A Steak in Murder

by Claudia Bishop

  "Hear! Hear!" Harvey shouted.

  "In anticipation of the real thing, Colonel Calhoun will give you a brief summary of his remarks on the genetics of that true American breed of cattle—the Texas longhorn!"

  The Russians shouted. The Hemlockians cheered. Lally Preston rolled her eyes and signaled Peter for more wine.

  The colonel got slowly and pleasurably to his feet. He switched on his PC slide show function, and the first of what turned out to be forty-six longhorn cows appeared on the Palate's wall. "The Texas longhorn cow is a pure breed," the colonel said. His high-pitched voice carried remarkably well. "And although I will go into this more on the actual night, I will tell you that I have devoted my life to determining the best genetics needed in breeding this cattle. You breed pure and you breed to the line. All you true longhorn lovers will know what I mean when I say that if they'd been dealin' with cattle instead of people, the Nazis had the right idea."

  Quill's mouth dropped open. Somebody gasped. John coughed into his hand and winked at her.

  The colonel smiled happily and turned his attention to the brown and white cow pictured on the wall. "Now this here little lady is a fine example of what you are goin' to taste tonight. Her name is Calhoun's Caddy. She's by Cadillac Star out of Baby Driver. She's got a real straight top line, a good feminine expression, which is what we want in a heifer, and she's thick. She's real thick. This is what you're lookin' for in your basic beefy longhorn."

  There were forty-six fine examples of heifers with straight top lines. All of them were thick. Real thick. And all of them just as soft-eyed and appealing as the real cows Marge had corralled at the Inn.

  Quill pinched her knee, hard. She'd been dubious about serving wine at a meal where the reactions of the diners to the entrée were essential. She'd instructed Peter to pour sparingly, and to save the heavier wines for toward the end of the meal, when the salads and the sorbet would be stimulating jaded palates, but now Quill began to regret her decision to go easy on the wine. In fact, she wished she'd served whiskey. Doubles. Straight up.

  When she checked her watch, Quill discovered that the actual slide show had lasted just under fifteen minutes. It had seemed interminable. Peter and Doreen swung out of the kitchen one after the other, the plates of rare beef Quilliam held aloft, and began to serve.

  "Now, what's this, then?" the mayor asked, poking dubiously at the plate of beef. "We're supposed to squeeze this here lemon on it?"

  "For heaven's sake, Mayor," Adela said. "That's Chef Quilliam's version of steak tartare."

  "Quite a Russian dish, in this country," said Leonid. "Although, I think it is more like pizza, which has never been Italian."

  "It's raw beef, Mayor." Adela, stern in a flowered hat, wrapped a piece around her fork and took a delicate nibble. "Delicious," she pronounced.

  "I don't think I'm up to eatin' raw beef, Adela."

  "Shut up and eat, Mayor."

  "And this black stuff? What's that?"

  "Caviar," Quill said brightly.

  Elmer frowned.

  "Eggs. From fish," Leonid said. He swallowed a large spoonful. "I am sad to say that this is the only thing I do not like about this country."

  "Fish eggs. I thought so." The mayor put his fork on the table, folded his arms, and looked mutinous. Harland Peterson winked at Marge. Both of them began to laugh. Neither of them ate either the caviar or the beef.

  "What do you think of the beef, Colonel?" Quill asked hastily.

  "Reasonably tender," Colonel Calhoun said thoughtfully. "I say it's reasonably tender. If I knew what went into the marinade I might feel a little more comfortable. You say it's raw longhorn?"

  "I will have more," Leonid announced. "And so, too, will Vasily and Alexi. And perhaps some vodka? It is permitted to serve vodka in this country?"

  Quill, who agreed with Nero Wolfe that a guest was the jewel on the cushion of hostility, signaled Peter to bring some vodka. "Stoli," she added, hoping she didn't appear too resigned. Vodka would kill the taste of anything dead flat, unless it was baked potato, which had no taste to begin with.

  "I think it's great," Laura Crest said. "It's just . . . I hadn't really thought of raw beef before. You sure your parasite control program is all that efficient, Colonel? I mean, roundworms, especially, are pretty resistant, and if you're only worming the cattle twice a year . . . Not that this looks infested," she added hastily. "Not a bit."

