“I need you to decide if you want a lazy Susan as the under-counter cabinet in the corner six feet to the right of the sink. And I need to know if you want a double or single sink, and if you want stainless or some color.”
“I’d love a lazy Susan cupboard, thanks. And I’d prefer a double sink, stainless, please. And don’t forget three separate sinks are required by the county for food service.”
“My dear Miss G. Trust me, okay?”
I could see his body through the steamed-up glass of the shower stall, and immediately thought of better things to do than discuss kitchen amenities. Tom turned the water off, wrapped a towel around his middle, and shot me a quizzical look. “Okay, so I can ask you questions about what you want, and you won’t be upset with me?”
I smiled. Of course, it wasn’t what I wanted that was bothering me, it was the mess, the cost, the fear that when he finished, I’d have something rich and strange, like oysters with sour cream and truffles, that made me sick to my stomach just to contemplate.
Tom paused in his toweling-off and regarded me questioningly. “Why is this red-haired young woman here, exactly? Rustine. The one who was getting it on with Gerald Eliot, right?”
I shrugged. “Right. She’s a model for the Prince and Grogan shoot. I think she thinks Julian is sexy. Of course, the only man I think is sexy is standing half-dressed in front of me, while the bed is beckoning.”
Tom chuckled. “How about when we don’t have people waiting for us to have dinner with them?” He finished drying off, pulled on the clean yellow shirt and khaki pants he’d brought into the bathroom, and gave me another quizzical expression. “This model. Did she and Julian hook up before now? Or did she just show up here?”
I remembered when I’d unexpectedly seen Rustine in her green outfit, jogging down our street just before Julian arrived. “I don’t think they hooked up before now. Why?”
“What do you know about her and her sister?”
“Well, let’s see. Because of Rustine’s relationship with Gerald Eliot, Merciful Migrations fired Gerald. Rustine and her sister Lettie go to Elk Park Prep and model, too. I think Julian ran into them in town when you sent him off to find Arch, and they all came back together. Why the big interest?”
He rubbed the towel over his hair. “Not sure. I just don’t trust her. Could you ask her some questions about the fashion photo people?”
“Like what?”
“Be the good cop, Miss G. Ask some friendly questions while we drive, see if she’s on the up-and-up. I’d like to know what the real story is.”
“Do you think she’s lying about something? And I should ask her questions when we drive where?”
“Look, Goldy.” He dropped his comb on the countertop, took my hand, and led me down the stairs. “What is it they’re always telling the yoga people? Just go with the flow.”
“Okay, but could we at least take Julian’s car? Please? It’s cleaner.” In every sense, I added silently.
“So where are we headed?” Julian asked once we were all in his Range Rover and he was driving us toward Main Street, ten minutes later.
“To the Smythe Peak Open Space area,” Tom replied. “I’ll direct you.”
A cluster of blush-rose clouds rimmed the horizon as the summertime sun slowly sank. I bit the inside of my cheek as we passed the ornately carved entry to the Dragon’s Breath Chinese restaurant. Back at home, I had left a note for Arch under the front doormat, our agreed-upon spot for messages. Gone out for a picnic dinner, just in case you get home first. Home by eight. Please stay on the porch with your friend. I doubted Lettie’s dad would approve of a fourteen-year-old boy inviting his daughter up to his bedroom to see his ham radio equipment.
Rustine, who sat next to Julian, turned around to smile at Tom and me. She was so pretty, so perfectly made up, so disarmingly clothed in what I usually considered underwear, that it was challenging to come up with casual chatter, much less a friendly interrogation.
She said matter-of-factly, “You must be freaked out about Chef André. That day you worked with him and gave me the coffee? I didn’t know he was your teacher. Julian told me. And to think he died in that same kitchen … spooky.”
I frowned. Was she offering sympathy? How was I supposed to respond to freaked out? We whizzed past the library and headed out of town. “Did you … get to know André at all during the shoot?”
She shrugged her bare shoulders. “He seemed … a little weird, you know. But real lovable.”
