Prime Cut gbcm-8

by Diane Mott Davidson

  To my surprise, André stood waiting at the front door. He held a basket bulging with a zipped bag of salad, a plastic-wrapped platter of spring rolls, and a steam-clouded jar of soup.

  “Take this to your friend whose wife has pneumonia,” he told me. “Your check is inside. I know what it is to have a sick wife, Goldy. Cater to your friend, and forget these other men upsetting you.” He waved his free hand and enumerated them. “That idiot builder. That conniving caterer, Litchfield.”

  “You’re the best,” I replied, and meant it. I took the basket and thought of the pork butt I’d already roasted and wrapped. Cameron Burr would have food for three days. If only food could make his wife well again …

  André murmured, “Where is the much-praised Julian Teller? Can’t he help you beat this monster Litchfield?”

  I shook my head. Two months ago, Julian had finished his freshman year at Cornell. He’d considered himself lucky to land a summer kitchen job at a swank upstate New York hotel. “Julian was supposed to come visit, but he never showed up. And his classes start next week.” We had all been disappointed not to see Julian this summer. Arch, though, had felt Julian’s absence most acutely.

  “Go see your friend, Goldy. Have him tell you one of his stories of Nazi treasure. And stop worrying so much.”

  Clasping the basket, I hugged André and hurried down the stone steps. Once across the creek, I trotted between the mud-blackened bank, the granite boulders, and a thickly packed heap of dry twigs, monument to the industry of beavers. A rising wind whistled through a nearby stand of yellow-tinged cottonwoods.

  Most of the models had departed. The elk had returned to the meadow to graze. Beside my van, the breeze whiplashed a slew of white-faced daisies. Leggy thistle branches waved bright pink-purple tops and spilled hairy nests of silver seeds. The breeze shifted and wafted my scent toward the elk. They lifted their racks and trotted cautiously toward the safety of the trees. I unlocked the door, shoved the picnic basket onto the front seat, and thought of André’s words. Forget the men who were bothering me? How?

  I revved the van. What I really needed was help from the main man in my life—Tom. I was terrified the county health inspector would descend on our home at any moment and deem that the cabinet-window mess left by Gerald Eliot wasn’t technically a commercial kitchen repair, but a remodeling. Remodeling was illegal without pulling a permit and closing the kitchen. Tom had promised to help. But Andy Fuller, the prosecutor who was such a thorn in Tom’s side, had just plea-bargained down to reckless driving a drunk driver’s killing of six people on 1–70. Tom’s long, tempestuous meetings with Fuller precluded home maintenance.

  I carefully negotiated the rocky road leading back to Blue Spruce. At the intersection with the highway, preoccupied with thoughts of Tom’s troubles with Andy Fuller, I gunned the van and nearly hit a paint-peeled board announcing Swiss Inn Apartments—Seven Miles Ahead, West of Aspen Meadow, next to a Real Estate For Sale sign plastered with an Under Contract!!! sticker. I slowed and sloshed through the mud. Worry muddled my brain. Where was I? Oh yes, taking food to Cameron Burr, president of the Furman County Historical Society, an old friend whom I loved dearly, especially for the many tales of Aspen Meadow he’d told my son Arch. And the story André had alluded to was Arch’s favorite: the improbable myth that somewhere in the Colorado mountains, the Nazis had buried a stash of gold. Before Barbara got sick, she’d told me she and her husband were going to have to find that money, if they were ever going to pay off Gerald Eliot.

  I turned at the road running by the You-Snag-Em, We-Bag-Em Trout Farm, drove another three miles, then rocked over the Burrs’ puddle-pocked driveway. My apprehension grew. The last time I’d been to visit Cameron, he’d been home in the middle of the afternoon, battling anxiety with tranquilizers that he washed down with hot chocolate while listening to old Ravi Shankar tapes. He’d told me how he’d tried to help Gerald Eliot with his cash flow by getting him a job as a security guard at the Homestead Museum. But he still didn’t come back to finish our sun room, Cameron had moaned. Join the club.

  I pulled up in front of a contemporary-style, green-stained A-frame house. Its roof was pitched steeply to the ground, like an oversized tent. Jutting out the back was the unfinished sun room; the few panes of glass Gerald Eliot had left untouched winked in the sunlight. Across the driveway from the main dwelling was the guest house, a miniature replica of the green A-frame. Cameron’s maroon pickup truck was parked at an angle in front of the guest house door.

