Prime Cut

his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels, and considered us.

“Okay, Goldy Bear Schulz,” he said at last. “We go up against each other again a week from today. You change your mind before that, call me.”

Chapter 8

Julian and I coaxed Jake up onto the porch. Marla went inside for a clean, wet washcloth. I dabbed Jake’s wound; the poor dog squirmed and refused to keep still. Promising to call later in the week, Marla reluctantly left for her match with the IRS. Shortly thereafter, Tom and Arch returned. Arch’s joy at Julian’s arrival turned to distress when he saw Jake. Tom insisted on taking Jake to the vet; Arch refused to stay home and went with them. Returning to the kitchen, I mentally swore revenge on Craig Litchfield’s black heart.

“How does he know about me?” Julian demanded as I rinsed the pork chops I’d bought for the evening meal. I had no idea what to serve meat-shunning Julian. As if reading my mind, he began scrubbing large baking potatoes. No doubt he would conjure up a vegetarian dish more inspiring than anything in my repertoire. “I mean,” he went on, “how does he know my background? About college? How does he know what kind of cooking I do?”

“I have no idea,” I admitted as I covered the chops and put them into the walk-in refrigerator. “But I’m wondering if he has a rich aunt. He runs huge ads and charges less than the cost of ingredients. He must be losing money on events. Then he offers you twice an unknown salary to work for him. How does he do it?”

“He’s a creep,” Julian said fiercely as he fitted my food processor with the grating blade. “Don’t worry—we’ll beat him. We’re just going to have to cook better than he does, that’s all.”

I smiled at him. “That’s what Andre said.”

“I just wish I knew how he gets his information.”

“Julian, so do I. The man’s making me paranoid.”

Julian shook his head, then savagely pushed a hunk of fresh Parmesan cheese into the growling food processor. “You’ve got an open window right over your sink. Your computer’s right on the counter. You have a password for your programs?”

I thought of Arch and his fascination with encryption. “No.”

“Install one,” Julian said grimly.

Tom and Arch returned with Jake, whose wound had been cleaned and smeared with antiseptic. Tom repeated the vet’s warning that we were to watch the hound over the next few days for signs of fever or swelling, indications that an infection might be setting in.

Arch watched Julian’s skillful moves as he organized a meal on the scratched Formica counter. “I am so happy you’re here,” he said awkwardly. At fourteen, Arch did not initiate physical affection.

Julian set aside the grated Parmesan and grabbed Arch in a bear hug. “Hey, man, great to see you, too. Still doing magic? What’s your latest project?”

Jailbreak Potatoes

4 large baking potatoes

2 tablespoons (? stick) unsalted butter

? cup whipping cream

? teaspoon salt

? teaspoon or more white pepper

? cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Preheat the oven to 400°F.

Scrub and prick each potato 3 or 4 times with a fork. Bake the potatoes for 1 hour, or until flaky. Remove from the oven and cool slightly.

In the large bowl of an electric mixer, place the butter, cream, salt, pepper, and cheese. Using a sharp knife, cut at a 45-degree angle to remove an oval of skin and potato from the flat top side of each potato. Using a spoon, scoop most of the potato out of the interior into the bowl with the other ingredients. Leave a thin layer of potato inside the skin. Scrape the potato from the back of the removed ovals of potato skin into the bowl.

Using the whip attachment, whip the potato mixture until smooth. Taste and correct the seasoning.

Dividing the whipped potato mixture evenly, spoon it back into the skins. Place the stuffed potatoes on a buttered, rimmed baking sheet and bake an additional 15 minutes, or until the filling is thoroughly heated.

Makes 4 servings

“Well … Todd and I are working on some hightech stuff. I have a whole display of it in my—our—room,” Arch replied shyly. “First I have to show you the cat’s new spot. Want to see both?”

“You bet.”

I followed them upstairs. Tom, mumbling vaguely about woodwork, retired to the basement. While I unfurled clean sheets, Arch proudly showed Julian how Scout the cat had made a hidden home under Julian’s old bed. Scout had fled inside during the Litchfield encounter. Now he eased from his spot to rub against Julian’s stubbly cheek. Julian howled with laughter. Arch’s wide grin made me smile.

Back in the kitchen, I pored over my computer manual and eventually chose and entered a password. Rock music reverberated from the boys’ room overhead. At four o’clock, Julian came down to help with the evening meal. I shaped, knotted, and covered rolls from a recipe Andre had laboriously copied out and given me. Julian put the potatoes in to bake, finished trimming the other vegetables, and set the table. While the rolls rose, I seared the chops and swirled in Dijon mustard with melted currant jelly for a sauce. Julian scooped out the baked potatoes, whipped the steaming mass with cream, Parmesan, salt, and white pepper, refilled the skins, and placed the delicious-looking concoctions back into the oven to puff to a golden brown. While he was cleaning up, I told him about the previous day’s modeling shoot, working with Andre, finding Gerald Eliot’s body, and the arrest of Arch’s and my old friend, Cameron Burr. Cameron was now sitting in jail while his wife labored to breathe. Julian frowned. Perhaps thinking of Cameron, he dubbed his dish Jailbreak Potatoes.

Just after six o’clock, the three meat-eaters dug into the tender chops, while all of us dove into the rich, tangy potatoes and magnificent array of fresh asparagus, leek, tomatoes, and corn braised in white wine and broth. We smeared butter on the feather-light, golden-brown rolls, ate, and talked about Arch’s upcoming school year and how long it would be before Tom could be cleared.

We avoided mention of Cameron Burr. We also skirted the subject of Julian dropping out of college. As his self-appointed aunt-cum-godmother, this move of his did bother me. No matter how gifted a person was at cooking or anything else, a well-rounded education would help him navigate through life. But this was not the time for parental advice. Julian was a very intelligent, very good kid. I trusted him. If he didn’t make a move to go back to school within six months, we’d have a heart-to-heart. For the moment, even under the clouds of Cameron’s arrest and Tom’s suspension, we could concentrate on enjoying a long-delayed family reunion.

When the dishes were done, Julian ordered Tom, Arch, and me to sit on the back deck while he put together a dessert tray. The sun slipped slowly behind enormous, salmon-colored clouds that hovered over the mountains’ silhouette. With a flourish, Julian produced a tray of his trademark fudge, a dark, impossibly luscious concoction dotted with sun-dried cherries. I closed my eyes, bit into the velvety chocolate, and allowed happiness to infuse my senses. The smooth, silky combination of bittersweet and milk chocolate combined with tart, chewy cherries and crunchy, toasted hazelnuts made my spine tingle. My kitchen was a mess, my bookings were down, a friend of ours had been arrested, my husband was suspended. But there was tomorrow, I reminded myself. If Scarlett O’Hara could look to better times, why couldn’t I? Plus, Scarlett hadn’t had her spirits bolstered by Julian Teller’s company—not to mention his fudge.

On Wednesday and Thursday we waited for Tom’s fellow officers to update us on the Eliot case. No information—not even the results of the autopsy—was forthcoming. Since Eliot’s murder was a capital case, Cameron Burr was formally denied bail. One call from the police captain’s secretary yielded the information that Tom’s suspension was being written up for formal review. The Mountain Journal