Prime Cut

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “What are you making?” I asked Julian.

  Snappily dressed in black with a white apron, his hair still damp from his shower, Julian gave me a quick grin, then went back to stirring. “Forget the soup. I’m heating the hors d’oeuvre from the wedding reception we’re not doing. And a crab dip.” His dark eyebrows knit as he cocked his head and studied my face. “What’s wrong? Andre’s memorial service got you down?”

  “Yeah, a bit. Plus, the last day of a job, you always feel kind of sad.” Especially when you don’t know who’s dumping garbage in your food, how your teacher met his death, or why one of your clients was almost squashed by a falling flat.

  Julian, less obsessed with crime and criminals, turned his attention back to the hot dip. “Just think of the check you’re going to get at the end. That’s what I always do. Our boxes are packed, by the way. As soon as the first batch of appetizers is done, I’ll cool it down and we can go.” I slugged down the espresso, picked up the first box, and felt my shoulders and back strain from the weight. What had Julian said? Think of the check. Sure. If I was not mistaken, thinking about the money had produced a great deal too much illicit activity in the last month.

  Sergeant Boyd was waiting for us at the library, steel thermos in hand. He had circles under his eyes. His feet hurt, he said. The sergeant’s mood was not as jovial as it had been two days before. Most people think catering is just cooking, but it’s not. The stresses of organizing, preparing, serving, dealing with people, and cleaning up either energizes or utterly exhausts you. Julian and I relished it; Boyd, the volunteer, was in culinary hell. When I asked if the crime lab folks had been able to find anything in the platters of food, he only muttered that they had not gotten to them yet.

  “Which brings me to my current plan of action,” I announced. I told Julian and Boyd that whoever was putting stuff into the food had always done it as soon as my back was turned. So, what if I wasn’t the server of, say, the cottage cheese? One of them could bring out the platter and put it on the counter by the window. I’d be stationed on the deck, almost out of sight. The server would then go back to the kitchen, our saboteur would make his move, and I’d see the whole thing. “And you’ll be there to arrest ‘em,” I told Boyd triumphantly. “How convenient.”

  “You gonna have a camera or something, catch this perp in a way that’ll make it possible to prosecute?” he asked skeptically.

  “Maybe Ian will loan me his Polaroid.” I pulled the van through the open gate to the cabin. The damp, gold-tinged aspens clicked in the chilly breeze. Soon this road would be closed to traffic and open only to elk. I gunned the van through. Of course, that wouldn’t be true once the paint-pellet people took over the property: They shoot at each other in all kinds of weather, elk be damned. We expertly unloaded our boxes in the parking area. As we headed down the trail to the cabin, the sun emerged from behind the clouds and shone brightly on the rock I’d noticed the very first morning I’d come here to work with André: the one that looked like an elephant. Tom was probably on the phone with the department, proposing a time to bring in a crew to dig. I wondered how that was going down with Andy Fuller. I forced myself to take my mind off the treasure by contemplating pitching a catering job to the paint-pellet guys. Pellet pipéradé? Probably not.

  Even though it was not quite seven, the final day’s photo session was already in full swing. Out on the cabin deck with the assembled crew, Ian Hood seemed to be in a particularly good mood, calling good-natured orders—Come on, baby. That’s it. That’s the way—to a nightgown-and-slipper-clad Rustine. She was smiling coyly and moving this way and that on a bed made up of robin’s-egg blue linens.

  Even without Leah, the workers seemed to know exactly what to do as they hovered nearby. A new hairdresser and stylist I didn’t recognize moved in and out swiftly between shots, expertly fluffing Rustine’s hair with a tiny comb, checking the gold anklet that shimmered just above the heel she’d daintily exposed on the bed’s coverlet. I recognized the makeup man from earlier in the week: from time to time he darted forward to dust Rustine’s nose. On the occasional gruff order from Ian, Rufus adjusted the scrim. Hanna, black-clad as usual, like a fashionable cat burglar, scowled at everyone and tapped her foot. Behind Ian, Bobby Whitaker crossed his arms over his slight paunch and pretended to look bored. He had mentioned modeling today, but he certainly didn’t look any thinner than the last time I’d seen him.

