A Steak in Murder

by Claudia Bishop

  "And now, if you'll bear with me," the colonel said in his high-pitched voice, "I just want you to see a few of the wonderful cattle we have at home on our Oklahoma spread." He flipped open his briefcase, plugged in the little PC he carried there, and asked the mayor to dim the lights.

  "Slides," Miriam said in a voice of doom. "A slide show. Oh, my. How . . . interesting. What is it about, exactly?"

  "Just a few of the purtiest heifers and bulls you've ever seen, Mrs. Doncaster."

  Miriam hesitated.

  "It's our civic duty," Quill said in as pious a tone as she could manage, "to see these cows as well as hear about them. Don't you think so, Colonel?" She smiled brightly at Miriam. Unlike the librarian, she didn't mind slide shows a bit. If she had paper and pencil, which she did, she always sketched right through them. Or if sketching failed, she napped. She liked naps. She'd perfected the art of napping unobtrusively through a lot of Chamber of Commerce presentations, mostly Harvey Bozzel's.

  "Yes, ma'am. Nothing like seeing a copy of the real thing."

  Quill considered this statement from several angles and decided not to comment. "I would love to see the cows. We'd all love to see the cows."

  "I can see all the damn cows I want right in your front yard, Quill." Miriam's whisper was low but vehement.

  "It's not my front yard anymore."

  "This first show," the colonel said, his voice pitched slightly higher than before, "is going to show you all how you can make a three hundred percent return on your investment in the Calhoun Cattle Company."

  "Three hundred percent?" This from Harvey Bozzel.

  "Yessir. The cattle you are about to invest in go for maybe twenty-twenty-five dollars a pound for fillet on the open market And I'm going to show you why."

  There was a buzz of excited comment. Quill drew dollar signs on her notepad, then a quick sketch of a sad-eyed brown cow she'd seen in her—rather Marge's— front yard.

  "First, I'd like to tell you all about my senior herd sire."

  "Beg your pardon, ColoneL" Royal Rossiter's voice was low but respectful. "But it's my senior herd sire. Impressive."

  The colonel chuckled ominously. "I bred 'im, Royal."

  "And I bought 'im, sir."

  The tension in the room thickened.

  The colonel breathed through his mouth. "Be that as it may, be that as it may. This is Impressive, and ladies and gentlemen, you can see that he is impressive, if you don't mind my little joke."

  The bull that had frightened Quill on the path to the Inn flashed on the screen. A Western stock saddle was strapped to his back, and a familiar figure straddled the bull.

  "Impressive was broke to saddle at eighteen months," the colonel said. "And on his back you can see—this picture was taken a couple of years ago—the famous star of stage, screen, and television, Miss Lally Preston."

  Lally's blond good looks stared cheerfully from the screen. The bull looked puzzled. "This was right before we were featured on her TV show, The Rusticated Lady." The slide changed to a photo of Lally in her TV kitchen, a large bite of dripping beef on the way to her mouth.

  "Ms. Preston featured new ways to cook our beef on her show, and the call-in response was tremendous. Just tremendous. People wanted to know where to get our beef." The slide switched again. This time a young female cow stared out at the audience with sweetly inquiring brown eyes. "This here young lady was turned into the finest burger this side of Texas." The slide switched again, to a plate of rare hamburgers garnished with a pair of long horns made out of pickles.

  Quill coughed and looked at her lap. Harland Peterson said in an interested tone, "What kinda feed-to-kill ratio you get with these heifers, Colonel?" This time the slide was of another female cow with an adorable calf bouncing at her side. The camera had caught the mother affectionately nuzzling the baby's ear. Quill thought she'd never seen such mild-looking animals.

  "Take 'em to market at about eighteen months. Little longer than with an Angus or your similar fatty type restaurant beef."

  Click: and a beef carcass hanging in a meat locker.

  "Back fat on these babies is less'n one percent. You can see from this here pitcher that the marbling is fine, diffused, all the way through. Texas A&M done some studies which show what fat there is, is good for you."

  Click: back to a third benign-eyed cow with twin calves at her side.

  Quill sketched a horrified vegetarian in a long robe that bore more than a passing resemblance to herself, then looked sideways at Miriam. She was gazing at the screen with a thoughtful expression. The lights came up. Quill glanced around the table. Esther West raised her hand. "Colonel?"

