A Steak in Murder (12 page)

Meg, who had ignored the wrangling, sat back with a gusty sigh and a satisfied wriggle of her fingers. "Got it. Now, Lally, you know you're locked into this program. We've already got the column slated to run in
New York
magazine next month, same time as the show will be broadcast. So don't be so hard on everyone, okay?"

"You have the menu?" Colonel Calhoun asked.

"I have the menu. Guaranteed heart-healthy and delicious as well." She wrinkled her forehead "I hope. I'm going to have time to practice. I've already tried out a
couple of filets, Colonel, and I have to tell you, they were
tough. I've devised a marinade that might work, and it's working away in my kitchen right now. We'll have to see."

"I admit that's always been a problem with the longhorn," Colonel Calhoun said. "I'm depending on you to
come up with the answer. A longhorn marinade is crucial
to success. We all are aware of that."

"I might have it. And I might not. Anyhow, here's the meal." Meg jumped up, grabbed the eraser, and vigorously swept the white board clean. Then she wrote:

INTERNATIONAL DINNER

Starters

Filet by Quilliam—a variation on steak tartare

Grapefruit broiled in mint sauce

Longhorn p
â
tè

Soup

Oxtail consomme

Fruit sorbet

Entrée

Stuffed bracciole à la Longhorn

in a sweet potato nest

Vegetable

Asparagus

Salad

Basil, arugula, and iceberg lettuce

with Longhorn vinaigrette

Sweet

Mascarpone from Longhorn cream

with raspberry sauce

"And, of course, the appropriate wines to accompany each. I think I'm going to look for a full-bodied red, with some citrus overtones to go with the bracciole."

"Now, about my private wine label idea," Harvey said. "I have several wineries standing by."

"To make Cow-bernet and Moo-lot?" Meg said rudely. "I think not. And as much as I love the New York whites, there is no appropriate New York State red to accompany this meal." She wrote DONE at the end of the menu with a flourish of the Magic Marker.

Quill led the applause.

"And the recipes?" The colonel pressed. "The one for the marinade? That will be made available to the audience?"

"No," Meg said shortly. "It will not. A chef's recipes are like your . . . your whatever. Breeding papers. My recipes are my . . . my . . ." She waved her hands, searching for the right word.

"Net worth?" suggested the colonel.

"You could say that, I suppose." She exchanged a glance with Quill.
"
Our
net worth."

"But what good are Longhorn beef recipes going to do for you? They could do so much good for people who
love beef and have to give it up because of the cholesterol
and the fats. It would be a genuine charitable act. A genuine charitable act."

Quill noticed that Meg flushed. Her sister had a gen
erous heart, underneath the crabby expressions on her T-
shirts. But she was right. Meg's recipes and her skill as a chef were the only thing that differentiated them from the competition. Quill cleared her throat and said rather loudly, "Would you like to choose the program cover? I'll need a few days to make the sketch camera ready."

"I myself find these cows in the circle too melancholy," Leonid said. "Much sadness in these cows. I prefer that as a program."

"I prefer the other one. Although I really don't think Royal would feel comfortable with his picture on the cover with my bull," said the colonel. "On the other hand, it is very important for people to realize that the
genetics of these bulls is what makes the beef so healthy.
We have a duty to use that first cover, the one that Harvey here designed."

"Well," Harvey said modestly, "I didn't exactly draw it. But yes, I admit the concept is mine, and more important, that it works."

"You
sure as heck didn't," Meg snapped. "Do you know how much a gallery would pay for either one of these two working drawings? As is? You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

Harvey, who actually did have a modicum of taste in color and line, had the grace to look embarrassed. "Suppose Quill puts the colonel in place of Mr. Rossiter and we go with it that way."

"All right I'll try to have a mechanical for you by Thursday, Harvey. You can get it scanned in and printed by Friday afternoon, can't you?" Quill closed the sketch pad and tucked it into her capacious handbag. "If you guys will excuse me, I've got to meet a train."

She left them arguing amiably over additions to Meg's menu, which, if past such discussions were anything to
go by, would escalate to an acrimonious squabble ending
when Meg flatly refused to cook at all if she heard one more minute of uninformed hoo-ha.

The train station was five minutes away, half a block to the rear of the Municipal Building off Main Street. Quill had at least twenty minutes to spare. She'd parked right in front of Harvey's offices (flanked by Esther West's Best Dress Shoppe on the south and Nadine Peterson's Kottage of Kountry Gifts on the north). She decided to drive the long way around, up the hill to the Inn
and down again the back way. The sun was almost gone,
the sky a high ceilinged room stippled with patches of rosy light. Quill rolled the window down as she drove.
Scents of evening flooded the car: the sharp/soft prickle-smell of damp grass, a handful of apple blossom perfume
scattered on the current of the breeze, the odor of earth turned aside by the thrust of growing things. The Inn sprawled comfortably above her, like a gowned woman
reclining on one elbow. The car climbed upward, and she
heard the rush of the falls, muscular with the late spring rains. A pale moon drifted above the gorge, a fruit ready to burst into full silver as soon as the sun went down.

Quill braked in front of the metal gates that contained the cattle, got out of the car, and leaned against the bars. One by one, the heifers rustled up to the fence, almost silent, their mild eyes a little wary. The largest cow,
speckled black and white, and almost invisible in the ap
proaching twilight, moved to stand protectively in front of the calves.

"Kinda pretty in the dark." Marge rose from the garden bench in front of the koi pond turned water trough.

"Sorry, I didn't see you there."