  “Damn, that model looked cold out there,” Boyd muttered as he opened the kitchen door for us. “Wouldn’t catch me out on a deck in my pj’s first thing in the morning. ’Cept if an elk was across the creek and I could get a clean shot.”

  “Shh!” Julian and I warned in unison. Even though the elk-lovers were all outside working the shoot, you couldn’t be too carefull. And we had work to do. The last thing I’d done after our code-breaking session was to put thick slices of French bread into the refrigerator, to soak overnight in a decadent combination of eggs beaten with cream and Cointreau. Now these sputtered on the hot, oiled griddle. When the fragrant, drenched slices formed a deep golden crust on one side, I flipped them. I checked my watch: The coffee break was scheduled to start in twenty-five minutes. We heated the oven, ran water for coffee and tea, and poured sugar and cream into a china bowl and pitcher. I slid a platter of the French toast into the oven While Julian began unmolding the cottage cheese rings and Sergeant Boyd brought out the coffee cake, fruit skewers, and silver platters.

  “Ten minutes,” I told them, and zipped out the kitchen door.

  Someone had built a fire in the cabin’s old fireplace, probably for the afternoon shots. I didn’t know if this meant they wouldn’t be dropping in the flames by computer, but I’d leave that to them. The great room seemed unusually cheery, good for the break. I nipped out to the deck, where a damp breeze sent a chill down my arms. Rustine eased off the blue sheets and raised her eyebrows questioningly at me. I ignored her.

  “Ian.” I caught up with him as he was conferring with Rufus about the next shot. “How’s Leah? Have you visited her?”

  He thoughtfully brushed his salt-and-pepper moustache with his finger. “I went down to the hospital last night. She broke a couple ribs when she fell. She’s having some trouble breathing.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Bobby Whitaker impatiently crossing and recrossing his arms. I said, “I’m glad she’s okay.”

  “Ian?” pressed Bobby. Ian gave me an indulgent, anything else? look.

  I cleared my throat. “I won’t keep you. But could I borrow your Polaroid for a few minutes? Just during the coffee break.”

  He tilted his head in suspicion. “Why?”

  “Oh, well …” Ian couldn’t be the one sabotaging my food, could he? From all accounts, he ran a faltering photography studio, but he was the ambitious leader of a successful charity. He’d been unsympathetic to my pleas of unfair competition regarding the Soirée. Was there any way he could be in cahoots with Craig Litchfield? I gave Ian a soothing look, but his black eyes yielded nothing. Basically, I don’t trust anyone, Tom was fond of saying. “I want to take a picture of my food through the window, that’s all.” I shrugged, as if I were just a kooky caterer looking for an angle. Which, of course, I was.

  “Sure. Get it from Rufus.” Ian’s words trailed over his shoulder like smoke.

  Balanced halfway up a stepladder, Rufus was adjusting a scrim for the next shot. He listened to my request, frowned, then gestured to the equipment sacks on the far side of the deck. “In one of Ian’s bags. If you can find it, you can use it.”

  I rummaged through collapsible stands, lenses, rolls of film, and every kind of focus before my hands finally closed around the Polaroid. I nonchalantly picked it up, frowned at it as if it were a missing piece of cooking equipment, and walked purposefully back to the kitchen. Once there, I explained to Julian and Boyd exactly how I wanted to proceed. They nodded, picked up the first fruited cottage cheese ring and hot water for the French toast chafer, an
d banged out the kitchen door—right into Yvonne, who shrieked and crumpled to the floor.

  “Oh, gosh, we’re sorry,” Julian mumbled. Luckily, no food had spilled. Boyd, who had not yet learned that no matter who causes the problem, the caterer always apologizes, shot Yvonne an irritated glance.

  She ran her fingers through her blond hair and hollered up at him, “What’re you looking at, barrel-man?”

  I hustled to her side and helped her to her feet. Muttering irritably, she brushed dust off her clothes: white mohair jacket, white pants, white leather boots. “I’m really sorry,” I told her. “They should take that door off the kitchen entrance.”

  She fluffed her hair. “Don’t worry about it. Do you like the outfit? Think anyone will notice the dust?”

  “I love it,” I lied smoothly. “It looks perfect.”

  While Boyd and Julian put the French toast and condiments on the buffet, I circled the folks on the deck to tell Hanna we were ready. She rocked on her small heels and nodded impassively. When Ian announced that the roll of film was done, Hanna efficiently signaled the break. I snagged the Polaroid from the kitchen and scutled outside.

