Prime Cut

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Lingerie-Shoot Gridle Cakes

  1 egg

  1½ cups or more buttermilk

  1½ cup cottage cheese

  1½ cups all-purpose flour

  2 teaspoons baking powder

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  1 cup blueberries, plus more for serving

  Butter and maple syrup for serving

  Oil a large skillet or griddle (the Scots call it a “girdle,” hence the name) and preheat it over medium heat.

  In a large bowl, beat the egg lightly. Stir in the buttermilk and cottage cheese.

  Sift together the flour, baking powder, and baking soda. Sift again into the egg mixture. Stir in the dry mixture very lightly, mixing only enough to combine. If the mixture is too dry, stir in a small amount of additional buttermilk. Gently stir in the blueberries.

  Scoop the batter into pancakes into the hot, well-oiled pan. After the cakes have set on one side, lightly loosen them with a metal spatula to make sure they do not stick. When the edges of the cakes appear dry, flip the cakes carefully to cook until cooked through and golden brown on both sides. This can take from 2 to 5 minutes per side.

  Serve immediately with butter and maple syrup or more fresh blueberries.

  Makes 8 to 12 cakes

  “She doesn’t have any cleavage!” Rustine whispered. “She may be blond, but it’s not enough. She can’t fill that bra.” Rustine lifted her chin and shook her red hair in triumph. Up close, I could again see that her face was flawlessly, if heavily, made up. “They’re going to have to use me. That’s great, because we need the extra money.”

  “Why will you make extra?” I asked innocently.

  She stared at me as if I had just offered to don the black bra and underwear myself. “Because more skin shows in a lingerie shot. They have to pay extra, and especially for yours truly, who will now be used for both shots.”

  “Ah.” I cocked my head toward the set. “How close would you say we are to the coffee break?”

  She frowned, then assessed the conference.

  “Dammit!” Ian was yelling at Rufus. “Why can’t you check out the equipment before we start?” Ian stomped toward his tripod, then tripped. Flailing wildly, he crashed to the floor. “How many times,” he shouted angrily at Rufus, “have I told you to get rid of Eliot’s damn air compressor? Are you brain-dead? Were you deprived of oxygen at birth, Driggle? Get that damn thing out of here!”

  Rufus, head bent in embarrassment, picked up the heavy compressor and struggled across the great room. He passed me without a glance, pushed the compressor against the wall outside the kitchen, then hustled back to Ian’s side to see about the problematic equipment. Ian’s cursing got more colorful. Still slumped in her chair, Yvonne was scowling at her gleaming fingertips.

  Rustine continued as if nothing had happened: “The coffee break will be earlier than if they’d done the shot. They’ll break in about five minutes.” Time to cook, I thought. I turned on the skillet. “Getting me ready will take at least half an hour.” Rustine sniffed the batter, then whispered, “Have you been able to figure anything out about Gerald?”

  I considered her question as I dipped a measuring cup into the bowl, then poured the contents out on the steaming griddle. The pale golden batter sputtered invitingly. This was not the time to get into a discussion of the Winchester, I decided. “Is there anything you haven’t told me?” I asked.

  She blushed. “Like what? The names of other remodeling clients who were mad at Gerald?”

  “Anything else. About that weapon, say.”

  “Break!” called Ian. He turned to catch my eye. I grabbed my spatula and hastily loosened the undersides of the sizzling cake.

  “Rustine!” cried Leah. “Dressing room!”

  Rustine couldn’t conceal her grin as she scampered down the hall. Yvonne rose and stalked out behind her. As she went by, I noticed a fat roll of toilet paper tucked under the bra’s back strap. The toilet paper roll pulled the bra tight across Yvonne’s breasts, but apparently, not tightly, or alluringly, enough. The black panties, smooth as cream over her abdomen, had been pinned in a multitude of folds on her buttocks. For crying out loud! I reflected as she passed me. No wonder lingerie never fits me right!