"Brady come by a while ago to take that horse of his
over to Laura Crest's. I watched him for a while and then
was just sittin' here with Royal's cows. Hang on. I'll come on out." The cows moved aside for the short, stocky figure with an uneasy shaking of their horns. "They ain't used to me." Marge grunted as she climbed over the fence and thudded down next to Quill. "Not yet, anyways."

"Aren't you a little nervous around them?"

"Nah." The turret eyes swung toward Quill and back to the cows again. "Well, some, maybe. Royal says he's seen some bad holes poked in folks when they don't take care. They're animals after all." Marge scratched the back of her neck in an absentminded way. Quill inhaled Chanel Number Five.

"I've always liked that perfume, Marge. Chanel Number Five."

"Borrowed some off Nadine Peterson. You don't think
it smells bad, then?"

"I think it smells great."

"What kind of perfume you use?"

This from tubby, stubborn, in-your-face Marge Schmidt? Quill kept the smile out of her voice. "It de
pends. Lavender cologne once in a while. Tea Rose, until
Freddie Bellini said it smelled like funerals."

"Thing is, the sher'f seems to like it."

"You mean Myles?" Quill was silent. He was tied up with this industrial espionage thing for another two weeks, he'd said. She wouldn't be able to call him for at least several days, either, since he'd decided to go undercover at the GM plant in Rochester.

"You think men like perfume, as a general rule?"

"Well, it depends. A lot of men want women to be different. So different that they can claim not to understand them at all. So they like high heels, frilly dresses, lots of makeup—things that are alien to them. Someone like—oh, Royal Rossiter—would like a woman to be herself. And that's the best kind of guy to have around, I think. Although I'm no expert, Marge."

"Best we got around here."

"Thanks. I guess."

Marge laughed. Then she said carelessly, "You remember old George Peterson."

"The car dealer? Gosh, he's been dead for five years, at least. He wasn't so old, Marge. Golly, Nadine's in her late forties and they'd only been mar—" She stopped. She'd forgotten. There was history there. "Yes. I liked George. I know that . . . you did, too."

"George liked this Chanel Number Five. Royal seems to like it, too. Said so today, anyways."

Quill took a deep breath. There were all kinds of reasons now to tell Marge of Royal's offhand interest in helping her buy the Inn. If she waited any longer, she'd
be the worst kind of jerk. "Did Royal happen to mention
that we'd talked about my buying the Inn back?"

Marge didn't say anything for a moment. Quill could see her chubby profile against the backdrop of cows and chewed up rosebushes. Her expression was hard to read. "Well," she said. "Well, well, well. He did, now, did he? Did he say why?"

"Why?" This caught Quill off guard. "Because it'd be a worthwhile investment, I suppose."

Marge laughed. It wasn't an unkind laugh, more of a heartily amused are-you-serious laugh. Quill was insulted. "I've learned quite a lot more about business since I've taken over the Palate, Marge."

"Any durn fool can run a business," Marge said. "No, I take that back. Any durn fool could serve successful dinners with Meg's cooking and you floatin' around looking like those long-haired wimmin in art history books. But real business, that's somethin' else. So, Royal's putting out a few feelers, is he? I'll have to think about that." She looked at her watch. "Train's about due."

This annoyed Quill profoundly. "How do you know I want to know when the train's due?"

" 'Cause you called that Muriel Sedgewick at the station to find out when it was comin' in tonight and she told me. Wanted to know if the sher'f was coming home for a while."

"He's out of touch for the next few weeks." Quill was afraid that her own careless tone would betray her the way Marge's had a few minutes before. But Marge had to know John was coming into town. First of all, he'd stop by to see her, since Marge and John respected each other a great deal, and secondly, Marge always found out what was going on sooner rather than later. She was worse than Doreen, since Doreen knew how to keep herself to herself. "No. Myles isn't due back yet. You remember John Raintree."

"Course I remember John. He's comin' back?"

"Just for a few days. He said to send you his regards."

"Well. Well, well, well." Marge's beady little eyes narrowed. "Royal give him a call? Or did you? Never mind. You prob'y don't want to answer that. Huh. You get on your way, Quill." She turned to leave, then threw over her shoulder, "You tell John I said hi. And you two drop around anytime you like. Anytime." She stumped away. Quill got in the car and drove to the station.

In the days when wealthy New Yorkers summered in
Upstate New York, train stations had been wonderful af
fairs, the promise of exotic otherwheres implicit in the wrought iron pillars holding up the roof, the granite tiles of the floors. Quill imagined the echo of porters, the ghostly circles of leghorn hats under the streetlights, the sweep of long skirts along the brick pathway. She'd never understood why the sound of a train whistle was such a lonesome call for so many; perhaps it was the minor key, or, more likely, the drawn-out trailing wail.
She loved the sound of trains approaching, trains leaving,
the
clack-clack-clack
of wheels on track. It was a staid
excitement she felt, a nostalgic whisper of a slower past.
For the long-dead people who had crowded this station in its heyday, it had been a place much like present airports; a crossing, a nexus, a place to go from, not a place
to stay or a place to hold in memory, to think about while
drifting off to sleep at night.

She walked up and down the concrete platform, hear
ing the train in the distance. The parking lot was deserted,
except for a few cars waiting for late commuters from Syracuse, or the few students who'd hopped on the train at Ithaca after a day at the University.

John was first off, swinging lightly down the steps, backpack dangling from one hand. She waved and stood
waiting for him, smiling to see the familiar coppery face,
the black hair, the easy athleticism. She kissed him like she kissed Meg after a long absence, with a brief, hard
hug and a brush of her lips against his cheek. "You
smell
different, John."