Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

“I’m sure there’s been a mistake. When I get there, I can clear it up.”

Sheila hesitated. “Is Tom there?”

“No. Just this … a young man who works for us.”

Sheila said, “Please come, Goldy. I can explain what we know once you get here.”

“Jeez, Goldy, what’s wrong?” Julian wanted to know. “You look terrible. Has something happened to Arch? Has the booking been canceled?”

“No, I … no.”

His dark eyes searched my face. “Look, Goldy, if the booking fell through, I can take this food to Aspen Meadow Christian Outreach. We’ll find some more jobs. Come on.” He ran water into a glass and set it on the table in front of me. “Come on. Drink this. I’m going to call Tom.”

“He’s … having breakfast. With Boyd.”

“No, no, actually he isn’t. That’s just where he wants you to think he is.” Julian hesitated. “Look, don’t get mad at him, okay? He’s having a polygraph today. About the conflict he’s having with that assistant district attorney who thinks he knows everything.”

I stared at the water glass. A polygraph . Tom didn’t think he could tell me.

“André … my teacher. He’s dead, Julian. He had a heart attack. They need me to come down to the morgue.” I gripped my old oak table. This was just a mistake. A stupid error.

Julian snagged the cellular phone from its charger, stuffed it into his pocket, and assumed a calm, pastoral tone. “I’ll pack the Rover and then honk from the driveway.”

When he beeped not long afterward, I numbly walked outside. This is just a stupid error, I kept telling myself. It’s not André. There’s been an awful mistake.

Less than an hour later, I took a deep breath and prayed for strength as Dr. O’Connor led frail, bent Pru Hibbard, her nurse, and me down the hall to the morgue’s work area. Pru wore a faded pink cashmere sweater and matching skirt, along with a strand of pearls that matched her hair. Her caregiver, a waxy-skinned, thin-lipped older woman with broad shoulders and short, dark hair, nodded at me.

“I’m Wanda Cooney.” Her voice was clear but low. “We can talk more later.”

The four of us walked through the door toward where I was to do the ID. Dr. O’Connor drew back a curtain on metal rings.

I swallowed. There hadn’t been a mistake.

André’s body was covered to the shoulders with a sheet. His cheeks were no longer pink, but gray. The small portion of his white shirt that showed was cruddy with dust. His silvery hair was matted.

“Yes.” My voice sounded like someone else’s. “It is André Hibbard.” I turned to Pru. “Are you all right?”

Pru’s watery blue eyes wandered around the makeshift cubicle. Her lower lip trembled. She said, “I want to go.” Without waiting for me to respond, Wanda slowly guided Pru away.

I turned back to look at André’s immobile face, then at Sheila. “Can’t you tell me anything more about what happened?”

“We needed the ID first.” She moved away from the gurney. “You should go back to the other room.”

“Not yet. Please, tell me something , Sheila. What was he doing when he had the attack? Was he alone?”

“Rufus Driggle called us,” Sheila murmured. “André had phoned to see if he could come early to do some prep work. Driggle opened the gate for the taxi at seven. Driggle didn’t stay because he had to go into Denver for film. When he came back at nine, he found André on the kitchen floor. When he couldn’t rouse him, he phoned the sheriff’s department.”

I touched the sheet. “How did André get so dirty? His clothes? His apron?”

“From falling on a floor , Goldy.” She cocked her head. “Mrs. Hibbard confirms he had a history of heart problems, that that’s why he quit the restaurant. He was on Lanoxin, to amplify his heartbeat. We’ll get his medical file, see if his condition has been worsening lately.”

André . I swallowed. “This past Friday he had some symptoms while he was at the Homestead, where he was catering. The paramedics came out and gave him a clean bill of health. André swore to me that he was fine.” I shook my head; I should have insisted on catering with him today instead of taking the morgue lunch booking. “He was sixty-five. Vigorous, but—” I stopped, transfixed by something I hadn’t seen earlier. I pointed toward André’s hand. “What’s this?”

Sheila leaned in closer. “A burn?”

“No. No way.”

Sheila peered at the curved, inch-long mark on the back of André’s left: hand. “Yeah, it’s a burn. Recent.” Her eyes pleaded with me. “Time to go , Goldy.”

I stared at the mark on André’s hand. “But,” I protested, “there’s nothing out at that cabin that he could have burned himself on. I mean, not that looked like that.”

Sheila sighed.

I stared at Andre’s right hand, motionless on the gurney. “What’s this?”

Sheila O’Connor reached into her pocket, retrieved a pair of surgical gloves, and snapped them on. She picked up the hand I was pointing to. On the side of the other hand, there was another, smaller dark spot.

“Another burn, looks like. He was a cook , Goldy. You have to trust us. We haven’t started to do our work here yet…. He could have burned himself just before or while he was having the attack. People lose control during a coronary.”

I was having trouble breathing. “Sheila—”

“The department is already doing a sweep of the cabin.”

“Can you give me the autopsy results?”

She snorted. “You must be joking.”

“He was my teacher, Sheila.”

“Let’s go.” Her voice was increasingly chilly, and I wondered if she was afraid I was going to get hysterical on her.

“I need to go help Pru,” I replied. “André would want me to be with her. But I’m not going anywhere until you promise to call me.”

She tsked . “Have Tom give me a ring in a couple of days.” She took my arm. “Right now, you and I are going to the lunchroom.”

We came through the opaque glass door to the brightly wallpapered lunchroom. A sudden noisy wash of people engaged in conversation made me reel back. Sheila murmured something about going to her office and left my side.

My mind seemed to splinter; I observed that Julian had done a superb job serving lunch. The salad platters were littered with shreds of lettuce and crushed cherry tomatoes; the roll baskets were forlornly empty. The morgue staff was digging into their dessert. Julian was chatting with two older women. When he saw me, he left them and walked quietly to my side.

“Well?” When I nodded that yes, it was André, he said, “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

“I don’t know. You did a nice job here. But … I need to help Pru now.”

“I called Tom at the department. He offered to pick me up with all the equipment. I thought … you might want my car. But now I’m worried about you driving.”

“I just need some coffee, please, Julian. And maybe a glass of water. I have to help Pru,” I repeated, as if giving that help would structure my next few hours and make things clear. How could André—so full of life and mischief—be gone?

Julian brought me water and coffee and handed me his keys. I mumbled a thanks. “Goldy. Are you sure you can drive?”

I sipped the dark coffee; it tasted like ashes. “Yes, I think so. Where did the rest of them—Pru, Sheila—where did they go?”

He rummaged in one of the boxes, pulled out my purse, and handed it to me. “They’re talking in the office. The Rover’s on the far east side of the parking lot, remember? I’ll meet you back at home.”