I gratefully swigged the iced latte-made with fattening whipping cream-and brought water, seasonings, and the lemon skins to a boil so I could poach more shrimp,: With a plentiful salad, the Mexican torte, and a frozen rice pilaf quickly defrosted in the microwave, we'd be okay. I needed to talk to Tom and start prepping Weezie Harrington's party. But most of all, I knew I absolutely had to copy the Smythe cookbook file and get it back to the museum before it opened in the morning.
"Look," I said when Julian returned to the kitchen, "I can't think about going out to work at the cabin right now. If you want to put together a proposal for them, I'll look at it tonight. But right this sec I really need to do an errand in town." I took out the frozen pilaf and pointed to the salad ingredients. "Can you defrost the pilaf and make a salad for the rest of the dinner? I'll be back in less than an hour."
"Sure," he said enthusiastically as Rustine glided back into the room. I snagged the file, sprinted out the front door, and waved a hasty good-bye to the occupants of our front porch, who ignored me. In a cloud of dust, I reversed the van down the driveway. I doubt they noticed.
At the Aspen Meadow Public Library, I laid out crisp dollar bills on the copier farthest from prying eyes, and.. flipped through the file. The Practical Cook Book, written by Elizabeth Hiller - whose stern cameo was featured opposite the tide page - had been published in Chicago in 1910. Only two or three recipes were printed on each of the small pages. Although I'd determined to work as quickly as possible, I was puzzled by a note written after the page with Winnie Smythe's name and the date 1914. In a different hand that featured severely slanted letters and fine long curlicues was the inscription: My Dear Wife, when you make my Favorite Dessert, remember to make the Rolls the way I taught You. It was signed, Your Loving Husband.
So, Charlie Smythe gave cooking advice in addition to being a rancher and unsuccessful bank robber, eh? Busy fellow. I slapped the file sheets madly into the machine, and frowned at two pages with random rows of letters in the outside margins. Page 33 contained the recipes for German Coffee Cake and Parker House Rolls. In the margin was a row of slanted ink letters that spelled nothing: U, A, A, Z, N, B, K, R, D, L, M, I, E, W, P, Q, R, V, Z, X, T, S, A, U, H, G, F, D, E, Y, T, R, E, P, A, S, L, W, I, C, E, X. Page 113 contained two more grids, with rows of different letters in the margin next to the recipes for Bread Pudding and Steamed Apple Pudding. This was the handwriting that made this cookbook a valuable collector's item? What were these letters? Directions on how to make the rolls the way Charlie had taught Winnie? Now that's what I called secret recipes.
The last item in the stolen file was a copy of the letter written to Winnie from Charles when he was in Leavenworth. I'd seen the original in the shattered case at the Homestead:
My Dear Wife, You must know how very much I love you, and how I would tear out my Heart to see you again. To get to my cell, I pass a wall in which I have tried to carve your name. I remember our cabin Kitchen with its smell of Bread and Pudding, how you would use Cookery to show your love for me. I have only read one book. Sky here is seldom seen. I long for our bed, children, Family tales, rifle, horses, cabin, and beautiful land where I believed to find Riches. One day, my Love. Your Loving Husband Hmm. More references to bread and pudding; and it was the pages with those recipes that contained the random letters. But this eighty-year-old puzzle would have to wait until I could go over it, preferably with Tom. He wouldn't be happy about how I'd obtained a copy of the file, but he'd live.
I finished the photocopying, reassembled the original file as well as my packet of copies, and hustled out of the library. It didn't take long to sneak back into the Homestead, replace the original file, and tear the tape off the back door so that this time, it really did self-lock. It wasn't until I was pulling back into our driveway that I realized I'd left my stupid baking pan on the table of the museum kitchen.
Arch was standing in the driveway when I returned. He looked embarrassed and frantic, and I had the feeling he'd been lying in wait for me. He hopped out of the way so I could pull into the garage, where I hastily tucked my photocopied file under the van's front seat. At the moment, Tom was the only person with whom I wanted to share the contents of the pilfered book.
