It shouldn't take me that long to break into the museum, I reflected as I hustled out to the van with the gloves tucked in my pocket. After all, they no longer had: a security guard. And because that very afternoon, after the tasting, I'd duct-taped over the Homestead kitchen door's so-called self-locking mechanism.
The museum closed at five, so the parking lot was predictably empty. Still, I exhaled in relief. I pushed open the door I'd rigged and strode purposefully into the kitchen, trying not to think of what Tom would say if he knew what I was doing. My story, just in case I was caught, was that I'd left a baking pan in the kitchen. Which I had, just before I'd taped the door.
Tom had told me that the forcible entry on the night of Gerald Eliot's death had been through the front door, which opened onto a reception area adjoining the octagonal living area, at the opposite end of the museum. Wouldn't the president of the historical society have had keys to that door? Maybe, maybe not, Since the museum was government property. On the other hand, the president of the historical society would certainly have figured out how to break through the kitchen, wouldn't he? I didn't know. Nor did I know whether the intruder had been deliberately lying in wait for Gerald Eliot to make his rounds, as Andy Fuller contended. Was it possible Gerald surprised someone in the middle of a burglary?
I trotted into the dining room. This was where the struggle and strangling had taken place. I looked carefully past the police ribbons. Tiny shards of glass were still visible in the doorframes of the two violated display cases.
My watch indicated I'd been away from the house for fifteen minutes. In my mind's eye, the rich, creamy custard in our oven began to puff The cookbooks... Where was the photocopy Sylvia had made for Andr‚ from the files? No telling. And why would he want it, anyway? Wasn't what was valuable the cookbook itself?
Well. I knew enough from working as a docent here that it was possible to find what I wanted. And what I wanted was what Andr‚ had requested, although I didn't have a clue why he'd requested it. I walked quickly to the historical society office, which smelled distinctly of dog, and scrutinized the four file cabinets.
Correspondence between the historical society and donors, government officials, and teachers was filed by years. Each drawer of the cabinets nearest the wall contained three years of correspondence. No help there. I headed to the other file cabinets, and was immediately rewarded for my efforts by tabs for Acquisition Files: Permanent Collection.
Unfortunately, each of the files within the drawers was labeled only by series of numbers. I pulled out one and read that 90.12.3 was a Hopi basket plaque acquired in 1990; 90.14.6 was apparently a Colt revolver donated in 1990. I pulled all the drawers open: all filed by number. I had no idea when The Practical Cook Book had been given to the museum. And there was no way I would be able to go through all these files, even if I stayed all night.
My eyes locked on Annie's computer. As a docent, I'd never used it. But if a cross-reference for the files existed, the museum staff would surely enter it into the computer, wouldn't they? On the other hand, Sylvia didn't strike me as the data-processing type; maybe she left it all to Annie. I pressed buttons to boot the computer up, held my breath, then clicked on Permanent Collection. No password! That would teach them. I entered a word-search for cookbook.
The permanent collection contained twenty-three historic cookbooks. Ten of them, plus the letters from the German-American Society and from Charlie Smythe while he was incarcerated in Leavenworth, had been in the cookbook exhibit. I clicked on The Practical Cook Book by Elizabeth Hiller, and read rapidly through the accession sheet's description: Brown cloth-bound volume with dark brown lettering; the owner's name and the year - Winnie Smythe, 1914 - inscribed on the title page. Note from husband on second page. The measurements and overall good condition of the book and its heavily yellowed pages were scrupulously noted, including letters of the alphabet written randomly in brown ink on pages 32,33, 112, 113. The book had been donated in 1975 along with letters and other items from the old Smythe cabin, now headquarters for Merciful Migrations. At the bottom of the accession sheet was the name of the donor: Leah Smythe.
The computer file itself was made up of two pages: the accession sheet and a list of items found in what the museum called the object file. In the object file, I read, I'd find a photo of the book, photocopy of the pages, and a photocopy of a letter written from Charles Smythe to his wife from Leavenworth in 1916, mentioning the cookbook. Had I found pay dirt? Or was I on a wild-goose chase for a book dumped by Gerald Eliot's killer somewhere the police hadn't found yet? Why had Andr‚ requested this cookbook? And why, two days later, had he ended up dead? Was there a connection?