I glanced at Julian, who was frowning at the road. Given the nature of Rustine’s alleged relationship with the late Gerald Eliot, I wondered how she defined lovable. “Oh,” I commented knowingly, “André had his ways. But when you say weird, do you mean eccentric? How was he … during the shoot?”
“Well,” she said, “like if anybody put salt on food before tasting it, he had a fit. One time Ian blasted Rufus to go get him some soy sauce from the kitchen. That didn’t go over very well with André, who yelled that Rufiis was an imbecile.” She giggled. “Rufus really isn’t very smart, but he hates it when people draw attention to it.” Her tone turned mock-serious. “And you can’t imagine how upset André got when some catsup got poured into a raspberry sauce he’d made for a cake, or some pickle ended up on his seafood stuff. Plus,” she added resignedly, “some people just have bad manners. You know, they stick their fingers instead of vegetables into bowls of dip. So Chef André would get after us in the hygiene department. Anyway, with all that butter and anger, it’s no wonder he had a heart attack.”
My heart ached. She could be right. So why was I so convinced there was something amiss about André’s sudden death? I glanced at Tom. His face was expressionless. His cop face, Arch liked to call it. “Ah, Rustine?” I asked innocently. “Have you had much experience with other caterers on modeling jobs?”
“Ha!” she chortled. “Usually it’s cold cuts and iceberg lettuce followed by brownies.” She shuddered. “André was the best we’d ever had. Ian’s always made plenty of money to spend on catering. But he hasn’t exactly been generous about spreading it around. Or in treating his helpers or the models very well.”
“That’s too bad,” I murmured sympathetically, myself a veteran of a cheapskate ex-husband. “What do you suppose changed his mind this time?”
“Oh, having André was probably Leah’s idea. She tries to smooth out old chintzy Ian’s rough spots.”
“Turn at the next right,” Tom ordered Julian as we approached the flashing yellow light by the You-Snag-Em, We-Bag-Em Trout Farm.
“So …” I didn’t want to jump right into asking about Ian and Leah; that would surely seem nosy. “Have you known Ian long?”
“Two years. Ian noticed me when he was shooting an ad at the athletic club. He recommended that I audition as a model, and mentioned a couple of agencies in Denver. I hooked up with one.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“The money is super. But the work’s hard, and it’s off-the-charts stressful.”
“Because of not being able to eat?”
Rustine turned around so abruptly I was startled. “For us, our bodies, our faces, the bookings we get, the money we make … it’s our whole lives. We get a zit, it’s a disaster. We gain a pound, we’re on the phone to Kevorkian, you know?”
“I guess I don’t,” I murmured.
“Plus the jealousy, if we don’t get chosen for a shoot?” She rolled her eyes, “Eats us alive. And then you see what’s coming: One day, it’s just over. A model goes in for a cattle call, sure of a booking with a client they’ve worked for for years. The client says, ‘We can’t use you anymore.’ Believe me, you don’t want to be around when that news breaks. I’ve seen it happen, and it’s not pretty.”
“Is that what was going on the day I was there? With Leah’s half-brother Bobby?”
“Oh,” she said with forced vagueness, “who knows? Bobby has an in because of Leah.” She made a noise to indicate her disgust. “It really stinks
. You think the world’s fair, and then you see old potbellied, red-eyed Bobby get a job, and you know it isn’t.”
Tom gave me an exasperated look. Guess he didn’t approve of my interrogation methods. I went on: “Do you … have much time for … you know, hobbies, extracurricular activities, schoolwork, whatever, between shoots?”
Rustine didn’t reply. I glanced at Julian, who scowled into the rearview mirror. Guess he didn’t approve of my interrogation methods, either.
“Take the next driveway on the right,” Tom instructed.
We chugged along. Rustine’s hands tightened on the dashboard. The next driveway on the right led to the house of Mr. and Mrs. Cameron Burr.
At the end of the rutted drive, I expected to see the bright yellow police ribbons that usually marked a crime scene, but there were none. A stocky uniformed policeman sitting in front of the guest house got to his feet and lumbered to the car. Julian powered down the window.