  This put an effective stop to everyone's consumption of the beef Quilliam except the Russians, who not only ate the beef, but the lemons, onions, and chopped caviar, too.

  Peter placed chilled vodka glasses in front of the Russians, and carefully poured the Stoli. "And thank you, very much," Leonid said. He shook Peter's hand, grabbed the bottle, and put it by his plate.

  "Here," said the mayor, "lemme have some of that."

  "I will trade you," Leonid said graciously. "Is good capitalist thing to do, vodka for your beef? We Russians do not mind worms."

  "In the interest of good trade relations," Adela said nicely, "I will offer mine as well."

  At least Meg will see only empty plates coming back to the kitchen, Quill thought. Because Brady and Royal have eaten theirs, bless them.

  "Psst," Meg said, opening the kitchen door a crack and raising an eyebrow at Quill. "Are you ready for me yet?"

  "Excuse me," Quill said. "Peter will serve the rest of the starters. I'll be back in a moment."

  "Well?" Meg demanded when she entered the kitchen.

  "I think maybe steak tartare was a bit—um—flighty to start with."

  "Flighty?" Meg's voice rose. "What do you mean, flighty?"

  "These are basically cattlemen, Meg, Harland and the Russians included. They'd be more familiar with a nice thick steak. Thinly sliced rare beef, no matter how well marinated, is sort of a feminine thing."

  "Oh, it is, is it?"

  "Not to the Russians, of course. They loved it. Ate every bit and clamored for more."

  "That's something, anyway. What are they going to think of the bracciole?"

  "They are going to love it," Quill announced. "And then you can let them know how long it takes to pound out the filet in those little thin strips, create the stuffing, mince all the mushrooms. That should impress the heck out of the meat eaters."

  "Huh." The flush in Meg's cheeks receded.

  "And this is a sort of bratwurst?" the mayor asked some minutes later, poking at the bracciole with his salad fork.

  "Braseeoley, Mayor," said Adela. The cabbage rose in her hat dipped forward in a gracious nod. "Isn't that right, Quill?"

  "Um," Quill said, "what do you all think of it?"

  "I'd know a sight better what I thought if I knew what was in it," Colonel Calhoun said.

  "It's great," Brady said, his mouth full. "Knew a fellow in San Antonio could cook up squirrels as nice as this."

  "It's very, very good, Quill," Royal said. "As a matter of fact, I could use another helping, if your sister would be so kind." He put the last bite in his mouth, and drew breath. "It's pret—" He clutched his throat and coughed. He coughed again, a hacking, spitting choke. Bracciole stuffing flew across the table.

  "Here, boss," Brady said, and pounded Royal on the back. Royal, his face red, tears starting from his eyes, shook his head desperately and pointed at his hat. He made a cawing sound.

  "John," Quill said.

  But John was already there. He stood behind Royal and put his arms around his chest, then pulled upwards, sharply. Royal wheezed. His face turned blue. He fell forward into an appalled silence.

  "I told you," Colonel Calhoun said after a minute. "I told you I wanted to know what was in this stuff."

  Meg huddled in a chair in the corner of the kitchen, her back to the crowd of people there. The state police were in the dining room; the trooper in charge, a surly man in his late thirties with a beer drinker's potbelly had directed the guests into the kitchen, leaving only John to answer questions. Since he'd refused to let anyone el
se leave, either, Quill felt as if she was waiting for the subway at rush hour.

  Between the guests at the menu testing, the kitchen crew, and the wait staff, she counted eighteen people. No one was eating or drinking anything except Bjarne, who was finishing a plate of bracciole with a defiant expression on his face. Marge, her face set, her cheeks pale, stood by the window and looked at nothing. Outside, Quill heard Max bark once in his pen, then fall silent. Tye was too well-trained to bark at all.

  Quill edged her way past the Russians and over to Meg. She put her hand on her shoulder.

  "Go away," her sister said in a small voice.

  "Meg . . ."

  "This is the second person to die after eating my food." Her whisper was urgent, flooded with tears.

  "He didn't die after eating your food. He choked to death. And that other case was murder." Quill's voice was pitched low, but she felt the word reach out and float around the room. The Russians muttered and moved closer together. Brady, arms folded, backed against the sink, jerked his head back like a startled horse.