  "Yes, ma'am?"

  "You said three hundred percent?"

  "That's right, ma'am. The demand for these here cattle far exceeds the supply. I'm here to talk to you folks about setting up a feedlot operation here in Hemlock Falls that's going to supply the tables of every gourmet in the country. And then some."

  "Feedlot," said Quill. "Isn't that a place where the cattle are, um, crammed in and stuffed?"

  The colonel narrowed his eyes at her. "You eat foie gras, ma'am?"

  Quill admitted that she did.

  "There is one thing I have to say to those of you . . ." the colonel hesitated, seemed to change his mind about the word he wanted, and continued, "who are concerned about the welfare of these cattle. Texas longhorns do best when they're running wild and free on the range. They have a ninety-nine percent unassisted live birth rate."

  There was a low whistle, presumably of appreciation, from several of the men at the table. As well as Miriam Doncaster. She caught Quill's astonished look and raised an eyebrow. "You knew I was brought up on a dairy farm. In Wisconsin."

  "And these mamma cows are fierce in the defense of their young. This here's the only breed of domestic stock around that can coexist with the federally protected coyote."

  Rumbles of laughter. Quill, thinking of the mother cows defending their babies, of the beef carcass hanging in the slaughterhouse, of beef that was good for you, and above all, foie gras, which was one of her favorite foods, wished she didn't have to think about this sort of thing at all.

  Elmer, beaming at the waves of interest and appreciation flowing around the room like so many buckyballs, rapped genially on the table with his knuckles. With the attention of the room, he said, "Well, now, Colonel Calhoun, you can see that you might have struck a spark here with our citizens. Can you tell us what the next steps will be?"

  "I can indeed, son. I've been working with the finest advertising agency—"

  "The only advertising agency," Miriam said tartly.

  "—in your fair city, and he's got some perfectly splendid ideas about ways to celebrate Hemlock Falls for America Day. Harvey? You want to take the room?"

  Harvey stood up with an athletic bounce (he worked out at a gym in Syracuse three times a week) and shook the creases carefully into his trousers. He opened the large portfolio he had placed by his chair and flipped it upright with a practiced hand, then adjusted a small cassette player carefully in front of it. He smiled. "Ladies and gentlemen of the Chamber, Colonel Calhoun, Mr. Rossiter, I give you . . . America!"

  Harvey punched the cassette and flipped the A-frame display at the same time. Harvey's voice (a not unpleasant baritone) floated into the air, accompanied by a rather tinny piano playing "America the Beautiful."

  O beautiful, that breed of cow

  That gives your heart a boost

  Their mighty horns stretch far across

  Much larger than a moose

  The longhorn cow

  You ask me how . . .

  "Marge?" Dina Muir timidly poked her head into the room. "Is Harvey in here? I thought I heard him singing. Harvey. There you are. Your Russians are here."

  Chapter Four

  "My God, Russkies!" said the mayor.

  "There's no mistaking them for American," Colonel Calhoun said darkly.

  This was true. The three men cr
owding into the conference room behind Dina were undeniably non-Americans. They wore cheap double-breasted suits and melancholy expressions. Their complexions reflected a diet heavy on carbohydrates and fats. They had a definable, unmistakable otherness in the way they moved, stolidly, as if they each wore heavy boots.

  "This your doin', Harve?" Harland Peterson asked.

  "Um," Harvey said. "Ah. Yes. Marge?"

  Marge heaved herself to her feet and advanced on the Russians like a fat Napoleon on Moscow. The tallest Russian backed up and bumped into the bald one. "Hey," Marge said. "One a you Leonid Mensh-a-something?"

  "Menshivik," said the tall one. He ducked his head ingratiatingly and smiled.

  "Menshvik," Marge said. "Welcome to the Dew Drop Inn, gentlemen."

  "Menshivik," he said. "How do you do. We are very glad to be in this country." Quill blinked. Her ear was better than Meg's (who was tone-deaf), but Mr. Menshivik's accent was so thick she heard, "Tch-how do yew due. Ve are wry glat to bee in theis khun-tree."

  The thickness of the accent didn't seem to bother Marge, who nodded and said matter-of-factly, "Glad ta see ya. Betty? We got their rooms ready?"