“Schulz?” The cop’s voice was surprisingly high and querulous. His dark eyes swept the interior of the car. He lifted his chin in acknowledgment of Tom. “Yeah, you were right,” he observed laconically before walking heavily back to his perch on the deck.
“Right about what? What’s going on?” Rustine asked as her eyes followed the policeman. “I thought we were going on a picnic. Isn’t that what you said?” she demanded of Julian. Julian shrugged and glanced at Tom.
“We can still have dinner outdoors,” Tom said amicably. “You can drive over to the Open Space picnic area now, big J.”
Julian torqued the wheel. The Rover rocked down the Burrs’ driveway.
“Okay, let’s see,” said Tom when we were out on the two-lane road once again. “A week ago, about here,” he pointed out the window, “the officer we just met saw a red-haired woman scavenging along this road. It was in the late afternoon of the day after Gerald Eliot’s body was found at the house we just left. I called the cop back there to see if he’d take a look at you, see if he could identify you as the one searching through the grass.”
Rustine exhaled. Her beautiful eyes remained locked on the road.
“I can’t arrest you, Rustine.” Tom’s voice was gentle. “Can’t even take you in for questioning. But there are a couple of things that have my curiosity up. One report tells us you were going out with this fellow Eliot before someone murdered him. Then you were seen near here, right after Goldy found Eliot’s body. You were obviously looking for something. Now you’re hanging around us, with your we-just-ran-into-Julian line. You want to satisfy my curiosity?”
Chapter 16
“I don’t have to talk to you, you know,” she said defensively, still refusing to look at him.
“You’re right, you don’t. And I’m not accusing you of anything.” Tom maintained his calm, soothing tone. “I’m not allowed to do that. Nor can I keep you here against your will. I’m suspended, remember?”
She whirled in her seat and gave him an icy look. “I did not kill Gerald.”
“Good for you,” Tom countered with a smile. “We’re just wondering what’s going on, that’s all. Eliot was murdered. He was a terrible contractor and an even worse security guard. He had done work for a lot of people who didn’t like him, including unfinished work for Ian’s Images, out at the Merciful Migrations cabin. Then right after his death, my wife’s teacher died suddenly, just when he was working for Ian’s Images. Is there a connection?”
“I don’t know,” Rustine said uncertainly.
Tom went on: “But you must not have found what you were looking for when you were out here searching around. If you had, you wouldn’t be hanging around us, saying you just happened to bump into Julian.” He paused, then said, “Is it because you think André might have told us something? Something that somehow got him into trouble, too?”
She immediately muttered, “Oh, crap.”
Julian’s face in the mirror registered distaste mixed with disappointment. Some picnic.
Rustine seemed to be turning something over in her mind. After a moment, she gave me a girls-only grin. “Actually, my little sister really does think your son is cute, Goldy. And smart, too.”
“If your cute little sister breaks my son’s heart,” I retorted calmly, “I will lop off her cute little blond braid.”
Rustine wrinkled her nose and scowled at me. “Man! What is it with you?”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for Rustine. After all, what had she been doing out here? Playing detective in the wake of losing a loved one? Wasn’t that precisely what I was doing?
Julian pulled up to the picnic tables at the trailhead for Smythe Peak. Tom opened the back door of the Rover and announced that we could continue talking while we ate. We set out the platter of shrimp, the torte, a basket of rolls, and two salads Julian had made. The first was comprised of avocado chunks, romaine lettuce, and sugared walnuts tossed with a champagne vinaigrette; the second was a delectable mélange of fresh grapes and pineapple chunks robed in a buttermilk dressing. I put a pitcher of iced tea next to the rolls and recalled my first day at the cabin, when Rustine had come into the kitchen seeking coffee. What had she said? You’re the caterer who figures things out
“Start with your relationship with Gerald Eliot.” Tom proceeded to pull the tail off a shrimp, dunk it in our homemade cocktail sauce, and stick it in his mouth. He chewed and winked at me, as if to say, Good food. Good interrogation. I was happy to discover that Julian’s green salad was out of this world.
