Prime Cut
Buffet Lunh
MERCIFUL MIGRATIONS CABIN BLUH SPRUCE, COLORADO
MONDAY, AUGUST 18
Models’ Mushroom Soup
Asian Spring Rolls
Savory Florentine Cheesecake
Endive, Radicchio, and Arugula with Red Wine-Pear Vinaigrette
Honeydew and Raspberries
Parker House Rolls, Cornbread Biscuits, Sourdough-Thyme Baguettes
Burnt Sugar Cake, Whipped Cream
Sparkling Water, Fruit Juices, Coffee, Tea
Five-star Praise for the
Nationally Bestsellins Mysteries
of Diane Mott Davidson
“The Julia Child of mystery writers.”
—Colrado Springs Gazette Telegraph
“Mouthwatering.”
—The Denver Post
“Delicious … sure to satisfy!”
—Sue Grafton
“If devouring Diane Mott Davidson’s newest whodunit in a single sitting is any reliable indicator, then this was a delicious hit.”—
—Los Angeles Times
“You don’t have to be a cook or a mystery fan to love Diane Mott Davidson’s books. But if you’re either—her tempting recipes and elaborate plots add up to a literary feast!”
—The San Diego Union-Tribune
“Mixes recipes and mayhem to perfection.”
—Sunday Denver Post
“Davidson is one of the few authors who has been able to seamlessly stir in culinary scenes without losing the focus of the mystery … [she] has made the culinary mystery more than just a passing phase.”
—Sun-Sentinel, Fort Lauderdale
“Goldy and her collection of friends and family continue to mix up dandy mysteries and add tempting recipes to the readers’ cookbooks at the same time.”
—The Dallas Morning News
Also by
Diane Mott Davidson
Catering to Nobody
Dying for Chocolate
The Cereal Murders
The Last Suppers
Killer Pancake
The Main Corpse
The Grilling Season
Tough Cookie
Sticks & Scones
Chopping Spree
In loving memory
of Ann Ripley Blakeslee
1919–1998
Wonderful teacher, brilliant writer, unfailing friend
They shall perish, but you [Lord] will endure;
they all shall wear out like a garment;
as clothing you will change them,
and they shall be changed;
But you are always the same,
and your years will never end.
PSALM 102: 26-27
Acknowledgements
The author wishes to acknowledge the help of the following people: Jim, Jeff, J.Z., and Joe Davidson; Kate Miciak, a fabulous editor; Sandra Dijkstra, a superb agent; Susan Corcoran, an outstanding publicist; Amanda Powers, a brilliant factotum; the great Lee Karr and the wonderful group that assembles at her home; John William Schenk, a wonderful chef and teacher; Karen Johnson, who fuels the author with truffles and culinary information; Thorenia West, who came up with the idea for this project and allowed the author to work in her domain; Meiko Catron, a phenomenal artistic director; all the talented people at Independence Pass Productions: Kit De Fever, Larraine Todd, Evan Waters, Errol Hamilton, Ludovic Chatelain, Levente, and Greg Griner; Aaron Bixby, for sharing insights; Katherine Goodwin Saideman, for her diligent reading of the manuscript; Ellen Shea, Schlesinger Library, Radcliffe College, Cambridge, Massachusetts; Richard Staller, D.O., Elk Ridge Family Physicians; Sergeant Robert Knuth; Carol Devine Rusley; Triena Harper, assistant deputy coroner, Jefferson County, Colorado; Jim Dullenty of the Rocky Mountain House in Hamilton, Montana; Sybil Downing, and Richard “Pat” Patterson, for sharing their knowledge of the historic West; Brian Lang, curator, Hiwan Homestead Museum; Elaine Mongeau, King Soopers Pharmacy; and, of course, for continuing to be an unending source of patience and information, Sergeant Richard Millsapps, Jefferson County Sheriff’s Department, Golden, Colorado.
“No woman can be too thin or
too rich.”
