Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

“Yes? What is it?” Chef Happy sounded even more brusque than usual.

I told André about discovering Gerald Eliot’s body at the Burrs’. I also told him about Tom’s suspension. In order to avoid digressing, I left out the details. But André clucked that the Ian’s Images people had already had a fit when the police canceled the shoot at the Burrs’ house. I told him I was desperate for work. If he could bridge me in to work part-time on the shoot, I promised to take only two dollars over minimum wage.

“Goldy! You worry how the models demean themselves, and then you do it to yourself,” my old friend chided. “Yes, come on Friday.” He tsk ed. “They have agreed to pay me double for that day. Which I am happy to take, since the cost of living in the mountains is so exorbitant.”

“Double? For what?”

“The shoot has many problems. I have had much overtime. Ian Hood broke his lens. He already destroyed one of his cameras, but does he care? No. The police are at the Burrs’ house. So the studio will move up the shooting at their third location, the place Hanna secured for them, the living room at the Homestead Museum. They will do the children’s clothes there on Friday—if the police are through there . Leah will rent a Santa Claus and the children will sit in his lap. But will the little ones eat what we prepare? Who knows?” He exhaled in disgust. “The models complain the meals are too fattening. Rufus Driggle, the handyman? He likes the blond one, Yvonne. But Yvonne does not like Rufus. Someone put pickles on my crab cakes. But they always want my food. They are pigs.”

For Friday, I penciled in Cater at H. museum on my calendar. Might give me a chance to snoop a little bit, see if Gerald Eliot had indeed met his untimely end there. “When should I show up?”

“Coffee break, nine o’clock? This kitchen is approved for commercial use, thank the good Lord. Yogurt, fruit, and we will make a sweet.”

I hung up and out of habit called Marla. I checked the cobbler—strictly taboo for her, as she’d barely survived a heart attack the previous summer—and listened to her husky-voiced message: “I’m out being persecuted by the federal government. Leave a message, unless you think they’ll trace this call and make your life a living hell, too.”

Ah, yes. Starting this week, Marla was being audited by the IRS for last year’s taxes. She had promised to stop by to fill me in on all the odious details.

My business line rang. I sent a quick appeal to the Almighty for a new client.

“Goldy, it’s Sheila O’Connor.” My heart froze: the coroner. Where were Tom and Arch? “Don’t worry,” she said, immediately sensing my concern. “I have a job for you, if you’re interested. Lunch this Monday.”

“What?”

Sheila’s laugh was earthy and much-practiced. Working with Sheila, Tom had always told me, you developed a sense of humor or you died. Coroner joke. “I’m serious,” she went on. “Monday is always the worst day at the morgue. You’ve got work from the weekend, unidentified bodies piling up, it’s a mess.”

“Ah,” I said, sympathetic. “I see.” Not that I really wanted to.

“I’ve been wanting to treat the staff.” Was she trying a bit too hard to sound cheerful? Her words came out in a rush. “So I was wondering if you’d like to cater a lunch for us? Monday? Here at the morgue?”

Tom had always had enormous respect for Sheila O’Connor. Now I did, too, as she wanted to give me work. She must know about Tom’s suspension without pay. “Sure,” I said, “I’d love to.”

“About fifteen dollars a person sound good? We have a soft drink machine, so it could be sandwiches, burritos, whatever you want. Plus dessert. The six of us usually eat around noon.”

“Sounds perfect. Listen, Sheila, what’s going on with Andy Fuller?”

“Fuller’s a problem,” she replied tersely. “He doesn’t know how to build a real case. Yesterday was a perfect example.”

“But … will he get Cameron Burr convicted?”

She snorted. “Unlikely.” She hesitated. Then she added, “I’m sorry about Tom,” and hung up.

So was I. I amended my calendar for Monday, August twenty-fifth. Lunch for Six, Furman County Morgue . A catered coffee break at the site of a murder and a lunch at the morgue. Things were looking up.

Chapter 6

The doorbell rang. Through the peephole Marla Korman’s lovely, wide face grimaced grotesquely at me. I swung open the heavy door, then stared.

For the start of the IRS audit, Marla had apparently decided on a poverty-stricken look. Ordinarily, twinkling barrettes would have held her brown curls in place. Now her hair resembled an ostrich-feather duster. Not a dab of makeup covered her creamy complexion. Instead of the usual rhinestone-studded designer sweatsuit and sprinkling of precious-gem jewelry, she wore a drab gray housedress. The huge dress featured gleaming white buttons, an uneven midcalf hem, and a tear along the shoulder seam. She’d shunned her handmade Italian shoes and stuck her wide feet with their perfectly manicured toenails into hot-pink plastic thongs. Her bright eyes regarded me merrily.

“Marla—” I began.

She gestured for me to stop with empty-of-sapphires fingers. A telltale white line striped her tanned right forearm: no Rolex. I sniffed appraisingly and realized she wasn’t wearing any deodorant.

She said, “So you didn’t like the prosecutor.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m starving and I want to hear all about it. I’m telling you, Goldy, I dated Andy Fuller. I didn’t even jump on him.”

“I appreciate your sharing that, Marla. So, how are the IRS guys?”

“Sons of bitches, they went to a Denver steakhouse. Made a point of telling me about an expensive five-star restaurant on the way, where they could drop me off. I thought the IRS only audited poor people.” She swept down our hallway, headed for the kitchen. “They never did mention what a good person I was, doing fund-raising in my spare time.”

“I don’t think they care about charity work,” I said as I followed her. “Especially since you didn’t join the committees until you got the audit notice.”

She snorted self-righteously. “Well, guess what? From the moment I left their office my cellular has been ringing. Seems the whole town knows about your mauling Fuller.”

I refused to be drawn in. “Did you drive the Mercedes over here?”

She flopped into a chair. “Yes, but the IRS henchmen didn’t see it.” She gave me a rueful look. “Word is that Tom’s not going to be paid for a while. With Litchfield on the prowl, I tried to hustle up more assignments for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she said matter-of-factly. “How’s your cash situation?”

“Not great.”

She stood up and pulled me in for a smelly hug. “The bastards have frozen my accounts. I had my aunt overnight me some cash, and I keep it in a shoe box under my bed. That’s how I’ll pay Julian’s first tuition bills. I’ll get a money order, I guess. Goldy, if things get bad, you need to swallow your pride and take some money from me.”

Not in this lifetime . But I murmured another thanks and poured her a glass of sparkling water. She flipped on the oven light and ooh-oohe d over the baking cobbler.

I said, “It’ll be ready in twenty minutes. But it’s not for coronary patients.”

She fluffed out the gray housedress and sat back down. “Speaking of coronary patients, how’s André doing?”

“Not very well. Lots of thin, temperamental people to cater to,” I observed as I scanned the Ours section of my walk-in refrigerator for low-fat lunch ingredients.