The cookbook's accession number was PC-1975.011.001a. I grabbed a ballpoint, scribbled the number on a piece of paper, and shut down the computer.
I flipped through the accessions for 1975 and came upon the thick file for 75.011.001a. I checked my watch: the torte needed to be out of the oven in ten minutes. I yanked the cookbook file out of the cabinet, slammed the drawer shut, and raced to the museum exit. Before leaving, I glanced at my decoy baking pan on the kitchen table. Should I take it? Perspiration dampened my face. What about the duct tape on the door's self-locking mechanism? I riffled the photocopies in my hand. The hundred sixty pages of the small cookbook had been copied as double pages; the whole file looked as if it contained less than a hundred pages. I closed the unlocked door, trotted out to my van, and revved up the engine. I would shoot to the library and photocopy the file" bring it back, and pull the tape off the back door at the same time. Before going to the library, though, I needed to zip home, to take my torte out of the oven before it burned to a crisp.
Cooking puts such unfortunate constraints on criminal behavior.
15
Jake howled a greeting as my van crunched into our driveway. I tucked the stolen file under my arm and prayed that Tom hadn't noticed my absence. I also hoped he wouldn't be there to ask what I was toting.
The heavenly smell of hot Mexican food greeted my entry through the plastic sheeting covering the hole that used to be our back door. The golden-brown cheese torte steamed on a rack on a cluttered countertop. Julian, who'd undoubtedly taken out the dish, was now gallantly offering a ceramic platter of crudites to none other than Rustine. I was so surprised at the sight of the model, I almost dropped the purloined folder.
She sat serenely at our kitchen table, her chestnut ponytail loosened to soft waves that fell just to the straps of her black sport bra. She appraised a hillock of glistening grated daikon on the platter Julian offered her. When she crossed her legs, her skintight black leggings made a silky, rustling sound. I gripped the file and tried to look delighted that Julian was making friends. The former lover of Gerald Eliot, no less, although she probably wasn't in the mood to chat about that.
"Hey, there..." I faltered. "Welcome, Rustine.Julian? Thanks for saving the torte." When he nodded, I asked, "Any idea where Arch is?"
"He's with my sister Lettie on your front porch," Rustine supplied smoothly, before Julian had a chance to answer. "Lettie and your son and I all go to Elk Park Prep, as it turns out."
"How nice," I murmured inanely.
"It was okay, wasn't it?" mumbled Julian. His brown eyes crinkled in puzzlement. "Bringing people home?"
"Of course." I was aware that Rustine was staring at me. Did I look as if I'd just committed a burglary? I wondered if any of the identifying numbers on the file tucked under my arm were visible. "So," I asked her, too brightly, "you all just ran into each other?"
"Yep." Rustine lifted a tiny handful of Julian's meticulously grated carrots and inspected it.
" Are you looking forward to school starting?" I asked politely.
"Not really." She popped the carrot shreds into her mouth and munched thoughtfully. "Our dad is supposed to get back from Alaska right after Labor Day, so the only thing Lettie and I are looking forward to is seeing him. We've been so busy with the shoot we haven't been able to think about much else."
"We've been so busy with the shoot?" I prompted.
Rustine shrugged. "Lettie models, too."
Julian plunged in with: "Rustine thinks Goldilocks' Catering might be able to book the rest of the Christmas catalog shoot. She said Litchfield's already been out to the cabin, nosing around to pick up the assignment.
Why don't you sit down, Goldy, have some coffee with us?"
I headed across my wrecked kitchen, stepping over a hammer, two saws, and a nail gun abandoned on the floor. Cater the rest of the shoot where my teacher just died? No thanks. Julian sprang up beside the espresso machine. I said, "I'd love some coffee. I'll be back in a sec."
"We should call Ian or Leah just as soon as possible, Rustine says," Julian persisted. "Want me to get a bid together? For the photo shoot?"
