Prime Cut

were not in the sauce, but on top of the last chicken breast; they had been dumped on. For heaven’s sake, Ian had been right. The only condiments we’d placed on the tables had been salt and pepper. The strawberry-sugar-snap-pea salad appeared okay. My examination of the rice revealed more foreign flakes, this time very thin and orange and brown. Only it wasn’t dirt. My experience with Arch’s aquariums told me this was fish food. What the heck?

I didn’t have time to find out what was going on. There was a loud crash inside the cabin, accompanied by an unearthly scream of pain. I dropped the platter and ran to the window as more howling erupted. I squinted through the wavy glass. One of the flats had broken loose from its clamp. It had crashed to the floor, with Leah underneath. For one ghastly moment, I saw Leah’s blood-covered face. No, I thought, no. Please God, I prayed, no.

By the time I got inside, Boyd was commanding Julian to help him lift the heavy flat. When Boyd saw me, he shook his head.

Chapter 19

“What happened?” I demanded of Rustine, who didn’t reply.

“Help us!” Julian yelled at Rufus. Bobby Whitaker stood to one side, seemingly paralyzed. Rufus and Ian ran to the far side of the flat and lifted at Boyd’s command.

“Don’t touch anything!” Boyd commanded.

Leah’s body was inert. She was breathing, but her entire right side appeared unnaturally folded. Her arm stuck out at a cruel angle; her leg wouldn’t move. She cried and moaned. Ian knelt down beside her and began to murmur words of comfort. Boyd snapped open his mobile to call an ambulance.

I looked at the flat. Secured by an A-clamp to a pole that extended between the floor and ceiling, I couldn’t understand how it could suddenly come loose. Just at that moment? To hurt someone? It seemed very odd. Or very convenient?

Boyd ordered me to bring clean, damp cloth napkins to wipe the blood off Leah’s face. Meanwhile, he gently checked her for shock and broken bones. When the E.M.S. arrived twenty minutes later, the paramedics shooed everyone away from her, then took great care getting her on a stretcher and across the creek to their vehicle. As suddenly as the crisis had developed, it was over. I asked one paramedic how she looked, and his tight-lipped answer was something along the lines of We can’t say.

Boyd quietly told me he was going to examine the flat and the clamps to see if there was any evidence this was anything besides an accident. Rufus had already informed Boyd that flats occasionally came loose, but that this was the first time in a while one had actually fallen on somebody. Feeling disoriented, I walked back out to the deck and picked up the platter I had dropped. In the kitchen, I showed Julian the pepper-flake and fish-food additions and asked if he’d seen anything suspicious going on out at the tables.

Julian’s face was dismayed. “No, nothing. Sabotage. Unbelievable.”

I told him that I had suspected the same thing had happened with Andre. Maybe he had caught the saboteur?

“Maybe,” Julian mused. “Or maybe it’s just somebody’s idea of a practical joke.”

When Boyd came out to the kitchen, he said he could see nothing that would indicate someone had jerry- rigged the clamps or the flat. He even wondered if Leah had been trying to move it, as the flat had fallen on her front rather than her back. As usual, he said, no one had seen anything.

I sighed. Julian showed Boyd the platters of tainted food. He shook his head. “Cover them up and I’ll take them down to the department. I’ll see if the guys in the lab have any free time to analyze ‘em.”

When we left, Hanna seemed subdued and far from her usual bossy self. So much for dealing with idiosyncrasies, I reflected. She said she would see us Friday morning unless the equipment could not be fixed. Leah’s job of casting for the auditions was largely past, and she could manage all the details. Coffee break, lunch, all right? she asked. With any luck, that would be their last day. I nodded and tucked Andre’s bills and menus under my arm. Two more days to figure out what was really going on at this place.

On the drive home, Julian fell asleep. Quietly, I asked Boyd if he’d be willing to talk about the people at the cabin or its history. He nodded. Remembering the bitterness in Hanna’s tone when she’d visited me in the kitchen, I told him I was wondering about Hanna Klapper. Her parents had owned the Swiss Inn, now apartments. She was in dire financial straits because of her divorce. But what I didn’t know, I said, was if there was any history between Hanna and Gerald Eliot.

Boyd kept his eyes on the road and his voice low. “The department looked into Hanna because she knows the museum so well, and that’s where Gerald was killed. But since she’s familiar with the collection, they asked why a knowledgeable thief would take cookbooks, and leave those antique Hopi dolls—”

“Kachinas,” I supplied automatically.

“Right,” Boyd continued. “Those things are valued in the thousands. A person without a whole lot of money wouldn’t take a book worth sixty bucks, would she?”

“The missing cookbook has strange markings in it from Charlie Smythe.”

“So? She knew that place inside and out. She wouldn’t need to kill somebody to get pages that she knew could be photocopied from the museum files, right?”

“Gerald Eliot asked Hanna about Old West-style cooking. Making rolls. She even teased him about it. And Charlie Smythe had written to his wife in the stolen cookbook about making rolls.”

Boyd glanced at me. “So?” His response to everything, it seemed. “I don’t know anything about making rolls. You asked about Charlie Smythe and the Merciful Migrations cabin. I’ve heard the rumors about a Denver outfit wanting to put one of those paint-pellet courses out there. Don’t know if they’re true yet or not. And of course, everyone’s heard about old Charlie Smythe.” Boyd chuckled. “Guy’s a legend. He was the greediest old bastard in the West. You wouldn’t catch me trying to rob a bank when I was in my late sixties.”

“But he was caught,” I interjected.

Boyd tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Yeah, finally. Basic rule of law enforcement: A criminal keeps breaking the law until he’s in jail.”

“Keeps breaking the law. Do you know of any other crimes Charlie Smythe committed?”

“Nope. But that doesn’t mean anything. Sometimes they won’t give you a hint as to what they’ve done until they’re behind bars. Then they’ll use their stories to keep you hopping. Sometimes.”

We passed a meadow where a small herd of grazing elk was barely distinguishable from the boulders dotting the prairie grass.

“The Swiss Inn,” I said slowly, thinking of Andre’s early history. “What do you know about its background?”

Boyd said, “That place is an ongoing problem because skinheads are always trying to meet there. B’nai B’rith called us a while back, wanted to know about the swastikas on the floor of the old section, and the rumors from the war. We’ve never come up with anything except totally unsubstantiated rumors about the Heinzes, Hanna’s parents. Financially and in every other way, Hanna is absolutely as clean as a whistle. She belongs to no organizations beyond the historical society, and has been loyal and generous to them, at least until she had to quit and get a higher-paying job. Before the Swiss Inn was turned into apartments, whenever neo- Nazis tried to meet there, Hanna would call us.” He rocked the van from the dirt road onto the highway toward Aspen Meadow.

Julian groaned as he awoke. I assured him we were almost home, although in truth, I was only paying half attention. An idea was forming in my mind. Did Charlie Smythe, a greedy con man who robbed for the fun of it, still have a tale to tell?

At home, the yawning garage door revealed that the entire interior was filled with boxes: the kitchen cabinets had arrived. Just shows how eagerly retailers will part with discontinued merchandise, I thought. Boyd greeted Tom, filled him in briefly on what had happened at the cabin, and then took off with the tainted dishes. Tom handed me a note from Arch saying he and Lettie were listening to music at Todd’s house. Not to worry, he’d scrawled: Mrs. Druckman was making them sub sandwiches for lunch. Lettie would eat a sub sandwich? I doubted that. Matter of fact, what had she had at the Chinese place? Steamed