  The door to the dining room opened and John looked in. "Quill?"

  "Over here."

  "Bring Meg out here for a moment, will you?"

  "Mr. Raintree!" Adela Henry's voice was commanding. "How long are we going to remain in here?" She was standing between the mayor and Leonid. In her effort to keep physical distance between herself and the Russian, her considerable bosom was pressed into the mayor's ear.

  "That's up to Trooper Harris. But I don't think it will be long."

  "The poor man choked to death," Adela boomed. "If there are any questions to be asked about the death, it would seem that you should be the one to answer them. After all, you were the one with your hands around his throat."

  "That's enough, Adela," Quill said, her voice deadly.

  John's face was impassive. "Never mind, Quill. Bring Meg out here, will you?"

  Meg shoved her chair violently, got up, and pushed her way to the door. Doreen detached herself from the space between the refrigerator and the ice machine and plowed after her. Quill followed them both.

  Royal Rossiter's body was still in position over the table where he'd been sitting. His hands and feet were in plastic bags. Andy Bishop, Hemlock Falls best-looking (and only) internist, was kneeling at his side, peering into Royal's throat with a scope. The Tompkins County forensics team was busy photographing parts of the dining room that didn't hold any bodies at all, as far as Quill could see. Trooper Harris stood in the middle of the room, thumbs hooked into his belt. He jerked his head at John. "Bring the women over here."

  "I'm gonna call Mr. Murchison," Doreen said loudly. "I don't like the look of this bozo."

  "That your lawyer, Miss Quilliam?" Trooper Harris had muddy brown eyes and a mottled nose. He smelled of dry cleaning fluid. "Heard his name before."

  "He's the family lawyer," Quill said a little nervously. "I could give him a call, if you think it's necessary."

  The brown eyes slid over her like a water moccasin. He shrugged. "Up to you."

  "Well," Meg said tightly. "What happened?"

  "Massive heart attack," Andy said. He got to his feet and came over to stand by Meg. They didn't touch, although his gaze rested on her face like a caress. "I won't know for certain until the autopsy, of course, but it looks like a heart attack at this point."

  Harris's eyes moved from Meg to Andy and back again. "I want it done by the Tompkins County coroner, Bishop. Heard about you two."

  Meg adjusted the diamond on her ring finger. "If Dr. Bishop says it's a heart attack, you can bet it's a heart attack." She shrugged off Quill's cautioning hand with an angry jerk of her shoulder. "How dare you, you . . . you . . . slime."

  Trooper Harris snapped his gum and raised an inquiring eyebrow. Quill had never seen such an insolent expression on anyone's face. "Slime," he said amusingly. "A-huh." He turned his back to them. "Burton?"

  A young trooper with lank brown hair jumped a little. "Yessir?"

  "Team about finished in here?"

  "Yessir."

  "Move the body on out, then. You get all the names of the witnesses?"

  "Yessir."

  "Get statements. Then let 'em all go." Without looking around, he added, "You run background checks on these three, Raintree and the sisters." Then he swiveled his head halfway round. "Stick around, folks. Especially you, Raintree."

  Doreen carried the news back to the kitchen that Royal's death had been a natural one. With the others, Quill gave her name, address, phone and social security numbers, and a brief statement of the activities that had led up to Royal's death. By midnight, the Palate was empty except for Quill, Meg, John, and Doreen. Andy had accompanied the body to the coroner's office in Ithaca. Quill sipped a hot cup of chamomile tea and closed her eyes. She was exhausted.

  "You called him yet?" Doreen demanded.

  "Called who? Myles?"

  Meg yawned. With Andy's assurance that Royal's death had been a natural (if untimely) occurrence, she'd cheered up almost immediately. "It was a natural death, Doreen. I mean, I'm really sorry the poor old duck passed away here. It was a frightful end to the dinner."

  "And Marge's hopes," John said quietly. He avoided Quill's quick glance.

  Meg didn't seem to hear this. "But Myles is in the middle of a real case. You can only call him in an emergency, Quill, right?"

  "He'll call me at some point," Quill said. "He always does. I'll talk to him then. I'll see you guys in the morning."

  "What I wanta know is, what good is somebody when he ain't around when you need him, anyways?"

