Prime Cut gbcm-8

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Are you really feeling all right?” I asked André as we prepared to serve the food.

  “Goldy!” he admonished me. “When will you learn to believe me? My doctor says I am fine, much improved now that I have begun to work again. What am I always telling you?”

  “Let the mood fit the food,” I replied promptly.

  “All right, then,” my mentor fumed as he readjusted his tray. “Stop thinking all the time about death.”

  Chapter 9

  Just before ten, we carried the frosted blondies, the platter of Andre’s sour cream muffins, the tureen of yogurt, and a silver bowl piled with fresh kiwi, pineapple, cantaloupe, and a variety of berries to the mahogany table in the Homestead dining room. The dining room was a high-ceilinged space that had been added to the original 1866 ranch house by later occupants. Bright sunlight filtered through the row of wavy-glassed windows and shone on polished dark wood paneling. Along the opposite wall, light glinted off glass-fronted hutches displaying Old West artifacts. Unfortunately, the shelves of two battered cabinets lacked their glass and had gaps where the missing cookbooks had been displayed. Yellow police ribbons cordoned off the space.

  This room, I thought with a shudder, was where Gerald Eliot had been attacked and probably killed.

  “Won’t it bother the Ian’s Images folk to be eating in here?” I asked André in a low whisper. “It seems sort of, well, macabre.”

  Blondes’ Blondies

  2 cups peeled and diced Granny Smith apples

  1 cup firmly packed dark brown sugar

  ½ cup (1 stick) unsalted butter

  1 egg

  1½ cups cake flour (high altitude: add 1 tablespoon)

  1 teaspoon baking soda

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon ground nutmeg

  ½ teaspoon allspice

  ½ cup chopped pecans or walnuts

  ½ cup raisins

  Creamy Citrus Frosting (recipe follows)

  Preheat the oven to 325°F. Butter a 9 × 13-inch metal (not glass) pan.

  In a large mixing bowl, mix the chopped apples with the brown sugar. Set it aside while you prepare the other ingredients. In a small pan, melt the butter and set it aside to cool. In a small mixing bowl, beat the egg slightly. Sift together the flour, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice.

  Whisk the melted and cooled butter into the egg; stir this mixture into the apple mixture. Stir the flour mixture into the apple mixture, mixing just until incorporated. Stir in the nuts and raisins. (The batter will be thick.) Spread the batter in the prepared pan.

  Bake for 18 to 22 minutes, or until the blondies test done with a toothpick. Cool in the pan, then frost with Creamy Citrus Frosting. Slice and serve.

  Makes 32 servings

  Creamy Citrus Frosting

  2 tablespoons (¼ stick) unsalted butter, softened

  2 tablespoons orange juice

  1 to 1½ cups confectioners’ sugar, sifted

  Beat the butter with the orange juice until the butter is very soft (they will not mix completely). Add the sugar until the desired consistency is reached. Spread on the cooled blondies.

  “I asked Hanna myself,” he replied with a sniff. “She said the contract with the models says she has to provide the coffee break food in a suitable area and this is what suits her. She also said the models today probably do not know about Gerald Eliot’s death, and they most certainly will not care.”

  “Nice folks,” commented Julian with a wry smile. “Shall we do the coffee, Chef André?”

  On the far side of the dining room, Julian and André carefully poured steaming coffee into the gleaming silver urn. I inched up to the cordoned area and looked at the cabinets that I had shown to so many Homestead visitors during my docent days. The shelves of the undamaged display cases were chockfull of holsters, knives, and cowboy hats, as well as photographs of early cabins, camp stoves, and other utensils brought across in covered wagons. The cookbooks had occupied the top shelves of the two vandalized cabinets.

  I leaned in close to the first cabinet and read the forlorn, skewed label showing the former placement of American Cookery. Hanna had put the exhibit together with great care, coupling the cookbooks with old letters that mentioned them or their use. A letter next to the empty spot for American Cookery was from a founding member of the German-American Foundation of Colorado, who rhapsodized about his great-grandmother using the book when she first came to Colorado. Dear Great-gran had struggled more with the language than she had with the recipes.