ATTRIBUTED TO
THE DUCHESS OF WINDSOR
Chapter 1
Like a fudge soufflé, life can collapse. You think you have it all together—fine melted chocolate, clouds of egg white, hints of sugar and vanilla—and then bam. There’s a reason things fall apart, my husband would say. But of course Tom would say that. He’s a cop.
On the home front, things were not good. My kitchen was trashed, my catering business faced nasty competition, and my fourteen-year-old son Arch desperately missed our former boarder, twenty-year-old Julian Teller. For his part, Tom was embroiled in a feud with a new assistant district attorney who would plea-bargain Hermann Goring down to disturbing the peace. These days, I felt increasingly frantic—for work, for cooking space, for perspective.
Given such a litany of problems, life had brightened somewhat when my old cooking teacher, Chef André Hibbard, had offered me a one-day gig helping to cater a fashion shoot. My clients—the ones I still had—would have scoffed. Catering to models? You must be desperate.
Maybe I was. Desperate, that is. And maybe my clients would have been right to ridicule me, I reflected, as I pulled my van into the dirt lot at the edge of Sandbottom Creek. Across the water stood the Merciful Migrations cabin, where the first week of the photo shoot would take place. My clients would have cried: Where are you going to hide your butter and cheese? I didn’t know.
The cloudless, stone-washed-denim sky overhead and remote-but-picturesque cabin seemed to echo: You’re darn right, you don’t know. I ignored a shudder of self-doubt, jumped out of my van, and breathed in air crisp with the high country’s mid-August hint of fall. It was only ten A.M. Usually I didn’t arrive two hours before a lunch, especially when the food already had been prepared. But show me a remote historic home and I’ll show you a dysfunctional cooking area. Plus, I was worried about my old friend André. This was his first off-site catered meal since he’d retired four years ago, and he was a basket case.
I opened the van’s side door and heaved up the box containing the Savory Florentine Cheesecakes I’d made for the buffet. I expertly slammed the door with my foot, crossed the rushing water, and carefully climbed the stone steps to the cabin. On the deck, I took another deep breath, rebalanced my load, then pushed through the massive wooden door.
Workers bustled about a brightly lit, log-lined, high-beamed great room. I rested my box on a bench and stood for a few minutes, ignored by the swirl of activity. Frowning, I found it challenging to comprehend my surroundings. Two workers called to each other about where to move the scrim, which I finally deduced was a mounted swath of fabric designed to diffuse the photographer’s light. The two men moved on to clamping movable eight-foot-square wood screens—flats, I soon learned—into place. The flats formed a three-sided frame for “the set.” Meanwhile, other folks rushed to and fro laden with hair dryers, notebooks, makeup trays, tripods, and camera equipment. Hoisting my box, I tried to figure out where André might be.
As I moved along, the models were easy to spot. Muscular young men and impossibly slender women, all with arrestingly sculpted faces, leaned against the log walls or slumped in the few stripped-bark bentwood chairs. The models’ expressions were frozen in first-day-of-school apprehension. And no wonder: They were about to undergo the cattle call for the famed Prince & Grogan Christmas catalog. Prince & Grogan was an upscale Denver department store. Auditioning to model Santa-print pajamas for their ads had to be anxiety-creating.
I plowed a crooked path to what I hoped was the kitchen entrance. As I feared, the dark, cramped cooking space featured plywo
od glued along the one wall not covered by cupboards. Above the plywood, a dusty lamp hung to illluminate the battered sink. Next to the sink, buckled linoleum counters abutted a gas oven that didn’t look much newer than a covered wagon’s camp stove. In the center of the uneven wood floor, short, paunchy, white-haired André Hibbard surveyed the room with open dissatisfaction. As usual, my old friend and mentor, who had made a rare compromise when he’d immigrated, anglicizing his name from Hébert to Hibbard, sported a pristine white chef’s jacket that hugged his potbelly. His black pants were knife-creased; his black shoes were shiny and spotless. When he saw me, his rosebud mouth puckered into a frown.
