Prime Cut gbcm-8

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Except for Hanna, the Ian’s Images people were laughing, eating, and talking happily. Hanna was staring at the police ribbons and shaking her head.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t have eaten in here,” Hanna said morosely.

  Sylvia cleared her throat. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have come, Hanna, dear. You should just go back to your little department store job.”

  Hanna shot us an enraged glare, then stalked across the room to have a whispered conference with Leah.

  “The police say Gerald and Cameron struggled right next to the cabinets. The glass broke, then Cameron strangled him,” Sylvia said in a low, confidential tone to André. She pointed. “Here is where our historic cookbooks were displayed.”

  André drew his mouth into a pucker. “Very sad.” He peered in at the shelves. “What are these letters, then?”

  “We put all artifacts that were related to the cookbooks in the exhibit. Cameron and Barbara Burr donated the Watkins Cookbook and The White House Cookbook. The Practical Cook Book was donated by Leah Smythe and Weezie Smythe Harrington.” She lifted an eyebrow in Leah’s direction. “American Cookery was donated by the German-American Foundation of Colorado. As you can see, Eliot’s murderer didn’t see fit to steal our letters, only our books.”

  Suddenly, André gasped. He tried to inhale and reluctantly clutched his chest.

  “Oh, dammit! What is it?” I cried as André wheezed. He staggered and I grabbed him. “Julian! Help me!”

  “I am fine, I am fine!” André said over Sylvia Bevans’s squawking that someone needed to call an ambulance again. He recovered his composure and checked the alignment of buttons on his chefs jacket. “I was just surprised, that’s all.”

  “By what?” I demanded.

  His eyes had regained their mischievous look; he giggled.

  “Goldy?” Julian’s worried voice was at my shoulder. “Want me to call nine-one-one on the cell?”

  “Goldy! Stop fussing!” André said gaily as he trundled toward the kitchen with Sylvia walking importantly beside him, steadying him by the elbow. “If you want to help, pick up dirty dishes.” As if to demonstrate he was just fine, he began an a cappella rendition of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”

  “I can’t believe you worked for that guy for a whole year,” Julian muttered in my ear. “I mean, you never know where he’s coming from. He nearly keels over, then he’s fine. Now he’s humming Christmas carols in August, for crying out loud. I want to finish the dishes and leave.”

  I wanted to leave, too. Just clean up and then you can clear out, my inner voice commanded. I picked up dirty cups from an end table, then started toward the buffet. With the sudden disconcerting feeling that I was being watched, I stopped.

  The models, their minions, the hair and makeup people, all had ambled back to the living room. But Ian Hood, Leah Smythe, Hanna Klapper, and Rufus Driggle stood at the entryway to the dining room. Hanna glared at the area where André had had his second miniattack, then shifted her reproachful eyes to me. Rufus moved from foot to foot, as if he, like me, wanted to clear out. Leah and Ian conferred, then shook their heads, as if I’d said something incredibly stupid. Confused, I felt suddenly embarrassed to be clutching a nest of empty cups.

  “Goldy!” Hanna exclaimed. The authoritarian tone of the former director of docente still had the power to freeze my spine. “What just happened?”

  “André just wanted to see the crime scene,” I commented lightly as I rebalanced the cups. “He’s fine! Don’t worry.”

  Not one of them said a word.

  Chapter 10

  Finally Leah blinked, as if she were coming out of a reverie. She raked her streaked, shaggy hair with her fingers. “Well, fine. We’re done for today. Please tell Sylvia I’ll see her on Tuesday. And you and André too, I guess.”

  I nodded. Hanna closed her eyes rather than look at the violated cabinets, somehow managing to convey her conviction that neither the burglary nor the murder would ever have happened if she’d still been in charge at the museum. Ian gruffly ordered Rufus to start packing up the lights and the set. I hustled my tray to the kitchen and asked André how he was feeling. He again assured me he was fine. As if to prove it, he delicately placed plates into the tublike porcelain sink that Julian had filled with soapy water. Sylvia, once so desirous of our company and our coffee, now did her best to shoo us off.

