On Wednesday and Thursday we waited for Tom’s fellow officers to update us on the Eliot case. No information—not even the results of the autopsy—was forthcoming. Since Eliot’s murder was a capital case, Cameron Burr was formally denied bail. One call from the police captain’s secretary yielded the information that Tom’s suspension was being written up for formal review. The Mountain Journal speculated endlessly about the homicide. The headline Local Cop Suspended Pending Probe made me flinch.
For my part, I spent the two days drinking coffee, agonizing with Julian over the Soiree, testing menus, and making phone calls. At the Furman County Jail, Cameron either didn’t get my messages or ignored them. Lutheran Hospital still insisted Barbara couldn’t talk. I also tried—in vain—to hatch more jobs.
When Julian was off at the grocery store on one of our experimentation days—I felt slightly guilty to have such a willing helper—I decided to follow his suggestion and try an autumn-type dish for the Soiree. While I was peeling a Granny Smith apple, Kathleen Druckman—Todd’s mother—called to ask about the prospect of Arch and Todd joining a cotillion. While I was chopping the apple, Arch came into the kitchen; I ran the idea by him and he said to forget it. Defeated, I wondered what the mother of a fourteen-year-old was supposed to do. Then again, I remembered as I melted butter and mixed the chopped apples with moist, crumbly brown sugar, I’d sworn off involvement in Arch’s social life.
I sifted flour with cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice—and recalled the beginning of the previous February, when, for the second year in a row, Arch had been approached by a female classmate and asked if he wanted to be her boyfriend. Since it was not the same girl as the preceding year, I’d kept my mouth shut as Arch had again ecstatically said, Sure! He’d love to be her boyfriend! Last year, he’d begged Julian to make a heart-shaped chocolate cake with the girl’s name and his written in frosting, which he’d given to the girl. This year, he’d enthusiastically spent his money earned from chores on a Valentine’s Day basket for the new love. On February fourteenth, he’d floated off to school, bearing his load of chocolates and stuffed animals, and made his offering. By February twentieth—both years—he’d been told that he was boring and the relationship was over.
I stirred the dry ingredients and an egg into the mixture, then slid the whole thing in the oven. When the fragrant scent of autumn spices rolled through the kitchen thirty minutes later, I took the pan out and set it aside to cool. Then I reluctantly called Kathleen Druckman back and said, no cotillion. Thanks anyway. I didn’t know whether Arch was unusual in receiving the cruelty of prepubescent females, or whether all the boys suffered from the same gullibility. Whatever had been the reason for the Valentine’s Day fiascoes, Arch needed to build up his armor in the gender wars.
Each day, Tom disappeared to the hardware store. He always returned home with bulging paper bags and a secretive, satisfied look. I didn’t know what he was up to as he banged away in the basement, and I didn’t dare ask. As I felt the reverberations through the kitchen floor, I decided the hammering must be Tom’s therapy, like the pro football player I’d seen on TV. With great glee, the athlete had said the NFL was the only place you could beat the daylights out of somebody and not go to jail. And he didn’t use the word daylights.
Arch followed Julian around like a shadow. As for Julian, he still heaped four teaspoons of sugar into his morning espresso and bounced culinary ideas around until he came up with something he wanted to try. And he cooked. We had ground shrimp poached with herbs and encased in brioche, the savory cheesecake I’d made for André, crisp-fried crab cakes paired with tangy coleslaw, and grilled fish tacos on homemade tortillas with papaya salsa. Meals were heaven, and a welcome break from the worry over unreturned calls to Cameron Burr, the lack of information about Barbara, and our general lack of employment.
Each evening, Tom and Julian and Arch and I would sit out on our deck and indulge in desserts that ranged from peach pie to bread pudding. We would eat, that is, until Julian’s worry about whether he was being helpful enough burst forth in a slew of questions: Had we developed enough recipes for the Soirée tasting party? Would he be allowed to help me at future catered events? I invariably replied in the affirmative. I’d always told my Sunday School class to love unconditionally. The only problem arose when you were dealing with somebody who felt he had to earn your love. No matter how many times we showed Julian that we loved and accepted him, he was always looking around wildly and pleading, Let me do more.
At seven-thirty Friday morning, while Tom and Arch were still asleep, Julian and I were just beginning to look over our offerings for Andre’s coffee break when the call came.
“This is Rufus Driggle,” the husky voice identified himself. “I’m over here at the Homestead.” He paused. Then he said, “I think you better come over and help old Mr. André.”
My skin rippled with gooseflesh. “What’s wrong?”
Rufus exhaled. The receiver clunked and I could just make out some angry whispers.
“Hello?” I demanded.
“This is Ian Hood. André says he’s fine. He gave us your number. But the old guy grabbed his chest when he was putting out the coffee cups.” Ian sighed with impatience. “I think he’s got a bit of pain down his left arm, he’s sweating, and every time I come out to the kitchen, he’s sitting down like he’s exhausted.”
“Did you call nine-one-one?” I demanded.
“They’re on their way.”
“So are we.”