“Thank goodness.” His plum-colored cheeks shook; the silvery curls lining his neck trembled. “Are these people pigs, that I have to work in this trough? I may need money, but I have standards!”
I put down my box, gave him a quick hug, and sniffed a trace of his spicy cologne. “André! You’re never happy. But I’m here, and I brought the nonmeat entrée you requested. Main-dish cheesecakes made with Gruyère and spinach.”
He tsked while I checked the ancient oven’s illegible thermostat. “The oven is hot. Whose recipe is it?”
“Julian Teller’s. Now training to become a vegetarian chef.” I lifted the cakes from the box and slid them into the oven to reheat. “Now, put me to work.”
I helped André pour out the tangy sauces that would accompany the delicate spring rolls he’d stuffed with fat steamed shrimp, sprigs of cilantro, and lemongrass. Then we stirred chopped pears into the red-wine vinaigrette, counted cornbread biscuits, Parker House Rolls, and sourdough baguettes, and discussed the layout of the buffet. Prince & Grogan was the client of record. But the fashion photography studio, Ian’s Images, was running the show.
“Ian Hood does fashion photography for money,” André announced as he checked his menu, “and nature photography for fun. You know this?”
In André’s scratched, overloaded, red cooking equipment box—one I knew well from our days at his restaurant—I pushed aside his garlic press and salamander, and nabbed the old-fashioned scoop he used to make butter balls. “I know his pictures of elk. You can’t live in Aspen Meadow and miss them.”
André pursed his lips again and handed me the tub of chilled butter. “The helpers are day-contractors working for Prince & Grogan.”
The word contractor, unfortunately, instantly brought my trashed kitchen to mind. Forget it for now—you have work to do. I scraped the butter into dense, creamy balk. I wrapped the breads in foil while André counted his platters. Because the cabin kitchen was not a commercially-approved space, he had done the bulk of the food preparation at his condo. While he gave me the background on the shoot, we used disposable thermometers to do the obligatory off-site food-service tests for temperature. Was the heated food hot enough? The chilled offerings cold enough? Yes. Finally, we checked the colorful arrangements of fruit and bowls of salad, and tucked the rolls into napkin-lined baskets.
When the cheesecakes emerged, golden brown and puffed, they filled the small kitchen with a heavenly aroma. André checked their temperature and asked me to take them out to the buffet. I stocked the first tray, lifted it up to my shoulder, and nudged through the kitchen door. When I entered the great room, a loudly barked order made me jump.
“Take off your shirt!”
I banged the tray onto the ruby-veined marble shelf that a note in Andre’s familiar sloping hand had labeled Buffet. The shelf, cantilevered out of the massive log walls, creaked ominously. The tray of cheesecakes slid sideways.
“Your shirt!”
I grabbed the first Springform pan to keep it from tipping. This was not what I was expecting. Because the noise outside the kitchen had abated, I’d thought the room was empty and that the models’ auditions had been moved elsewhere. I was obviously wrong. But my immediate worry was the cheesecakes, now threatening to toboggan downward. If they landed on the floor, I would be assigned to cook a new main dish. This would not be fun.
With great care, I slid the steaming concoctions safely onto the counter. Arguing voices erupted from the far corner of the great room. I grabbed the leaning breadbasket. The floor’s oak planks reverberated as someone stamped and hollered that the stylist was supposed to bring out the gold chains right now! I swallowed and stared at the disarray on the tray.
To make room on the counter, I skidded the cheesecakes down the marble. The enticing scents of tangy melted Gruyère and Parmesan swirled with hot scallions and cream cheese spiraled upward. The thick tortes’ golden-brown topping looked gorgeous, fit for the centerfold of Gourmet.
Best to avoid thoughts of gorgeous, I reminded myself as I placed a crystal bowl of endive and radicchio on the marble. Truth to tell, for this booking I’d been a bit apprehensive in the appearance department. Foodie magazines these days eagerly screamed a new trend: Today’s caterer should offer pretty servers in addition to beautiful food! Submit head shots along with menus!
