Prime Cut

I’m technically a witness. But I’m not here to talk about what I saw up at your house, which is what your attorney would prohibit us from discussing.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Please, Cameron, first … can you tell me if you were the one who just had a visit from Craig Litchfield?”

He cast a rueful glance at the painted cinderblocks lining his side of the booth. “No, he wasn’t here to visit me.”

“Do you know who he was here to visit?”

His voice turned rough. “Is that why you came up to see me, Goldy? To ask about some other caterer?”

“No, no,” I said as gently as possible. “Don’t be angry. I was just curious. Actually, I have a few history questions, and you’re the one person I think could answer them.”

“History questions?”

“Yes. About Charlie Smythe. But listen, Cameron, if you want me to leave, I will.”

His free hand splayed against the scratched glass between us. Curiosity momentarily sparked his face, followed fast by fury. “First, I have to tell you something, Goldy. That ridiculous assistant district attorney, Fuller, is a disgrace. The man should be disbarred. I didn’t kill Gerald Eliot.”

“I know.”

He hesitated. “Why do you want to know about Charlie Smythe?”

“I’m just … trying to figure out what Gerald Eliot was up to.” I took a deep breath. “Pulling out a wall in the Merciful Migrations cabin kitchen was one of Gerald Eliot’s last jobs. Have you spent much time up there?”

He shrugged, again wary. “A fair amount.”

“The Merciful Migrations people fired Eliot in July. He was killed in August, right after a number of items, including a cookbook once used in that same kitchen, were stolen from the Homestead Museum. Then last Sunday, my catering teacher, a French chef named Andre Hibbard, died unexpectedly after working in that same cabin kitchen.”

“I read it in the paper. You have my sympathy.”

I nodded my gratitude. Then I said, “Andre had asked for a photocopy of the stolen cookbook before he died.” Cameron looked confused, so I plunged on. “Hanna Klapper told me that back in July, Gerald Eliot found a rifle that had been hidden inside the kitchen cabin wall. I think the rifle belonged to Charlie Smythe.”

Cameron Burr frowned. “A rifle? Do you know it belonged to Charlie Smythe? How do you know it wasn’t hidden after he died?”

How did I know the rifle belonged to Charlie Smythe? I didn’t. I’d just assumed it, after the weapon and Charlie Smythe were put together in the same thought by Rustine. She had told Tom, Julian, and me about the weapon, then wondered if Andre had told you some secret he’d found out? Say, about Charlie Smythe, who used to live in the cabin? How had she happened to put the weapon and Charlie Smythe together? Good question. “Look, I don’t know when it was hidden. But Gerald Eliot told his girlfriend that he’d found, and I quote, ‘something that was going to make us rich.’”

“Like what?” Cameron’s voice was like gravel. “And why didn’t Leah Smythe notify our society that an item of historical significance had been found at her cabin?”

“Maybe she did.” I bit down on my impatience. “But … say Gerald Eliot discovered something out at the cabin—something besides the rifle—that got him killed at the museum.”

“And this is related to the missing cookbook you just mentioned? The one Andre wanted a copy of?” His forehead furrowed.

“I don’t know. I’m just trying to figure out how and why my teacher died, working in the same place that Eliot did. This summer, Eliot worked for the museum, for Merciful Migrations, and for you and me.”

Cameron Burr rubbed his chin. “He didn’t actually finish his work for you, though, did he?”

“Of course not. He took my money, made a mess, and disappeared. Next thing I knew, he’d been killed at the museum in the course of a fake robbery that might not have been fake. Why might it not have been a faked robbery? Because the cookbook of Winnie Smythe’s that was in the museum still hasn’t been recovered. Now two people are dead, and the only thing linking them is that they both worked at the Smythe cabin. What am I missing?”

His long, snorting laughter came across the phone like a truck braking on a curve. “You’re missing Charlie Smythe.”

I glanced at my watch. Twenty minutes left. “I know Charlie was a thief, and ended up in Leavenworth in 1916 for killing a teller While he was trying to rob a bank. He died in prison two years later. What else is there?”

“All right, Goldy. First, you should know where I heard what I’m going to tell you. Vic Smythe, Charlie’s son, was a friend of mine. Vic was an old-timer with the fire department when I was a recruit.”

“How long ago did he tell you these stories?”

“Thirty years.” He went on: “Charlie Smythe was a Confederate signalman during the Civil War. Came out here like a lot of folks after the conflict, restless, wanting a fresh start. Only difference was that he had money. Obtained fraudulently, as it turned out, but still his. He was only seventeen or eighteen, but smart as a whip, and ambitious. He bought land, got married, built that cabin, tried to start ranching and timbering the way mountain folk did. But he couldn’t settle down. He was always leaving Winnie out there in Blue Spruce to fend for herself.”

“Leaving for where?”

Cameron shrugged. “According to Vic, Charlie would go wherever there were horses, money, or anything valuable to be stolen. He’d be gone for weeks at a time in the summer, which was the only time you could dependably get around on horseback, if you were avoiding the roads. Word was he was up by Jackson Hole for a While, then down in New Mexico. He’d come back with a lot of cash that he would spend on boozing through the winter. Charlie Smythe never missed his family, according to Vic.”

Never missed his family? That sounded familiar; Sylvia and I had discussed just that fact. She thought Charlie had repented in prison, of course. “Do you understand that letter they have on display at the Homestead? The one that mentions his wife’s cookbook? In that, Smythe sounds as if he loved family life.”

“I know, I’ve seen that letter. Only one he ever wrote her that the family kept. Know what? Vic didn’t even believe his father had really written it, it was so full of malarkey. Soon as Vic was old enough, he had all of his parents’ possessions packed up and put away. Leah and Weezie, Vic’s daughters? They gave the whole lot to the Homestead Museum without even going through the boxes.”

“Could … Charlie … have hidden anything else in the wall, besides a rifle? Did Vic ever say his father boasted about something hidden? There are some strange markings in the cookbook—”

“I know, I know, I’ve seen them. Barbara tried to figure them out, too, but she didn’t have any luck.”

“So nobody ever figured out what those random rows of letters mean?” I asked disconsolately. “If anything?”

“Nope. Winnie had a stroke right after Charlie went to prison. She was incapacitated and never even used the cookbook after he was sent away. So if she ever did know what the letters meant, she couldn’t tell anybody. Plus, before Charlie was finally caught, he was secretive as all hell, according to lie. Charlie would He about anything. Vic even thought his father would read about crimes, then boast that he was the one who’d committed them. When the James gang went up to Minnesota, Charlie claimed to have been with them. When Butch and Sundance ended up in Bolivia, old Charlie swore he was there, but he escaped.”

“Marvelous. Great reliable source.” I smiled at Cameron. Even if this story wouldn’t help figure anything out, it was good to see him relishing a tale, instead of being angry with me.

Cameron held up a finger, as if he sensed that he wasn’t giving me helpful data. “Wait, though. There is one thing that’s interesting…. Every now and then, old Charlie He’d get remorseful, the way a drunk always does when he sobers up. One morning, Charlie sobbed to Vic that he was sorry he’d been such a rotten father. He’d been a small-time thief, he said, but he’d pulled off one last big heist and never been caught.”

I swallowed the words fish story, and only murmured, “One last heist …”

“On this particular dawn he was feeling very penitent. Old Charlie told his son that