I gripped the dashboard as Julian rocked his Range Rover, inherited from former employers, to the Homestead. Stay calm, I ordered myself. André might need you. We could get there before the ambulance. I had taken a course in cardiopulmonary resuscitation after Marla had her heart attack. When I’d unexpectedly come on the dead body of my ex-husband’s girlfriend earlier in the summer, though, the emergency operator had asked if I knew CPR, and I’d mumbled a negative. Crises will do that: make you forget what you know.
We drew up to the Homestead service entrance. A two-story log octagon with timbered additions and a peaked roof, the former ranch owner’s residence-turned-museum always reminded me of one of Arch’s Lincoln Log constructions. As I vaulted out of the Rover, two paramedics trudged out the back door. I confronted one of them: a tall, chunky bald man with a ruddy complexion and a large nose.
“How is he? What happened?”
“He’s fine,” the man reassured me. “Mr. Hibbard had a little indigestion. He checks out completely.”
“What do you mean he checks out?” I echoed, dumbfounded. “Did he take some of his nitroglycerin? How come you’re not taking him down to the hospital?”
“He didn’t take the nitro because his doctor’s told him he’s sensitive to it. Mr. Hibbard was very angry with us, and insisted he’s been told not to take a pill unless he’s sure he’s having an attack, which he wasn’t. And we’re not transporting him anywhere because he’s not sick and not in danger,” the paramedic said firmly. “Somebody pushed the panic button, that’s all.”
“Are you sure he’s all right?”
“He’s fine. If he has more symptoms, he knows to put a tablet under his tongue. The nitroglycerin opens up the—”
“I know what nitroglycerin does.” Reminders of my enforced passage through Med Wives 101 never helped my mood.
“He seems to think he’s in excellent shape,” the paramedic added with a chuckle. “Are you okay?”
I assured him that I was, thanked him for checking André out, and trotted to the glass-paneled back door. Julian followed close behind.
Fussing loudly, André sat perched on a wooden stool by the Homestead kitchen’s massive oak table. He was buttoning up his crisp white chef’s jacket. Ian Hood and Rufus Driggle hovered nearby.
“—and I don’t understand why the two of you can’t go and take care of Saint Nicholas and the children,” André fumed as he elbowed Rufus away from him. “Just wait for us to serve you! I am fine! Stop being such
busybodies!”
I nodded to Rufus Driggle, whose neon-orange sweatsuit hung in wide folds from his lanky frame. The carpenter sidled over to Julian and me.
“Goldy, we’re so glad you’re here,” he whispered, as if we were old friends. I blinked: Despite the crisis atmosphere, I couldn’t help noticing how the orange suit clashed painfully with please-call-me-Rufus’s orange hair and pale skin. “We were kind of worried about old André here—”
Ian Hood was giving André a thunderous, impatient look. “Listen, old man,” he reprimanded André, “I saw you grab your chest.” I cringed. “Maybe this work is too demanding for you. Maybe you should go home and rest. We can order in some doughnuts.”
André folded his arms across his copious stomach and glared. Rufus reached for a glass from an old wooden cabinet and ran water into it. He offered the drink to André. André ignored him.
“Did you hear me, André?” Ian demanded loudly. “Can you hear me?”
“I may be old, but I am not deaf!” André shouted at Ian. When André swiveled away from Ian, he knocked the glass of water out of Rufus’s hand. Miraculously, the glass clattered to the tile floor without breaking. André directed his fury at the carpenter. “You imbecile! Why did you put that there?” he bellowed, then glared at the two of them. “Didn’t you hear the medical people say I was fine?” He caught sight of me. “Now look what you have done! Made my student worry!” He batted Rufus Driggle away with a fleshy palm. “Go spray rocks! Move furniture!”
Ian ran his strong fingers through his thick gray hair, rolled his brown eyes, and tapped his foot. His sensitive features pinched as he worked his mouth slowly from side to side. He was more attractive than I remembered from the first day of the shoot; perhaps then I’d been overwhelmed by the models’ good looks. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but then changed his mind and merely shrugged.
I said, “I’m here now, André.” I tried to make my voice comforting rather than condescending, which would have made him more upset than he already was.
“Yeah,” Julian piped up unexpectedly as he appeared at my side. “I’m Julian Teller, her student, Mr. Hibbard. I hope it’s okay that I came. Goldy was so worried about you. She’s always talking about her teacher,” he made his voice appropriately awestruck, “‘a real master,’ she says, ‘that’s André Hibbard.’” With great seriousness, Julian perused the oak island: a rack of cooling muffins sat neatly next to containers of flour, unsalted butter, brown sugar, and eggs. “Are you doing a coffee break cake? It looks super. Goldy was working on one this week. Is it okay if I stay and help?”
André nodded at him and beamed at me. He threw a haughty, I-told-you-so look at Ian and Rufus. Ian wordlessly slammed out of the room, clearly irritated beyond control. I breathed relief.
“I need this scrim adjusted!” he shouted from the Homestead interior. André hrumphed and raised a silver eyebrow. Rufus hustled out the door.
