Prime Cut

While we were on the phone, Julian insisted on doing the dishes. I tapped the counter impatiently. Sylvia now claims The Practical Cook Book is a collector’s item … and Andre wanted a photocopy of it … Could Andre really have cared about early twentieth-century American cookery? An answering machine picked up at the Homestead Museum. I hung up and dialed Sylvia’s home. The phone rang and rang. The curator, apparently, did not embrace telecommunications technology.

Charlie Smythe’s handwriting across one of the recipes makes it valuable … so what? To the best of my knowledge, Andre had never been in the Homestead before Friday. He’d never seen the cookbook, or any recipes therein, had he? Who would know about this? Someone in the Furman County Historical Society? Marla. But I got her machine, too. Was the IRS holding her hostage? I stared glumly at the hole in our back wall as I listened to my yet about the incriminating evidence retrieved from his pickup. There was no way Cameron would have staged the museum burglary and then left the old cookbook in his truck. So where was the fourth cookbook? And who on earth had reason to steal it? I left a message on Marla’s machine asking her to call, and hung up.

Arch announced he and Julian were taking Jake on an evening walk. Did I want to go? The rain had vanished, leaving the air cool and moist. I declined, anxious to hear what Tom was learning from the department. Realistically, what could they tell him? So they found another of the stolen cookbooks? So what? I fidgeted with my iced coffee glass.

“Okay, there’s not much but here it is,” Tom said after twenty minutes of conversation with his departmental cohorts. “Fuller’s guys did find the Watkins Cookbook. No sign of the other cookbook, although they have the photocopies of all four from the Homestead files, and this is the first they’ve heard about the cookbook possibly being a collector’s item. As far as they know, it’s worth less than a hundred bucks. But here’s something more interesting: The department got the tip about Eliot’s body being at Burr’s house just a little more than three hours after my team answered Sylvia’s call about the robbery at the Homestead. So in Fuller’s mind, the whole thing looked like a homicide-masquerading-as-burglary pretty quickly. See what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I think so … that once he decided it was a homicide, you couldn’t think of it as anything else?”

Tom nodded and poured us two cognacs. Well, why not? We’d already splurged on the last of the shrimp, carry-out food, and a loan for a new kitchen. We might as well finish off the Courvoisier. Tom placed a crystal liqueur glass in front of me and continued: “Andy Fuller ordered Burr arrested without taking the time to hear his story, and without a lot of evidence. Burr didn’t have any alibi for that night beyond being drunk. He had brawled with Eliot earlier in the evening, and Eliot’s body was found on Burr’s property. Q.E.D., according to Fuller, who claimed Burr knew when Eliot would be working at the museum, killed him there, then faked the burglary as an inebriated afterthought.”

I sipped the cognac: It was sweet, smoky, and soothing. “Didn’t they ever investigate it as a robbery? Especially with what Sylvia is saying now about the last cookbook being a potentially valuable collector’s item?”

“They don’t put much stock in Sylvia, Miss G.” Tom shook his head. “Fuller had his homicide-not-burglary theory. The department had already recovered the first two cookbooks, and those weren’t very valuable. I mean, we’re not talking the Gutenberg Bible or anything, right? Plus, Sylvia’s original report didn’t even mention all the stolen cookbooks, so they’re reluctant to change their theory now.”

“I hope this is Sylvia’s last term as curator.”

“Patience, Miss G. Her position pays less than fifteen thousand a year. She’s dedicated, but she’s not super- woman. Most of the collection was donated from old-timers in Furman County. The missing cookbook was donated by Leah Smythe, and apparently she’s been completely disinterested in whether it’s found or not.”

“So are you telling me a stolen collector’s item doesn’t hold any weight with the department? It couldn’t be a motive for murder?” I offered Tom another truffle and he bit into it thoughtfully.

“I told Boyd to run a burglary-gone-bad theory by Fuller. But you know the golden boy won’t want his original theory being questioned by a cop on suspension.” Tom went on: “The department is sending somebody up to the museum to talk to Sylvia tomorrow about her call from Andre regarding that cookbook. Maybe Boyd can get us some inside information.”

