A Steak in Murder (8 page)

"It was a very nice kitchen," Quill said. "We didn't need all that freezer space, and Meg had to have an oven that hit six thousand degrees."

"Only need an oven that hot if you're doin' pizza," Betty Hall said. "Thought Miss Gore-may Chef Meg wouldn't touch pizza with a ten-foot pole. You put anchovies on it?"

"No," Quill said.

"Smart move. People that don't like anchovies would surprise you. There's a positive prejudice against anchovies."

"I like a good anchovy pizza myself," Colonel Cal
houn said. "You own that pretty little restaurant on Main Street? I didn't know you had pizza. Would have stopped
in, maybe."

"We don't sell pizza at all," Quill said desperately. "We sell gourmet food. My sister is Margaret Quilliam. She's a master chef."

Betty Hall went "Huh!"

Colonel Calhoun nodded with a serious expression. "Y'all ever think about selling Texas longhorn beef?"

"We only have a few beef entrees, actually. A lot of our customers are too conscious of fat and calories to
invest in it very much. There's always a few die-hard beef
eaters, though."

And they tended to die hard and early. Quill slung her bag over her shoulder. "Well, everyone, Miriam's going to take minutes and I really—"

"No, I won't." Miriam tugged firmly at her sleeve. "Sit, Quill. Sit. You might learn something of advantage to the Palate."

Quill, knocked slightly off balance by the tugs on her sleeve, sat down with an ungraceful thump. "Do you
know," Miriam whispered urgently in her ear, "how rich
this guy is? And he's a widower."

"I don't care," Quill whispered back.

"Well,
I
do!" Miriam batted her eyelashes at the colonel. "It's your civic duty to listen to the colonel, Quill. I feel it's
my
civic duty to learn all I can about this great opportunity for Hemlock Falls."

Quill sat. And she learned more about Texas longhorn beef than she had ever wanted to know. That the beef was lower in fat and calories than turkey. That the taste rivaled Black Angus for juiciness and flavor. That Dr. Michael Debakey, famous heart surgeon, believed so strongly in the health benefits of this beef that he had a whole herd at his Texas ranch and very probably refused to eat any other kind of beef, although he, Colonel Calhoun, couldn't tell for certain.

"And now, if you'll bear with me," the colonel said in his high-pitched voice, "I just want you to see a few of the wonderful cattle we have at home on our Oklahoma spread." He flipped open his briefcase, plugged in the little PC he carried there, and asked the mayor to dim the lights.

"Slides," Miriam said in a voice of doom. "A slide show. Oh, my. How . . . interesting. What is it about, exactly?"

"Just a few of the purtiest heifers and bulls you've ever seen, Mrs. Doncaster."

Miriam hesitated.

"It's our civic duty," Quill said in as pious a tone as she could manage, "to see these cows as well as hear about them. Don't you think so, Colonel?" She smiled brightly at Miriam. Unlike the librarian, she didn't mind slide shows a bit. If she had paper and pencil, which she
did, she always sketched right through them. Or if sketch
ing failed, she napped. She liked naps. She'd perfected the art of napping unobtrusively through a lot of Chamber of Commerce presentations, mostly Harvey Bozzel's.

"Yes, ma'am. Nothing like seeing a copy of the real thing."

Quill considered this statement from several angles and
decided not to comment. "I would love to see the cows. We'd all love to see the cows."

"I can see all the damn cows I want right in your front yard, Quill." Miriam's whisper was low but vehement.

"It's not my front yard anymore."

"This first show," the colonel said, his voice pitched slightly higher than before, "is going to show you all
how you can make a three hundred percent return on your
investment in the Calhoun Cattle Company."

"Three hundred percent?" This from Harvey Bozzel.

"Yessir. The cattle you are about to invest in go for maybe twenty-twenty-five dollars a pound for fillet on the open market And I'm going to show you why."