  Standing on the van’s step, I could just see the panoramic view of the Continental Divide’s icy peaks beyond the A-frame. The photographer wants a view of snow, André had asserted over the phone. And I am to make a treat for the homeowner with the view of snow. Do you think he would like my strawberry tart? Maybe with chocolate sauce and a Valium, I’d thought.

  “Cam?” I called when there was no response to my knock at the guest house door. “You in there?” I listened for the twang of sitar music but heard none, thank goodness. Unfortunately, there was no hum and pop of Cameron’s printer, either, which I found more worrisome. Cameron wrote articles on the historic West; according to Marla, who knew everything, he hadn’t written a word or made a sale in the past sixteen months, not since Gerald Eliot had made such a mess of their home. That, combined with his mounting depression and Barbara’s illness—she might not be able to return to her teaching job—were distressing. For politeness, I knocked again, although it was a point of pride for Cameron that he always kept his door unlocked. I turned the knob and the door opened.

  One of the sloped, wood-paneled walls was given over to the TV, the computer-printer setup, a kitchenette, and a tiny bath. The other featured a long shelf chock-ablock with framed photographs of Cameron and Barbara visiting ghost towns, abandoned mines, and historic sites. In the pictures, stocky, jovial Cameron and blond, plump Barbara looked as excited as kids.

  But these photos did not reflect the way Cameron looked now. Disheveled, grizzled, he was snoring loudly on an unmade sofabed pushed up against the wide part of the A. His gray hair, pushed askew like windblown barbecue ash, desperately needed cutting. Mouth open, his chunky body contorted, he looked more like a wrestler on the skids than a historian. One shoe lay on the floor; there was no sign of a second. He wore muddied socks, rumpled dark chinos, and a denim shirt. He’d wrenched a patchwork quilt around him so that it knotted his middle.

  He snorted, then jerked violently awake. “What? Who’s there?”

  “I’m sorry, I’ll leave. It’s just Goldy Schulz.”

  He scratched his scalp, then sighed. “Come on in, Goldy.” His leathery face was even more deeply furrowed than the last time I’d seen him; his red-rimmed eyes lingered on the kitchenette side of the room. “Checking on me again, eh?” With sudden decision, he yanked the quilt around him and stumped toward the tiny bathroom. “Be right back.”

  Shower water began to run. I unpacked the basket and checked the refrigerator. It smelled terrible and contained only a green-edged, muddy-brown package of ground beef. When had Cameron had his last meal? For that matter, when had he last had contact with the outside world? I checked the bottles of pills on his bedside table: Librium and Restoril—tranquilizers and sleeping pills. The message light on his phone was blinking. On the floor next to his discarded shoe lay a half-empty bottle of Bacardi, a nibbled bar of chocolate, and a box of crackers. Great. The man obviously needed coffee and decent food, in that order. I knew from my previous food-bearing trips that Cameron kept an old-fashioned chrome percolator beside the kitchenette’s yellow ceramic cannisters. Unfortunately, it was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’s your coffeepot?” I called.

  “Oh, hell,” he yelled over the spray. “The coffeepot? Let’s see.” For a moment all I heard was the hiss of shower water. “I was watching one of those home improvement shows. You know, where they teach you to glaze your own windows? So I thought, why not?” The valve squealed as he turned off the
water. “See any aspirin out there?”

  I scanned the counter, the tables, even the tops of the TV and computer: no aspirin. “Nope. I’ll go get you some, if you want.”

  “Aspirin would be in the main house bathroom. The coffeepot’s in the sun room.” He grunted, undoubtedly pulling clothes on over damp skin. “I bought some old window frames and glass … thought I’d do the glazing myself. Made a pot of coffee, started working, broke two pieces of glass, got frustrated. Poured some rum into the coffee. Then I cracked a window frame. Went into town to buy more supplies, but the hardware store was closed.”

  So you got sloshed instead. I looked down at the blinking message machine. “How’s Barbara?”

  “Don’t know, need to call the hospital. You making that coffee?”