  Through the window, I could see the line forming for coffee. I strode to the far side of the last window, pretended to be looking out at the creek, and smiled at Rufus as he climbed down the ladder and headed for the food. Then I waited.

  Hanna, Ian, the day-contractors, Rustine vamping Bobby: All these folks came through the line. Ian and the stylist had two pieces of French toast. Rustine had only cottage cheese. Rufus must not have eaten breakfast; he piled his plate high. Behind him stood Yvonne, who reached into the pocket of the mohair jacket, pulled out a jar, and held it close to her as she unscrewed the lid. My heart thumped; I raised the camera. Yvonne dumped the jar’s contents into the cottage cheese. I pressed the yellow button. The Polaroid flashed and spit out the picture. Yvonne looked up, glared, and hurried away from the line. But I had her.

  “Arrest Yvonne.” My breathless order to Boyd took him by surprise. “I’ve got it, it’s in the picture, she endangered the food supply at a public function.”

  Boyd peered at the image slowly clarifying out of the murky film. “Yup.” Laconic guy. But efficient. He had handcuffs in the pocket of his apron. When he swung the door open to the kitchen, Yvonne was scampering out the front door. Boyd rushed forward and grabbed her by a white mohaired wrist. “You have the right to remain silent,” he began tersely. Yvonne slithered up and down, her back to the front door, her eyes wide with fear. “If you don’t hold still,” Boyd warned, “I’m not going to be able to tell you the rest. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning….”

  Time to tell Ian and Hanna what was going on. They were conversing intently, heads together. Rufus and the day-contractors, their mouths agape, watched Boyd cuff Yvonne and talk to her in low tones. Bobby, still appearing impatient, appeared to take no notice.

  “There’s been a bit of a problem,” I began, then proceeded to tell Ian and Hanna what I had captured on film.

  “That fat caterer is really a cop?” exclaimed Ian, as if I’d just informed him that his elk were all migrating to Mexico. He looked at me incredulously. “That’s why he had a mobile? I thought he got Leah’s ambulance here so quickly because you guys had to be on the lookout for food poisoning!”

  When I shrugged, Hanna grabbed my apron bib. “I have to have the mohair outfit and the boots. He can take her to the penitentiary if he wants, but I need her clothes. It’s a twenty-thousand-dollar loss if I have to go over a day. Please, Goldy. Please. I’m begging you.”

  The things we do for clients. I headed back to Boyd and conveyed Hanna’s request. Yvonne was crumpled against the door, whimpering. I resisted the urge to slap her face.

  Boyd held up the jar. “Salt, she says. But we gotta have it analyzed anyway. She admitted some guy named Litchfield is paying her. She wants to stay and finish modeling for the day. I told her no way, and I’ve called for transport. Department has a unit in Blue Spruce, they’ll be here in about ten minutes.” When I conveyed Hanna’s plea for the garments, he shook his head. “I can’t risk losing her if she changes. She’s gotta wear those clothes. Sorry.”

  Hanna’s shoulders slumped when I told her. “Get Rustine into the Go-Gear Ski outfit,” she snapped at the stylist. To me, she snarled, “Clean up the food and then go see if you can help Rustine. And lunch will have to be at two. We must complete this catalog today.” Hey, I wanted to shout, your model sabotaged my food! This is not my fault!

  The harried powwow that followed centered on whether the orange ski outfit would work with Rustine’s hair, and whether or not they should move the shot inside. Two uniformed policemen appeared as Julian and I were clearing the buffet; they took the plate with the cottage cheese ring into evidence. I felt a great weight lift off my shoulders as Boyd left with Yvonne and the officers.

  I scooped up the last French toast platter and started back toward the kitchen. Julian appeared and asked if I thought the clients would be wanting more coffee. I looked around. Across the cabin, Hanna and the day-workers were squabbling over photographs in the loose-leaf notebook. Rufus and Ian were arguing about the equipment. Bobby caught my eye and waved madly.

  “Hey, I get it!” he cried. “That first day you were watching me undress, you weren’t interested in my bod! Were you, Goldy? You’re like, undercover, right? Is that why you were over at that old guy’s house right after he died? Snooping around? Trying to find out what happened? Cool!”