There was a buzz of excited comment. Quill drew dollar signs on her notepad, then a quick sketch of a sad-eyed brown cow she'd seen in her—rather Marge's— front yard.

"First, I'd like to tell you all about my senior herd sire."

"Beg your pardon, ColoneL" Royal Rossiter's voice was low but respectful. "But it's my senior herd sire. Impressive."

The colonel chuckled ominously. "I bred 'im, Royal."

"And I bought 'im, sir."

The tension in the room thickened.

The colonel breathed through his mouth. "Be that as it may, be that as it may. This is Impressive, and ladies and gentlemen, you can see that he is impressive, if you don't mind my little joke."

The bull that had frightened Quill on the path to the Inn flashed on the screen. A Western stock saddle was strapped to his back, and a familiar figure straddled the bull.

"Impressive was broke to saddle at eighteen months," the colonel said. "And on his back you can see—this picture was taken a couple of years ago—the famous star of stage, screen, and television, Miss Lally Preston."

Lally's blond good looks stared cheerfully from the screen. The bull looked puzzled. "This was right before we were featured on her TV show,
The Rusticated Lady."
The slide changed to a photo of Lally in her TV kitchen, a large bite of dripping beef on the way to her mouth.

"Ms. Preston featured new ways to cook our beef on her show, and the call-in response was tremendous. Just tremendous. People wanted to know where to get our beef." The slide switched again. This time a young female cow stared out at the audience with sweetly inquiring brown eyes. "This here young lady was turned into the finest burger this side of Texas." The slide switched
again, to a plate of rare hamburgers garnished with a pair
of long horns made out of pickles.

Quill coughed and looked at her lap. Harland Peterson
said in an interested tone, "What kinda feed-to-kill ratio you get with these heifers, Colonel?" This time the slide was of another female cow with an adorable calf bouncing at her side. The camera had caught the mother affectionately nuzzling the baby's ear. Quill thought she'd never seen such mild-looking animals.

"Take 'em to market at about eighteen months. Little
longer than with an Angus or your similar fatty type res
taurant beef."

Click: and a beef carcass hanging in a meat locker.

"Back fat on these babies is less'n one percent. You can see from this here pitcher that the marbling is fine, diffused, all the way through. Texas A&M done some studies which show what fat there is, is
good
for you."

Click: back to a third benign-eyed cow with twin calves at her side.

Quill sketched a horrified vegetarian in a long robe that
bore more than a passing resemblance to herself, then looked sideways at Miriam. She was gazing at the screen with a thoughtful expression. The lights came up. Quill glanced around the table. Esther West raised her hand. "Colonel?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"You said three hundred percent?"

"That's right, ma'am. The demand for these here cattle
far exceeds the supply. I'm here to talk to you folks about
setting up a feedlot operation here in Hemlock Falls that's going to supply the tables of every gourmet in the country. And then some."

"Feedlot," said Quill. "Isn't that a place where the cattle are, um, crammed in and stuffed?"

The colonel narrowed his eyes at her. "You eat foie
gras, ma'am?"

Quill admitted that she did.

"There is one thing I have to say to those of you . . ." the colonel hesitated, seemed to change his mind about the word he wanted, and continued, "who are concerned
about the welfare of these cattle. Texas longhorns do best
when they're running wild and free on the range. They have a ninety-nine percent unassisted live birth rate."

There was a low whistle, presumably of appreciation, from several of the men at the table. As well as Miriam Doncaster. She caught Quill's astonished look and raised an eyebrow. "You knew I was brought up on a dairy farm. In Wisconsin."

"And these mamma cows are fierce in the defense of their young. This here's the only breed of domestic stock around that can coexist with the federally protected coyote."

Rumbles of laughter. Quill, thinking of the mother cows defending their babies, of the beef carcass hanging
in the slaughterhouse, of beef that was good for you, and
above all, foie gras, which was one of her favorite foods, wished she didn't have to think about this sort of thing at all.

