Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

“You can be my advocate.”

He smiled at me. “Can’t. I’m your new kitchen contractor.”

“Don’t joke.” “I’m not.”

Julian and Arch banged in before he could reply, laden with three bags of carry-out Italian food: ziti with marinara, fettucine alfredo, pizza bianca. I looked at my watch: incredibly, almost half an hour had gone by. The few crackers with cheese had filled me up. But I ached to be with people.

Arch gave me a brief hug and whispered that I was a good mom, his standard assurance in rough times that things would turn out fine. His cheek was like sandpaper. Although he had no beard yet and his voice only occasionally cracked, he had begun to shave with great hopefulness on his fourteenth birthday. The razor had been a gift from Tom; I would never have thought of it.

“André was old, wasn’t he?” My son’s voice was anxious, even though he had only met André a few times during my stint at the restaurant. Still, he wanted to put a spin on sudden death. “I mean, he had retired and everything, right?”

“Yes, hon.”

Julian dressed a green salad with balsamic vinaigrette, heated some breadsticks I’d made the previous week, and set out all the food. When we said grace, I offered a silent prayer for Pru. Despite the problems besetting our family, at least I had companionship and comfort. Except for her nurse, Pru now had no one, and my heart ached for her.

As Julian expertly twined fettucine onto a fork, he again brought up the following day’s tasting party. “Thought we could do that fantastic grilled fish, with grilled polenta and a fruit salsa. What do you think, Goldy? I called your meat and seafood supplier, and she had fresh escolar. I had her deliver five pounds of it while you were out at Andre’s place. She said she’d put it on your bill. I hope that’s okay.” He paused, eager but embarrassed. “I mean, does this sound good to you? We do sort of need to discuss stuff.”

I struggled to remember the menu we’d finally decided on for the postponed tasting party. Oh, yes: I had been planning to roast a pork tenderloin and serve it with Cumberland sauce. Pork is plentiful and inexpensive in the fall, and people enjoy its heartiness when the weather turns colder. But the escolar would be good for dieters, or at least for people who think eating fish entitles them to dessert. “I don’t know about grilling fish at the Homestead,” I told Julian uncertainly. “But it might work. Maybe with an exotic slaw to complement the salsa and polenta.”

Tom smiled and I knew what he was thinking: At least we weren’t talking about death or remodeling.

“You can grill at the museum,” Julian said authoritatively. “I know because I went over in the van once your supplier brought the escolar. I had a chat with the curator lady, Sylvia. Took her some truffles left from lunch.”

“The Soirée committee might see that as cheating,” I pointed out gently.

“No, it isn’t,” Julian protested. “Besides, Sylvia’s not even one of the people who decides.” He looked at me innocently. “Is she?”

“No, but she’ll probably be there and influence the decision-makers, who are Mark, Weezie Harrington, and Edna Hardcastle.”

“Oh, brother,” said Julian.

“Do we have to talk about this?” Arch piped up.

“Can’t we have some of the truffles, too?”

“Absolutely,” Julian replied. He retrieved a foil-covered platter, and uncovered his special dark truffles dipped in white chocolate.

“You are too good,” I said to Julian as I bit into the exquisitely smooth, densely creamy ganache .

“Sylvia Bevans loved them. Had a couple while she told me her problems.” He measured out coffee for espresso. He pulled the shots, then dumped them over glasses half-filled with ice and whole milk. “Oh, by the way, she said they found one of the missing cookbooks.”

“What?” I demanded. “When? Which one?”

“A piece of evidence was returned?” Tom asked sharply. “The department found it at the site, or Sylvia had it all along?”

“That Watkins Cookbook she kept complaining had been swiped, remember?” He handed the iced coffees to Tom and me, fixed one for himself and dosed it with sugar, then sank into a chair. “The cops told her they found it in the back of Mr. Burr’s truck. But they finished their search of the house and guest house, and never found the last one. They told her it’s probably gone for good, tossed out in the road or something.”

“Thrown out of the truck?” I asked, incredulous.

“Gosh, Goldy, I’m sorry. Mrs. Bevans doesn’t believe someone could have tossed her beloved copy of The Practical Cook Book out on the road, but if the killer was that stupid, she said to ask Tom if he could search for it. She wants everything back the way it was. The woman was a wreck. Remember all that complaining she was doing to André? Since the cops think the museum theft was just an attempt to cover up the murder, they’re sticking with their the-last-cookbook-got-chucked-away theory. Sylvia doesn’t care about their theory. She says she has to have The Practical Cook Book , because some old handwriting of Charlie Smith is scrawled across one of the recipes. Who’s Charlie Smith?”

“Smythe. Grandfather of Leah Smythe and Weezie Smythe Harrington,” I supplied. “He built the Merciful Migrations cabin.” Where André died .

“Oh,” said Julian. “According to Sylvia, Charlie Smythe’s handwriting could make the cookbook real valuable, like a collector’s item, at least in Aspen Meadow. And here’s something else: Sylvia said André called her up this past weekend, after we catered together at the Homestead? He said he was interested in some recipes.”

“Some recipes?” I echoed.

“Yep. André asked if Sylvia had photocopies of their historic cookbooks in the museum files, and if so, could he have his own photocopy of The Practical Cook Book.”

“You’re kidding. A copy of the entire cookbook?”

“Nope, I’m not kidding, and yep, the whole cookbook. Sylvia told him sure, she’d make a copy for him. But he never showed up to get it.” He gave me a wide eyed look. “I’m really sorry I brought this up. You probably don’t want to be reminded of your teacher right now.”

“Why would André want a photocopy of The Practical Cook Book?” I asked, but of course none of them had a clue. Nor did I, since I knew that André never gave two turkey drumsticks about American cooking. Plus he prided himself on being a chef of great stature. I could not imagine why he would want photocopied recipes for dishes he would have scoffed at: white bread, brown sauce, yellow cake. “This doesn’t make sense,” I said to Tom.

“It’s strange,” he agreed. “Four cookbooks are stolen. Eliot is killed. All but one cookbook are retrieved. A chef who asks for a photocopy of the last missing cookbook—which is almost a hundred years old—turns up dead before he can get it.”

Tom dialed the sheriff’s department. I used my business line to try to track down Sylvia Bevans.

Chapter 13

While we were on the phone, Julian insisted on doing the dishes. I tapped the counter impatiently. Sylvia now claims The Practical Cook Book is a collector’s item … and André wanted a photocopy of it … Could André really have cared about early twentieth-century American cookery? An answering machine picked up at the Homestead Museum. I hung up and dialed Sylvia’s home. The phone rang and rang. The curator, apparently, did not embrace telecommunications technology.

Charlie Smythe’s handwriting across one of the recipes makes it valuable … so what? To the best of my knowledge, André had never been in the Homestead before Friday. He’d never seen the cookbook, or any recipes therein, had he? Who would know about this? Someone in the Furman County Historical Society? Marla. But I got her machine, too. Was the IRS holding her hostage? I stared glumly at the hole in our back wall as I listened to my yet about the incriminating evidence retrieved from his pickup. There was no way Cameron would have staged the museum burglary and then left the old cookbook in his truck. So where was the fourth cookbook? And who on earth had reason to steal it? I left a message on Marla’s machine asking her to call, and hung up.