Prime Cut

“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 Andre 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

? cup (1 stick) unsalted butter

1 egg

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

1 teaspoon baking soda

? teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

? teaspoon ground nutmeg

? teaspoon allspice

? cup chopped pecans or walnuts

? 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 (? stick) unsalted butter, softened

2 tablespoons orange juice

1 to 1? 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 Andre?”

On the far side of the dining room, Julian and Andre 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 Andre, 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