Rustine ran her fingers through her luxuriant red hair and shook it over her shoulders. She waited until she had our attention, then announced, “Gerry had found something that was going to make us rich.” Julian moved his gaze to the rosy-feathered clouds fringing the mountains. Less assuredly, Rustine added, “Or so he said.”
“What was it he found? And when did he find it?” asked Tom. “Was it at the cabin or at the museum?”
“I think I should begin at the beginning,” she said, almost apologetically. “Gerry and I started going out in June. I was up there doing the shoot for Prince and Grogan’s July R.O.P.—that’s run of press—their ads for July, to be in the Post and News. Gerry was tearing out the wall in the cabin kitchen to put in windows. He never finished, of course.”
I groaned.
Rustine’s tone became defensive. “Look, I know all about Gerry taking your money/ But … he’d been fired by Ian’s Images in the middle of July. They never even paid him for his work, even though he’d given Leah his bills. Rufus said that Hanna wanted Gerry out because Gerry was involved with me. But I never believed that.”
Tom studied another plump pink shrimp. “Why did Eliot—Gerry—scam my wife and keep a crummy security job, if he’d found something to make him rich? And are you going to tell us what it was? Or do you even know?”
Rustine’s perfectly powdered brow furrowed. “I … don’t know what it was exactly … whether it was a thing, or some dirt on somebody … or what.” She faltered. I had the distinct impression that she was lying. “Gerry was in a real financial bind, though,” she went on. “His last credit card had been canceled. He’d had to put down cash for some of the windows he’d ordered for projects.” I thought of Cameron and Barbara, with their pink and blue sheets of glass winking in the sunlight, of the cabin kitchen and my own cooking space, both with glued plywood over the sink. Rustine assumed a sad tone. “Yes, Gerry took the Burrs’ money, and Goldy’s, too. But it was just to stay afloat until he could get to the next project.”
Rather than dwell on how dumb and trusting I’d been, I helped myself to more avocado salad.
“So he didn’t tell you what he’d found, or found out?” Tom pressed.
The edges of Rustine’s lipsticked mouth turned down. “He said he’d found a weapon.”
“A weapon?” I interjected. I immediately thought of the strange marks on Andre’s hands. Could they have been caused by a weapon? “What sort?”
“I don’t know. I w
as hoping you guys might tell me. Like, that you’d come across … something?” She looked at us expectantly. “Or maybe,” she continued, “that André had told you some secret he’d found out? Say, about Charlie Smythe, who used to live in the cabin? Maybe something to do with cooking in that kitchen, that Gerry and André might both have found out,” she added desperately.
Julian cut himself some more torte. “That makes a lot of sense, Rustine. Something to do with cooking in that kitchen that would have contributed to two guys’ deaths.”
Rustine closed her eyes and shrugged. “Well, André cooked, didn’t he? And Gerry had been doing work in the cabin kitchen, too, right?”
My mind went back to The Practical Cook Book, but I said nothing.
“Here’s what we’ve got,” Tom said. “A contractor hated by his clients gets fired from a job where he’s having an affair with an employee.”
“I wasn’t an employee—” Rustine interrupted indignantly.
Tom cocked an eyebrow. “Item two.” Rustine pressed her lips together. “Eliot claimed to this Ian’s Images employee that he’d found something, or maybe found out something that he claimed would make them rich. It might be a weapon or it might be information, right?” Rustine nodded once, quickly, then licked her Ups. “At Eliot’s second job,” Tom went on, “security guard at the Homestead Museum, where he arrived the evening of Sunday, August seventeenth, he was strangled to death in what appeared to be a faked burglary attempt. Law enforcement officials believe the perp was one of Eliot’s disgruntled clients. Of whom there are at least three still living in or near Aspen Meadow.” He pointedly avoided looking at me. “The perp—and at this point we still think we’re looking at one person, one crime—stole some things from the museum. Is that what you were looking for?”
“What?” Rustine asked innocently.
“Something stolen from the museum?”
“What was that?”
Tom tried again. “C’mon, Rustine, help us out. Were you looking for something?”
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