Free The Cathari Treasure (Cameron Kincaid) by Daniel Arthur Smith Page A

would find pots and pans.  Cameron was right, they were inside,
plus an item he did not expect.  A large mustard yellow clay cone capping
a matching pot sat centered on the front of the shelf.  Cameron had
forgotten Pepe’s adoration for Moroccan cuisine.  That there would be a
tagine in Pepe’s cupboard should have been no surprise.
    Cameron returned to the pantry,
swapped the pasta for a bag of Israeli couscous and then gathered an array of
institutional sized containers of cayenne, curry, paprika, and salt.  He
turned on the oven to preheat and went to work.
    At the end of the counter, a
small portable cassette deck was plugged in the wall.  On top of the deck
were cassette tapes.  Cameron thought them antiquated and did not expect
much in way of music when he flipped through them.  He did not know the
artist on the first two cassettes, the last he recognized, Pavarotti.  The
cassette slipped in to the player and the small door snapped shut
tightly.  With a stroke of the play button the tenor’s voice filled the
kitchen.
     
    * * *
* *
     
    Marie and Nicole came down to
the main room.  The dim amber light of the fire accented the furnishings
and through the tall glass, the waning moon shined.  The soft smell of cumin,
nutmeg, and cinnamon lingered over the smell of the burning wood.
    Cameron reclined on the large
sofa with one leg up on the edge of the long coffee table.  In his hand he
held a glass of red wine.
    “You look refreshed,” said
Cameron.
    Marie and Nicole had found sweat
clothes that fit well enough and their heads were so tightly wrapped in shaggy
towels they reminded Cameron of turbans he had often seen men wearing behind
the wheel of the New York yellow cabs.
    “We left plenty of hot water for
you,” said Marie.
    “That sounds good,” said
Cameron.  He gestured to the table, “There is wine on the table and the
food is about ready.”  A bottle of wine stood between two small tea lights
and three stations of plates, silverware, and placemats.
    “Very proper Mister Kincaid,”
said Marie.
    Cameron placed another log on
the fire, jabbed the wood into place with the iron poker, and then walked
toward the staircase.  “Relax,” said Cameron, “I’ll be five minutes, and
then we can eat.”
     
    * * *
* *
     
    With the trials of the last few
days, that Cameron was a New York chef had slipped Marie’s mind.  She had
never actually had a chance to eat anything at the restaurant to build an
impression.  Up until now, her thoughts of ‘Mister Kincaid’ were of his
experience as a mercenary, a retired soldier.  Marie’s thoughts were
reinforced by actions that made her feel safe in his company.  Now she was
reminded that his past profession had been put aside for his new vocation and
the presentation was impressive.
    After the Lord’s Prayer, dinner
started with a full fruity Spanish wine from Pepe’s wine cave.  With that
wine, Marie could have washed down most anything edible or not.  Still
Cameron astonished her.  Though this was not the first time Marie had
eaten a stew from a tagine this was the last thing she expected to see on the
table.  When Cameron removed the heavy clay cone, a steam ripe with
cinnamon and cayenne misted the table.  The large pasta pearls of
couscous, marbled with spice, formed a thick base across the platter of the
pot.  Potatoes, tomatoes, and spinach symmetrically covered the field in a
colorful ornate design.
    “This from tins?” asked Marie.
    Cameron flashed a wink, “One
more thing.”
    Cameron picked up a wide spatula
then opened the door to the oven.  He thrust the spatula under a large
ball of foil and then balanced the foil from the oven to the table to let the
ball rest on a plate next to the wine.  Cameron’s arms hovered above the
ball with his hands bent forward, rattlesnakes ready to strike.  Decisive
and quick, he snapped both hands forward, striking to the edges of the foil,
curling his index fingers to pinch back at his