"Probably not."
" 'Cow'-bernet. 'Moo'-lot. 'Moo'-jalais."
"Stop."
"I'll stop. It gets worse. You don't want to hear what he wants to call the Liebfraumilch. With a little practice on this beef, it'll be a spectacular meal, Meg."
"Practice. When do I have time to practice? I had forty-two entrees this evening at Levade and I'm pooped. And that stupid column's due in couple of weeks . . ."
"Write about the beef."
". . . and I've got to come up with some idea for Lally
Preston's TV show "
Quill refused to state the obvious. She waited.
"It might be interesting."
"I think it'd be fascinating."
"Hm. I'll think about it. How much beef can I get?"
"Whatever you need. I'll talk to Royal in the morning. He can have it airshipped here in twenty-four hours, he said, which is a lot better,"—Quill shuddered—"than his first idea, which was to take one of those very nice mamma cows from the rose garden and—"
"I don't want to hear it."
"I don't want to say it. So. Fax me the list of cuts you want, I'll give it to Royal, and I'll see you day after tomorrow, beef in hand. Or in box, as the case might be."
"Okay." Meg yawned. "I guess I can get my sous chef to cover me here. See you, Sis."
It was late, after one in the morning, and fatigue hit Quill like a hammer, but she said, "Meg?"
"What. Never mind. Don't say it. Just think a little, Quillie. I'm here whenever you need me."
"Hey, who's the oldest, anyhow?"
"Who's the cutest? Who's the smartest? Who's the best cook? Me!" Meg put the receiver down with a cheerful bang. Moments later she called back. "Quill? Where's Max?"
Quill looked at the dog curled at her feet. "Right here."
"He's got a rabies shot in the morning."
"Oh, no," Quill said. "Not me. Uh-uh. I'm not taking that dog to the V-E-T. He can't even hear the word without going berserk. If you think I'm going to drag the poor thing into my Olds and drive out to her place with that howling in my ears, you are wrong. We'll wait till Myles gets back."
"Nonsense," Meg said briskly. "He's your dog. He'll be fine." A pause, then she added ominously, "And you owe me."
"That's true."
"Doreen made the appointment with that woman vet."
"Laura Crest?"
"Yeah. It's at ten, I think. You'll do it?"
"I'll do it. Just don't blame me if Davy Kiddermeister arrests me for animal abuse along the way. From the way the animal carries on, you'd think I made a habit of whacking him around." She nudged Max with her toe and said in a foolish way, "Good boy."
"I was just wondering. When you take Max in to see her, ask her about the longhorn beef, okay? Anything I can find out about the difference in chemistry would be a help."
"For heaven's sake, Meg." Quill bit her lip. "No problem. She's going to think I'm crazy, but no problem."
"Hey! Who's the craziest? Who's the—"
Quill hung up, ran her fingers through her hair, called Myles to tell him she loved him, and went to bed.
"Now, Max," Quill said. "We're going for a little ride." She knelt under the prep table in the Palate's kitchen and took firm hold of his collar.
"That's a mistake," Doreen said. She dropped the breakfast dishes into the sink with a clatter. Last night's closing had slightly affected the breakfast trade, but Doreen had offered discounted dinners to those customers whose reservations she had canceled, and tonight's dinner hour was fully booked. It was nine-thirty and the sun streamed in the window like a pennant at a parade.
"What's a mistake?" Max, usually the most tractable of dogs, wriggled away from her clutch on his collar and bounded to the back door.
"Talkin' to him in that special cooey voice."
"I was not using a special cooey voice."
"You were usin' the 'this is goin' to hurt me more than it hurts you' voice, and the durn dog knows he's goin' to the vet."
Max flung himself against the back door and barked.
'Wow he knows he's going because he heard you! Max. Max! Hush. Whisper, Max, whisper."
Max rolled one eye appealingly in her direction. Then he flattened himself on the floor, rolled over to expose his belly, and whined. Quill knelt next to him to scratch his tummy.
"Don't do that," Doreen said. She banged a pot into place on its rack. As soon as Quill reached to pet him, Max rolled to his feet and dashed out the door into the dining room up front.
"That's why. That dog ain't dumb."