I stopped in the kitchen doorway, still clutching the file. Wait a minute. Litchfield had been out there. I gave Rustine a sharp look. "When exactly did Craig Litchfield go out to the Merciful Migrations cabin?"
She bent back her slender wrist in nonchalance. "Late afternoon, yesterday." I calculated: Litchfield had gone from Andre's condo, where he'd confronted me, directly to the cabin? Rustine went on, "Leah told me this other caterer named Litchfield offered to fix hors d'oeuvre to serve at the end of that day's shooting."
"And did he?" She flicked a wisp of carrot off her fingertip with her tongue, then nodded. "Ian had had to send Rufus in for sub sandwiches, and they weren't very good, so Leah told Litchfield he could heat up whatever he wanted. They were just egg rolls and spinach turnovers, but everybody liked them." She chewed the strand of carrot. "Leah thinks Litchfield's really cute. She offered to give him an audition for the cruise section. But it would be great if you guys did the food. Your stuff was better."
Julian raised his eyebrows. "So, Goldy, should I put a contract together for coffee breaks and lunches for Prince and Grogan? They should be shooting through Labor Day." He twinkled as he mouthed: More work.
"We already have catering jobs for this week," I replied matter-of-factly. "There'll be a huge amount to do that will take up most of our time." I fidgeted and gripped the file. Upstairs, I could hear Tom's low tones: He was probably on the phone. I hated to feel on the spot, but here I was. Plus, had Rustine and Julian really just run into each other in town? Why the sudden urge to have us cater at the site where my teacher had died? Did I really want this chance to be out there, as I'd thought half an hour ago?
"Whatever feels right to you. But as I said, your stuff was better," Rustin commented sweetly, and turned her smile back to Julian.
"I'll think about it," I muttered before heading down the hall. I pulled open the drawer of Tom's antique buffet and dumped the Homestead file inside, then stepped out the front door.
On our porch swing, my son was sitting next to an impossibly lovely blond girl dressed in a navy blue shirt and shorts. Freckles splashed over her tanned cheeks as she chatted brightly, blinked thickly lashed eyes, and twirled a French braid dotted with tiny navy blue bows. Arch sat beside her, entranced. I teetered, wondering briefly about the availability of shock medication. Arch glanced up when he felt my presence. Crimson flooded his cheeks.
"Oops - Sorry." I cleared my throat. Lettie turned enormous questioning eyes to me. Good Lord, she was pretty. "I'm Arch's mom. Would you two like some lemonade?"
Arch's expression turned instantly thunderous. Miss Sparkle-Plenty scuffed at the porch floor with the toe of her sandal and gave the swing a forceful nudge. "Sure. Can you make lemonade with artificial sweetener?"
"Absolutely." Would a snack be appropriate so close to dinner? Should I invite Lettie and Rustine to stay for dinner? When did the library close? I tried to think. Arch caught my hesitation.
"You can go now, Mom."
Ten minutes later, a cowardly mother to the core, I sent Julian to the porch with a pitcher of lemonade and a platter of chilled poached shrimp with cocktail sauce. I averted my eyes while mixing more lemon juice with generic aspartame, and invited Rustine and her sister to dinner. Rustine replied that they could stay, if the two of them could only have shrimp and salad. She was scheduled to model on Friday. She and her sister needed to watch their figures, she reminded me. And what do you think Arch and Julian are doing, I couldn't help thinking, but asked instead, "How long has your dad been in Alaska?"
"Since mid-July," she said. "He's looking for a job in Juneau. I've been taking care of Lettie. Our mom lives in Florida with her new family."
"And... will you both withdraw from Elk Park Prep if your dad finds work in Alaska?"
"Well, I guess. I'm taking a year off from school anyway, and Lettie won't start eighth grade until after the P and G shoot's finished."
"Why?"
"Be-cause," Rustine replied in a you-moron tone, "we each clear a thousand to fifteen hundred dollars every day we work. We make as much as our dad, and he's an engineer." She slipped out of the kitchen, presumably to join the other young people on the porch. That girl did have a way of making me feel aged.