  For the next twenty minutes I was occupied flipping and serving girdle cakes, which I heaped onto the famished workers’ plates next to their bowls of granola and fruit. Yvonne and Rustine did not choose to indulge in the coffee break goodies, despite the low-fat offerings. Leah reappeared from the cabin bedroom used for hair, makeup, and dressing only long enough to snag herself a bowl of granola and duck into the second bedroom, the space devoted to storage. She re-emerged with a rack of jewelry and whisked back to Rustine. For their part, the hair and makeup fellows devoured their girdle cakes, then answered Leah’s call to tend to Rustine. I had only peeked in on the hair-and-makeup-and-dressing room once. The endless mirrored reflections of hot curlers, hair spray, honey-beige foundation, and racks of clothing had made me dizzy.

  “This is really good,” commented Bobby Whitaker at my elbow. Wearing a bright yellow shirt, black pants, and black-and-gold striped tie, he looked like a handsome, if somewhat plump, bumblebee.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Yeah, I’m always turning up! Didn’ja expect me?” he crowed.

  “Oh, really? How did you happen to turn up at the Hibbard house right after André died?” I ventured calmly.

  He blushed and straightened. “High Creek Realty has an agreement with the morgue. Look, I’m sorry we had that little argument after your teacher died,” he added ruefully. His curly dark hair fell forward provocatively. “I’m under a lot of pressure to get a sale, Miss Caterer Lady. One thing I need to do is check out all the dead people. I’m supposed to see if their survivors want to sell, and if the house has a designer kitchen. Sometimes my showing up doesn’t go very well.”

  “Forget it.” I heaped a spill of girdle cakes on his plate. “Did you see André at all when he was here?”

  He shook his head and dug into the cakes with gusto. “This is my first day out here since the cattle call. I brought some papers for Leah. But she says they’ve had some scheduling glitches, so she’s going to use me tomorrow or the next day, after all.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Congratulations. So, do you prefer modeling or real estate?”

  “Oh, modeling, no question. Lotta money. But I’m getting out of it now. I’ve got some other things going on.” His eyes flickered toward Rustine, who was striding confidently toward the set. Now she wore the black bra pulled tight across ample breasts by the toilet paper roll. The black panties had been nipped and tucked into place. She stretched her neck and assumed a provocative stance between the lighted flats. As Ian cued her, she began to move, smile, cock her hip, and otherwise seduce the flashing camera. Drawn by the action, Bobby moved away.

  I picked up the coffee break detritus—there wasn’t much—and hauled it out to the kitchen. Boyd relieved me of the tray of dirty dishes and filled a sink with hot, soapy water. I felt thankful for his diligence in maintaining the charade, especially when it extended to cleanup.

  Julian had finished plating an extra appetizer: crostini, small rounds of toasted baguette generously smeared with goat cheese and topped with a fat, spicy walnut that would provide crunch. The three of us quickly divvied up the task of heating up the Harrington birthday dinner to serve outside. We devoted the first deck table to the plates and appetizers: the layered Mexican dip, chips, and crostini. The adjoining table squeaked under its load of coq au vin, rice, and sugar-snap-pea-and-strawberry salad. For dessert, I sliced the orange poppy seed cake while Julian and Boyd carried out the beverage bottles, silverware, and glasses.

  I finished my work, hefted my tray, then stared across the rushing creek to the sandbank. I tried not to think of André directing the cabdriver to carry his boxes across the bridge for the last time. Tomorrow afternoon was the memorial service. An ache swelled in my thro
at and I hurried back inside with three pieces of the cake wrapped in plastic for Rufus.

  He was waiting by the door to the kitchen.

  “Ready for tasting?” I asked merrily.

  “Am I ever. Gotta get this thing back there. Ian’s splitting a gut ’cuz he keeps tripping over this thing”—he bent over and started scooting the compressor along the hallway, grunting mightily—“and of course”—he scooted and grunted, scooted and grunted—“it’ll be my job to put a notice in the paper and sell it.”

  I followed him into the empty storage room and watched as he savagely kicked the compressor toward a corner cluttered with grotesque skeletons of photographic equipment. When he turned to face me, I offered him the cake. His large, somewhat dirty hands delicately pulled apart the plastic wrap, then broke off a huge chunk, which he popped into his mouth with glee.

  “Tastes pretty good to me!” he said after the third chew. “Who didn’t like it?”