Quill scrambled up and went after him. She found him at the front table crouched at the feet of Royal Rossiter and a tall muscular man in a cowboy hat Quill hadn't seen before. "Max," she called, carefully keeping any cooey notes out of her voice. "Here, Max. C'mon, Max. Let's go for a walk, boy. Walk."
Max whined, thumped his tail, and barked. Two middle-aged ladies at table three frowned disapprovingly. The tall man in the Stetson bent over and snapped his fingers. "On your feet, son." Max got up. The man in the hat ran a knuckle over Max's nose. "You lookin' at a bath this morning? Got a problem?" Max panted happily, a foolish grin on his face. He wriggled blissfully under the strong fingers. Quill crossed the dining room with an apologetic smile in the direction of the ladies. They were both eating Meg's Summer Breakfast Sorbet, a raspberry-filled blini that should have put them into a much better mood. The blonde in the pink pant-suit sneezed hard twice. Quill stopped at their table. "You're allergic," she said remorsefully. "I'm so sorry. He hates the vet, although there isn't any reason to, she's very . . ."
Max reacted to the word the way bulls were reputed to react to cattle prods. He dove between Royal Rossiter's legs and out the front door. Quill let fly a four-letter word, regretted it immediately, and ran after him. Royal and the cowboy followed. Quill refused to acknowledge the grins on their faces.
Outside, Main Street lay peaceful under the morning sun. The red geraniums in the black flower boxes (courtesy of the Women's Firemen's Auxiliary) glowed bright against the warm cobblestone storefronts. And Max was three blocks away, running toward Peterson Park, droopy ears flapping in the breeze.
The cowboy let out a piercing whistle.
Max stopped, turned, and cocked his head inquiringly.
Quill held her breath. The cowboy whistled again, and Max trotted a few steps in their direction, stopped, hung his head, and walked slowly back. The cowboy bent and fondled his ears. "Good old son, aren't you."
Quill grabbed the dog's collar. "Thank you so much, Mr . . . ah, um. I don't know why he hates the . . ." She stopped just in time.
Royal said, "This is Jack Brady, Quill. He's my cattle handler. And a Texan, too."
"Ma'am." Jack Brady took off his hat and held out his hand. Quill hated sappy romance movies and had absolutely refused to see either The Bridges of Madison County or The Horse Whisperer. But she was a sucker for broad-shouldered outdoorsmen with a lot of sable hair. His hand was more muscular than Leonid's and had the leathery texture of a saddle. His eyes were blue. Quill was beginning to wonder about blue-eyed Texans. Something in the state must affect the gene pool.
"Thank you very much for getting Max, Mr. Brady. You have a real gift with animals."
"Cattle, dogs, horses, and women," Royal added with satisfaction. "Brady here's the real thing, Quill. Now, the fella Calhoun has working for him? Dex Fairweather? Guy's straight out of Long-uh Island. Puts on the walk and puts on the talk."
"You certainly showed that with Max. Could I offer both of you a little more breakfast, as a thank-you? Or perhaps you'd like to come in for a lunch."
"No, ma'am," Royal said, "we had a bang-up breakfast in there. Little light on the potatoes, but real good. What you could do for us, if you don't mind, is maybe introduce us to his vet."
Max barked. Brady gave him a look. Max sat at Quill's feet and panted apologetically.
"Dr. Crest? I'd be happy to."
"Thing is, we g
ot a couple of calves running out on their nine months vaccines. And Class Clown's got a cough I don't like, no, I don't like it at all. And Brady needs somewhere to keep his horse."
"His horse?"
"Scooter. Best roping mare this side of . . ."
The Pecos, Quill thought.
"The Mississippi. Got her up in what used to be that asparagus bed for now."
Quill hoped she didn't look as if she were baring her teeth.
"Thing is, the local vets usually have an extra stall or two," Brady offered. His voice was easy and direct. "I don't like keepin' her in the open if I don't have to."
"Sun burns her coat," Royal said. "She's a buckskin, nice creamy color lessen the sun gets to it. Turns it into straw."
"We certainly wouldn't want that," Quill said. Was fresh horse manure good for asparagus? She doubted it. "I'm going up there right now, if you'd like to ride along."