  I moved several inches along the police ribbon and winced: The second cabinet had been dented in several places. I could imagine the police report: signs of a struggle. On the shelf was the label for The Practical Cook Book and a letter from Charlie Smythe, one of the earliest landowners in Aspen Meadow and grandfather to Leah Smythe and Weezie Smythe Harrington, my clients. Old, hapless Charlie had died in Leavenworth Prison. It was from Leavenworth that he had written to his wife, Winnie, and remorsefully recalled her “cookery book” and the bread she used to make in their cabin.

  I smiled: Visitors had always relished hearing the tale of a thief who had robbed for the fun of it, although Smythe’s life had not ended nearly as romantically as it sounded. The label summed up Charlie Smythe’s beginnings as a signalman who’d come west after the Civil War, bought land, become bored with ranching and timbering in Aspen Meadow, and taken up thieving for amusement. He’d apparently robbed successfully until he’d reached his late sixties. Unfortunately, in his last outing, Charlie’s gun had discharged unexpectedly—at least he’d so maintained in court—and he’d killed a bank teller before the robbery had even gotten off the ground. He’d died of flu in prison in 1918, at the age of seventy.

  I perused the shelves. It had been a long time since I’d worked as a docent, but it didn’t appear that any other familiar items were missing. If Sylvia Bevans was upset, then Andy Fuller’s investigators must be communicating badly with her. But my husband was not the one to be blamed for the museum’s woes. If Sylvia hadn’t heard that bit of news, I intended to enlighten her before we left the premises.

  I inched to the end of the wall to get a glimpse into the high-ceilinged area that had served as the residence’s living room and now contained more Old West artifacts donated to the museum. On a buffalo-hide-covered wing chair next to the massive stone fireplace, a brightly lit, scarlet-suited, genuinely plump and white-bearded Santa sat staring glumly at the camera crew. Behind the camera, Ian Hood shifted his weight, readjusted the legs of the tripod, and appeared to be checking and rechecking what he was seeing through the lens. Nearby, Rufus, Leah, Hanna, and several other people, including children, fidgeted, whispered, and cast nervous glances in the direction of the tiny office housing the Furman County Historical Society. The strident voice of Sylvia Bevans pierced the air. She sounded very upset with one of her volunteers.

  “I have been gone all morning,” Sylvia complained, “and these fashion people are still here?”

  “I have to have quiet!” Ian Hood screamed as he stomped away from his tripod. “Qui-et!” he shrieked meaningfully in the direction of Sylvia’s voice. Julian and André, who had been whispering about the placement of cups and glasses, glanced up, startled. I shrugged.

  Sylvia Bevans, her wide face flushed and her silky-haired bun askew, bustled out of the historical society office. When confronted with the hostile faces of the Ian’s Images crew, she hrumphed, turned on her heel, and banged back into her office. The door slammed.

  The photo folks refocused their attention on the Yule-tide scene by the stone hearth.

  “All right, try again,” Ian said wearily.

  A large woman standing on the sidelines scooped up a toddler and placed her next to the fireplace. Santa beckoned to the girl, a pajama-clad, curly-haired brunette with rosy cheeks and an unsmiling bud of a mouth. “Come closer, honey,” Santa implored. The girl would not budge.

&
nbsp; “Go see Santa, sweetheart!” the large woman pleaded. She was thirtyish, with the same brunette hair and pink cheeks as the child model. “Rosie, I know it’s summertime, but go tell Santa what you want!”

  “I need a smile,” Ian warned from behind the camera. “Is that too much to ask?”

  “Look at Mama, baby doll!” called Rosie’s mother. “Smile, honey!” Rosie glanced at her mother; the camera clicked on Rosie’s grim, unsmiling young countenance.

  “Look at what I have!” called Leah Smythe, as she waved a Barney doll high in the air. Little Rosie gave the doll a poker-faced stare and made no response.

  “Hey!” cried Hanna, “Look at this, Rosie!” Hanna, beautifully dressed, as usual, blew a perfect strand of iridescent soap bubbles across the room. A startled Rosie opened her eyes wide as Santa laughed. Again Ian Hood’s camera clicked and flashed, clicked and flashed.

  “How’s André feeling?” murmured Rufus Driggle at my elbow.