“The coffee break is at ten,” said André without moving from the stool. He sighed. “Thank you for offering to help. The Santa is allergic to strawberries and needs a separate bowl of fruit. There are three shots this morning, for three children’s outfits.” I shook my head: so much work. Why hadn’t he asked me to come at eight? “Before you scold me, Goldy,” André went on, “let me tell you, I was not having a heart attack. When they asked if I had pain down my arm, I told them to go away. And when I told them to leave me alone, I was gasping. So they told the medics that I was short of breath! Nonsense.” He inhaled deeply, as if to prove his point.
“So how are you now?” I asked.
“Fine! The only reason I placed my hand on my chest was because I was listening to the curator’s terrible tale … she is quite upset with your husband,”—he wagged a finger at me—“about that robbery by the security guard. I was being sympathetic, not having an attack.”
“Aha,” I said. Upset with my husband? About that robbery by the security guard? You mean, the security guard who was murdered five days ago? I said, “Why is she upset with my husband?”
André wafted a hand. “She had to go down to the sheriff’s department. I invited her to our coffee break. She will be back later, do not fear, and you can ask her all about it.”
André assigned Julian to trim the fruit bowl components while I prepared the baked snack. Lucky for me, there were apples in with the fruit André had brought, and he’d thought to bring extra aprons, which we donned. Perched on his bar stool, sipping a fresh espresso, offering a wide range of commentary and directions, André appeared not only healthy, but entirely in his element.
“So how are you doing with the fashion models?” I asked him as I tried to recall how I’d put together the apple cake earlier in the week. “Have they been eating the food you’ve prepared?”
“Phh-t. I do not understand why people with no talent earn twelve hundred dollars a day to model clothes, while I struggle to pay my bills.”
“But they struggle too, don’t you think?” I ventured.
“Listen, and I will tell you.” Oh, boy, here we go, I thought. Andre’s lectures, I was convinced, energized him. And his strongly held, vehemently expressed opinions proved to him that he was not old, after all. He rapped on the island with his espresso cup and waited until Julian and I had put down our knives and given him our full attention.
“You cannot become a model the way you become a chef,” he began, “through work and talent. A woman needs only a skinny body and a pretty face. And what destruction this wreaks! What I used to see at my restaurant was hundreds of teenage girls who would not eat. Why would they not eat? Because they wanted to be like the models in the magazines. But they could never become models because they did not have pretty faces.” He sipped his espresso thoughtfully. “Do you know what I have observed this week?”
“Pretty faces?” I said. “May I finish chopping the apples while we listen? So we can offer the snack to those who will eat?”
He nodded. “The male models are strong. They work out and have big muscles.” To demonstrate, he flexed the arm not holding his espresso cup. “The women may do some exercise, but when they come in to model, they are half dead, always begging me for caffeine.” He held up the cup. “How can I converse with these women, when I give them coffee?”
Uh-oh, I thought as I set about mixing melted butter with eggs, brown sugar, and chopped apples. To André, converse usually meant you listen; I’ll talk.
André went on: “And so I ask you. What is the message of this Christmas catalog?” He raised his voice. “‘Look like this and you will be happy.’ But this is not true. You can only be insecure. You can only be hungry.” He sighed and finished his coffee.
“They won’t be hungry with you around,” Julian supplied.
“Yes, young man.” André slid off the stool and began to lay out the platters.
“Goldy told me that before you were a chef, you were in the Resistance in the Second World War.” Julian’s voice was filled with awe. “Can you tell me about it?”
Mercy! Now André would love Julian forever. I dropped an egg into the batter. André launched into his tale of the secret network he’d helped build to keep Jews from being deported from Clermont-Ferrand during the Vichy régime. I did not disbelieve my teacher when he talked about this work he claimed to have done fifty-some years before. But if you did the math, André was only eleven while he was helping to build the network he referred to. Still, I would not dare interrupt him.
“They had to avoid contact with police,” André said matter-of-factly. “They had to have places to hide, and our network would send messages when the deportation trains were arriving.” His tone turned boastful. “The Nazis would come expecting to get two hundred Jews for a work camp. They would leave with a handful, very angry.”
Listening attentively, Julian trimmed fresh pineapple, papaya, banana, kiwi, and grapes for the fruit bowl. While I stirred together the thick cake batter and prayed that I’d remembered all the ingred
ients from my experimentation earlier in the week, André cast appraising glances at Julian’s prep job. Mindful of the stories of French chefs lashing the fingers of kitchen helpers who did not slice, dice, and julienne properly, I felt a bit nervous. But Julian, precision-slicing the fruit, appeared to take no notice of André’s scrutiny.
Within twenty minutes, a delicious aroma completely filled the room. We made coffee, arranged the muffins in pyramids, and filled the bowls. I iced the apple cake with a creamy citrus frosting, and dubbed the creation Blondes’ Blondies—in honor of the models. The treats weren’t truly blondies, but then again, some of the models weren’t truly blondes.
“Are you really feeling all right?” I asked André as we prepared to serve the food.
“Goldy!” he admonished me. “When will you learn to believe me? My doctor says I am fine, much improved now that I have begun to work again. What am I always telling you?”
“Let the mood fit the food,” I replied promptly.
“All right, then,” my mentor fumed as he readjusted his tray. “Stop thinking all the time about death.”
Chapter 9
Prime Cut Page 9