"Be glad to take you in the dually." Royal jerked a thumb at his pickup, which was large, chrome-trimmed, and royal blue. The door read ROSSITER RANCH The Finest in Longhorn Cattle. "Just hop right in. Got one of them extended cabs, so there's plenty of room."
Quill nodded, a bit reluctantly. On the other hand, the faster they got Brady's horse out of the asparagus bed, the better off next year's asparagus would be. And she was going to get the Inn back, dammit, so she had a right to be concerned about the asparagus.
Max loved the dually. Quill had no idea where Max had been before he'd rocketed into her life two months before, but it was clear he'd had good experiences with trucks. He curled up happily in the back, his head on her lap, and Quill directed Brady down Main Street and onto Route 15, where Laura Crest ran the Paradise Veterinary Practice.
"You think much of this doc?" Brady called over his shoulder as they rolled past the swelling green of Tompkins County. Quill, her attention drawn to the play of colors in the summer light, said nervously, "I've never met her, actually. I hope she's nice to Max."
"Never met the vet?" Royal was as bemused as if she'd admitted not knowing where the post office was in her own hometown. Max whined. Quill patted his head soothingly. "I just got the dog. Two months ago. Meg and Doreen took him to get rid of his fleas and to give him vaccines. But he's due for this second rabies shot. I think."
"First one they give in two parts," Royal said. "Got much problem with rabies around here?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know about rabies?"
"Gentlemen," Quill said firmly, "I don't know anything about cattle, about dogs, about horses or ranching. Dr. Crest handles most of the dairymen's work around here as far as I know, and I'm sure she's qualified to give the cattle whatever."
The dually purred along for a moment. Brady reached down and turned on a country music station. Over lyrics having to do with trains, prisoners, mothers, and bars, Royal said, "Any other vets around here?"
"Syracuse has quite a few, I think. It's the next left turn, Brady. At the Sunoco station. And, of course, Cornell University is about twenty minutes away, and they have one of the best vet schools in the United States."
The Paradise Veterinary Practice consisted of three workmanlike buildings set close to one another, an office, a large barn, and a big lean-to shed with perhaps a dozen fenced runs attached. Quill could see one horse, two cows, and a large wolfish dog in separate runs.
The gravel drive was clean and neatly raked. Three cars were parked in front of the building marked OFFICE: a van with three kids quarreling in the backseat, a Toyota, and a dirty Range Rover with metal boxes strapped to the hood and the tailgate.
"Rig looks okay," Royal said. Brady nodded. Quill, who wasn't sure whether they were referring to the Range Rover or the facilities, took a firmer grasp on Max's collar and dragged him out of the truck. Max sat in the gravel, splayed his legs out, and refused to move. Brady reached into the truck and took out a leash which didn't look like a leash. There was a clip attached to one end, but it looked more utilitarian than the length of lime-green acrylic Quill had bought for Max. Brady fixed the leash to Max's collar and walked him into the office.
"You've got to show me how to do that," Quill said as they sat down.
"It's in the handling," Royal said importantly.
"I'm sure it is," said Quill. Then, a little nervous of what lay ahead of poor Max, she said chattily, "Why do you suppose every vet's office in the known universe smells like pine tar and has little plastic bucket seats?"
"Easier to keep clean," said Royal.
"I know that. It was more of a . . ."
"Rhetorical question?" Brady smiled. "You know, you bein' nervous makes the dog nervous. See that?" He nudged Max with his toe. Max, who had been gazing pitifully into Quill's face, snapped his head around and grinned at Brady. "It's not bein' here that bothers him. It's you bein' bothered by him bein' bothered by bein' here. Got it?"
"Got it." Quill patted her dog. "So how do I stop— um—'bein' bothered'?"
"Just relax," said a cheerful matter-of-fact voice. "Miss Quilliam? Laura Crest."
The vet emerged from an examining room in back of the reception desk. She was short, thin, with sandy-colored hair pulled into a knot at the back of her head. She had a fresh, athletic bounce to her step and was carrying a syringe. A medium-sized black and tan dog walked at her side. Max jerked to attention and made a rush for the black and tan.
"Down, Tye," Dr. Crest said in a quiet voice.
The dog dropped to the floor in a perfect sit. "Now, that's a dog," Brady said in a voice of approval. "Australian kelpie?" Laura Crest smiled and nodded. Brady shook his head in admiration. "Breed's a challenge to manage. I can see why you keep so fit."
