"I hope this is Sylvia's last term as curator."
"Patience, Miss G. Her position pays less than fifteen thousand a year. She's dedicated, but she's not superwoman. Most of the collection was donated from old-timers in Furman County. The missing cookbook was donated by Leah Smythe, and apparently she's been completely disinterested in whether it's found or not."
"So are you telling me a stolen collector's item doesn't hold any weight with the department? It couldn't be a motive for murder?" I offered Tom another truffle and he bit into it thoughtfully.
"I told Boyd to run a burglary-gone-bad theory by Fuller. But you know the golden boy won't want his original theory being questioned by a cop on suspension." Tom went on: "The department is sending somebody up to the museum to talk to Sylvia tomorrow about her call from Andre regarding that cookbook. Maybe Boyd can get us some inside information."
"I want to know why he wanted that book," I insisted. "We're talking about a French chef who couldn't have given a flipped pancake for historic American cooking."
"It may have been his... nosiness, Goldy. Wanting to see what had been stolen."
"But this is like the burns on his hands," I objected. "It doesn't fit. It isn't the way he was." I hesitated. "Look, Tom, I need to know what happened to Andre. If I went up to the cabin, I could poke around a little - "
"You're not serious," my husband interrupted gently. Then, knowing me far too well, he added, "Don't even think about doing that."
I sipped the last of my cognac and didn't reply. The boys returned and took Jake up to their room, unaware of Scout stealthily scampering after them up the stairs. Typically, the cat refused to be left out of anything.
A pearly twilight suffused the sky. Swamped with exhaustion, I decided to go to bed. But first I called Lutheran Hospital: How was Barbara Burr? I asked. Stable. And unable to talk, I was told, for the umpteenth time. I hung up and phoned to check on Pru Hibbard. Wanda Cooney said Pru had taken a sedative and was asleep. So much for asking about Andr‚'s reasons for wanting a photocopy of a historic cookbook. Wanda added softly that the memorial service for Andr‚ would be held at St. Stephen's Roman Catholic Church this Thursday at four o'clock.
The scent of baking bread woke me just before seven the next morning. I checked the thermometer outside our window: sixty degrees. Despite a stiff breeze lashing the trees, Tom slumbered on. I stood at the window and watched shiny puffs of cumulus race across a delft-blue sky. Pools of shadow swiftly followed the clouds' path on the far mountains. The sound of barking dogs mingled with the hesitant chug of a school bus on a practice round.
I tried to ignore that stunned, painful hope that threatens to drown your common sense the day after a tragedy. Had this really happened? Had I seen Andr‚'s body at the morgue the previous day? Was he really gone? Yes.
I stretched and breathed through my yoga routine, trying hard to empty my mind and let energy flow in. This was the day of the Soir‚e tasting competition. I couldn't have been less in the mood.
While dressing, I wondered if there was anything I could do for Pru today. I'd call her later from the Homestead, where I also wanted to find out about Andr‚'s request for photocopied recipes. Sylvia and I needed to have a little heart-to-heart... Wait a minute. Heart-to-heart. Need money? Have a heart-to-heart with Leland.
With a sinking feeling, I realized I'd completely forgotten to call John Richard's lawyer-accountant, Hugh Leland, about Arch's tuition payment at Elk Park Prep. Several rounds of phone tag were coming up on that score, I knew.
I brushed my teeth, combed my hair, put on a minimum of makeup, and attempted to focus on the tasting I party. You can worry about your work or you can do your work, Andr‚ used to lecture. A chef doesn't have time for both.
The kitchen was chilly because of the missing walls. But this apparently put no damper on Julian, who was up already, zipping energetically from the cluttered counter to the cluttered table and back to the counter. Smiling brightly, his hair neatly combed, his young face scrubbed and enthusiastic, he wore a rumply-soft white shirt, dark pants, and a spotless white apron. He gestured for me to sit. With a mischievous look, he set a plate with a single cupcake in front of me. It had an uneven top and a small scoop of frosting for garnish. The eager, approval-seeking expression on his perspiration-filmed face surely mirrored my own, when I'd first offered poppy seed muffins to Andr‚.
