Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

Through the peephole I was surprised to see Leah Smythe’s half-brother, Bobby Whitaker. The handsome male model was quickly combing his long, dark curls in anticipation of the door being opened. Unfortunately, Bobby, now dressed in a shiny suit, did not appear much more confident than when he’d been ordered to take off his shirt a week ago.

I opened the door. “Bobby? Why are you here?”

“Ah, are you a relative of the deceased?” he said nervously. He was clutching an expensive raincoat. He did not remember me from the auditions. I told him who I was and why I was there.

“Are you here to see Pru?” I asked, confused. As before, I wondered, what is the deal with this guy?

“Yes, well, I’m with High Creek Realty.” He scooped a business card out of his inner pocket and handed it to me. “We … try to meet the needs of mountain residents. You don’t know if … Mrs. Hib-bard’s going into a nursing home, do you?”

“I thought you were concentrating on modeling.”

“I do both, actually. Modeling and real estate. I’m here to see if Prudence Hibbard wants to sell the condo.”

Anger fizzed through my frayed nerves. “We just got home from the morgue , you idiot.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a client ready to buy this condo—”

I thrust his card back at him. “Go away.”

“You don’t know if she needs the money,” Bobby objected. He held up his hands in a defensive posture. “Hey, listen to me for a sec. How do you know Mrs. Hibbard doesn’t need the cash that’s tied up in the equity of this place?” The wide shoulders inside the shiny, fashionable suit lifted in a gesture of helplessness.

“Scram,” I said tersely. “Don’t ever come back. And if any more vultures like you show up, I’ll boil them for stew to serve at the next High Creek Realty lunch.”

He backed away. I gripped the door hard. Much as I wanted to slam the heavy wood into its casing, I restrained myself. Pru mustn’t be further upset. Think about Pru , I told myself as my heart hammered. And calm down , I added as I leaned against the closed door. Pull it together for Andre’s sake . After a few moments, loud knocks banged against my head. The doorbell bonged, followed by more rapping. I wrenched the door open. If it was another real estate agent, I would kill him with my bare hands….

It was not a real estate agent.

It was a caterer.

Chapter 12

Craig Litchfield’s hair was neatly coiffed, his handsome face carefully blank. He was dressed in a collarless dark brown shirt and matching pants, the mahogany equivalent of the coal-black outfit muddied by Jake the previous week. Was this a uniform you could get in different colors? I wondered. Did he order it from a catalog?

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. He cocked his head and grinned when I didn’t answer. “What, that big dog of yours got your tongue?”

“I’m here to help Pru Hibbard,” I said in a low voice.

“Oh?” he replied, mock-polite. “May I help her, too?”

“I doubt it.”

He glanced down the row of town houses. “Okay, Goldy. I’ve had enough. Let me in. I’m here for the same reason you are.”

Had I missed something? “What reason? Please. You need to leave. You couldn’t be here for the same reason I am. He was my teacher. And an old friend.”

He bristled. “Let me talk to her.”

“No.”

“I’ll take you to court.”

“For what?”

He reconsidered, then softened the muscles of his handsome face and passed a hand over his helmet of manicured hair. Of course, these conciliatory gestures put me even more on my guard. “I want to offer forty thousand for Andre’s client list, menus, schedules, prices, and recipes. Cash.” He tilted his head, oozing sympathy. “You know you can’t match that. You need to let me see the widow. She might need the money right away, to pay for the funeral, whatever.”

From the sitting room, Pru’s thin voice called my name. I told Litchfield, “I don’t know how you found out André had passed away. But I’m going to close this door now. Don’t knock. Don’t come back. If you want, call Pru’s caregiver and set up an appointment with their attorney.”

His face darkened with fury. He put out his foot. But I was too quick for him and slammed the door.

I returned to the sitting room. The telephone had rung and Pru was speaking into it. Wanda Cooney tugged my arm. I followed her into the kitchen. André’s gleaming copper pans hung clustered from a thick wrought-iron ring suspended from the ceiling. It was a beautiful, spotless kitchen, lined with pans and teapots that André would never sauté with or make English Breakfast in again. Tears pricked my eyes.

“Pru will be all right,” Wanda told me. “I’ve called several of her friends. They all want to talk to her or come over.”

My shoulders relaxed with relief. “Thanks.”

“Who was at the door? We’re expecting Monsignor Fields, but he said he couldn’t be here for about an hour.”

“Nobody, really. Just … a couple of creeps wanting to buy the house, Andre’s business, even his recipes. I sent them packing.”

Wanda was incredulous. “How could they have known—?”

“Oh, somebody at the morgue probably gets paid to tip people off. Anyway, they’re gone, so don’t worry. If anybody comes to the door that you don’t know, call the Furman County Sheriff’s Department.” Wanda, speechless, nodded. I glanced into the sitting room. Pru held the phone to her ear, weeping softly. I took a deep breath and asked, “Should I stay?”

“We’ll be fine,” Wanda replied.

“Do you need food? Shopping done? Please tell me.”

“No.” Her voice was doubtful. “Not that I can think of.”

I went into the sitting room and knelt at Pru’s feet. She told the person on the phone to please hold for a moment, then reached out to touch my hair.

“It’s Goldy,” I said.

“Dear Goldy. Thank you for being with us. He loved you so much.” Tears streamed down Pru’s pale face. “He always bragged about you.”

“I’ll stay in touch,” I assured her. “Call me if you need help with the church, or anything else. Anything at all.”

Pru nodded and went back to her phone call. I checked through her lace curtains to make sure the road in front of her condominium was empty. There was no sign of unwelcome visitors. “I’ll call tomorrow,” I told Wanda Cooney, then left.

I piloted the Rover from the paved maze that wound through Blue Spruce Retirement Village onto the wide dirt road that ran past the complex. The dirt road leading to dense housing was not an uncommon sight in Colorado. A developer would buy acreage in a remote spot along a wide, unpaved road. At such remote locations, the county usually wouldn’t pave roads through residential areas, so the builder took on that task himself, naming his byways “Huntington Green” and “Foxhound Ridge,” as if his subdivision were an outpost of an English manor instead of dense housing in the middle of nowhere. Once the residents realized they were forty minutes from the nearest grocery store, and four times that long in a blizzard, they’d already bought in.

Rain drummed on the Rover roof. I passed a lumbering road grader and tried to ignore the emptiness gnawing my insides. André was now part of that group we ambiguously referred to as the departed . As my signal blinked to make the turn to Aspen Meadow, I cracked my window. Next to the state highway, the wind shuffled through a stand of aspens. A new blue-on-white metal sign swayed in front of the trees: FOR SALE—COMMERCIAL-ZONED LAND EIGHT MILES AHEAD! 200 ACRES! Great, I thought as I negotiated the turn. The Blue Spruce folks might get a snazzy grocery store yet.