Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

“Goldy, I’m not the one—”

I took another steadying breath, inhaling the tart-sweet orange scent, and ordered myself to be patient. “But you are the one, Sheila. If you rule Andre’s death an accident, no one at the department will do anything. Tom’s not allowed to poke around. He certainly doesn’t want me to go out to the cabin to nose around the kitchen—”

“You’d better not,” she cautioned.

“So when was the last time anyone out at the cabin saw André alive?”

“Friday. André called Rufus Driggle on Sunday night and asked to be let in early to do some prep work. Rufus opened the gate for him at about seven, and then left to get film. The cabdriver confirms the gate was open when they arrived. When Rufus came back at nine, André was already dead.”

“And Pru didn’t tell you he’d burned himself over the weekend?”

“Nope. I asked her specifically.”

“Is anybody at Ian’s Images admitting they were out at the cabin early Monday?”

“No.”

“All right then, listen to this,” I went on urgently. “Within an hour of Pru leaving the morgue, Craig Litchfield practically broke down her door, trying to buy André’s client list and recipe book. The guy is bad news, Sheila. I wouldn’t put anything past him. Where was Litchfield early Monday morning when André died? Has anybody asked?”

“Goldy, look. I like you and trust you. So I’m going to tell you that Craig Litchfield called Andy Fuller yesterday and complained that you should be investigated. I only know because Andy ran it by me. I told him it was nonsense, just sour grapes from one of your competitors. But Litchfield said you can’t deal with competition. He told Andy about some incident with a cake plate?” I groaned. “Litchfield claims you were at the Hibbard house yourself trying to get the clients and the recipes, and that you knew Andre’s schedule, so you had the means, motive, and opportunity to kill him.”

Stunned, I was speechless for a moment. “Sheila, you know I went to be with Pru. And André’s always given me all the recipes I’ve ever asked for. Fuller can’t, the department can’t—”

“Of course not, and that’s exactly what I told him. But you see how it looks. So if you’d rather not be investigated as the leading suspect in a homicide case, you’d better let me close the books on André Hibbard’s death as an accidental overdose of nitroglycerin. An accidental death, Goldy,” she said meaningfully. “Now, please, I have a ton of work. I have to go.” She hung up.

I cursed silently and stared at the kitchen timer as it ticked down to the cake being done. Think , I told myself. First Gerald Eliot, then André. You don’t just have two unexplained deaths like this, with so many connections and yet no connections… .

The cake was almost done; the oven would still be hot; I decided to make us an early dinner. Anyway, I thought better when I cooked. How about a rich Mexican torte layered with chiles, Fontina cheese, and tortillas—a creamy entrée even a vegetarian could love? I grated cheese and chopped chiles, and as I did, I reconstructed what I knew.

Gerald Eliot had been doing his usual on-again, off-again remodeling work at the Merciful Migrations cabin. And for Cameron Burr. And for me. Supposedly, he’d been having an affair with the one-name model, Rus tine. And he had been working as a security guard at the museum, where he’d been killed, and from where his body had been moved. There had been a burglary at the museum. Or had there? Annie-the-volunteer-secretary had insisted Cameron Burr wouldn’t have made it look as if a burglary had occurred, when his real motive was murder.

I beat eggs with half-and-half I didn’t know what the motive was, didn’t even know which crime had come first, the murder or the burglary. Nor did I know how the strange death of André—who’d incomprehensibly asked for a copy of the one cookbook that had been stolen and was still missing—was related to either. But I owed it to André to answer all these questions. If only I could snoop around at that damn cabin! But I couldn’t, at least not yet. Right now, the only thing that might help would be to have a look at some evidence, or facsimiles of evidence. I slid the cake out, turned the temperature down slightly, put the torte in, and set the timer for forty minutes. Then I ran upstairs to get the white gloves I’d bought to wear to Arch’s confirmation.

It shouldn’t take me that long to break into the museum, I reflected as I hustled out to the van with the gloves tucked in my pocket. After all, they no longer had a security guard. And because that very afternoon, after the tasting, I’d duct-taped over the Homestead kitchen door’s so-called self-locking mechanism.

The museum closed at five, so the parking lot was predictably empty. Still, I exhaled in relief. I pushed open the door I’d rigged and strode purposefully into the kitchen, trying not to think of what Tom would say if he knew what I was doing. My story, just in case I was caught, was that I’d left a baking pan in the kitchen. Which I had, just before I’d taped the door.

Tom had told me that the forcible entry on the night of Gerald Eliot‘s death had been through the front door, which opened onto a reception area adjoining the octagonal living area, at the opposite end of the museum. Wouldn’t the president of the historical society have had keys to that door? Maybe, maybe not, since the museum was government property. On the other hand, the president of the historical society would certainly have figured out how to break through the kitchen, wouldn’t he? I didn’t know. Nor did I know whether the intruder had been deliberately lying in wait for Gerald Eliot to make his rounds, as Andy Fuller contended. Was it possible Gerald surprised someone in the middle of a burglary?

I trotted into the dining room. This was where the struggle and strangling had taken place. I looked carefully past the police ribbons. Tiny shards of glass were still visible in the doorframes of the two violated display cases.

My watch indicated I’d been away from the house for fifteen minutes. In my mind’s eye, the rich, creamy custard in our oven began to puff. The cookbooks … Where was the photocopy Sylvia had made for André from the files? No telling. And why would he want it, anyway? Wasn’t what was valuable the cookbook itself?

Well. I knew enough from working as a docent here that it was possible to find what I wanted. And what I wanted was what André had requested, although I didn’t have a clue why he’d requested it. I walked quickly to the historical society office, which smelled distinctly of dog, and scrutinized the four file cabinets.

Correspondence between the historical society and donors, government officials, and teachers was filed by years. Each drawer of the cabinets nearest the wall contained three years of correspondence. No help there. I headed to the other file cabinets, and was immediately rewarded for my efforts by tabs for Acquisition Files: Permanent Collection .

Unfortunately, each of the files within the drawers was labeled only by series of numbers. I pulled out one and read that 90.12.3 was a Hopi basket plaque acquired in 1990; 90.14.6 was apparently a Colt revolver donated in 1990. I pulled all the drawers open: all filed by number. I had no idea when The Practical Cook Book had been given to the museum. And there was no way I would be able to go through all these files, even if I stayed all night.

My eyes locked on Annie’s computer. As a docent, I’d never used it. But if a cross-reference for the files existed, the museum staff would surely enter it into the computer, wouldn’t they? On the other hand, Sylvia didn’t strike me as the data-processing type; maybe she left it all to Annie. I pressed buttons to boot the computer up, held my breath, then clicked on Permanent Collection. No password! That would teach them. I entered a word-search for cookbook .