I yanked the pot from the tray and heaved the contents at Ian.
He jumped sideways so that the steaming, dark liquid missed him and sloshed onto the compressor and the floor. Ian cursed and lunged at me. I’m dead, I thought. Poor Arch won’t have a mother. Tom was right—I should never poke my nose into murder.
And then it happened. As Ian careened toward me, intent on ending my life, he stepped into the lake of coffee and the exposed, live current of Gerald Eliot’s broken air compressor. The surge of voltage caused his body to jerk up and away from me. Before he fell to the floor, he was dead.
Chapter 24
“Leah told us Ian wanted the road to the cabin kept closed,” Tom proclaimed matter-of-factly as he drove me to the museum from Lutheran Hospital on Monday, the first of September. “If he had the place to himself all winter, she said, Ian was sure he could figure out the code and find Smythe’s stolen treasure.”
It was Labor Day, except we weren’t working, even though Tom had finally been taken off suspension by his captain. With a search warrant in hand, the investigative team had toiled through the weekend at the Merciful Migrations cabin. Underneath the spare tire in the locked trunk of Ian Hood’s Mercedes, they had found The Practical Cook Book and the original note Gerald Eliot had discovered tucked in oilcloth inside the kitchen wall.
“Leah says, early last Monday morning, Ian told her he’d remembered some equipment he needed. Of course, he knew André wanted to get into the place early. He just didn’t know why. Ian must’ve surprised André prying up the wall, and told him much more food was needed. But he knew André had figured out Smythe’s code at that point. He just didn’t know what or how—only that the secret the wall had held was exposed. When André was involved with extra cooking, Ian burned him with the salamander. Maybe Ian meant to startle him, make it look as if André had an accident.” Tom turned on Homestead Drive. “But from the heart-problem incident at the museum, Ian knew André kept the nitroglycerin with him, and that he was acutely sensitive to it. So when the hot salamander had done its damage, he must have overdosed him. André died and Ian nailed the plywood back over the wall.”
“But why did Ian feel he had to kill both André and Gerald?”
“He was greedy.” Tom glanced at me. “He wanted the treasure for himself, wanted to start up someplace else saving the elk. Leah had told him he could have Charlie Smythe’s cache if Bobby could keep the proceeds from the sale of the cabin. Ian took her at her word. What Leah didn’t bank on was that her boyfriend Ian would try to eliminate anyone else who knew about the code and his secret. He didn’t want to share. Couldn’t stand competition.”
Oh, brother, I thought as guilt and insecurity reared their unattractive heads. Now who does that remind me of? Craig Litchfield hadn’t played fair, and had been in cahoots with The Jerk. And yet I had to admit I didn’t have catering in Aspen Meadow to myself anymore. So, the same insecurity that had plagued me the last month had eaten up Ian Hood, and driven him over the line to murder.
Our cellular rang as we pulled into the Homestead lot: it was Cameron Burr. He had been released and would join us at the cabin for an early dinner, thank you very much, to work with Sylvia and a crew of volunteers. And he had great news: Barbara was finally off the ventilator. The doctors were certain she was well on her road to recovery. Tom and I promised to visit her soon. And, Cameron asked, did we know Leah Smythe had vanished? We knew, we said, and hung up.
While Leah was still in the hospital, she had been questioned by Andy Fuller and two investigators from the sheriff’s department. Her face had still been bandaged; her broken ribs had made talking difficult. After they left, so did she. The hospital had called the department when they’d discovered her gone. She wasn’t a suspect in any of the crimes that had taken place at the cabin, and yet why had she slipped out? When Tom called Bobby Whitaker to ask if Leah wanted to join us at the cabin, Bobby had replied that his half-sister was too busy. Too busy, to come see historic treasure buried by her grandfather unearthed? Too busy doing what? She was at the museum, Bobby confessed, just looking at her grandfather’s old stuff.
So we were at the Homestead. We were going to talk to Leah together because I was a friend, not a cop. Besides, I wanted to know for myself what had happened with that falling flat.