I pushed the butter balls onto the counter, keenly aware of my unfashionably curly blond hair and plump thirty-three-year-old body beneath a white shirt, loose black skirt, and white apron. I hadn’t submitted a photo.
Of course, neither had André, who was now fuming at a kitchen intruder. I sighed and moved the plate of juicy honeydew melon and luscious fat raspberries onto the counter. With one hand still gripping the tray, I inhaled uncertainly, then parted the cloth folds of the breadbasket. The tower of butter-flecked rolls, moist cornbread biscuits, and sourdough-thyme baguettes had not toppled, thank goodness. Self-doubt again reared its head. Will the fashion folks eat this?
“And while you’re at it, take off your pants!” the same female voice barked.
“For sportswear?” a man squealed in dismay.
I turned and peered past the bentwood chairs and sleigh-bed frames the workers had piled higgledy-piggledy in the dusty, sun-steeped space. By the far bank of windows, a solitary, beautiful young man stood in front of a trio of judges. The judges—two women and a man, all of whom I knew—perched on a slatted bench. None of them looked happy.
Nearest was Hanna Klapper—dark-haired, wide-faced, fiftyish, recently and unhappily divorced. Hanna was familiar to me from my stint as a volunteer at Aspen Meadow’s Homestead Museum. With her authoritarian voice and exacting ways, Hanna had designed exhibits installed by trembling docents, yours truly included. She had demanded that we put on surgical gloves before moving woven baskets or antique Indian pots even two inches. If we forgot, or, God forbid, dropped an item, she’d kick us out faster than you could say Buffalo Bill’s bloodstained holster. According to André, Hanna had been appointed as the new artistic director at Prince & Grogan. I was amazed to see that she had shed her gingham-smock-and-sensible-shoes wardrobe for an elegant black silk shirt, tie, and pants. Her mahogany-colored hair, formerly pulled into a severe bun, was now shaped into a fashionably angled pageboy. This wasn’t just a new job. It was a metamorphosis.
Hanna opened and closed her fists as she chided the male model. The gorgeous fellow, whose hair might have been a tad too black to be real, argued back. I wondered how Harma’s exhibits on Cattle-Rustling Meets Cowboy Cooking and Gunslingers: Their Gripes and Their Girls had prepared her for ordering models to strip. In any event, I certainly wouldn’t want her judging my body.
Savory Florentine Cheesecake
2 cups dry bread crumbs, preferably made from homemade brioche bread
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted
1 (10-ounce) package frozen chopped spinach
3 (8-ounce) packages cream cheese, softened
¼ cup whipping cream
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon prepared Dijon mustard
4 eggs
1¼ cups freshly grated Gruyère cheese (about 4 ounces)
1¼ cup freshly grated imported Parmesan cheese
¼ teaspoon paprika
⅛ teaspoon cayenne
¼ cup chopped scallions
Cook the spinach according to package directions, place in a strainer, and press out all the liquid. In a large bowl, beat together the cream cheese, cream, salt, and mustard until smooth. Add the eggs, one at a time, and beat well after each addition. Add the spinach, grated cheeses, paprika, cayenne, and seallions. Beat on low speed until well combined.
Pour the mixture into the prepared crust and bake for approximately 1 hour and 5 minutes, or until the filling is set and browned. Cool for 15 minutes on a wire rack. Serve with sliced fresh fruit and a green salad with vinaigrette dressing.
Makes 12 servings
The woman next to her on the bench was a bit younger. Leah Smythe, small-boned and delicate-featured, wore her blond-streaked black hair in a shaggy pixie cut. She had jumped up and was now holding out her hands in a pleading gesture to the model. André had confided to me that Leah was the big cheese here today, the woman with the power: the casting director for Ian’s Images. Leah also owned the cabin. When Ian’s Images was not engaged in a shoot, Leah allowed Merciful Migrations to use the space for elk-tracking, fund-raising, and salt-lick distribution.