Quill immediately felt under-exercised and that Max was overindulged. She gave Max a guilty pat and said, "My dog's a bit excitable, I'm afraid. Should I take him somewhere?"
"Right here is fine." The vet bent over to pat Max, pinched a fold at the nape of his neck, and the shot was done, This made Quill feel even less of a dog person and more of a wimp. She'd worried a lot about Max crying when he got his shot. She made introductions to Royal and Brady, then drifted away from the conversation, which turned to vaccines, calving procedures, and a cow that hadn't cleansed. She was drawn back when the veterinarian said, "I like your sister, Quill. And Doreen. And I've heard great things about the Palate. I've been meaning to get up to try some of the food, but it's pretty hard to find the time with a solo practice. It seems every time I get a chance to put my feet up and eat, my beeper goes off." She patted her pocket.
"Tell you what," Royal said. "Whyn't we take you on up to the Palate for a bite of lunch after you take a look at my herd."
"Well, I don't have a lot on for this afternoon. And, of course, there's always my beeper. And I'd surely like to take a look at these cattle. I've heard a lot about them."
"I'd almost forgotten," Quill said. "My sister said there's something different about the fat. She wanted to know if you had any information about the chemistry."
"I can find out for you. One of my old professors at Cornell has a buddy at A&M and they've been doing a lot of research there. I do know that they have a very low percentage of back fat, and the quality of the fat is quite different at the microbiological level. I'll make a few phone calls and meet you up at that pretty inn on the hill where you've got your cattle. What's it called? Something really dumb like the Dun Rovin'?"
"The Dew Drop Inn," Quill said. Suddenly, she liked the vet. A lot. And she hadn't hurt Max in the least.
"Ugh. But it's gorgeous, I hear. Didn't they have some famous painter who owned it with her sister and went bankrupt?"
Quill blushed. "We didn't go bankrupt. We just—sold it. Temporarily. I mean, I thought I would be glad to have all the hassle off my hands, but I really miss it." Brady and Royal turned to look at her. Quill tugged her hair in exasperation.
"That was you?" Laura said. "Oh, heck. I'm sorry. You know what they say about horse and cattle people, we save our charm for the animals.
Look. Lunch sounds terrific. I'll meet you at the corral,—"
"The rose garden, actually."
"Right. And if Brady wants to bring his mare over for a few days, we can do that after lunch."
Quill rode in the back of the dually with Max; head on her knee and her thoughts scattered in six different directions. "Okay. Mental plan. Priority one. Go to the bank and talk to Mark Anthony Jefferson about a loan to buy the Inn back. For half a million bucks. Number two. Make another plan, since Mark Anthony Jefferson will laugh in your face."
"Who's gonna laugh in your face?" Royal asked. His eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. "You want we should take care of him, Texas style?"
"No. No. Sorry. I guess I was thinking aloud."
"I didn't know you were a painter."
"Sure she is," Brady said. He swung the steering wheel easily to the left and back again, avoiding a garbage bag left in the road. "She's Quilliam. You know the painting of the magnolia you liked in Dallas?"
"That big huge thing?" Royal twisted all the way around in his seat so that he could look at her directly. "A little redheaded gal like you" (Quill was five foot seven) "painted that big huge thing?" He thought a moment. "You know, that painting had balls."
"Well said, boss." Brady's tone was wry but his eyes weren't.
Quill said, "Thank you," conscious of being demure.
"And you and your sister ran that Inn."
"Yes. For eight years."
"And you're sorry you sold it?"
"I am."
"Meanin' your sister ain't."
"Practically everyone ain't sorry, Royal. The guy I'm planning to marry isn't. Meg isn't. Doreen isn't. John Raintree, our business manager, wasn't. Just me. They all loved it, but they all wanted to leave it. And I'm finding out it was because of me."
"You think you can ran that little old Inn by yourself?"
"No."
Royal turned away. "Well," he said to the windshield. "Looks like you got a few options, not many. One is, forget it. Two is, you find some other partners. What about finding some other partners?"
"I don't want other partners. I just want things the way they used to be."
A Steak in Murder (Hemlock Falls Mystery Series) Page 7