  I trotted out the guest house door. When I rounded the corner of the big A-frame, I heard what sounded like cars starting up Cameron’s driveway. Visitors? I wondered how many cups Cameron’s coffeepot made, and if it would be enough for a slew of guests.

  An orange auxiliary power line snaked out of the concrete foundation for the sun room. On the near side, glass of different hues filled the completed windows: one was slightly pink, one gray, one blue. This, Cameron had told me, was the result of Gerald Eliot trying to get a better deal by ordering windows from three different places. On the far side of the sun room, the plastic-swathed framing looked more like a ruin than a building-in-progress.

  I took hold of the orange cable and stepped onto the concrete floor. I hopped gingerly over another empty Bacardi bottle, pieces of broken window glass, and several open boxes of nails. The cord wormed over one sawhorse and under another, then disappeared beneath a pile of broken drywall. I yanked on the cord: Chunks of drywall skittered across the floor, as did a jagged piece of cornice molding, a nail gun, rope, measuring tape, boxes of tools, a cutting blade, and glazing material. I finally located the coffeepot and picked it up. Then I dropped it.

  Hanging by his blond hair between a pair of studs was Gerald Eliot. His stiff body was clothed in filthy jeans and a bloodied white shirt. His face was dark. His tongue protruded from his mouth.

  He was dead.

  Chapter 4

  I backed up and promptly tripped over a pile of two-by-fours. My hand came down hard on broken glass. Pain snaked up my arm. A fist seemed to be pushing my voice into my throat. From between the studs, Gerald Eliot’s dreadful face and unseeing eyes looked at nothing. Bits of drywall clung to his hair, as if someone had broken a piece of it over his head. His forehead had dark, bloody marks on it and I involuntarily glanced at the nail gun. Oh, God, I prayed, no.

  I leapt ungracefully off the subfloor and onto the ground, then cried out as I stumbled over a tree root and landed painfully against the house’s foundation. Where was I going? What was I supposed to do? My rubbery legs would not move. Nor would my brain cooperate. Where was my cellular? I gained my balance and started to run back to the van. Then I stopped.

  Two Furman County Sheriff’s Department cars had pulled up beside Cameron Burr’s maroon truck. Assistant District Attorney Andy Fuller and three uniformed deputies slammed out of the first vehicle. Out of the second came my husband, followed by Furman County coroner Dr. Sheila O’Connor and another deputy I did not recognize.

  “Tom!” I yelled frantically, then waved my arms. “Here! Tom! It’s Gerald … back there—” I pointed mutely in the direction of the sun room.

  Andy Fuller barked an order at Tom: Tom shook his head. What is going on, I wondered. Did they know about Eliot already? With one of the deputies in tow, Andy Fuller strode toward the guest house door. Tom trotted in my direction. He motioned me away from the big house. Dr. O’Connor and another deputy followed Tom at a slower pace. The other two cops grimly surveyed the main house and surrounding property. One pointed toward the Burrs’ garbage receptacle beside the driveway. As they walked toward the trash, the cop who had pointed talked into a radio.

  “Goldy.” Tom hugged me. I clasped him like a life preserver. “Goldy, what is it?”

  So they didn’t know yet. “Gerald Eliot … He’s … he’s … in the sun room…. He’s …” I choked. “Dead.”

  “That’s what we heard. A hiker called in a while ago from a pay phone at the parking lot by the boundary of Furman County Open Space. By the Smythe Peak trailhead.” Tom took a deep breath, then added curtly, “Eliot worked at the museum, where there’s been a break-in. Looks like a botched robbery. The hiker saw Eliot’s body here … hanging up. Is it back there?” His head indicated the rear of the A-frame. I nodded and he frowned. “They’re going to ask what you were doing out here.”

  “Bringing Cameron food, then getting his stupid coffeepot and some aspirin from the main house. He was fast asleep when I arrived, and he sent me to get his percolator—”

  “We got a complaint that Gerald Eliot and Cameron Burr fought at the Grizzly Saloon last night.” Tom fell silent as Sheila O’Connor, tall, oblong-faced, her black-and-gray hair pulled into a taut ponytail, walked by with the deputy, whom I did not know. We nodded to them. Then Tom continued: “It wasn’t the first time that had happened, but this time Burr brought a window frame into the bar. Apparently he was half in the bag already. Yelled something at Eliot like, Hey! I saw your pickup out front and wondered if you wanted to do a little glass work. We’ve got guys talking to the bartender now. Anyway, Burr threatened Eliot, and Eliot left for his night-guard job at the museum. That was the last time anybody saw Eliot alive.”

