running and not standing, as they say?"

"I do," I said, thankful I had picked up the disk, even if I'd gotten banged up in the process. "How about a hot cream of chicken soup made with rosemary and thyme, both herbs mentioned by Shakespeare?"

"Wonderful," Eliot replied with a sigh. "Now, for Friday's plum tart." He opened a drawer, drew out a small bra.s.s box, then dumped the sparkling contents onto a leather-edged blue blotter. "Zirconia," he said proudly, "to be tucked into the plums."

I nodded, not having a clue how I would conceal the stones so that guests wouldn't accidentally ingest them. "Okey-doke."

"Now," Eliot continued, as he fingered a miniature bra.s.s cannon, "for the banquet. We can't just have food; the fencing team must have entertainment and games. You don't suppose the boys and girls would be interested in English country dances, do you?"

"Uh...no."

"It's too bad we don't have a small troupe of players to act for us." He tapped a long finger on the leather blotter. "Or better, musicians."

"Sukie said you were researching games?" I ventured. "I seem to remember the Elizabethans loved to make wagers. Right?"

He looked as if I'd said excrement. "Wagers? Ah, yes, I suppose I do know they were gamblers. But I can't allow the castle to be the scene of - "

"I'm not talking Las Vegas. You should steer clear of financial wagers, because the parents won't be happy if the kids beg for dough. But how about some small ball games, in addition to the fencing demonstration?"

"Brilliant!" he exclaimed, slapping the desk. "Penny-p.r.i.c.k! Shuttlec.o.c.k! We'll use half of the Great Hall for the games! Can you give the food some game-playing names?"

"We can have the veal roast with ..." I frowned, then inspiration struck. "Penny-p.r.i.c.k Potato Ca.s.serole. Raisin Rice with ... Shuttlec.o.c.k Shrimp Curry. I don't know if you can give molded strawberry salads, steamed broccoli, or chutney and curry side dishes Tudor names. But after the meal, we'll play games and have the plum tart."

"Perfect!" he cried. "I am so delighted I employed you!" He beamed, I beamed, the sun beamed in on us.

Then he announced he had to go figure out how to arrange the Great Hall. He managed another regal wave, this time in the direction of the telephone, and told me to feel free to make my calls. Mi palacio es su palacio, he announced grandly, then departed.

The Furman County Sheriff's Department was first on my list. Once through, I pressed the numbers for Sergeant Boyd's extension.

"Listen," I said after he'd asked about Tom and I'd a.s.sured him Tom was on the mend, "you know those intelligence files you keep on people?"

"For crying out loud, Goldy, you know I can't give you a file."

"I just want to know what you've got in one. Viv Martini."

"Your ex's new girlfriend? How do you think that's going to look, somebody hears I'm giving you that information?"

"Sergeant Boyd, Captain Lambert already told me she slept with Ray Wolff and possibly Andy Balachek. But now she's doing a complicated real estate deal with John Richard Korman. To be specific, she plunked down a hundred fifty thousand dollars to go in on a condo sale with him in Beaver Creek. He never agrees to joint ownership, so something's going on."

"Where'd she get a hundred fifty thousand bucks?" Boyd's voice was distant. He was riffling papers.

"You tell me."

"We watched her bank account after those stamps were stolen. Nothing happened."

"Well," I said, "did you all check any stores besides p.a.w.nshops after the stamp heist?"

"I don't know. Our guys are supposed to, but sometimes they don't have time to get to specialty places." He sighed. "Okay, here's the file. You breathe a word of this, I'm fired. Viv's been hooked up with Wolff since she got out of high school. But, let's see... it says here a snitch in Golden put Viv Martini back... okay, seven years ago, she was shacked up with your good buddy there at the castle, Eliot Hyde."

"What.?" I glanced around the room. Any listening devices? Where had Eliot gone?

"That's what it says."