  “Fine,” I whispered back. “He just gets a little overwrought sometimes.”

  Rufus shrugged. “Sorry if I worried you. Between him and that lady curator, we’ve got our hands full, I can tell you.” He stroked his scraggly red beard and gave me an unhappy look. “Anyway, we’ve got a guy bringing Ian’s lens to the cabin today, and another guy fixing the picture window. We’ll be able to get back in front of our own Christmas tree tomorrow.” He tilted his head to indicate the ribboned-off cabinets. “Looks like we aren’t the only ones who need help in the glass-replacement department.”

  Yeah, they need a contractor, I thought, but said nothing. If Rufus did not know how the glass had been broken, I wasn’t about to enlighten him.

  He whispered, “So what do you think of our set?”

  I dutifully appraised the fireplace scene. The errant scrim had been set up over Santa’s head to reflect the light. Flats framed both sides of the tableau. A blond boy of about six had replaced Rosie. Perky and obedient, he wore a pair of reindeer-print pajamas as he sat uncomplainingly in Santa’s lap and offered wide, toothy smiles to Ian. Leah and Hanna frowned at the scene while Ian clicked furiously.

  “Looks super,” I told Rufus.

  “We’ll put flames in the fireplace on the computer, make the two fireplaces look as if they belong together.”

  “Look as if what belong together?”

  Rufus smiled, showing straight, yellow teeth. “The two fireplaces, of course.” He raised his voice to a lilt. “Both from the country home of the same wealthy, but not too ostentatious family, with their cute kids and their gorgeous clothes. Having their fantastic Christmas.”

  “Ah.” I decided to plunge in. “Rufus, did you know Gerald Eliot?”

  He shifted his eyes to the cold fireplace. “Yeah, we used to work together, I’m sorry to say.”

  “When?”

  “Oh, long time ago. Five years, maybe. We hadn’t been together six months when he went off on his own and I came to work for Ian.”

  “And why are you sorry to say?”

  He shifted his weight, suddenly uncomfortable. “You know he’s dead? The police came to question me.” I nodded. “Well, I felt bad for Gerald. He always sounded so good talking about his skill at carpentry and all that, and how much money we could make together. Then he’d complain about people not paying him, and about supplies not coming in, and pretty soon I realized he was only working three or four hours a day at the most, and the reason supplies hadn’t come in was because he was too lazy to go pick them up.”

  “Why in the world did Leah hire him?”

  Rufus frowned. “Oh, hell, I went to Phoenix to see about a job. Leah knew he worked here at the Homestead and happened to mention that she wanted some windows put in, although I think it was her brother Bobby who had the idea. Anyway, Gerald did his usual snow job and they hired him. Of course, it just turned into a big mess. Which I could have warned them about if they’d ever listen to me.” He sighed.

  “Do you know why the police questioned you, if you hadn’t worked with him in so many years?”

  Sylvia Bevans barreled out of her office before Rufus could reply. Short, cylindrical, and bristling with energy, she wore a calf-length pale-green dress, beige silk stockings that had seen better days, and beige shoes, ditto. We moved out of her way as she marched past us into the kitchen. Within a few seconds she was whining, and I heard the clinking of a cup and saucer.

  Rufus sighed again. “He owed me money. I’d complained about it in town a few times. I still think Leah and Ian should have waited for me to come back from Phoenix to do the work, but it’s almost as if they hired Gerald out of spite.”

  “Spite?” I asked as Ian clicked away at Santa, now working with a young Asian-American girl.

  Dismay clouded Rufus’s face, as if he’d already told me more about his private life than he’d intended. “Ian’s been losing jobs to New York and Miami for the last decade. With sunny Phoenix so close, a big percentage of the department stores are moving their fashion shoots down there. At least, that’s what they tell us. Ian’s never been the easiest fellow to get along with. He hates change. Hates the fact that the elk are being driven out of Aspen Meadow by all the newcomers, new apartments, new houses, you name it. He’s been dropping hints about concentrating on the nature photography, and saving the elk so he can have more nature to photograph. So I went to Phoenix to look for a new job. I like Ian but hey, a fellow’s got to look after himself, doesn’t he?”

