Prime Cut

death as an accidental overdose of nitroglycerin. An accidental death, Goldy,” she said meaningfully. “Now, please, I have a ton of work. I have to go.” She hung up.

I cursed silently and stared at the kitchen timer as it ticked down to the cake being done. Think, I told myself. First Gerald Eliot, then Andre. You don’t just have two unexplained deaths like this, with so many connections and yet no connections….

The cake was almost done; the oven would still be hot; I decided to make us an early dinner. Anyway, I thought better when I cooked. How about a rich Mexican torte layered with chiles, Fontina cheese, and tortillas—a creamy entree even a vegetarian could love? I grated cheese and chopped chiles, and as I did, I reconstructed what I knew.

Gerald Eliot had been doing his usual on-again, off-again remodeling work at the Merciful Migrations cabin. And for Cameron Burr. And for me. Supposedly, he’d been having an affair with the one-name model, Rus tine. And he had been working as a security guard at the museum, where he’d been killed, and from where his body had been moved. There had been a burglary at the museum. Or had there? Annie-the-volunteer-secretary had insisted Cameron Burr wouldn’t have made it look as if a burglary had occurred, when his real motive was murder.

I beat eggs with half-and-half I didn’t know what the motive was, didn’t even know which crime had come first, the murder or the burglary. Nor did I know how the strange death of Andre—who’d incomprehensibly asked for a copy of the one cookbook that had been stolen and was still missing—was related to either. But I owed it to Andre to answer all these questions. If only I could snoop around at that damn cabin! But I couldn’t, at least not yet. Right now, the only thing that might help would be to have a look at some evidence, or facsimiles of evidence. I slid the cake out, turned the temperature down slightly, put the torte in, and set the timer for forty minutes. Then I ran upstairs to get the white gloves I’d bought to wear to Arch’s confirmation.

It shouldn’t take me that long to break into the museum, I reflected as I hustled out to the van with the gloves tucked in my pocket. After all, they no longer had a security guard. And because that very afternoon, after the tasting, I’d duct-taped over the Homestead kitchen door’s so-called self-locking mechanism.

The museum closed at five, so the parking lot was predictably empty. Still, I exhaled in relief. I pushed open the door I’d rigged and strode purposefully into the kitchen, trying not to think of what Tom would say if he knew what I was doing. My story, just in case I was caught, was that I’d left a baking pan in the kitchen. Which I had, just before I’d taped the door.

Tom had told me that the forcible entry on the night of Gerald Eliot‘s death had been through the front door, which opened onto a reception area adjoining the octagonal living area, at the opposite end of the museum. Wouldn’t the president of the historical society have had keys to that door? Maybe, maybe not, since the museum was government property. On the other hand, the president of the historical society would certainly have figured out how to break through the kitchen, wouldn’t he? I didn’t know. Nor did I know whether the intruder had been deliberately lying in wait for Gerald Eliot to make his rounds, as Andy Fuller contended. Was it possible Gerald surprised someone in the middle of a burglary?

I trotted into the dining room. This was where the struggle and strangling had taken place. I looked carefully past the police ribbons. Tiny shards of glass were still visible in the doorframes of the two violated display cases.

My watch indicated I’d been away from the house for fifteen minutes. In my mind’s eye, the rich, creamy custard in our oven began to puff. The cookbooks … Where was the photocopy Sylvia had made for Andre from the files? No telling. And why would he want it, anyway? Wasn’t what was valuable the cookbook itself?

Well. I knew enough from working as a docent here that it was possible to find what I wanted. And what I wanted was what Andre had requested, although I didn’t have a clue why he’d requested it. I walked quickly to the historical society office, which smelled distinctly of dog, and scrutinized the four file cabinets.

Correspondence between the historical society and donors, government officials, and teachers was filed by years. Each drawer of the cabinets nearest the wall contained three years of correspondence. No help there. I headed to the other file cabinets, and was immediately rewarded for my efforts by tabs for Acquisition Files: Permanent Collection.

Unfortunately, each of the files within the drawers was labeled only by series of numbers. I pulled out one and read that 90.12.3 was a Hopi basket plaque acquired in 1990; 90.14.6 was apparently a Colt revolver donated in 1990. I pulled all the drawers open: all filed by number. I had no idea when The Practical Cook Book had been given to the museum. And there was no way I would be able to go through all these files, even if I stayed all night.

My eyes locked on Annie’s computer. As a docent, I’d never used it. But if a cross-reference for the files existed, the museum staff would surely enter it into the computer, wouldn’t they? On the other hand, Sylvia didn’t strike me as the data-processing type; maybe she left it all to Annie. I pressed buttons to boot the computer up, held my breath, then clicked on Permanent Collection. No password! That would teach them. I entered a word- search for cookbook.

The permanent collection contained twenty-three historic cookbooks. Ten of them, plus the letters from the German-American Society and from Charlie Smythe while he was incarcerated in Leavenworth, had been in the cookbook exhibit. I clicked on The Practical Cook Book by Elizabeth Hiller, and read rapidly through the accession sheet’s description: Brown cloth-bound volume with dark brown lettering; the owner’s name and the year—Winnie Smythe, 1914—inscribed on the title page. Note from husband on second page. The measurements and overall good condition of the book and its heavily yellowed pages were scrupulously noted, including letters of the alphabet written randomly in brown ink.

The book had been donated in 1975 along with letters and other items from the old Smythe cabin, now headquarters for Merciful Migrations. At the bottom of the accession sheet was the name of the donor: Leah Smythe.

The computer file itself was made up of two pages: the accession sheet and a list of items found in what the museum called the object file. In the object file, I read, I’d find a photo of the book, photocopy of the pages, and a photocopy of a letter written from Charles Smythe to his wife from Leavenworth in 1916, mentioning the cookbook. Had I found pay dirt? Or was I on a wild-goose chase for a book dumped by Gerald Eliot’s killer somewhere the police hadn’t found yet? Why had Andre requested this cookbook? And why, two days later, had he ended up dead? Was there a connection?

The cookbook’s accession number was PC—1975.011.001a. I grabbed a ballpoint, scribbled the number on a piece of paper, and shut down the computer.

I flipped through the accessions for 1975 and came upon the thick file for 75.011.001a. I checked my watch: the torte needed to be out of the oven in ten minutes. I yanked the cookbook file out of the cabinet, slammed the drawer shut, and raced to the museum exit. Before leaving, I glanced at my decoy baking pan on the kitchen table. Should I take it? Perspiration dampened my face. What about the duct tape on the door’s self-locking mechanism? I riffled the photocopies in my hand. The hundred sixty pages of the small cookbook had been copied as double pages; the whole file looked as if it contained less than a hundred pages. I closed the un locked door, trotted out to my van, and revved up the engine. I would shoot to the library and photocopy the file, bring it back, and pull the tape off the back door at the same time. Before going to the library, though, I needed to zip home, to take my torte out of the oven before it burned to a crisp.

Cooking puts such unfortunate constraints on criminal behavior.

Chapter 15

Jake howled a greeting as my van crunched into our driveway. I tucked the stolen file under my arm and prayed that Tom hadn’t noticed my absence. I also hoped he wouldn’t be there to ask what I was toting.

The heavenly smell of hot Mexican food greeted my entry through the plastic sheeting covering the hole that used to be our back door. The golden-brown cheese torte steamed on a rack on a cluttered countertop. Julian, who’d undoubtedly taken out the dish, was now gallantly offering a ceramic platter of crudites to none other than Rustine. I was so surprised at the sight of the model, I almost dropped the purloined folder.