"Hon, what's the matter?" I demanded when I hopped out.
"Lettie and I want to have dinner at the Chinese place."
"Tonight?"
"Please, Mom, may I borrow twenty dollars? I don't have time for you to take me to the bank to get into my own account, and I don't want to ask Tom because he's suspended with no pay. Lettie and I will walk down to the Dragon's Breath and walk back. So you don't need to take us." He kicked at a pebble in the driveway and sent it hurtling down into the street. "Please."
I pulled two ten-dollar bills out of my pocket. "Forget borrowing, just take it."
"Thanks, Mom."
"Remember not to have peppers, they make you sick."
Arch just shook his head and ran off:
In the kitchen, Tom wedged a crowbar behind a drawer to pry it loose. With a sickening shriek, the drawer and cabinet below it tore from their moorings and crashed to the floor. Ignoring the sound, Julian packed up food on our one remaining counter. Our kitchen table had been pushed against the wall. Standing beside it, Rustine watched the destructive drama with undisguised interest.
"Why are you doing this now?" I cried. Tom, who had been peering at the rubble with a satisfied expression, appeared surprised. "I have to get rid of the old stuff today so I can go pick up your new cabinets." He raised a bushy eyebrow. "I would have asked you about it, but nobody knew where you were."
"Where am I supposed to work?" I wailed. "How are we supposed to eat?"
Tom and Julian exchanged a look. Women, it clearly said. Julian picked up two grocery bags loaded with foodstuffs. "Tom said to pack up the shrimp and torte for a dinner picnic. It'll just be the four of us here. Did Arch tell you he and Lettie were going out for Chinese? And Tom has some secret picturesque spot for us, right?"
"You bet," my husband said cheerfully. He put down his crowbar. "Let me just go get showered. Miss G., why don't you come upstairs and talk to me?"
As I sat in the steamy bathroom listening to the shower patter, I realized this was the wrong time to bring up stolen paperwork, especially to a cop. Even if that cop was on suspension. I tried to focus instead on Tom's patient explanation that he'd be done with the kitchen in a mere month or so.
"I need you to decide if you want a lazy Susan as the under-counter cabinet in the corner six feet to the right of the sink. And I need to know if you want a double or single sink, and if you want stainless or some color."
"I'd love a lazy Susan cupboard, thanks. And I'd prefer a double sink, stainless, please. And don't forget three separate sinks are required by the county for food service."
"My dear Miss G. Trust me, okay?"
I could see his body through the steamed-up glass of the shower stall, and immediately thought of better things to do than discuss kitchen amenities. Tom turned the water off, wrapped a towel around his middle, and shot me a quizzical look. "Okay, so I can ask you questions about what you want, and you won't be upset with me?"
I smiled. Of course, it wasn't what I wanted that was bothering me, it was the mess, the cost, the fear that when he finished, I'd have something rich and strange, like oysters with sour cream and truffles, that made me sick to my stomach just to contemplate.
Tom paused in his toweling-off and regarded me questioningly. "Why is this red-haired young woman here, exactly? Rustine. The one who was getting it on with Gerald Eliot, right?"
I shrugged. "Right. She's a model for the Prince and Grogan shoot. I think she thinks Julian is sexy. Of course, the only man I think is sexy is standing half-dressed in front of me, while the bed is beckoning."
Tom chuckled. "How about when we don't have people waiting for us to have dinner with them?" He finished drying off: pulled on the clean yellow shirt and khaki pants he'd brought into the bathroom, and gave me another quizzical expression. "This model. Did she and Julian hook up before now? Or did she just show up here?"
I remembered when I'd unexpectedly seen Rustine in her green outfit, jogging down our street just before Julian arrived. "I don't think they hooked up before now. Why?"
"What do you know about her and her sister?"
"Well, let's see. Because of Rustine's relationship with Gerald Eliot, Merciful Migrations fired Gerald. Rustine and her sister Lettie go to Elk Park Prep and model, too. I think Julian ran into them in town when you sent him off to find Arch, and they all came back together. Why the big interest?"