  Leah eyed the two of us narrowly. Was she listening? Hard to tell. André accompanied Sylvia Bevans out of the museum kitchen. She grasped a plate that she piled with goodies from the table.

  Rufus went on: “So in comes this macho guy, Gerald Eliot. First he screws up Leah’s job, then he says he has to do some consulting on wiring around the windows. Charges Merciful Migrations six hundred bucks delay time. They say they’ll pay him and they don’t. Maybe Leah finally paid him out of her pocket. But nothing happened because by that time he was getting it on with Rustine. He had to do something with his delay time, right? So Leah fired him, but I’m sure Hanna put her up to it, since she was always telling us what a crummy guard Gerald was at the museum, even though she didn’t work here anymore. You know, she still thinks of the place as hers.”

  “What about Leah Smythe? How did she feel about Gerald?”

  Rufus whispered, “Well, how would you feel? She had broken plaster and a century of dirt all over her cabin. Maybe she was personally out six hundred for the demolition and six hundred for the delay. Ian had to deal with a model who was pissed off because her boyfriend lost his job. But do we have a single window in the kitchen?”

  Leah shot Rufus a dirty look. He closed his mouth.

  I whispered, “Wow. Would you like some coffee, something to eat?” I motioned to the spread. “Or do we have to wait for Prince Ian to call the break?”

  “Prince? Please. Emperor, at the very least. Czar, maybe. And no, thanks, I’ll wait.”

  “Break!” called Ian Hood from the far room. Had he heard us? I hoped not.

  The crowd all made a beeline for the coffee and snacks. I checked that Santa had his separate fruit bowl and scampered to the kitchen door. André and Julian were listening attentively to Sylvia, who was drinking a cup of coffee and gesturing with a roll.

  “And of course,” she went on, “the murder investigation has been hampered by that incompetent at the sheriff’s department, Tom Schulz—”

  “Ah, excuse me,” I interrupted as I stepped boldly into the kitchen. “Sylvia? What are you talking about?”

  She turned slightly pink. I folded my arms and waited for a response. André thrust a tray of blondies into Julian’s hands and muttered an order to check the buffet. Julian, glad to be relieved of listening duty, obeyed. André, of course, was desperate to hear the story about Gerald Eliot’s murder from someone in the know. He clucked sympathetically to Sylvia, refilled her coffee cup, and motioned for me to sit in the chair vacated by Julian. This I did, wonde
ring why André could manage to be courtly toward the curator of the Homestead, who was not a client, but couldn’t be bothered to be civil to the folks who were his clients.

  “My husband is off the Gerald Eliot case,” I said to Sylvia once I had my own coffee cup in hand. I didn’t sound defensive, did I? Well, perhaps a tad.

  “Off the Gerald Eliot case?” she huffed. “I thought he was just avoiding me. But his co-workers are accusing me of theft. Now they say I must have misplaced the last cookbooks, since I didn’t put them into the original report as missing, and the police are too incompetent to find them.”

  “Did the police ask you about Cameron Burr?” I made room on the counter as Julian returned to the kitchen with an armload of dirty dishes, slid them into the sink, and started running hot water. “Do you know how Cameron’s doing?”

  Sylvia needed no prompting. She shuddered and clinked her milky cup of coffee into the saucer. “Yes, of course they asked me about Cameron, and no, I don’t know how he’s doing. But the most important thing,” she announced, “was that the police know about Gerald. That he was a terrible guard. One time I came in early and found him here with a woman, for goodness sake! The police asked me what her name was! What? Did they think I came in and asked, ‘Whore? What is your Christian name?’” She sipped her coffee, lofted a pinky, and took a tiny bite of blondie. “I should have fired Gerald Eliot right then, but I didn’t have anybody else to hire, and Cameron Burr said Eliot needed the money.” She sighed gustily, delighted to have an audience for her tale of woe. “Would you like to see exactly where Gerald and his killer had their fight?” she asked with a trace of … what? Naughtiness? … in her voice. I nodded, and André eagerly replied that he would, too. Sylvia downed the last of her coffee and bustled out to the dining room, scooping up another blondie as she departed. Julian ignored us and kept washing dishes. I walked behind André and tried to look inconspicuous.