  “How much longer will this cleaning take? I need to bring the fourth graders out here!” she fussed. As is common when someone bothers the catering crew in the kitchen, her presence actually slowed down our cleaning process. But none of us dared point that out, and she finally trundled off.

  “Can we help with Monday’s food?” I asked André as Julian dried the last of André’s pans and I packed them up. “We have another assignment, but we could meet you early … please?” I’d never forgive myself if the stress of Monday’s food preparation proved to be too much for him.

  “No,” he insisted stubbornly. “You make me so nervous, Goldy! You do not need to watch me all the time. For Monday, I will do a very simple coffee break and lunch.”

  “Promise to call and tell me how things went,” I urged, as Mountain Taxi pulled up for him. Among his many reluctances to compromise with the times, André had never learned to drive. Julian and I loaded up the cab’s trunk. André clambered in and swore he’d stay in touch.

  When we reached home, Arch solemnly assured us that Jake was on the mend. The two of them had even gone for a very short walk. To my surprise, Tom had finally taken a break from his mysterious woodworking project to fire up the grill. I was very curious to know what he was up to in the basement, but I had no intention of asking if all the banging was yielding anything beyond ventilation to his frustrations. For my own part, I’d once decided in a fit of pique to construct a gingerbread version of McNichols Arena; halfway through, the walls had collapsed. Therapy projects, I’d concluded, are usually best left undiscussed.

  I set the table for lunch and noticed our checkbook jammed up beside a stack of glasses on the kitchen counter. Maybe my husband had taken a close look at our finances and that was leading him to pound nails into two-by-fours. Without looking at the check register, I knew that even with the pay from André, only two thousand dollars and change separated us from the morass known as negative cash flow. And two thousand wasn’t much when sixteen hundred of it represented payments for my two upcoming jobs, and would have to cover the costs of food and labor for those events. Moreover, two thousand was half the estimate a hardware store employee I’d called had given when he’d come by to reckon what repairing Gerald Eliot’s damage would cost. And then there were the costs of Arch’s tuition if The Jerk didn’t pay; footing the bill for the free tasting party; keeping the larder stocked for the family. Add to this only a few hundred that might come in as an extra gratuity from Weezie’s party and the Hardcastle reception, and financial disaster loomed depressingly large.

  When I poured tall glasses of ice water, my stomach rumbled. Never worry about money when you’re hungry, I’d learned during my lean post-Jerk days. Luckily, deliciously scented grill smoke was curling into the kitchen. I peeked through the back door. Tom had thawed the last of our jumbo shrimp and skewered them with fresh vegetables and fruit. The man was incorrigible.

  Ten minutes later, the four of us were digging into tender grilled shrimp, hot, juicy pineapple, and dark, crunchy onion. I murmured thanks to Tom; he squeezed my hand. While we ate, Julian and I filled him in on what had happened at the Homestead: the report and the denial of André’s illness, Sylvia’s distress, Rufus’s tales of Gerald Eliot’s mess at the cabin. I peppered Tom with questions: Had Eliot been seeing a woman? Specifically, had he been seeing Rustine the model? Had they found other Eliot clients who might have been willing to kill him? Tom said his buddies at the department were questioning Cameron Burr, Leah Smythe, a country-club couple in the middle of a North Atlantic cruise, and the Montessori School people, where the directress had changed
since Eliot had redone a bathroom there. The investigators hadn’t been able to find other clients of Eliot’s who still lived in Aspen Meadow. All those folks, according to neighbors, had had their houses finished by other remodelers, and moved away. Tom asked if I’d obtained a last name for Rustine. I replied in the negative.

  “They’re looking into Eliot’s social life,” Tom told us. “He prided himself on being a bachelor. Was frequently seen getting hammered at the Grizzly Saloon. I’ll call Boyd, see if any more evidence has turned up at Burr’s place. Maybe they’ve found the last two cookbooks, but they just haven’t told Sylvia Bevans. Maybe they won’t tell me either.”

  “Look at it this way,” I reasoned, “what if we found out Cameron didn’t kill Eliot? Which he didn’t, of course. It could help to clear you, since you didn’t want to arrest him for the murder in the first place.”

