Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

On Wednesday and Thursday we waited for Tom’s fellow officers to update us on the Eliot case. No information—not even the results of the autopsy—was forthcoming. Since Eliot’s murder was a capital case, Cameron Burr was formally denied bail. One call from the police captain’s secretary yielded the information that Tom’s suspension was being written up for formal review. The Mountain Journal speculated endlessly about the homicide. The headline Local Cop Suspended Pending Probe made me flinch.

For my part, I spent the two days drinking coffee, agonizing with Julian over the Soiree, testing menus, and making phone calls. At the Furman County Jail, Cameron either didn’t get my messages or ignored them. Lutheran Hospital still insisted Barbara couldn’t talk. I also tried—in vain—to hatch more jobs.

When Julian was off at the grocery store on one of our experimentation days—I felt slightly guilty to have such a willing helper—I decided to follow his suggestion and try an autumn-type dish for the Soiree. While I was peeling a Granny Smith apple, Kathleen Druckman—Todd’s mother—called to ask about the prospect of Arch and Todd joining a cotillion. While I was chopping the apple, Arch came into the kitchen; I ran the idea by him and he said to forget it. Defeated, I wondered what the mother of a fourteen-year-old was supposed to do. Then again, I remembered as I melted butter and mixed the chopped apples with moist, crumbly brown sugar, I’d sworn off involvement in Arch’s social life.

I sifted flour with cinnamon, nutmeg, and allspice—and recalled the beginning of the previous February, when, for the second year in a row, Arch had been approached by a female classmate and asked if he wanted to be her boyfriend. Since it was not the same girl as the preceding year, I’d kept my mouth shut as Arch had again ecstatically said, Sure! He’d love to be her boyfriend! Last year, he’d begged Julian to make a heart-shaped chocolate cake with the girl’s name and his written in frosting, which he’d given to the girl. This year, he’d enthusiastically spent his money earned from chores on a Valentine’s Day basket for the new love. On February fourteenth, he’d floated off to school, bearing his load of chocolates and stuffed animals, and made his offering. By February twentieth—both years—he’d been told that he was boring and the relationship was over.

I stirred the dry ingredients and an egg into the mixture, then slid the whole thing in the oven. When the fragrant scent of autumn spices rolled through the kitchen thirty minutes later, I took the pan out and set it aside to cool. Then I reluctantly called Kathleen Druckman back and said, no cotillion. Thanks anyway. I didn’t know whether Arch was unusual in receiving the cruelty of prepubescent females, or whether all the boys suffered from the same gullibility. Whatever had been the reason for the Valentine’s Day fiascoes, Arch needed to build up his armor in the gender wars.

Each day, Tom disappeared to the hardware store. He always returned home with bulging paper bags and a secretive, satisfied look. I didn’t know what he was up to as he banged away in the basement, and I didn’t dare ask. As I felt the reverberations through the kitchen floor, I decided the hammering must be Tom’s therapy, like the pro football player I’d seen on TV. With great glee, the athlete had said the NFL was the only place you could beat the daylights out of somebody and not go to jail. And he didn’t use the word daylights .

Arch followed Julian around like a shadow. As for Julian, he still heaped four teaspoons of sugar into his morning espresso and bounced culinary ideas around until he came up with something he wanted to try. And he cooked. We had ground shrimp poached with herbs and encased in brioche, the savory cheesecake I’d made for André, crisp-fried crab cakes paired with tangy coleslaw, and grilled fish tacos on homemade tortillas with papaya salsa. Meals were heaven, and a welcome break from the worry over unreturned calls to Cameron Burr, the lack of information about Barbara, and our general lack of employment.

Each evening, Tom and Julian and Arch and I would sit out on our deck and indulge in desserts that ranged from peach pie to bread pudding. We would eat, that is, until Julian’s worry about whether he was being helpful enough burst forth in a slew of questions: Had we developed enough recipes for the Soirée tasting party? Would he be allowed to help me at future catered events? I invariably replied in the affirmative. I’d always told my Sunday School class to love unconditionally. The only problem arose when you were dealing with somebody who felt he had to earn your love. No matter how many times we showed Julian that we loved and accepted him, he was always looking around wildly and pleading, Let me do more .

At seven-thirty Friday morning, while Tom and Arch were still asleep, Julian and I were just beginning to look over our offerings for Andre’s coffee break when the call came.

“This is Rufus Driggle,” the husky voice identified himself. “I’m over here at the Homestead.” He paused. Then he said, “I think you better come over and help old Mr. André.”

My skin rippled with gooseflesh. “What’s wrong?”

Rufus exhaled. The receiver clunked and I could just make out some angry whispers.

“Hello?” I demanded.

“This is Ian Hood. André says he’s fine. He gave us your number. But the old guy grabbed his chest when he was putting out the coffee cups.” Ian sighed with impatience. “I think he’s got a bit of pain down his left arm, he’s sweating, and every time I come out to the kitchen, he’s sitting down like he’s exhausted.”

“Did you call nine-one-one?” I demanded.

“They’re on their way.”

“So are we.”

I gripped the dashboard as Julian rocked his Range Rover, inherited from former employers, to the Homestead. Stay calm , I ordered myself. André might need you. We could get there before the ambulance . I had taken a course in cardiopulmonary resuscitation after Marla had her heart attack. When I’d unexpectedly come on the dead body of my ex-husband’s girlfriend earlier in the summer, though, the emergency operator had asked if I knew CPR, and I’d mumbled a negative. Crises will do that: make you forget what you know.

We drew up to the Homestead service entrance. A two-story log octagon with timbered additions and a peaked roof, the former ranch owner’s residence-turned-museum always reminded me of one of Arch’s Lincoln Log constructions. As I vaulted out of the Rover, two paramedics trudged out the back door. I confronted one of them: a tall, chunky bald man with a ruddy complexion and a large nose.

“How is he? What happened?”

“He’s fine,” the man reassured me. “Mr. Hibbard had a little indigestion. He checks out completely.”

“What do you mean he checks out?” I echoed, dumbfounded. “Did he take some of his nitroglycerin? How come you’re not taking him down to the hospital?”

“He didn’t take the nitro because his doctor’s told him he’s sensitive to it. Mr. Hibbard was very angry with us, and insisted he’s been told not to take a pill unless he’s sure he’s having an attack, which he wasn’t . And we’re not transporting him anywhere because he’s not sick and not in danger,” the paramedic said firmly. “Somebody pushed the panic button, that’s all.”