Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

“I’m not really prepared to—”

“You’re never prepared,” he quipped back. “I’ll be there in five minutes.” The line went dead.

I sighed and hung up. “Well, gang, Litchfield’s coming over.”

“Ooh, fireworks, fireworks,” trilled Marla.

Julian banged the dishwasher door shut. He regarded me warily. As a new but unpaid hireling, he did not want to appear nosy. His voice was sharp. “I’ll just do some food prep.” With that, he started unpacking gleaming red tomatoes from one of his crates.

“You brought vegetables?” I asked.

“Bought them at a farmer’s stand in eastern Colorado.” He placed a bunch of leeks next to the tomatoes. “I didn’t know whether you’d take me back or not. But if you did, I wanted to fix dinner for everybody. There’s plenty for you, too, Marla.”

Marla checked her wrist, then frowned: no watch. She glanced at my clock. “The IRS hit men said they’d be back at two, so I can only stay a bit longer. Thanks for the invitation, though. If my confrontation with the bureaucratic bottom-feeders ends before next week, which they warned me it wouldn’t, I’ll take you up on it.” She reached out to squeeze his hand. “It’s good to see you, Julian,” she said warmly. Julian grinned and worked zealously on the vegetables. I poured Marla more iced coffee.

Once the tomatoes and leeks were stacked in glistening heaps, Julian filled the sink with shiny scallions, nugget-sized new potatoes, slender green beans, stalks of asparagus, and fragrant bunches of basil, dill, and rosemary with soil still clinging to the roots.

“So tell me how this Litchfield guy got your files.” His voice had an edge. Water gushed into the sink as he began to scrub the rest of the vegetables.

“I honestly don’t know,” I replied.

“After all that security stuff you went through with The Jerk, you’re saying you have no idea how he broke in?” he demanded. “What else has he done?”

Marla took a sip of iced coffee and advised, “Remember, Goldy, twenty-year-olds think the world can be fixed.”

I took a deep breath. “Litchfield tried to steal one of my suppliers and one of André Hibbard’s. Remember my old teacher?” Julian nodded. “He’s moved to a retirement community in Blue Spruce. I’ll be competing against both André and Litchfield next week, for the Soirée booking. Anyway, Litchfield offered higher prices to our suppliers, and guaranteed orders, if he could be the suppliers’ sole client in Aspen Meadow.”

Julian muttered, “Some people.”

“All of Goldy’s energy has gone into fighting this guy,” Marla interjected. “And that’s why she’s so on edge and why she clobbered the assistant district attorney. At least that’s my theory—”

Before she could elaborate, however, a howl erupted from outdoors. Jake. The dog brayed again.

“Maybe Arch is home,” I said hopefully. We all listened, puzzled. But this barking was not the usual glad-to-see-you woofing. I headed for the front door. Had I locked the gate? Arch would scold me if I’d forgotten it.

“Sounds as if he’s in the street,” Marla called. Cursing under my breath, I stepped onto the front porch in time to see Jake tackle Craig Litchfield.

“Jake!” I cried. “Stop! Get down!”

With his massive paws planted on Craig Litchfield’s chest, Jake turned and gave me mournful eyes. Mud splotched Litchfield’s coal-black shirt. His face was spattered with mud, too, and what wasn’t was purple with rage. In the moment I called to Jake, Litchfield smacked the hound hard across the jaw. Squealing, Jake rolled across the lawn.

“Oh, Lord.” I ran down the porch steps and across the grass toward our poor dog.

“Stop, stop!” I shoved Litchfield away and dropped to my knees beside Jake. Marla and Julian appeared on the porch and started yelling at Litchfield to back off. “There, there, boy,” I murmured. I cradled his head in my lap. Jake whimpered and licked my hand. A thin stripe of blood oozed out of his nose. He shivered with fear. “What do you want?” I demanded of Litchfield. “Why did you do that?” I could hear the shrillness in my voice.

With studied nonchalance, Litchfield tugged a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his dirty shirt. With his matching black pants and slicked hair, he looked like a toreador. He shook out a cigarette and flashed a silver lighter out of a pants pocket. He lit the cig, inhaled deeply, and regarded my house like a reluctant buyer. Jake showed his teeth and growled, the last vestige of his police training.

Litchfield blew out a stream of smoke. “That animal is bad news,” he announced contemptuously. He lifted his chin, picked at a strand of tobacco on his lower lip, then spit it onto my lawn. “You know, there’s a leash law in Furman County.”

I stroked Jake’s silky ears. “The dog was on our property, so he was perfectly legal.” When Jake wriggled in my arms, I pushed his rump down and spoke to him under my breath. He’d always had trouble holding a command to stay. I needed Jake to sit close by me until this visitation from the enemy was over. I didn’t trust myself not to do more damage to Litchfield than I had to Andy Fuller. “What do you want?” I repeated coldly. “Tell me and then go. Better yet, go. Write me a letter.”

“Yeah, write a letter, you creep!” Marla was glaring.

Litchfield blew smoke at her while appraising the gray housedress and pink thongs. “Who’re you? A caterer’s helper? Or the maid?” He took another drag on the cigarette. “You can go back to your dusting now.”

Marla Korman, the richest woman in Aspen Meadow, head of the committee for the Merciful Migrations September Soiree, laughed in delight. “Hey, baby!” she called back in an uncanny imitation of Litchfield’s condescending tone. “How ‘bout I start by cleaning your clock?”

Litchfield muttered, “Bitch.” He tilted his head and raised a dark eyebrow at Julian, who had stalked down to the sidewalk. He stood beside me, his lean body tensed and ready to strike. Amused, Litchfield grinned. “And who might you be? Another caterer’s helper?”

“I am Julian Teller.” Julian bit each word. “I’m telling you so that when I kick your ass, you’ll know it’s me.”

Litchfield chuckled. “Aha! First a threat from the domestic help, then one from the great Julian Teller! The brilliant young vegetarian chef who used to work for Mrs. Schulz. The power behind the throne, you might say.” Jake let out a low growl. Litchfield blew out smoke and contemplated Julian. “I heard you were off in college somewhere. Want to come work for a real caterer? At twice your current salary?”

Julian’s voice knifed the soft summer air. “You are so dead . You don’t even realize it.”

“What do you want , Litchfield?” I demanded for the third time. I gripped Jake’s collar.

Litchfield screwed his handsome baby face into a sourpuss. “Well, now,” he said. He held his cigarette at his side and bent forward. “I heard about your troubles . I’ve come to offer you cash . For your business. Your suppliers, booking schedule. Recipes, not that those are worth anything. Two-year no-compete agreement.” He studied the glowing tip of his cigarette. “Fifty thousand dollars.” He smiled. “Take it or leave it.”

I was nonplussed. It was like the devil offering cake to a starving person. Still restraining Jake by the collar, I wiped the blood off the dog’s nose with my free hand and tried to steady my breath.

“Go away,” I said quietly to Litchfield. “And don’t ever, ever come back. For any reason.”

Craig Litchfield flicked his cigarette butt into Tom’s roses. An arc of smoke hung briefly in the air as he thrust his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels, and considered us.