Wild fire

the bacon sandwich. Heaven.

“Forget the search warrant for now. But I did begin the surveillance last night.”

“Anything?”

“Yeah. At eight-oh-three P.M., two vehicles left the subject property. One was a Ford van registered to the Custer Hill Club. The other was a Ford Taurus registered to Enterprise Rent-A-Car.”

I washed down the bacon with coffee and asked, “Where’d they go?”

“They went to Adirondack Regional Airport. The commercial terminal is closed at that hour, and they left the Taurus in an Enterprise spot and put the keys in a drop slot, then both drivers-two males-got in the van and returned to the Custer Hill Club.”

“What do you make of that?”

“Looks suspiciously like they were returning a rental car. What do you think?”

Major Schaeffer had a wry sense of humor. I said, “Check the trunk for a body. What was the plate number on the Taurus?”

“I don’t have it in front of me.” Which was his polite way of saying, “What have you done for me lately?”

I said, “I saw a blue Enterprise Taurus at the Custer Hill lodge when I was there.” I gave him the plate number from memory and asked, “Is that it?”

“Sounds like it. I’ll call Enterprise and find out who rented that car.”

I thought I probably had that information from Kate’s friend Larry at Enterprise, but I said, “Good. Anything else from the surveillance?”

“No. What are we looking for?”

“You never know. But I’d like to know that Madox is still on the property.”

“Okay.”

“So, someone needs to call me anytime you see any activity-hold on.” Some kid in a dopey psychedelic chef’s outfit was trying to get my attention. I asked him, “What do you need?”

“I need to use the phone. I have to place an order.”

“What do you have to order? Woodcock? I’m on top of the woodcocks. How many do you need?”

“I need the phone, sir.”

“Hey, I’m trying to save the world here, pal. Hold on.” I said to Schaeffer, “I’m using the kitchen phone. I’ll see you at eight.”

I hit the cradle and handed the phone to the chef. “If the world comes to an end, it’s your fault.”

A handsome guy in tailored whites, whom I just knew was the French chef, came up to me and extended his hand. “Good morning,” he said in an accent. We shook. “You are, of course, Mr. Corey.”

“Oui.”

“Ah, you speak French.”

“Oui.”

“Bon. I am Henri, the head chef, and I must apologize profusely for the pigs-in-the-blanket.”

He got the pronunciation right, if not the recipe. I said, “Hey, don’t worry about it, Henry.”

“But I do. So, for you, I have ordered the ingredients, and tonight, we serve the pigs for the cocktail hour.”

“Terrific. I like the crust a little brown.”

“Yes, of course.” He leaned toward me and whispered, “I, too, like these little things.”

I was sure by now that he was pulling my chain, and I said, “I won’t tell. Okay, don’t forget the mustard. See you later.”

“May I show you my kitchen?”

I looked around. “Looks good.”

“You are welcome to place any special order for any meal.”

“Great. I’ve been thinking about woodcock lately.”

“Ah, amazing. Tonight is woodcock.”

“You don’t say? Well, hell, I ought to play the lottery today.”

“Yes? Oh, I understand.”

I looked at my watch and said, “Well, I-”

“A moment…” He pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket and said, “Here is the menu for this evening.” He read, “We begin with a ragout of forest mushrooms, followed by a crisp filet of arctic char, served with peppernade and beurre rouge. I think, perhaps, a California chardonnay with that. Yes? Then, the woodcock, which I will serve with an etuvee of local vegetables, and a port wine jus. I am considering a French cabernet sauvignon with the woodcock. What do you think? Mr. Corey?”

“Uh… sounds like a crowd-pleaser.”

“Good. And we end with an exploration of chocolate.”

“Perfect ending.”

“With a sauterne, of course.”

“Goes without saying. Okay-”

“Will you and your wife be joining us for lunch?”

“No, we have to be at a chipmunk race. Thanks for-”

“Well, I must pack for you a picnic lunch. When are you leaving?”

“Twenty minutes. Don’t bother-”

“I insist. You will find a picnic hamper in your car.” He extended his hand, we shook, and he said, “We may have our differences, but we can remain amis. Yes?”

Well, jeez, I was really feeling bad now about my anti-French attitude, so I said, “Together, we can kick some Iraqi ass. Right?”

Henry wasn’t sure about that, but he smiled. “Perhaps.”

“Can do. See you later.”

As I made my way out of the kitchen, I heard Henry barking orders for a picnic lunch. Hold the snails, Henry.

I got back to the room and said to Kate, who was in front of the vanity fussing with makeup, “We have to move fast. State police H.Q. at eight.”

“Breakfast is on the table. What did Major Schaeffer say?”

“I’ll tell you on the way. Where’s your briefcase?”

“Under the bed.”

I reached under the bed, pulled out her briefcase, and began flipping through the stack of Enterprise rental agreements as I stood at the table and uncovered the basket of hot biscuits.

“What are you looking for?”

“Butter.”

“John-”

“Ah, here it is.”

“What?”

“The Enterprise rental agreement with the plate number of the car we saw at the Custer Hill Club.” I put the agreement on the table and buttered a biscuit.

“Who rented the car?”

“This may be interesting…”

“What?”

“This guy’s name. It’s Russian. Mikhail Putyov.”

She thought about that. “Doesn’t sound like a member of the club to me.”

“Me, neither. Maybe Madox invites old Cold War enemies to the club to reminisce.” Still standing, I dug into the omelet and asked Kate, “Do you want breakfast, or do you want to keep painting?”

No reply.

“We have to get going.”

No reply.