Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

The permanent collection contained twenty-three historic cookbooks. Ten of them, plus the letters from the German-American Society and from Charlie Smythe while he was incarcerated in Leavenworth, had been in the cookbook exhibit. I clicked on The Practical Cook Book by Elizabeth Hiller, and read rapidly through the accession sheet’s description: Brown cloth-bound volume with dark brown lettering; the owner’s name and the year—Winnie Smythe, 1914—inscribed on the title page. Note from husband on second page . The measurements and overall good condition of the book and its heavily yellowed pages were scrupulously noted, including letters of the alphabet written randomly in brown ink .

The book had been donated in 1975 along with letters and other items from the old Smythe cabin, now headquarters for Merciful Migrations. At the bottom of the accession sheet was the name of the donor: Leah Smythe.

The computer file itself was made up of two pages: the accession sheet and a list of items found in what the museum called the object file . In the object file, I read, I’d find a photo of the book, photocopy of the pages, and a photocopy of a letter written from Charles Smythe to his wife from Leavenworth in 1916, mentioning the cookbook. Had I found pay dirt? Or was I on a wild-goose chase for a book dumped by Gerald Eliot’s killer somewhere the police hadn’t found yet? Why had André requested this cookbook? And why, two days later, had he ended up dead? Was there a connection?

The cookbook’s accession number was PC— 1975.011.001a . I grabbed a ballpoint, scribbled the number on a piece of paper, and shut down the computer.

I flipped through the accessions for 1975 and came upon the thick file for 75.011.001a. I checked my watch: the torte needed to be out of the oven in ten minutes. I yanked the cookbook file out of the cabinet, slammed the drawer shut, and raced to the museum exit. Before leaving, I glanced at my decoy baking pan on the kitchen table. Should I take it? Perspiration dampened my face. What about the duct tape on the door’s self-locking mechanism? I riffled the photocopies in my hand. The hundred sixty pages of the small cookbook had been copied as double pages; the whole file looked as if it contained less than a hundred pages. I closed the un locked door, trotted out to my van, and revved up the engine. I would shoot to the library and photocopy the file, bring it back, and pull the tape off the back door at the same time. Before going to the library, though, I needed to zip home, to take my torte out of the oven before it burned to a crisp.

Cooking puts such unfortunate constraints on criminal behavior.

Chapter 15

Jake howled a greeting as my van crunched into our driveway. I tucked the stolen file under my arm and prayed that Tom hadn’t noticed my absence. I also hoped he wouldn’t be there to ask what I was toting.

The heavenly smell of hot Mexican food greeted my entry through the plastic sheeting covering the hole that used to be our back door. The golden-brown cheese torte steamed on a rack on a cluttered countertop. Julian, who’d undoubtedly taken out the dish, was now gallantly offering a ceramic platter of crudités to none other than Rustine. I was so surprised at the sight of the model, I almost dropped the purloined folder.

She sat serenely at our kitchen table, her chestnut ponytail loosened to soft waves that fell just to the straps of her black sport bra. She appraised a hillock of glistening grated daikon on the platter Julian offered her. When she crossed her legs, her skintight black leggings made a silky, rustling sound. I gripped the file and tried to look delighted that Julian was making friends. The former lover of Gerald Eliot, no less, although she probably wasn’t in the mood to chat about that .

“Hey, there …” I faltered. “Welcome, Rustine. Julian? Thanks for saving the torte.” When he nodded, I asked, “Any idea where Arch is?”

“He’s with my sister Lettie on your front porch,” Rustine supplied smoothly, before Julian had a chance to answer. “Lettie and your son and I all go to Elk Park Prep, as it turns out.”

“How nice,” I murmured inanely.

“It was okay, wasn’t it?” mumbled Julian. His brown eyes crinkled in puzzlement. “Bringing people home?”

“Of course.” I was aware that Rustine was staring at me. Did I look as if I’d just committed a burglary? I wondered if any of the identifying numbers on the file tucked under my arm were visible. “So,” I asked her, too brightly, “you all just ran into each other?”

“Yep.” Rustine lifted a tiny handful of Julian’s meticulously grated carrots and inspected it.

“Are you looking forward to school starting?” I asked politely.

“Not really.” She popped the carrot shreds into her mouth and munched thoughtfully. “Our dad is supposed to get back from Alaska right after Labor Day, so the only thing Lettie and I are looking forward to is seeing him. We’ve been so busy with the shoot we haven’t been able to think about much else.”

“We’ve been so busy with the shoot?” I prompted.

Rustine shrugged. “Lettie models, too.”

Julian plunged in with: “Rustine thinks Goldilocks’ Catering might be able to book the rest of the Christmas catalog shoot. She said Litchfield’s already been out to the cabin, nosing around to pick up the assignment. Why don’t you sit down, Goldy, have some coffee with us?”

I headed across my wrecked kitchen, stepping over a hammer, two saws, and a nail gun abandoned on the floor. Cater the rest of the shoot where my teacher just died? No thanks . Julian sprang up beside the espresso machine. I said, “I’d love some coffee. I’ll be back in a sec.”

“We should call Ian or Leah just as soon as possible, Rustine says,” Julian persisted. “Want me to get a bid together? For the photo shoot?”

I stopped in the kitchen doorway, still clutching the file. Wait a minute. Litchfield had been out there. I gave Rustine a sharp look. “When exactly did Craig Litchfield go out to the Merciful Migrations cabin?”

She bent back her slender wrist in nonchalance. “Late afternoon, yesterday.” I calculated: Litchfield had gone from Andre’s condo, where he’d confronted me, directly to the cabin? Rustine went on, “Leah told me this other caterer named Litchfield offered to fix hors d’oeuvre to serve at the end ofthat day’s shooting.”

“And did he?”

She flicked a wisp of carrot off her fingertip with her tongue, then nodded. “Ian had had to send Rufus in for sub sandwiches, and they weren’t very good, so Leah told Litchfield he could heat up whatever he wanted. They were just egg rolls and spinach turnovers, but everybody liked them.” She chewed the strand of carrot. “Leah thinks Litchfield’s really cute. She offered to give him an audition for the cruise section. But it would be great if you guys did the food. Your stuff was better.”

Julian raised his eyebrows. “So, Goldy, should I put a contract together for coffee breaks and lunches for Prince and Grogan? They should be shooting through Labor Day.” He twinkled as he mouthed: More work .

“We already have catering jobs for this week,” I replied matter-of-factly. “There’ll be a huge amount to do that will take up most of our time.” I fidgeted and gripped the file. Upstairs, I could hear Tom’s low tones: He was probably on the phone. I hated to feel on the spot, but here I was. Plus, had Rustine and Julian really just run into each other in town? Why the sudden urge to have us cater at the site where my teacher had died? Did I really want this chance to be out there, as I’d thought half an hour ago?