Elmer, beaming at the waves of interest and appreciation flowing around the room like so many buckyballs, rapped genially on the table with his knuckles. With the attention of the room, he said, "Well, now, Colonel Calhoun, you can see that you might have struck a spark
here with our citizens. Can you tell us what the next steps
will be?"

"I can indeed, son. I've been working with the finest advertising agency—"

"The only advertising agency," Miriam said tartly.

"—in your fair city, and he's got some perfectly
splendid ideas about ways to celebrate Hemlock Falls for
America Day. Harvey? You want to take the room?"

Harvey stood up with an athletic bounce (he worked out at a gym in Syracuse three times a week) and shook the creases carefully into his trousers. He opened the large portfolio he had placed by his chair and flipped it upright with a practiced hand, then adjusted a small cassette player carefully in front of it. He smiled. "Ladies and gentlemen of the Chamber, Colonel Calhoun, Mr. Rossiter, I give you . . . America!"

Harvey punched the cassette and flipped the A-frame display at the same time. Harvey's voice (a not unpleas
ant baritone) floated into the air, accompanied by a rather
tinny piano playing "America the Beautiful."

O beautiful, that breed of cow

That gives your heart a boost

Their mighty horns stretch far across

Much larger than a moose

The longhorn cow

You ask me how
. .
.

"Marge?" Dina Muir timidly poked her head into the room. "Is Harvey in here? I thought I heard him singing. Harvey. There you are. Your Russians are here."

"My God, Russkies!" said the mayor.

"There's no mistaking them for American," Colonel Calhoun said darkly.

This was true. The three men crowding into the conference room behind Dina were undeniably non-Americans. They wore cheap double-breasted suits and melancholy expressions. Their complexions reflected a diet heavy on carbohydrates and fats. They had a defin
able, unmistakable otherness in the way they moved, stol
idly, as if they each wore heavy boots.

"This your doin', Harve?" Harland Peterson asked.

"Um," Harvey said. "Ah. Yes. Marge?"

Marge heaved herself to her feet and advanced on the Russians like a fat Napoleon on Moscow. The tallest Russian backed up and bumped into the bald one. "Hey," Marge said. "One a you Leonid Mensh-a-something?"

"Menshivik," said the tall one. He ducked his head ingratiatingly and smiled.

"Menshvik," Marge said. "Welcome to the Dew Drop Inn, gentlemen."

"Men
shi
vik," he said. "How do you do. We are very glad to be in this country." Quill blinked. Her ear was better than Meg's (who was tone-deaf), but Mr. Menshivik's accent was so thick she heard, "Tch-how do yew due. Ve are wry glat to bee in theis khun-tree."

The thickness of the accent didn't seem to bother Marge, who nodded and said matter-of-factly, "Glad ta see ya. Betty? We got their rooms ready?"

"Who
are
these people, Marge?" Miriam asked nervously.

"From rice," said Mr. Menshivik. "Call me Leonid, pliz, but don't call me late for dinner."

"Ha-ha," chorused the Russians behind him.

Quill slid down in her chair and looked intently at the ceiling. If she concentrated hard enough, she wouldn't laugh.

"You see," Leonid said, "we haf picked up many gut things while we are in the country, American jokes are very funny."

"Rice?" said the mayor. "You all eat rice? I thought just Japs ate rice."

Quill forgot about giggling and glared at the mayor.

"Sorry. I mean the Japanese. Anyways," the mayor said, "anyways. You all on a tour or whatever?"

"R.I.C.E.," Marge said with more than her usual truculence, "stands for Russians in Capitalist Enterprise. Harvey got 'em here. You tell everyone what this is all about, Harve."

"Yes, well." Harvey smoothed his hair. "If maybe we all could sit down . . . are there enough chairs for everyone?" There was a short silence, then a general
shifting of bodies. When everyone in the Chamber settled
back in their seats, the three chairs next to Quill were empty. Leonid smiled, waved, and ushered his confreres to the seats.