Leonid sat next to Quill and dipped his head forward in acknowledgment of her presence. "And how do you do?"
"Very well, thank you." Quill extended her hand. Leonid enveloped it and shook it hard. "I'm Sarah Quilliam. Please call me Quill. Welcome to the Inn."
"Quill," he said, testing it. He gestured at the bald Russian on his left. "This is Simkhovitch. Vasily Simkhovitch. And behind him is Alexi, Alexi Kowlakowski."
"Kavlakavsky," Quill said. "And Mr. Simkhovitch."
"Pliz. Call them Alexi, who you will remember because he has this hair in his nose, like our Russian bear, and Vasily, who has no hair at all on his head. Like our skinned Russian bear."
"Ha-ha," said Vasily.
"Hair or no hair," the mayor said, "what are you all doin' in Hemlock Falls?"
"Yes. I tall you all right now." Leonid rose to his feet. "Thank you all. Thank you. I want to tall you this, that I have seen much we can do to improve our poor country since we have the bad luck to lose our way in the government. By this I mean that we are now no longer communis." An ominous movement, like a swell
on a heretofore placid lake, rippled through the assembly.
Leonid repeated loudly, "We are no longer communis.
Communis is not good for us now. What we like is capitalism. And this, we have our name. Russians in Capitalist
Enterprise. This good capitalist here . . ." Harvey
smoothed his hair again. Quill began to hope he'd smooth
it right off and be as bald as Vasily. ". . . has been work
ing with your capitalist government in Albany to find us
host
city for our enterprise."
"And what kinda enterprise are you in?" Harland asked.
"We are in capitalist enterprises," Leonid said confidently.
"No, no," Harvey said. "I mean, yes, you are. But they're farmers, Harland. Leonid here was the head of a wheat commune."
"Commune," Colonel Calhoun muttered. "What the hell?"
"And Vasily and Alexi raised dairy cattle. Just like you, Harland."
"Yeah?" Harland rubbed his hand reflectively across
his chin. His hands were thick, red, and heavily muscled.
"What kind of cows?"
"It is Holshteiners we are trying for," Leonid said. "Vasily and Alexi have not much luck with Angus."
Harland's thick gray eyebrows rose in astonishment. "Angus, now. Black Angus?"
"No. No. Red, of course. But we are to buy some
Holshteiners to take with us when we go from this coun
try."
"You don't want Angus for dairy," Harland said. "What are you, nuts? Russians," he said to the ceiling. "You got cash? None of them, what'd you call 'em, rubles?"
"Cash? You mean," Leonid rubbed his forefingers briskly against his thumb, "like in dinero? Moo-la? We haf some, yes."
Harland grunted. Then he grinned to himself. "You want to see some good dairy cows, then, I might be able to take you out to see a couple of mine. Holsteins, now. None of this Holshteiners horseshit. A good Holstein cow is a good Holstein cow."
"Excuse me." Colonel Calhoun hunched forward in his chair. "Y'all said cash, right? Then you may want to
look at some real American capitalist beef, like the Texas
longhorn cow."
"And that," Quill said to Meg several hours later on the
phone, "was that. By the time I left they were all chatting
each other up, and Marge was making Betty run around
and serve vodka, and for all I know, they're still up there, singing, 'Moscow Nights,' and getting along like a house
afire."
"There isn't much good about Russian cuisine," Meg said. "Borscht, maybe. They can do some great stuff with cabbage. And they have a reasonable way with a
potato blini. But you take beets, cabbage, and black bread
away from a Russian and you've got bupkis."
"Meg!"
"It's true. So what's this International Night Harvey's cooked up?"
"It's not a bad idea, actually."
Meg gave a two-hundred-mile-away snort. "When has
Harvey ever had an idea that worked out?"
"Hemlock History Days wasn't bad."
"Except we ended up with two corpses—no, three.
And as a matter of fact, he was the dolt who first brought
that damn gourmet week for Verger Taylor to us and insisted we do it for the prestige of Hemlock Falls, and that was how many bodies? Two, there, even if it was in southern Florida where the homicide rate rivals that of Beirut and murders aren't front-page news. The more I
think about it, Quill, the more I think Harvey's a menace.
Forget International Night."
"Just listen, okay?" Quill was unusually patient. But she'd picked up the phone to call Meg with a lot of trepidation. They had always squabbled, from the time Meg could talk. They almost never quarreled. She hadn't known if she had crossed the line into the territory of the unforgiven or not until she heard Meg's hello. "Harvey
says that with the economy so healthy, a lot of businesses
are looking at partnership with Russia. Setting up the relationship is supposed to be simple, uncomplicated by a lot of government interference."
"Right." Meg's voice was skeptical. "What about the Russian Mafia?"
"What Russian Mafia?"
"Any Russian Mafia. I've read a lot of bad things about them. They're supposed to be more homicidal than the yakuza."
"Than the who? I mean whom?"
"The Japanese Mafia. You really need to keep up more on current events, Quill, I've always told you that."
So. The peace between them did have a price after all. Quill gritted her teeth and said mildly, "Leonid, Vasily, and Alexi are not crooks."
"Phuut! What about those suits you described?"
"That just proves it, doesn't it? Genuine successful crooks can afford to dress better. Just give it a try, Meg. Marge is going to host International Night at the Inn."
"At our Inn?"
"At her Inn. It'll be the Chamber of Commerce people and, um . . . a few others." Quill wasn't sure she wanted
to tell Meg about the Longhorn Cattlemen just yet. "And
everyone wants you to cook."
"Everyone always wants me to cook." This was said without complaint or vanity. It was true. "But do I have to cook Russian? I told you . . ."
". . . beets, potatoes, and cabbage. We want you to come up with a sort of cross-cultural meal." Quill took a deep breath. "Texas Longhorn beef with a Russian twist."
"No."
"But, Meg. The Russians are talking about investing in this cattle program the Chamber's backing, and—"
"I don't care about that. I told you when I first saw those cows in our rose garden . . ." Quill grinned, glad that Meg couldn't see her. Our rose garden? ". . . I haven't the least idea how to cook that beef."
"It's supposed to be just like regular beef, except healthier for you."
"Well, it isn't," Meg said bluntly. "I mean yes, it is healthier for you, but the fat's all weird. It's diffused evenly through the meat, and it's not as fatty as Angus. You have to cook it for a shorter period of time with higher heat." Meg's voice rose, with that particular note of incipient hysteria it always got when she was under pressure to cook well. "And I'm NOT going to manage a dinner for a million guests . . ."
"Forty-six," Quill said.
"Forty-SIX! Oh,
sure.
Anyhow. Forget it."
"Royal said he'd make all the beef available to you that you need. As a donation. You can practice. And if you don't, Meg, think of this. Harvey's talked the Winegrowers Association into sponsoring the banquet if we don't prepare it. They want to create some private label wine just for the occasion. You want to hear what Harvey's come up with?"
"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 Do
reen had offered discounted dinners to those customers whose reservations she had canceled, and tonight's din
ner 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 . . ."