  "Good night, Doreen," Quill said firmly. She went up to her room, showered away the day, and got into bed. Her suite at the Inn had been large compared to this, and at first she'd been delighted with the small, self-contained space. The room was only sixteen by sixteen. Two narrow windows fronted Main Street. Two windows on the adjacent wall looked out at the narrow side yard and the garage. The phone didn't ring.

  What good is somebody who ain't around when you need him, anyway?

  Chapter Seven

  Quill was up early, despite the fact that Trooper Harris had kept them all till almost midnight. She'd left a message for Myles on his voice mail, telling him briefly what had happened, then sat in the rocking chair at the window and looked out at Main Street. She could see a few pickups parked in front of the Croh Bar. The breakfast crowd, loyal to Marge's Diner for years, had finally settled on the new place to drink coffee, gossip, and generally hash over events past and to come in Hemlock Falls. She wondered if Marge missed it, the gossip, the liveliness. Breakfast at the Inn was an altogether quieter affair. Royal Rossiter's death would be a hot topic at the Croh this morning.

  Max nudged her knee. "No early escape this morning. Good boy." She thought a minute. There wasn't a great deal to do. Breakfast was in the hands of the kitchen staff, and there were at most a few tourists late in the morning. She was too tired to paint. "What I ought to do, Max, is reward you for staying in last night. Do you want to go for a walk?" Max barked. "If we walk, we might run into Andy. He could tell us a bit more than he was willing to tell that trooper last night. What do you think, Max?"

  Max really wanted to walk in Peterson Park. Andy usually jogged there around six o'clock, and she wanted to ask him what he really thought about Royal Rossiter's death.

  Apple blossoms scented the air around the statue of General C. C. Hemlock, and late flowering peonies attracted a few enterprising bees. Summer mornings like this one put a favorite hymn in her head, and she sang, "Morning has broken, like the first morning, blackbird has spoken, like the first bird," over and over again (she couldn't remember the rest) until Max sat down, flattened his ears, and barked. "It's not nearly as awful as Aunt Meg's singing, is it?" she asked the dog.

  "It's pretty enough. Just repetitious." John rose from his seat at the foot of the statue and joined her on the sidewalk. "Is anyone else in your family tone-deaf? Or is it just Meg?"


  "Our father was. He always told us he got kicked out of the choir when he was a kid for doing it on purpose. He couldn't even tell a major from a minor key, much less the difference between two notes. Are you out for a walk?"

  "I thought I might run into Andy Bishop. I've got a couple of questions to ask him."

  "Me, too. He usually does the circuit, so if we keep going, we're likely to run into him." They walked in silence for some time. The air was fresh, with a hint of the heat to come. Quill took a deep breath; she caught the faint odor of cows. "Did Meg tell you about the Zoning Board meeting?"

  John nodded.

  "You want to know the unworthiest thought I've had all week?"

  He shot her a glance and grinned.

  "That CarolAnn gets these dolts from Q.U.A.C.K. to picket the cows and Marge is so embarrassed by the publicity that she begs me to buy the Inn back." She sighed happily. "I'm going to sit down and go over that business plan right after breakfast, John."

  "Have you talked to Meg about it? Are you really sure she wants to take all this back on?"

  "Of course she does," Quill said. "She's all excited."

  John didn't say anything.

  "Well. Okay. She's happy because I'm happy."

  "What did she say?"

  "She said it didn't matter where she cooked, as long as she wasn't cooking for people who preferred McDonald's, or words to that effect. What did she say to you?"

  "That you were using the Inn as an excuse to hide from getting on with your life. And that touched off the worst quarrel you two ever had. Which," he added reflectively, "must have been some fight, given the way you two wrangle with each other. She said you haven't talked about it since. That she's going along with what you want to do because, as you say, she can cook anywhere. And," he added reflectively, "we've got a real treasure in Bjarne."

  Quill noticed the "we" and smiled at him.

  "Do you want to talk about it now?"

  Max veered off to investigate the leg of a park bench. From there, he cocked his head alertly and charged into the stand of old oaks which were the pride of Peterson Park. Quill whistled. Max ignored her, scrabbling frantically at something in the dirt. She watched the dog for a long moment then asked, "What do you think? Do you think I'm avoiding real life by wanting the Inn back?"