  Arch and Julian exchanged a look. Tom said, “Who’s we, woman? I’m suspended and you’ve got your hands full trying to hold your business together.”

  I helped myself to the last succulent shrimp. “It’s just not fair that Fuller gets to do a shoddy job, then blames you.”

  “You’re reaching, Goldy. Besides, it’s Fuller’s show now. If I go around asking lots of background questions, and it gets back to him, he’ll claim interference. It’ll work against the investigation into me.”

  “I bet that creep Litchfield who’s harassing Goldy had something to do with it,” Julian said defiantly. “Where was he the night Eliot was strangled? What if he knew about Eliot redoing Goldy’s kitchen and wanted to get rid of him, so Goldy’s kitchen stays a mess? Then, as a bonus, Goldy’s business falls flat because she hasn’t got a kitchen, Tom gets into trouble, and she has to sell out?”

  “Now you’re really reaching,” Tom murmured.

  “André did say someone had put pickles in his crab cakes,” I added, “and I found a hair in the food he served on Monday—a very unlikely mistake for him to make. Food sabotage is a long way from murder, though.”

  “Don’t go off on some investigative campaign, you two,” Tom warned Julian and me.

  “We’ll never even mention your name,” I vowed.

  “That is not reassuring,” Tom observed.

  Saturday I woke up disoriented, with a vague sense of dread. I stared at the clock. Seven o’clock. Downstairs, Tom was already sawing away on his mysterious project.

  The phone rang. One of Tom’s co-workers returning his calls about the evidence? No: I suddenly remembered where I was going at ten this morning. To the jail. With Arch. To visit The Jerk. Maybe this was The Jerk calling now, from the cell block pay phone.

  “Goldilocks’ Catering—” I began, but whoever it was hung up. I didn’t have caller ID. But at least I’d put a password on my computer.

  I stretched my way through my yoga routine and pulled on a skirt and blouse. Arch met me downstairs, already dressed for his jail visit in dark jeans and an oxford-cloth shirt. On the kitchen table, a large platter of golden homemade biscuits had been stacked on a china platter next to a bowl of what looked like strawberry jam. Next to these delicacies was a note from Julian.

  Gone to swim laps. New Southern biscuit recipe. Taste the strawberry conserve. Call the lifeguard at the rec if you need me today. J.

  Arch bit into a conserve-slathered biscuit. Mouth full, he mumbled, “All I know is, Julian sure works hard for a guy who’s dropped out of college.”

  “Yes, he does. He’s just … trying to prove himself, I think.” I sliced a biscuit and spooned on some conserve. The biscuit was light and flaky, the conserve tangy and filled with warm chunks of fresh strawberry. Heavenly. I fired up the espresso machine and told myself maybe this wouldn’t be too bad a day after all.

  “All right!” Tom announced himself heartily as he banged up from the basement. His arms were laden with wooden panels, rolls of paper, and two large paper bags. “Time for you to see what your new kitchen is going to look like.” While Arch and I gave him puzzled looks, he paused and bowed. “Mrs. Schulz, this suspended cop is pleased to announce a metamorphosis. Meet your new contractor: Tom Schulz, kitchen builder extraordinaire.”

  “What?” I exclaimed.

  “First,” Tom continued, undaunted by my bafflement, “cabinets. Voilà!” He placed a two-foot-by-one-foot cabinet door in front of the cans and glasses cluttering the counter. “You always told me you wanted solid cherry, Miss G. So here you go.”

  “What are you talking about?” I demanded.

  Tom sighed. “Just tell me if you like it.” I eyed the dark, smooth, cleanly detailed door. It was gorgeous.

  “I like it,” Arch volunteered.

  “Well, good.” Tom slapped sawdust off his hands. “While your mom’s deciding, take a look at this flooring.” He pulled several slats of wood from his mountain of supplies and pushed them together. “White oak. Select. It’ll lighten up the dark of the cherry.” His green eyes regarded me, begging for approval. “You like it?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said. A voice in the back of my brain screamed: This is madness. How in the world are we going to pay for this?