  To Julian, I muttered that we didn’t need more coffee. I gripped the platter and wondered, for at least the tenth time since I’d come on this shoot, What is the deal with Bobby? No wonder Leah felt her twenty-four-year-old half-brother wouldn’t be able to survive on his own—his immaturity seemed to guarantee long-term failure.

  Bobby crowed, “So, Miss Caterer Lady, didja find anything at Andre’s place?”

  I stacked cups on the platter and realized I should be making some snappy comment. Or maybe I should have put down my load and held up my hands as in Who? Me? But I was embarrassed and suddenly insecure at the silence and the fact that everyone in the front room was staring openly at me. Could they guess how close Bobby had unwittingly come with his stupid questions? Could they imagine I’d ransacked a dead man’s condo until I found his salamander and crowbar?

  “Would you bring me some coffee?” Rustine simpered as she floated past me toward the dressing room. “With nonfat nondairy?”

  “I’d like some, too,” Hanna announced imperiously as she marched along behind Rustine. “Black. We’ll be in the hair and makeup room.”

  “Sure,” I replied, glad to have a reason to scoot back to the kitchen. Luckily, Julian had made an extra pot of coffee. “I need to get out of here,” I told him. “And I’m glad you’re here, because I am sick to death of these people.”

  “No kidding. It’s almost over, right? Three more hours, and we’ll be done with this place for good.” He slid a tray of miniature quiches—formerly for the Hardcastle reception—into the oven. “And, maybe it’ll rain in the next three hours, too.” He closed the oven door and waved his hands, as if conjuring up a vision. “Picture all the wedding-reception guests at the Hardcastles’ place getting soaking wet as they chomp into soggy cheese puffs. I’ll bet you a thousand bucks Craig Litchfield’s hors d’oeuvre can’t touch ours.”

  I grinned, poured the fragrant coffee into a large silver pitcher, clamped the top down, and put it along with nonfat creamer, artificial sweetener, and cups on a tray. But Hanna barred me from entering the door to the hair and makeup room. Inside, Rustine and the hair fellow were shrieking at one another about how Rustine’s French twist should be held in place.

  “Not yet with the coffee,” Hanna snarled. “Go get us the barrette stand, would you? Do you know what it looks like, and where it is, in the storage room?” When I nodded, she said, “Then go get it so we can deal with this crisis.”

 
Crisis? I hoisted the coffee tray, walked to the storage room, and kicked the door open with my foot. Was there anything having to do with a hairdo that could truly constitute a crisis! Sheesh!

  I glanced around the room for barrettes. Along the back wall, by an old pole-mounted strobe and Gerald’s broken compressor, a tilted card table was piled with racks of bracelets, necklaces, and earrings. I crossed to it, banged down the coffee tray, and was so intent on pawing through the racks looking for barrettes that I barely heard the storage room door quietly click shut.

  “How close were you to old André?” Ian Hood asked as he started across the room. “Did he tell you something about this cabin that you felt you had to tell the police? Is that why you brought them here?”

  “I—”

  But he was already too close. He grabbed for my shoulder; instinctively, I jerked backward. His dark, dark eyes bored into mine. His fingers clamped my arm. He knows, I thought. He’s the one.

  “Who else knows?” he demanded.

  I scarcely heard him. He had me pushed against a rack of dresses lining the wall and his fingers had closed around my neck. Black spots formed in front of my eyes.

  The burns are deep, instantaneous, Andre’s voice came from some distant part of my brain. They are like molten lava….

  I kicked at Ian frantically. Too late, I thought as I tried to scream. Julian was busy with the food. Boyd was gone. Everyone else was staking a claim to hair, makeup, or ego. It will be over by the time anyone misses me. Ian’s hands tightened. Visions of Arch, of Tom, flashed and vanished. I stretched my arms behind me, groping for anything. I couldn’t get my breath. We struggled and fell away from the dresses; he lost his hold on my neck. My hands clawed futilely at the wall: I couldn’t breathe. Where was the cord to the strobe light? Could I blind Ian if I plugged it in? My fingers closed around the cord. Ian lunged for me, hands outstretched. He tripped over something as I groped along the wall for the outlet. A piece of metal skittered across the floor. Ian righted himself and lurched toward me. I pushed in the plug as I wrenched away from him.