"What's wrong?" Julian demanded in a rush. "They're right from the oven. Miniature bread puddings with hard sauce."
I cut a mouthful of the crusty, moist cake and spooned up a judicious amount of the hard sauce frosting along with it. The crunchy, caramelized pudding mingled with the smooth, creamy rum sauce. "Delicious," I pronounced. And it was.
"I even came up with a name," Julian went on. "Because they're for Merciful Migrations' fund-raising? Big Bucks Bread Puddings." His eyes glowed with pleasure.
Big Bucks Bread Puddings with Hard Sauce
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
« cup Demerara sugar (sometimes sold as raw sugar or Hawaiian washed sugar ) or granulated sugar
2 eggs
1 cup milk
« cup whipping cream
¬ teaspoon ground nutmeg
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
8 slices white bread, torn up (9 « ounces)
1/3 cup raisins
Hard Sauce (recipe follows)
12 fresh mint sprigs (optional)
Butter a 12-cup nonstick muffin tin. Preheat the oven to 325 F.
Cream the butter until fluffy. Add the sugar and beat until well combined. Beat in the eggs, then beat in the milk and cream. Stir in the nutmeg and vanilla. Thoroughly stir in the bread pieces. The mixture will look like mush. Stir in the raisins.
Using a 1/3-cup measure, ladle out a full scoop of batter into each muffin cup. Bake 15 minutes. Remove from the oven and, using a non-stick coated spoon, quickly stir each cup of half-risen batter to break up the crust on the sides. Return to the oven for an additional 15 to 20 minutes, or until the puddings are set and browned.
Quickly unmold the puddings on a wire rack and set upright like cupcakes to cool slightly (The puddings can be served hot, warm, or at room temperature.) Top each pudding with a scoop of Hard Sauce. Using a toothpick, insert the stem of a mint sprig into the top of each scoop of Hard Sauce.
Makes 12 serving.
Hard Sauce
5 tablespoons unsalted butter, softened
¬ cup whipping cream ( more, if necessary)
2 cups confectioners' sugar, sifted
¬ teaspoon rum extract
Beat together the butter and whipping cream until thoroughly combined. Add the confectioners' sugar slowly and beat until thoroughly blended. Stir in the rum extract. If the mixture is too stiff, add a little more cream. To serve with bread puddings, chill the mixture until it is easily scooped out. Using a small ice-cream scoop, measure out even scoops of the chilled sauce onto a plate covered with wax paper. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate the scoops until ready to serve.
Any leftover Hard Sauce can be thinned with cream and used to frost cookies or cake.
"Great." I glanced around to check Julian's preparations, resolved to get going cooking. But how on earth could I do that? This was no longer a kitchen; this was a ruin littered with bowls, pans, and foodstuffs. Only half of the upper cabinets remained. The back wall was now utterly gone. Tom had widened the gap over the sink. The place looked like a solarium in ruins. "Lord," I murmured. "If the health inspector shows up, I'll be deader than week-old aspic."
"No, you'll just punt,"Julian replied cheerfully. "You want to start on the rest of the appetizers or do you want me to?"
"I'll do it. I just need some caffeine first."
"The next batch of puddings will be out in twenty minutes." He removed the plastic bag of escolar fillets from the walk-in. "I'll fix you some French-press coffee while you look up exactly how many folks we're serving today. I still can't get into your computer. You need to give me your password." He set water on to boil and ground coffee beans. "By the way, you were right about more than three people coming to the tasting. Sylvia Bevans told me she'd be there, plus a couple of extra women from Merciful Migrations might show up. Hanna and Leah. How come Leah Smythe and Weezie Smythe Harrington are so involved in everything in this town?"
"Oh, Julian, they're old-timers. Their grandfather, Charlie Smythe, was one of Aspen Meadow's original sewers, and he left his son Vic land-rich. Vic passed the land to his family, and that's why the daughters are so involved in mountain land preservation."