But as Tom and I crossed the Homestead dining room, we immediately heard Leah arguing with Sylvia Bevans in the kitchen. Between them, on the island, were the letter from Leavenworth and the framed Times article on the 1915 stagecoach robbery. Apparently Leah was demanding that the letter and the article be deacquisitioned so she could have them for mementoes. And Sylvia, fiercely protective of the museum, as usual, was telling her that she absolutely could have neither the newspaper article nor the letter.
“But why do you want them?” huffed Sylvia, trembling indignantly inside a lime-colored linen suit. “After all this time? The police told me you want The Practical Cook Book, too. Have you gone insane? Why don’t you just take a photocopy?”
Leah, bandaged and holding herself at an awkward angle, shot back: “No, Sylvia, I have not gone insane. I’m leaving Aspen Meadow. I’m moving to Arizona, okay? The only things I want to keep are the messages my grandfather sent, and the newspaper reporting his last caper.”
“You absolutely cannot take museum property—”
“We need to talk to Miss Smythe, Mrs. Bevans,” Tom interposed gently as we joined them. “If you would excuse us. And please bear in mind all that Miss Smythe has done for the museum,” he added. “Especially this afternoon.”
Snapping her mouth shut, Sylvia stomped past Tom, back toward the sacred realms of her office. She did not acknowledge me.
Leah shuffled over to one of the stools and sat gingerly. A bare spot above her ear had been shaved and stitched. Her face was still swollen and covered with bruises, and the streaked pixie haircut looked disheveled and shorn.
“Are you here to arrest me?” she asked Tom defiantly.
“No,” Tom replied easily. “Why don’t we sit and talk?”
Leah gestured impatiently. “I’m leaving the Smythe land. When I have the property, everyone wants it. They use me to try to get it. That’s why I’m going away.”
“Begin at the beginning,” Tom advised. “Goldy hasn’t heard your story yet.”
Leah raised one eyebrow at me and hrumphed.
“I’m sorry about Ian,” I said, and meant it.
“Don’t be. Ian and I have … had been together for ten years. What kept us together was preserving wildlife migration routes.” Leah touched the bare spot on her scalp. “I guess even a good cause isn’t enough when you’re not getting along, especially when the person you thought you loved turns into a self-centered, temperamental guy.” She shifted her weight on the stool and winced. “They’re doing a lot of shooting down in Phoenix now, what with the good weather … anyway, Ian said he didn’t have the capital to set up in a new place. But I wanted to leave, and I wanted Ian to move his studio somewhere, anywhere, away from my cabin, so Bobby could sell it. I feel responsible for Bobby, and I’m the only one who does. I wanted to let him sell that land to the paint-pellet people, so he could have a way to live, now that the modeling was finished for him.” She took an unsteady breath and shook her head. “I don’t give a damn about anything buried up there. If they don’t find any of the victims’ heirs, and the county historical society people want it, they can have it. I have a big family house in Aspen Meadow that I’m about to put on the market—”
“Three people are dead,” Tom reminded her.
“Okay, okay. Sorry.” She stopped and tried to construct her thoughts. “Bobby said the place would show better if we did a little work on it. We hired Eliot because he was available and said the job could be done in a week, before we got going on the Christmas catalog. The liar.”
She fell silent; her fingers stroked her bruised cheek. Tom prompted: “And?”
She moaned. “That moron Eliot found the
rifle in the wall, and a note from my grandfather saying you needed Winnie’s cookbook and the rifle to find his treasure. Ian’s Images put out the story that we’d fired Eliot, but that wasn’t quite true. Ian and Gerald Eliot were in on it together. Eliot was going to get Ian the cookbook. They were going to find the treasure together. But Ian … oh, God, I didn’t want to believe he could have killed Eliot. I didn’t even ask him about it. I didn’t want to know. And he knew better than to mention it.” She gave me a quizzical look. “How did you find out about what was in the wall?”
I said simply, “Gerald Eliot had Rustine photocopy the note. But André didn’t have the note.” Leah’s confusion deepened. I told her about André’s knowledge of the very common code, showed it to her in the Leavenworth letter, then explained that André had requested a photocopy of the cookbook. “That’s why he went to the cabin so early on Monday morning.” Leah’s eyes watered; she raked her hair again.