  “Cameron didn’t do this, Tom. His wife is in the hospital. Please. He couldn’t have. Are you listening to me?”

  Tom chewed the inside of his cheek. His green eyes and handsome face filled with concern and worry. “Goldy, we need to get you taken care of. Somebody will ask you questions in a few minutes, then I’ll take you home. I knew you were bringing Burr food today. But I thought you had another job—”

  “I just … it was over early.” A wave of shivers washed over me.

  “Good God, Goldy, your hand is bleeding.”

  Blood dripped from my palm onto the ground. To my amazement, I saw that it had also splattered and smeared up my arm, probably from when I’d tripped over the tree root.

  “I fell and hit some glass. I need to get Cameron that aspirin….” While Tom whipped a handkerchief out of his pocket to tie up my wound, my eyes traveled to where Andy Fuller and the remaining uniform were leading Cameron Burr out of the guest house. “Why is Fuller here? And how could a hiker have seen Gerald? I didn’t even see him until I’d spent a few minutes poking around in that mess.”

  Tom put his arm around me. “Hold your hand up.” I obeyed and he began to walk with me back to the van. “Fuller thinks he’s going to be a hero in this case, make up for his past mistakes. The guy has political ambitions, Goldy. So he’s got a case of—”

  “Case? Case of what? He hasn’t even talked to, to … Hold up.” I fought dizziness. I turned my face toward the sun room: Dr. O’Connor and the deputy stood near Gerald Eliot’s body. A late afternoon breeze swished through the pines near the house, and a pattern of shadows played over the pink window. My vision blurred. I need to get away from here. I need to get Cameron that coffee.

  One of the uniforms called to Fuller from the Burrs’ green trash receptacle, piled high with construction debris. A hundred feet from us, Andy Fuller, chin up, hands thrust deep into his trench coat, strode resolutely toward the cop. The thin, metallic blond hair over Andy Fuller’s red scalp shone in the sunlight as he peered down at what the cop had found. Fuller nodded, checked a radio on his belt, then asked the cop for his radio. I knew that the frequency used by the district attorney’s office was different from the one used by sheriff’s department deputies. So Fuller was trying to call a cop. Tom’s radio crackled on his belt. Shaking his head, Tom pulled away from me and tugged out his receiver.

  “Looks like the item the curator reported missing from the museum is here.” Fuller’s nasal voice crackled. “Schulz, I n
eed you to come down here and arrest Burr.”

  Tom pressed the radio button. “It’s too soon,” he replied calmly. “Let me talk to him first, see what his side of the story is.”

  “This is no time for your shilly-shallying, Schulz!” Andy Fuller’s shriek was laced with static. “Burr faked the museum robbery so he could kill Eliot. Get your fat ass down here and arrest this guy!”

  Tom’s shoulders tensed. He said, “Fuller, wait. Think. Why would Burr bring Eliot back here, to his own home, if he’d gone to the trouble to fake the robbery? Don’t you even want to ask him? Before you have to Mirandize him, risk he gets a lawyer?”

  “He was going to get rid of the body later. Didn’t you hear me the first time? Get down here and arrest this, guy!”

  With my good hand, I pressed Tom’s handkerchief onto my throbbing palm.

  “Take Burr in for questioning, Fuller,” Tom argued. “Or you’ll do something you’ll regret.”

  “What’s your wife doing here, Schulz? Burr says the victim worked for your wife, too. Did the two of them do him together? You want to arrest her, too? Or maybe you could get her down here to do your job for you, how about that?”

  I pressed my lips together. I hated Andy Fuller.

  Tom dropped the receiver to his side and muttered, “One thing I won’t regret is when that dummy finally runs for Colorado Attorney General and quits this new tactic of his, trying to turn every case into a TV show.” Too late, I saw his finger was still pressing the radio button. I grabbed Tom’s wrist with my bloodied palm. He cursed silently and shook his head.