“I want to know why he wanted that book,” I insisted. “We’re talking about a French chef who couldn’t have given a flipped pancake for historic American cooking.”

“It may have been his … nosiness, Goldy. Wanting to see what had been stolen.”

“But this is like the burns on his hands,” I objected. “It doesn’t fit. It isn’t the way he was.” I hesitated. “Look, Tom, I need to know what happened to Andre. If I went up to the cabin, I could poke around a little—”

“You’re not serious,” my husband interrupted gently. Then, knowing me far too well, he added, “Don’t even think about doing that.”

I sipped the last of my cognac and didn’t reply. The boys returned and took Jake up to their room, unaware of Scout stealthily scampering after them up the stairs. Typically, the cat refused to be left out of anything.

A pearly twilight suffused the sky. Swamped with exhaustion, I decided to go to bed. But first I called Lutheran Hospital: How was Barbara Burr? I asked. Stable. And unable to talk, I was told, for the umpteenth time. I hung up and phoned to check on Pru Hibbard. Wanda Cooney said Pru had taken a sedative and was asleep. So much for asking about Andre’s reasons for wanting a photocopy of a historic cookbook. Wanda added softly that the memorial service for Andre would be held at St. Stephen’s Roman Catholic Church this Thursday at four o’clock.

The scent of baking bread woke me just before seven the next morning. I checked the thermometer outside our window: sixty degrees. Despite a stiff breeze lashing the trees, Tom slumbered on. I stood at the window and watched shiny puffs of cumulus race across a delft-blue sky. Pools of shadow swiftly followed the clouds’ path on the far mountains. The sound of barking dogs mingled with the hesitant chug of a school bus on a practice round.

I tried to ignore that stunned, painful hope that threatens to drown your common sense the day after a tragedy. Had this really happened? Had I seen Andre’s body at the morgue the previous day? Was he really gone? Yes.

I stretched and breathed through my yoga routine, trying hard to empty my mind and let energy flow in. This was the day of the Soiree tasting competition. I couldn’t have been less in the mood.

While dressing, I wondered if there was anything I could do for Pru today. I’d call her later from the Homestead, where I also wanted to find out about Andre’s request for photocopied recipes. Sylvia and I needed to have a little heart-to-heart … Wait a minute. Heart-to-heart. Need money? Have a heart-to-heart with Leland. With a sinking feeling, I realized I’d completely forgotten to call John Richard’s lawyer- accountant, Hugh Leland, about Arch’s tuition payment at Elk Park Prep. Several rounds of phone tag were corning up on that score, I knew.

I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, put on a minimum of makeup, and attempted to focus on the tasting party. You can worry about your work or you can do your work, Andre used to lecture. A chef doesn’t have time for both.

The kitchen was chilly because of the missing walls. But this apparently put no damper on Julian, who was up already, zipping energetically from the cluttered counter to the cluttered table and back to the counter. Smiling brightly, his hair neady combed, his young face scrubbed and enthusiastic, he wore a rumply-soft white shirt, dark pants, and a spotless white apron. He gestured for me to sit. With a mischievous look, he set a plate with a single cupcake in front of me. It had an uneven top and a small scoop of frosting for garnish. The eager, approval-seeking expression on his perspiration-filmed face surely mirrored my own, when I’d first offered poppy seed muffins to Andre.

“What’s wrong?” Julian demanded in a rush. “They’re right from the oven. Miniature bread puddings with hard sauce.”

I cut a mouthful of the crusty, moist cake and spooned up a judicious amount of the hard sauce frosting along with it. The crunchy, caramelized pudding mingled with the smooth, creamy rum sauce. “Delicious,” I pronounced. And it was.

“I even came up with a name,” Julian went on. “Because they’re for Merciful Migrations’ fund-raising? Big Bucks Bread Puddings.” His eyes glowed with pleasure.