She said, “So … Ian managed to make it look as if André had died accidentally?” When I nodded, she began to cry. She said, “He must have thought he was in too deep, by then. Anyone who figured out the code would be on to him, about what he’d done to Eliot to get the cookbook. It all got so out of control. I knew it, but I didn’t want to face it. I was afraid.” Tears streamed down her face. “I loosened the clamp on the flat. I wanted to die. That way Bobby would still get half the property. And if the flat didn’t kill me, at least I would be far away from Ian. I knew he’d kill me next.” Sobs wracked her slender body.
“Let us take you back to your place,” Tom told her. “You need to rest.”
“Aren’t they going to start the digging up at the cabin in a couple of hours? Don’t you want to be there?”
“It’s more important for you to take care of yourself,” Tom replied. “Let us help you get home.”
She picked up the Leavenworth letter and shook her head. “I can drive. I’m fine. You all go on to the cabin. I never want to see the damn place again.” With her free hand, she smeared the tears from her eyes and forced a sour laugh. “I must look awful. I need to do something about my makeup, don’t you think?”
We followed Leah to her old house overlooking Main Street, then went home. I surveyed my lustrous cherry cabinets, bright new windows, and gleaming Carrara marble countertops. This was a kitchen I could enjoy, I decided, as Tom and I began to pack up for our meal at the cabin. Arch, joining us, announced: “Elk Park Prep called and said after Tom talked to Leland, he paid my tuition.” While I offered a quick prayer of thanks, my son looked around and exclaimed, “Man, this place rocks! The marble’s cool. I told Lettie she could come over after school tomorrow to see it. That’s okay, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said with a smile. “Invite her for dinner, if she can stand the smell of paint. And you’re right, Arch, this kitchen positively rocks.”
Tom beamed wordlessly, surveying the result of his labors over the past weeks with unconcealed pride. It wasn’t quite done, but who cared? The floor still needed to be sanded and finished, the walls painted, the molding put in, and a hundred details attended to, but Tom, unlike the late Gerald Eliot, would take care of everything. My spirits soared.
“One thing I forgot to tell you,” Tom said as we were packing up chilled wine and salads. “Litchfield’s attorney tried to cop a plea on the charge of criminal mischief, tainting your food. Andy Fuller turned him down until Litchfield told Fuller that John Richard’s guy, Leland, was paying him, Litchfield, to sabotage the food. And that John Richard was calling the shots during the weekly visits that Litchfield made to the jail. That bit of info motivated Leland to pay Arch’s school bill. It looks as if Litchfield will get probation, which probably upsets him less than the facts that Edna Hardcastle’s daughter put off getting married again, and Merciful Migrations has yanked him from doing this year’s Soiree.” I blinked. Litchfield had lost two jobs in one day? Things were looking up. Tom went on: “Your ex will be charged as a principal in the criminal mischief situation. Might add to his jail time.”
“Might make him think before he tries to wreak vengeance on his ex-wives,” I observed. “So. Eventually, I’ll still be dealing with Litchfield.” I thought about that While mixing fresh basil into tomatoes vinaigrette. Was I secure enough to deal with the competition? You bet. “On an even playing field,” I said finally, firmly, “I can compete.” To Arch, I said, “Are you ready?”
My son nodded. His face had turned tight with apprehension. This was, after all, a big day for him.
On Sunday night, Rustine and Lettie had called to invite Arch to accompany them the next day, when they met their father’s flight from Juneau at Denver International Airport. Their father had given up on finding a job and was skipping the California leg of his trip to come home; he missed his daughters. Julian had generously offered to help the sisters clean their house Monday morning. I shuddered, remembering the chaos and dust we’d encountered on our visit. For his part, Arch had spent the morning getting clean himself and deciding on his wardrobe.
Julian returned; half an hour later, Rustine finally pulled up in front of our house. By that time, Arch was so nervous you’d have thought he was flying in from Alaska. I didn’t hug him good-bye. I didn’t tell him to be polite to Lettie’s father. I told him to have fun.