  I sat in an ancient rocking chair that was missing an arm. “Nobody, really. Listen, Rufus, do you know much about Leah and this cabin?”

  He snorted. “Well, I should. I’ve had to listen to Leah talk about this place these last five years. Why?”

  I shrugged. “Just interested, I guess. I used to work at the museum as a docent, but I really never knew much about the Smythes apart from Weezie and Leah having land.” This cabin, I thought. This cabin links the deaths of Gerald and André. “What do you know about this place?”

  Rufus took another thoughtful bite of cake. “Nobody ever asks me anything. You know, I’m just the stupid equipment guy.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “Well, you know Charlie Smythe died in that big flu epidemic at the end of World War One?” I nodded. “Charlie wasn’t in the war, though, he was in prison. His wife, Winnie, died in the same epidemic. As to this cabin, well, Charlie and Winnie Smythe left it to their son, name of Victor.” He took a bite of cake and looked at the ceiling. “Let’s see, now. Vic Smythe married a woman named Carrie, and she was the mother of Leah and Weezie. When Vic died of emphysema about twenty-five years ago, it turned out he’d left Weezie a parcel of land that was a thousand acres. Now it’s called Flicker Ridge. Fancy pants.”

  I nodded. This I did know, but I didn’t want to interrupt Rufus. Weezie Smythe Harrington, a few years after receiving her land inheritance, had given her gently sloping acreage to her much-beloved, unfaithful, and ultimately fatally unlucky husband, real estate developer Brian Harrington. When Brian died, Weezie had inherited back what was left of Flicker Ridge and promptly donated it to the ecological group, Protect Our Mountains. Ecological concerns ran in the family, apparently, even if long-lived, happy marriages didn’t.

  I asked, “What about Vic’s wife Carrie? What exactly did he leave to her and his other daughter, Leah? Do you know about them?”

  Rufus stood up and wrapped the thick cord around the compressor. “Yeah, yeah. Vic Smythe left two thousand of the Blue Spruce acres to his wife, Carrie. The remaining seven hundred acres and the cabin went to Leah. After Vic died, Carrie remarried and sold her land to Furman County Open Space. That’s why they named Blue Spruce’s biggest mountain ‘Smythe Peak.’ Anyway, Carrie and her new husband, Mike Whitaker, had Bobby, Leah and Weezie’s half-brother. Helping with Merciful Migrations and taking care of Bobby are Leah’s two big concerns. She’s always worrying about him. ‘What is the matter with Bobby?’ she’s asking all the time. Weezie doesn’t care if her too-tubby-to-model, failure-as-a-Realtor half-brother Bobby lives or dies.” Rufus chuckled. “But when Leah passes to the Great Migration Area in the Sky, Bobby gets three hundred acres; Merciful Migrations gets the cabin and four hundred acres surrounding it. Only none of that inheriting of land may actually ever take place.” He finished wrapping the cord and frowned knowingly. “Leah’s negotiating to sell the whole seven hundred acres, including the cabin, to the paint pellet people. Know ’em? Guys who wear camo gear and spend the day hunting for their friends so they can shoot pellets of red paint at ’em?” “Good Lord,” I said.

  “She wants to split the proceeds of the sale with Bobby. It was Bobby who thought they’d get more for the cabin if they put a row of windows in the kitchen, so’s the cabin could appear to be modern. Ian will have to move, and he’s not too happy about that. So they fight about the sale. All the time. And I get to listen.”

  “Uh-huh.” I hesitated. “Did you get along with Gerald Eliot? I mean, was he nice to you even though you hadn’t worked together for five years?”

  He shrugged. “He was okay. But you know I wasn’t tight with him anymore. When I got back from Phoenix, he and Leah and Ian were always yakking. I thought they were talking about the windows, except I could never find any plans, you know? I figured maybe Bobby had ’em.” He paused and stroked his uneven beard. “Y’know, I think even old Hanna got jealous or suspicious of their yakkety-yak. So she got this private sort of joke going with Gerald. I don’t think he thought it was too funny, after the first few times.”

  “Joke? Hanna?” I suddenly recalled her saying that she had tried to joke with Gerald.

