Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

“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.

Arch asked for the phone and I gladly handed it over. “Julian’s back,” he told his father, who could not possibly have cared less. But Arch talked on, undaunted, about summer vacation, playing with Todd, things he and Jake had done. Finally I relieved him of the phone; we were at twenty-eight minutes, thank God.