He rubbed the towel over his hair. "Not sure. I just don't trust her. Could you ask her some questions about the fashion photo people?"
"Like what?"
"Be the good cop, Miss G. Ask some friendly questions while we drive, see if she's on the up-and-up. I'd like to know what the real story is."
"Do you think she's lying about something? And I should ask her questions when we drive where?"
"Look, Goldy." He dropped his comb on the countertop, took my hand, and led me down the stairs. "What is it they're always telling the yoga people? Just go with the flow."
"Okay, but could we at least take Julian's car? Please? It's cleaner." In every sense, I added silently.
"So where are we headed?" Julian asked once we were all in his Range Rover and he was driving us toward Main Street, ten minutes later.
"To the Smythe Peak Open Space area," Tom replied. "I'll direct you."
A cluster of blush-rose clouds rimmed the horizon as the summertime sun slowly sank. I bit the inside of my cheek as we passed the ornately carved entry to the Dragon's Breath Chinese restaurant. Back at home, I had left a note for Arch under the front doormat, our agreed- upon spot for messages. Gone out for a picnic dinner, just in case you get home first. Home by eight. Please stay on the porch with your friend. I doubted Lettie's dad would approve of a fourteen-year-old boy inviting his daughter up to his bedroom to see his ham radio equipment.
Rustine, who sat next to Julian, turned around to smile at Tom and me. She was so pretty, so perfectly made up, so disarmingly clothed in what I usually considered underwear, that it was challenging to come up with casual chatter, much less a friendly interrogation.
She said matter-of-factly, "You must be freaked out about Chef Andr‚. That day you worked with him and gave me the coffee? I didn't know he was your teacher.
Julian told me. And to think he died in that same kitchen... spooky."
I frowned. Was she offering sympathy? How was I supposed to respond to freaked out? We whizzed past the library and headed out of town. "Did you... get to know Andr‚ at all during the shoot?"
She shrugged her bare shoulders. "He seemed... a little weird, you know. But real lovable."
I glanced at Julian, who was frowning at the road. Given the nature of Rustine's alleged relationship with the late Gerald Eliot, I wondered how she defined lovable. "Oh," I commented knowingly, "Andr‚ had his ways. But when you say weird, do you mean eccentric?
How was he... during the shoot?"
"Well," she said, "like; if anybody put salt on food before tasting it, he had a fit. One time Ian blasted Rufus to go get him some soy sauce from the kitchen. That didn't go over very well with Andr‚, who yelled that Rufus was an imbecile." She giggled. "Rufus really isn't very smart, but he hates it when people draw attention to it." Her tone turned mock-serious. "And you can't imagine how upset Andr‚ got when some catsup got poured into a raspberry sauce he'd made for a cake, or some pickle ended up on his seafood stuff Plus," she added resignedly, "some people just have bad manners. You know, they stick their fingers instead of vegetables into bowls of dip. So Chef Andr‚ would get after us in the hygiene department. Anyway, with all that butter and anger, it's no wonder he had a heart attack."
My heart ached. She could be right. So why was I. so convinced there was something amiss about Andr‚'s sudden death? I glanced at Tom. His face was expressionless. His cop face, Arch liked to call it. "Ah, Rustine?" I asked innocently. "Have you had much experience with other caterers on modeling jobs?"
"Ha!" she chorded. "Usually it's cold cuts and iceberg lettuce followed by brownies." She shuddered. "Andr‚ was the best we'd ever had. Ian's always made plenty of money to spend on catering. But he hasn't exactly been generous about spreading it around. Or in treating his helpers or the models very well."
"That's too bad," I murmured sympathetically, myself a veteran of a cheapskate ex-husband. "What do you suppose changed his mind this time?"
"Oh, having Andr‚ was probably Leah's idea. She tries to smooth out old chintzy Ian's rough spots."
"Turn at the next right," Tom ordered Julian as we approached the flashing yellow light by the You-Snag-Em, We-Bag-Em Trout Farm.