  “Yeah, something about cooking the way they used to in the Old West, you know?” From the great room, Ian hollered for Rufus. He gave me a pained look. “I gotta go-”

  “Please, wait. What about cooking in the Old. West? Please tell me, it’s really important.”

  He sighed. “I don’t know how it got started. Gerald asked Hanna about her work at the museum, and if she knew how to make rolls using an old-fashioned cookbook.”

  “What cookbook?” I asked breathlessly. Make the rolls the way I taught you, in Charlie Smythe’s handwriting, loomed in my mind’s eye.

  “I dunno,” Rufus replied. “Hanna asked why did Gerald want to know, was he going to start doing some baking? Bring us rolls along with his glue gun in the morning? And then Gerald told her just to forget about it. But Hanna kept after him, kept saying, ‘Where’re our rolls, Gerald?’ and he’d say, ‘Just shut up, Hanna!’ until finally Ian yelled at the two of them to quit it. And then Gerald started up with Rustine, and Leah axed him.” Loud footsteps shook the walls. “Look, I really gotta go”

  “If Gerald and Ian and Leah were such great friends, why would Leah fire Gerald for having an affair with one of the models?”

  He opened the door. “Look, Goldy, I’m looking for another job right now. If I knew why these people around here act the way they do, I wouldn’t be fixing to leave, would I? Now, you gonna let me go, or you gonna wait till Ian comes stomping in here, having a fit?”

  Confused, I hurried out after him. Tapping her foot at the kitchen door, Leah asked if lunch was ready. She resembled a hothouse poppy in her orange T-shirt, green pants, and orange-and-green sandals. Her streaked pixie looked wild and uncombed. She clutched a thick manila file from which bits of paper poked out.

  “Nice outfit,” I observed.

  “The Mimaya has failed again,” she announced petulantly. I decided that the Mimaya must be a camera, not a piece of lingerie. “Rufus will take it down to Denver for repair, but we’re done shooting for today. In all likelihood, there won’t be shooting tomorrow, either. So, can you serve lunch now?”

  “It’s ready.” I kept my voice cheery.

  “You still want to talk to Ian?”

  “Sure. If that’s okay.”

  “He doesn’t have much time.”

  With failed equipment about to be hustled to Denver by a kind man everyone treated like a drone, and work canceled for the next day, what was pressing in on Ian’s time? I couldn’t imagine, but I smiled anyway. “This won’t take long.”

  “Here are Andre’s bills and menus, since you said you needed them to plan the food.” She thrust the overstuffed file at me.

  “He gave it to you like this?”

  She sniffed. “I don’t remember.” She turned on her sandaled heel and departed.

  I waited for everyone to go through the food line. Hanna methodically consume
d a small plate of chicken and strawberry salad. Rustine, Yvonne, Rufus, Ian, Leah, the per diem contractors … Since Leah had told me fifteen people, and we’d brought enough for twenty, that should be plenty of food, right?

  Wrong. At first I thought something was wrong with Rustine’s and Yvonne’s food, the two models kept going back to the platters so many times. Tried this, and didn’t like it? Tried that, and still weren’t pleased? But no: they were bingeing. After four trips to the buffet, Yvonne could have beat any bear foraging for hibernation.

  I sidled over to where Ian sat alone nursing a cup of coffee and smoking a cigar, his back to the mountains. Every now and then he turned his shoulder to send a stream of smoke over the creek.

  “Hi there,” I said happily, instead of asking: If you really care about the environment, what’s that thing in your mouth? “Can we talk?”

  He glanced behind me to see if anyone was watching. Suddenly paranoid, I looked around myself. Leah, Rustine, Yvonne, Bobby, and the day-contractors were still on the deck, but no one appeared interested in us. Ian inhaled, bobbed his chin, and exhaled out of the side of his mouth. “Heard you need something from me.” He dabbed at his gray moustache. “Is there a problem?”

  “Ah, no.” I sat down. Was Ian acting defensive, or was it my imagination? “Well, actually, yes. It’s about who’s doing the catering for the Soiree.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” he snorted. “What do I look like, Court TV? You catered it last year.”

  “Just give me five minutes,” I promised. “Maybe less. If you knew monkey business was going on, monkey business that might get into the paper, say, wouldn’t you want to prevent it?”