Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

Boyd kept his eyes on the road and his voice low. “The department looked into Hanna because she knows the museum so well, and that’s where Gerald was killed. But since she’s familiar with the collection, they asked why a knowledgeable thief would take cookbooks, and leave those antique Hopi dolls—”

“Kachinas,” I supplied automatically.

“Right,” Boyd continued. “Those things are valued in the thousands. A person without a whole lot of money wouldn’t take a book worth sixty bucks, would she?”

“The missing cookbook has strange markings in it from Charlie Smythe.”

“So? She knew that place inside and out. She wouldn’t need to kill somebody to get pages that she knew could be photocopied from the museum files, right?”

“Gerald Eliot asked Hanna about Old West-style cooking. Making rolls. She even teased him about it. And Charlie Smythe had written to his wife in the stolen cookbook about making rolls.”

Boyd glanced at me. “So?” His response to everything, it seemed. “I don’t know anything about making rolls. You asked about Charlie Smythe and the Merciful Migrations cabin. I’ve heard the rumors about a Denver outfit wanting to put one of those paint-pellet courses out there. Don’t know if they’re true yet or not. And of course, everyone’s heard about old Charlie Smythe.” Boyd chuckled. “Guy’s a legend. He was the greediest old bastard in the West. You wouldn’t catch me trying to rob a bank when I was in my late sixties.”

“But he was caught,” I interjected.

Boyd tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Yeah, finally. Basic rule of law enforcement: A criminal keeps breaking the law until he’s in jail.”

“Keeps breaking the law. Do you know of any other crimes Charlie Smythe committed?”

“Nope. But that doesn’t mean anything. Sometimes they won’t give you a hint as to what they’ve done until they’re behind bars. Then they’ll use their stories to keep you hopping. Sometimes.”

We passed a meadow where a small herd of grazing elk was barely distinguishable from the boulders dotting the prairie grass.

“The Swiss Inn,” I said slowly, thinking of Andre’s early history. “What do you know about its background?”

Boyd said, “That place is an ongoing problem because skinheads are always trying to meet there. B’nai B’rith called us a while back, wanted to know about the swastikas on the floor of the old section, and the rumors from the war. We’ve never come up with anything except totally unsubstantiated rumors about the Heinzes, Hanna’s parents. Financially and in every other way, Hanna is absolutely as clean as a whistle. She belongs to no organizations beyond the historical society, and has been loyal and generous to them, at least until she had to quit and get a higher-paying job. Before the Swiss Inn was turned into apartments, whenever neo-Nazis tried to meet there, Hanna would call us.” He rocked the van from the dirt road onto the highway toward Aspen Meadow.

Julian groaned as he awoke. I assured him we were almost home, although in truth, I was only paying half attention. An idea was forming in my mind. Did Charlie Smythe, a greedy con man who robbed for the fun of it, still have a tale to tell?

At home, the yawning garage door revealed that the entire interior was filled with boxes: the kitchen cabinets had arrived. Just shows how eagerly retailers will part with discontinued merchandise , I thought. Boyd greeted Tom, filled him in briefly on what had happened at the cabin, and then took off with the tainted dishes. Tom handed me a note from Arch saying he and Lettie were listening to music at Todd’s house. Not to worry, he’d scrawled: Mrs. Druckman was making them sub sandwiches for lunch. Lettie would eat a sub sandwich? I doubted that. Matter of fact, what had she had at the Chinese place? Steamed squid?

Tom, after asking us how we were, went back to sawing. His old friend Sergeant Zack Armstrong had come up for the morning to help him. Where the back wall had been, there were now three dusty windows decorated with the manufacturer’s stickers. The sudden vista on our backyard opened up by the wall of glass was disconcerting. I knew I’d get used to it, even love it, so I told myself not to make any negative comments.

Zack and Tom had moved on to nailing down the strips of oak that were to be our new floor. Unfinished and dusty, it was hard to tell how they would look. Tom had brought in one of the cherry cabinets; it lay tilted against a hole-pocked wall. Julian and I gushed over how stunning the dark, carved box was. Tom, sweaty and intent, thanked us and then asked us to let him get back to work.

Julian and I brought our crates of dirty dishes through the front door, wiped them with wet paper towels to remove dirt and food particles, and washed them in the downstairs bathtub. If only the health inspector could see us now . … I shuddered. It was nearly four o’clock by the time we finished. Julian offered to pick up Arch, take Lettie home, then get pizza and calzones for dinner. I handed him money from my wallet. It would appear that remodeling a kitchen, in addition to being expensive, was fattening.

While Tom and Zack banged and hammered on the first floor, I took a long shower, wrapped myself in a thick terry-cloth robe, and settled down in our bedroom. First I called Lutheran Hospital, where the E.M.S. said they were taking Leah. No one at the hospital could give me any information yet, unfortunately. Next, I pulled out the packet Leah had given me. The disheveled pages of Andre’s menus and bills to Ian’s Images were meticulously numbered and dated but out of order. I put them in order and opened my calendar. I needed to reconstruct what André had told me about his meal-service plans, and how those had been disrupted by Ian’s breaking the window with the temper tantrum that had also cost him a camera and a whole lot of glass.

The first day I had worked with André had been Monday, the eighteenth of August. I smoothed out the menu for that day and felt a twinge when I read Models’ Mushroom Soup and Goldy’s Vegetarian Dish —the Florentine cheesecakes. I traced the letters with my fingers, admiring André’s faithfully kept resolution to write as well as speak English. Burnt Sugar Cake . He’d given me careful instructions on not burning myself. I steered away from that particular irony While noting that beside the lunch menu for Tuesday, a different hand had written: André: Could you please serve lunch inside for the next 3 days? We’ll be working on the deck and need the space. L . Leah. That day, he had proceeded with Vichyssoise, Chilled Stuffed Artichokes, Marinated Beef Salad, Brioche, Fresh Fruit Skewers , and Grand Marnier Buttercream Cookies .

On Wednesday the twentieth, he’d done a coffee break that consisted of Scallion Frittata, Fresh-fruit Pineapple Boats , and Scones with Lemon Curd . Wednesday’s lunch had featured Cream of Corn Soup, Lump Crab Salad, Green Beans Vinaigrette, Dill Rolls , and Chocolate Cake . On Thursday he’d treated the assembly to Spiral-cut Ham, Fruit Plate , and Pecan Rolls for the coffee break, While lunch had been an offering of Western-style Barbecue Ribs, Coleslaw, Potato Salad, Corn on the Cob , and Brownies . American cooking? Incredible.

Friday we had catered together at the Homestead Museum, heard Sylvia’s sad tale of her violated museum, seen the children model. And he’d had his miniattack.

He’d died before serving the Monday coffee break. He’d written the prep plans, though: Crème Brûlée Cups for 20 — start Saturday . To that he’d added Peach Compote—make Sunday . Heavy on the cholesterol and sugar, but that was the French way.