Julian had proposed that Marla, Hanna Klapper, and Sergeant Boyd join us at the cabin dig. To celebrate, Julian added, we should have a feast for all the workers: crab cakes, pasta, salads, Parker House Rolls from The Practical Cook Book, and Andre’s famous Grand Marnier Butter-cream Cookies, which I had given a new name. They were a delicious treat my teacher had left for me to serve my clients: Keepsake Cookies. Plus, I had made a flourless chocolate cake that was really a collapsed soufflé … when you want a soufflé to fall, it can be delicious—like life, once you’ve put it back together.
But Julian’s words haunted me as I packed the food. Celebrate what? I’d wondered. I hadn’t had the heart to ask what Julian’s plans for the future were, but I sensed the feast was a kind of good-bye. He’d declined to accompany us to church on Sunday. I concluded it was because he was on the phone, making his plans to get a ride back to Cornell so he could plead his way in for the fall semester.
“Time to go,” Tom said. “I swore to Sylvia that we’d be there by one o’clock. They aren’t allowed to bring anything out of the ground until we get there.”
Boyd and Tom carefully packed a chilled white chocolate cream sauce I’d made for the cake into the cooler; I covered the rest of the food with foil.
By the time we arrived at the Mercifull Migrations cabin, the crew of diggers made up of members of the Anthropology Department of the University of Colorado and volunteers from the Furman County Historical Society, including Cameron Burr, were hard at work at the base of the elephant rock. We set up our feast on the deck of the cabin. The diggers had vowed to have no treat until they found what they were seeking.
“Good school, the University of Colorado,” Julian said idly as I handed Marla a very small advance taste of the tomatoes vinaigrette. “I just finished a transfer application. For the spring semester, of course.”
I gasped. Marla giggled. Boyd brought his mouth into an o. Tom shook his head and said softly, “I knew it.” Even Hanna Klapper smiled.
“Something esle,” Julian went on mildly, his eyes sparkling. “I called Leah Smythe on the cellular, on my way home from Rustine’s house. Woke her up, I think.”
“You called Leah?” Hanna demanded. “Why?”
“Well,” Julian said as he tilted his handsome face knowingly at Tom and me, “you know, Leah and I are related, sort of. I’m her nephew once removed, since Brian Harrington, her brother-in-law, was my biological father. I mean, Weezie has made it very clear she doesn’t want to be involved with me. But I thought Leah might want to know she had more family than just Bobby. That she could, you know, call on me—”
“You never said I could call on you,” Marla hrumphed good-nat
uredly. “And I’m your biological aunt.”
“I didn’t need to,” Julian rejoined. “You knew you could call on me day and night, and you did, when I went through rush and was visiting all the fraternities, and you called every night to make sure I’d gotten back to my dorm safely.”
Labor Day Flourless Chocolate Cake with Berries, Melba Sauce and and White Chocolate Cream
7 ounces (¾sticks) unsalted butter
7 ounces best-quality bittersweet (semi-sweet) chocolate (recommended brands: Lind Bittersweet, Bernard C. Semi-Sweet, Godiva Dark)
tablespoon espresso or strong coffee
5 large eggs, separated
tablespoons best-quality unsweetened cocoa (recommended brand: Hershey’s Premium European Style)
7 tablespoons granulated sugar 1 tablespoon vanilla extract
1 small package fresh blueberries (approximately 6 ounces)
1 small package fresh raspberries (approximately 6 ounces)
Melba Sauce (recipe follows)
White Chocolate Cream (recipe I follows)
Place the oven rack in the middle to lower (not the lowest) part of the oven. Preheat the oven to 350°F. Butter the bottom and sides of a 10-inch Springform pan. Make sure you have the bottom of another 10-inch Springform pan on hand.
Place the butter, chocolate, and coffee in the top of a double boiler and melt over boiling water. Transfer to a bowl and allow to cool slightly, then stir in the egg yolks and whisk until smooth. Sift the cocoa and sugar together, then sift this mixture directly into the chocolate mixture and stir until smooth. Stir in the vanilla and set aside. Beat the egg whites to soft peaks. Fold half the egg whites into the chocolate mixture, then pour the chocolate mixture on top of the remaining egg whites and fold in. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and set it on the lower rack of the oven. Bake for 25 minutes, or until the cake is puffed and the center no longer appears moist.
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