I gulped. "So Andy Balachek and Tom were shot right near Eliot's property, and Viv Martini, who's been involved with Andy, possibly, and definitely Andy's accomplice, Ray, who was arrested by Tom, this same Viv has an old relationship with Eliot Hyde? Did you guys question Eliot after Tom was shot?"

"Of course we did! He claims not to have seen Viv in years."

I shook my head, puzzled. "What possible attraction could there have been between Eliot Hyde and Viv Martini?"

"For crying out loud, Goldy! She's good-looking, he's not bad, he wanted a cute girlfriend and she figured he was loaded. Our snitch says she wanted him to start an illegal casino there. This was just when gambling was legalized, but only for Central City and Blackhawk. The snitch says Viv wanted to accommodate the home-town gamblers at the castle. They could use all those halls and rooms to hide people, in case of a cop raid."

Remembering how Eliot had blanched at my mention of wagers, I still felt skeptical. "Was this casino-castle her idea? Or Ray Wolff's?"

"Who knows? All I know is Eliot nixed it, said it would make him look bad if he was caught, and he couldn't afford that." Boyd paused, and I thought of Eliot's sensitivity regarding reputation. Boyd asked, "How'd you find out about the condo?"

"I have my snitches, too, Sergeant." When he sighed again, I asked, "What about those specialty stores, then? Any stamps show up there?"

"Why, you got something I need to know?" When I said I didn't, he went on: "The insurer for The Stamp Fox is hiring a private investigator, and has promised to share anything he gets. We're concentrating on the investigations into the deaths of the driver and Balachek."

"You must have investigated Viv Martini."

"Of course. She was sleeping with your ex-husband all night Sunday night. And they weren't getting much sleep, according to your ex. Please don't interrogate either one of them."

"Whatever you say," I replied, then pretended to ponder a bit. "Listen," I said, trying to sound thoughtful, "do Buddy and Charde Lauderdale have alibis for the time Tom was shot? A little while ago, they were both here at Hyde Castle, giving me a hard time."

"What kind of hard time?"

I told him about the incident in the Hydes' kitchen, to which Boyd replied, "Their alibi is each other. Oh, and we checked on Sukie Hyde's first husband. One of his guys was on the roof with him when he stepped on a stray wire from a bathroom fan. n.o.body seemed to think it was suspicious." He paused. "But here's something related to the stamp heist. Our friend Buddy Lauderdale was in The Stamp Fox a month before the theft, asking about values. He said he wanted to invest in stamps, but never did." When I made a hmm-ing noise, Boyd warned me to be careful, that Buddy Lauderdale was reputedly one of the best shots in the county. I promised him I would be, and signed off.

One thing was certain. There was no way I was waiting for some faraway insurance company to get around to hiring an investigator. Eliot's lowest desk drawer yielded a Yellow Pages, and under "Stamps-Collectors," I found four shops in the Denver area. I blithely let my fingers do the walking while presenting myself as Francesca Chastain, collector of any stamp with a picture of royalty. Price, I said, was no object. Even over the phone, you could hear those store owners' hearts speed up.

The first three, general dealers in stamps and coins, said they hadn't seen a cover with Queen Victoria on it anywhere but at stamp shows. But the fourth philatelic dealer, an estate auction agent named Troy McIntire operating out of his home in Golden, gave me an evasive reply.

"What exactly are you looking for?" McIntire demanded.

"I collect anything with kings or queens on the stamps. What I'm especially looking for is covers with Queen Victoria on them."

"I might be able to help you," McIntire said, with a forced reluctance that sounded cagey. "If price really is no object, and the price is paid in cash."

I eagerly made an appointment for that afternoon, then leafed through the phone book for Southwest Hospital. I talked to three nurses before I located the flight nurse who had helped Tom. Her name was Norma Randall. She was on duty on the third floor, and said she could talk for five minutes.

"The cop," Norma Randall said, remembering. "Day before yesterday? Tom? Couldn't forget him. Or you, either. He's doing okay?"

"Yes," I replied. "Thanks to you all. You... seemed to be... more experienced than most flight nurses." Once you pa.s.sed 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?"