A Steak in Murder (15 page)

"What kind of—"

"Slides." His lower lip jutted out. "I have my briefcase, as you see, with my computer. The computer will project my slides on any appropriate bare space. Like right there." He pointed at the far wall, where a collection of Quill's watercolors was arranged. "You can remove those, if you please." He sat down, clutching his briefcase. Quill smiled, hoping he couldn't hear her teeth
grinding. She asked Peter to remove her paintings, shook
hands with the Russians and the mayor, and air-kissed Lally Preston.

She cast an expert eye over the tables: water in place, wineglasses lined up; small baskets of bruschetta fresh from the oven and wafting garlicky odors into the air;
everyone seated and being sociable over the preliminary
glasses of dry sherry. She went into the kitchen and nearly tripped over Max, who was lying with his head
under the prep table and his hindquarters sprawled on the
rubber matted pathway.

"How come he's not in his pen with Tye?" Quill asked.

"He thinks he's hidin'. " Doreen said. She slid lemon
slices deftly onto the platters of rare beef. "Vet must be out there."

"She is."

"We on time, or not?"

"On time so far. We can serve the steak tartare."

"Steak Quilliam," Meg said crossly.

"Sorry. At any rate, we can serve it while the colonel drones on."

Doreen scowled at her.

"Sorry again. I'm sure it'll be a wonderful speech. He's just so determined to get the recipe for Meg's marinade that I'm cross with him. Anyway, we should be
ready for the entrée in about half an hour. How's it going,
Meg?"

Meg shook her head. She leaned over a pan of crisply roasted bracciole, a paring knife in one hand. "I'm scared to try it."

"Let me try it."

"Right. I don't
think
so. Bjarne. Here. Try it. And, damn you, tell the truth."

Bjarne the Finnish chef was tall, thin, as pale-eyed as winter and as honest as cold air. He nodded solemnly and delicately cut a slice of the bracciole from the roast. He ate it. He chewed silently. Thoughtfully. He smiled. "Papaya enzyme?"

"You can
tell!"
Meg shouted.

"No, no. Of course I cannot tell, it does not affect the
flavor of the beef at all. Merely, this is what we use with
the reindeer, you know."

"It's not the same," Meg said sulkily. "Reindeer's bloody
tough!"

"This is not. This . . ." Bjarne rolled the food around in his mouth one more time. "This is superb. The beef flavor is real. True. And very, very good. I would not know this is not prime."

Meg exhaled with a long sigh. "Fine. I want to let it
stand, then seal the juices with a quick sear. Okay, Do
reen. Tell Peter we'll be ready to plate entrée in twenty minutes, with service in thirty."

"Gotcha."

"Now can I try, Meg?"

"Help yourself."

Quill tried the beef. It was beautifully seasoned, tender,
the stuffing in the bracciole a triumph of mushrooms, wine, cream, and something else. She cut a small slice of the rare beef, squeezed a little lemon on it, and that, too, was meltingly tender. John's business plan had been
for a small, specialty retail operation like the Angus beef
sold by catalogue and over the Web. The recipes would be showcased at the (reclaimed) Inn at Hemlock Falls. The plan would work only, as John had said, if the beef could command the same prices as prime. And that depended solely on the taste. "Well, I love it," she said to no one in particular. "We'll see what the others think."

"Let me know," Meg said intensely. "Right away."

"We'll do the gourmet night thing, shall we?" This was a plan they'd discussed, but never tried, in the days when they were attempting to come up with ideas to put the Inn in the black. Meg had designed a series of cook
ing seminars/gourmet dinner weekends, where the guests
would learn new cooking techniques during the day, then eat Meg's professional version of them at night. Meg would appear at the table after each course (in her toque and tunic) to answer questions with the appropriate demure modesty. They'd never had a chance to offer the weekend package, and the Palate had been so successful off the regular dinner trade, that they hadn't needed to.

Quill went back into the dining room and sat down next to John. The bruschetta was gone. Peter removed
the sherry glasses and began to pour the Pinot Noir John had suggested to accompany the rare beef starter. Everyone seemed happily occupied: Laura Crest looked almost
pretty, sitting between Jack Brady and the taciturn Phil. Harvey, the mayor and his formidable wife Adela had their heads together and were chatting sociably. That is,
Adela was chatting and Harvey and the mayor were nod
ding dutifully.

Quill stood up, her wineglass in her hand. "Ladies and gentlemen? I would like to welcome you all to the Palate,
and to this late afternoon test of the menu for Interna
tional Night. Mayor Henry? Would you like to say a few
words?"

"I would and I will. You all know how high our hopes
are runnin' for the success of this bidness between the cattlemen of Texas and the Russians of Russia."

"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 breed
ing 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 any
thing 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 Rus
sians, 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.