"Well," he said defiantly, "I don't really care who comes, as long as they vote for our food." Clearly, he did not want to talk about Weezie Smythe Harrington, the widow of his biological father, Brian Harrington. Julian was no relation, blood or otherwise, to Weezie Harrington, and he avoided my eyes as he poured boiling water over coffee grounds in the press, then set the timer for four minutes.
I said, "I don't need to check the computer. We'll probably have six total, up from the original three." Julian nodded. "Oh, and we'll be doing Weezie's birthday party tomorrow night. You can skip it if you want."
"No, I'll do it. So it's Marla, Weezie, and who else again?"
"Edna Hardcastle. We're doing her daughter's wedding reception on Saturday. If we can snag the Soir‚e assignment, by the time of Andr‚'s funeral on Thursday," I concluded, "we'll be back in business." Although how we would prepare the food, I thought, looking around at my mutilated kitchen, the Lord only knew...
"He'll be there today, won't he?" Julian asked darkly as he poured me a richly aromatic cup of coffee.
I was startled, thinking he'd read my thoughts.
"Who?"
"Litchfield."
"Oh. Yes. And before you ask, I don't know what his menu will be."
We set to work in earnest. The dinner was advertised as a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate champagne dinner for thirty. The relatively intimate number of diners was all the historical society could fit into the Homestead dining room. County law forbidding liquor on government property had been waived for the one evening. Thankfully, the champagne and other wines would be supplied gratis by a member of the historical society. Expensive buffets could quickly turn into pig troughs, so I was glad the historical society wanted a seated dinner and large - but controlled-portions. Even better, the society was paying the winning caterer seventy dollars a plate. With any luck, if I won the tasting today, I could buy supplies, amply remunerate Julian, and still clear forty bucks per person to make the first payment on Arch's tuition. Just in case The Jerk or his lawyer-accountant forgot.
I savored the coffee and studied the menu Julian and I had decided on. We had enough for eight tasters, following Andr‚'s cardinal rule to bring enough for your planned group plus two. For appetizers we were serving Julia Child's stuffed mushrooms, artichoke hearts roasted with a mayonnaise-Parmesan mixture, and hot herbed shrimp wrapped in crisp bacon strips. These would all go beautifully with champagne. The main course consisted of a choice of the grilled escolar, polenta, and salsa, or pork tenderloin with Cumberland sauce, and Yukon gold potatoes mashed with cream and roasted garlic. Both meat offerings would be served with baked garden tomatoes stuffed with asparagus and buttered bread crumbs, Caesar salad, and rolls. This would be followed by the white chocolate-dipped truffles and/or Julian's Big Bucks Bread Puddings, served with Vienna Roast coffee. Sounded like a winner to me. Julian had made the salsa along with the polenta and stuffed a dozen mushrooms the evening before. I snipped bacon strips into quarters and slid them into the hot oven. For the tomatoes, I lightly steamed the asparagus and started buttering bread crumbs. Once I'd stuffed eight tomatoes, I whipped together an eggless Caesar dressing and washed and dried all the greens. By the time Tom came down an hour later, Julian and I had finished the preparation and were packed and ready to boogie.
"Please don't do any more tearing apart," I begged Tom, who wore old work clothes. "And please, please clean up what you've done."
Tom hugged me. "Just go win your party."
Main Street was thick with the last wave of summer tourists. Shoppers rushed into boutiques selling candles embedded with aspen leaves, wooden lamps carved into the shapes of giant squirrels, and wind chimes purportedly fashioned of genuine Colorado silver. A queue of men waited for the first beer of the day outside the Grizzly Saloon. Julian sat beside me, his face intent with worry. I hooked a left onto Homestead Drive and gunned the engine.
"It's going to be okay," I assured him, feigning confidence. "No matter how it comes out. Especially after all that's happened... please, Julian. Listen. I couldn't have gotten this far without you. I'm very appreciative of your help."