  "Who are these people, Marge?" Miriam asked nervously.

  "From rice," said Mr. Menshivik. "Call me Leonid, pliz, but don't call me late for dinner."

  "Ha-ha," chorused the Russians behind him.

  Quill slid down in her chair and looked intently at the ceiling. If she concentrated hard enough, she wouldn't laugh.

  "You see," Leonid said, "we haf picked up many gut things while we are in the country, American jokes are very funny."

  "Rice?" said the mayor. "You all eat rice? I thought just Japs ate rice."

  Quill forgot about giggling and glared at the mayor.

  "Sorry. I mean the Japanese. Anyways," the mayor said, "anyways. You all on a tour or whatever?"

  "R.I.C.E.," Marge said with more than her usual truculence, "stands for Russians in Capitalist Enterprise. Harvey got 'em here. You tell everyone what this is all about, Harve."

  "Yes, well." Harvey smoothed his hair. "If maybe we all could sit down . . . are there enough chairs for everyone?" There was a short silence, then a general shifting of bodies. When everyone in the Chamber settled back in their seats, the three chairs next to Quill were empty. Leonid smiled, waved, and ushered his confreres to the seats.

  Leonid sat next to Quill and dipped his head forward in acknowledgment of her presence. "And how do you do?"

  "Very well, thank you." Quill extended her hand. Leonid enveloped it and shook it hard. "I'm Sarah Quilliam. Please call me Quill. Welcome to the Inn."

  "Quill," he said, testing it. He gestured at the bald Russian on his left. "This is Simkhovitch. Vasily Simkhovitch. And behind him is Alexi, Alexi Kowlakowski."

  "Kavlakavsky," Quill said. "And Mr. Simkhovitch."

  "Pliz. Call them Alexi, who you will remember because he has this hair in his nose, like our Russian bear, and Vasily, who has no hair at all on his head. Like our skinned Russian bear."

  "Ha-ha," said Vasily.

  "Hair or no hair," the mayor said, "what are you all doin' in Hemlock Falls?"

  "Yes. I tall you all right now." Leonid rose to his feet. "Thank you all. Thank you. I want to tall you this, that I have seen much we can do to improve our poor country since we have the bad luck to lose our way in the government. By this I mean that we are now no longer communis." An ominous movement, like a swell on a heretofore placid lake, rippled through the assembly. Leonid repeated loudly, "We are no longer communis. Communis is not good for us now. What we like is capitalism. And this, we have our name. Russians in Capitalist Enterprise. This good capitalist here . . ." Harvey smoothed his hair again. Quill began to hope he'd smooth it right off and be as bald as Vasily. ". . . has been working with your capitalist government in Albany to find us host city for our enterprise."

  "And what kinda enterprise are you in?" Harland asked.

  "We are in capitalist enterprises," Leonid said confidently.

  "No, no," Harvey said. "I mean, yes, you are. But they're farmers, Harland. Leonid here was the head of a wheat commune."

  "Commune," Colonel Calhoun muttered. "What the hell?"

  "And Vasily and Alexi raised dairy cattle. Just like you, Harland."

  "Yeah?" Harland rubbed his hand reflectively across his chin. His hands were thick, red, and heavily muscled. "What kind of cows?"

  "It is Holshteiners we are trying for," Leonid said. "Vasily and Alexi have not much luck with Angus."

  Harland's thick gray eyebrows rose in astonishment. "Angus, now. Black Angus?"

  "No. No. Red, of course. But we are to buy some Holshteiners to take with us when we go from this country."

  "You don't want Angus for dairy," Harland said. "What are you, nuts? Russians," he said to the ceiling. "You got cash? None of them, what'd you call 'em, rubles?"

  "Cash? You mean," Leonid rubbed his forefingers briskly against his thumb, "like in dinero? Moo-la? We haf some, yes."

  Harland grunted. Then he grinned to himself. "You want to see some good dairy cows, then, I might be able to take you out to see a couple of mine. Holsteins, now. None of this Holshteiners horseshit. A good Holstein cow is a good Holstein cow."

  "Excuse me." Colonel Calhoun hunched forward in his chair. "Y'all said cash, right? Then you may want to look at some real American capitalist beef, like the Texas longhorn cow."