  “And now,” said Tom, with a Houdini flourish, “marble countertops.” He brought out a pale, gray-veined rectangle of stone. “Buddy of mine works for a granite fabricator,” he explained. “We were in the army together and I got the Saigon Special.” He placed the stone with its glints of silver next to the cherry cabinet door.

  “Tom—” I began.

  He straightened and put his arm around me. “Don’t say no. You’ve been wanting a new kitchen for a long time. You deserve one. Let me give it to you.”

  “No.”

  “And I took out a loan on my cabin.” He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Line of equity, actually. If I start the kitchen today, I should be done by the time they let me go back to work.”

  “Tom, I have three bookings in the next week. I have to have a place to cook. What you’re talking about is too expensive and too much hassle. Please. Don’t do it.”

  He kissed my cheek and gave me a wide grin. “Don’t worry, Miss G. I thought of your cooking needs already. I’m going to drape everything with plastic, set you up in the dining room, no sweat.”

  I sank into a kitchen chair. “Please, Tom, what you’re talking about is a remodeling, not a repair. I would have to close. If the county health inspector came by, which he could at any time night or day, I’d be dead.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve already taken out a building permit! If the county health inspector can’t be bothered to stop by, that’s his problem!” Tom said with mock huffiness. “Besides, I’ve ordered everything. You wouldn’t believe how fast some people will move for a cop. The only thing you need to pick out is a window treatment for your bay window and back windows.”

  “Tom! What back windows? For that matter, what bay window? Eliot was supposed to put one in. I paid for it but never got it.”

  “Tha-a-t’s why you’re married to somebody in law enforcement!” Tom said jovially. “Boyd has all Eliot’s paperwork. I may not know about his love life, but I know Eliot ordered your window from The Window Warehouse in north Denver. They’ve got your bay window sitting on their dock. Unpaid for, of course, but we didn’t really think Eliot was going to be that considerate, did we?”

  I tried one more time. “Please don’t do this—”

  Tom winked at me. I hadn’t seen him so happy since before his suspension four days ago. “You’ll love it, Miss G. Promise.”

  Not long after, Arch and I made our way to the jail. There, another shock awaited us: John Richard Korman had been in a fight. He walked into his side of the three-foot-by-three-foot concrete cubicle and seemed reluctant to face us through the pane of glass. Once I saw him, I knew why. His left eye was purple. There was an ugly cut on his forehead and a slash over his right cheek. His blond hair, always expensively cared for, had been ruthlessly shorn by the prison barber. The orange jumpsuit emphasized the fact that he had lost most
of his tan, even though he’d only been incarcerated two weeks. John Richard Korman had always been a handsome guy, but it was clear jail did not agree with him.

  “Gosh, Dad, what happened to you?” Arch spoke into the telephone, trying hard not to sound worried and stunned.

  “Guy wanted to know why his head hurt all the time.” John Richard’s voice spiraled loudly out of the phone. He gave me a sour look. “I told him an empty brain echoes. He punched me.”

  Arch murmured that that was too bad, then launched into his recitation of all the things that had happened to him since the last jail visit. I had asked him not to tell John Richard about Tom’s suspension. So, Arch’s news covered the fray resulting from Jake leaping on Craig Litchfield. Predictably, John Richard interrupted him.

  “Your bloodhound attacked somebody?” John Richard’s voice crackled. “You could get us sued!”

  “But, Dad—”

  “I can’t afford to be sued,” he announced. “Put your mother on.”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” I said as I took the phone. “How does Arch’s tuition get paid? It’s due now.”

  “Ask Leland.” His tone was curt, dismissive.

  “Leland? Leland who? What happened to your accountant?”

  “Hugh Leland’s my all-purpose guy now. Lawyer, accountant, the works. He’s in the phone book. Need money? Have a heart-to-heart with Leland.” He smirked.

  Needless to say, John Richard had not jumped right in with an offer to authorize payment for Arch’s tuition, which a judge had ordered him to pay in full. In the interest of keeping the peace on what was only our third jail visit, I nodded. But I made a mental note to call my own attorney, if the money was not forthcoming. I tried not to think of what my attorney might charge to pull the tuition out of The Jerk. That’s the price for alienation in our day: You have to compensate other people to fight for you.