  "And that," Quill said to Meg several hours later on the phone, "was that. By the time I left they were all chatting each other up, and Marge was making Betty run around and serve vodka, and for all I know, they're still up there, singing, 'Moscow Nights,' and getting along like a house afire."

  "There isn't much good about Russian cuisine," Meg said. "Borscht, maybe. They can do some great stuff with cabbage. And they have a reasonable way with a potato blini. But you take beets, cabbage, and black bread away from a Russian and you've got bupkis."

  "Meg!"

  "It's true. So what's this International Night Harvey's cooked up?"

  "It's not a bad idea, actually."

  Meg gave a two-hundred-mile-away snort. "When has Harvey ever had an idea that worked out?"

  "Hemlock History Days wasn't bad."

  "Except we ended up with two corpses—no, three. And as a matter of fact, he was the dolt who first brought that damn gourmet week for Verger Taylor to us and insisted we do it for the prestige of Hemlock Falls, and that was how many bodies? Two, there, even if it was in southern Florida where the homicide rate rivals that of Beirut and murders aren't front-page news. The more I think about it, Quill, the more I think Harvey's a menace. Forget International Night."

  "Just listen, okay?" Quill was unusually patient. But she'd picked up the phone to call Meg with a lot of trepidation. They had always squabbled, from the time Meg could talk. They almost never quarreled. She hadn't known if she had crossed the line into the territory of the unforgiven or not until she heard Meg's hello. "Harvey says that with the economy so healthy, a lot of businesses are looking at partnership with Russia. Setting up the relationship is supposed to be simple, uncomplicated by a lot of government interference."

  "Right." Meg's voice was skeptical. "What about the Russian Mafia?"

  "What Russian Mafia?"

  "Any Russian Mafia. I've read a lot of bad things about them. They're supposed to be more homicidal than the yakuza."

  "Than the who? I mean whom?"

  "The Japanese Mafia. You really need to keep up more on current events, Quill, I've always told you that."

  So. The peace between them did have a price after all. Quill gritted her teeth and said mildly, "Leonid, Vasily, and Alexi are not crooks."

  "Phuut! What about those suits you described?"

  "That just proves it, doesn't it? Genuine successful crooks can afford to dress better. Just give it a try, Meg. Marge is going to host International Night at the Inn."

  "At our Inn?"

  "At her Inn. It'll be th
e Chamber of Commerce people and, um . . . a few others." Quill wasn't sure she wanted to tell Meg about the Longhorn Cattlemen just yet. "And everyone wants you to cook."

  "Everyone always wants me to cook." This was said without complaint or vanity. It was true. "But do I have to cook Russian? I told you . . ."

  ". . . beets, potatoes, and cabbage. We want you to come up with a sort of cross-cultural meal." Quill took a deep breath. "Texas Longhorn beef with a Russian twist."

  "No."

  "But, Meg. The Russians are talking about investing in this cattle program the Chamber's backing, and—"

  "I don't care about that. I told you when I first saw those cows in our rose garden . . ." Quill grinned, glad that Meg couldn't see her. Our rose garden? ". . . I haven't the least idea how to cook that beef."

  "It's supposed to be just like regular beef, except healthier for you."

  "Well, it isn't," Meg said bluntly. "I mean yes, it is healthier for you, but the fat's all weird. It's diffused evenly through the meat, and it's not as fatty as Angus. You have to cook it for a shorter period of time with higher heat." Meg's voice rose, with that particular note of incipient hysteria it always got when she was under pressure to cook well. "And I'm NOT going to manage a dinner for a million guests . . ."

  "Forty-six," Quill said.

  "Forty-SIX! Oh, sure. Anyhow. Forget it."

  "Royal said he'd make all the beef available to you that you need. As a donation. You can practice. And if you don't, Meg, think of this. Harvey's talked the Winegrowers Association into sponsoring the banquet if we don't prepare it. They want to create some private label wine just for the occasion. You want to hear what Harvey's come up with?"

  "Probably not."

  " 'Cow'-bernet. 'Moo'-lot. 'Moo'-jalais."

  "Stop."

  "I'll stop. It gets worse. You don't want to hear what he wants to call the Liebfraumilch. With a little practice on this beef, it'll be a spectacular meal, Meg."