Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

I pulled two ten-dollar bills out of my pocket. “Forget borrowing, just take it.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Remember not to have peppers, they make you sick.”

Arch just shook his head and ran off.

In the kitchen, Tom wedged a crowbar behind a drawer to pry it loose. With a sickening shriek, the drawer and cabinet below it tore from their moorings and crashed to the floor. Ignoring the sound, Julian packed up food on our one remaining counter. Our kitchen table had been pushed against the wall. Standing beside it, Rustine watched the destructive drama with undisguised interest.

“Why are you doing this now?” I cried.

Tom, who had been peering at the rubble with a satisfied expression, appeared surprised. “I have to get rid of the old stuff today so I can go pick up your new cabinets.” He raised a bushy eyebrow. “I would have asked you about it, but nobody knew where you were.”

“Where am I supposed to work?” I wailed. “How are we supposed to eat?”

Tom and Julian exchanged a look. Women , it clearly said. Julian picked up two grocery bags loaded with foodstuffs. “Tom said to pack up the shrimp and torte for a dinner picnic. It’ll just be the four of us here. Did Arch tell you he and Lettie were going out for Chinese? And Tom has some secret picturesque spot for us, right?”

“You bet,” my husband said cheerfully. He put down his crowbar. “Let me just go get showered. Miss G., why don’t you come upstairs and talk to me?”

As I sat in the steamy bathroom listening to the shower patter, I realized this was the wrong time to bring up stolen paperwork, especially to a cop. Even if that cop was on suspension. I tried to focus instead on Tom’s patient explanation that he’d be done with the kitchen in a mere month or so.

“I need you to decide if you want a lazy Susan as the under-counter cabinet in the corner six feet to the right of the sink. And I need to know if you want a double or single sink, and if you want stainless or some color.”

“I’d love a lazy Susan cupboard, thanks. And I’d prefer a double sink, stainless, please. And don’t forget three separate sinks are required by the county for food service.”

“My dear Miss G. Trust me, okay?”

I could see his body through the steamed-up glass of the shower stall, and immediately thought of better things to do than discuss kitchen amenities. Tom turned the water off, wrapped a towel around his middle, and shot me a quizzical look. “Okay, so I can ask you questions about what you want, and you won’t be upset with me?”

I smiled. Of course, it wasn’t what I wanted that was bothering me, it was the mess, the cost, the fear that when he finished, I’d have something rich and strange, like oysters with sour cream and truffles, that made me sick to my stomach just to contemplate.

Tom paused in his toweling-off and regarded me questioningly. “Why is this red-haired young woman here, exactly? Rustine. The one who was getting it on with Gerald Eliot, right?”

I shrugged. “Right. She’s a model for the Prince and Grogan shoot. I think she thinks Julian is sexy. Of course, the only man I think is sexy is standing half-dressed in front of me, while the bed is beckoning.”

Tom chuckled. “How about when we don’t have people waiting for us to have dinner with them?” He finished drying off, pulled on the clean yellow shirt and khaki pants he’d brought into the bathroom, and gave me another quizzical expression. “This model. Did she and Julian hook up before now? Or did she just show up here?”

I remembered when I’d unexpectedly seen Rustine in her green outfit, jogging down our street just before Julian arrived. “I don’t think they hooked up before now. Why?”

“What do you know about her and her sister?”

“Well, let’s see. Because of Rustine’s relationship with Gerald Eliot, Merciful Migrations fired Gerald. Rustine and her sister Lettie go to Elk Park Prep and model, too. I think Julian ran into them in town when you sent him off to find Arch, and they all came back together. Why the big interest?”

He rubbed the towel over his hair. “Not sure. I just don’t trust her. Could you ask her some questions about the fashion photo people?”

“Like what?”

“Be the good cop, Miss G. Ask some friendly questions while we drive, see if she’s on the up-and-up. I’d like to know what the real story is.”

“Do you think she’s lying about something? And I should ask her questions when we drive where?”

“Look, Goldy.” He dropped his comb on the countertop, took my hand, and led me down the stairs. “What is it they’re always telling the yoga people? Just go with the flow.”

“Okay, but could we at least take Julian’s car? Please? It’s cleaner.” In every sense , I added silently.

“So where are we headed?” Julian asked once we were all in his Range Rover and he was driving us toward Main Street, ten minutes later.

“To the Smythe Peak Open Space area,” Tom replied. “I’ll direct you.”

A cluster of blush-rose clouds rimmed the horizon as the summertime sun slowly sank. I bit the inside of my cheek as we passed the ornately carved entry to the Dragon’s Breath Chinese restaurant. Back at home, I had left a note for Arch under the front doormat, our agreed-upon spot for messages. Gone out for a picnic dinner, just in case you get home first. Home by eight. Please stay on the porch with your friend . I doubted Lettie’s dad would approve of a fourteen-year-old boy inviting his daughter up to his bedroom to see his ham radio equipment.

Rustine, who sat next to Julian, turned around to smile at Tom and me. She was so pretty, so perfectly made up, so disarmingly clothed in what I usually considered underwear, that it was challenging to come up with casual chatter, much less a friendly interrogation.

She said matter-of-factly, “You must be freaked out about Chef André. That day you worked with him and gave me the coffee? I didn’t know he was your teacher . Julian told me. And to think he died in that same kitchen … spooky.”

I frowned. Was she offering sympathy? How was I supposed to respond to freaked out? We whizzed past the library and headed out of town. “Did you … get to know André at all during the shoot?”

She shrugged her bare shoulders. “He seemed … a little weird, you know. But real lovable.”

I glanced at Julian, who was frowning at the road. Given the nature of Rustine’s alleged relationship with the late Gerald Eliot, I wondered how she defined lovable . “Oh,” I commented knowingly, “André had his ways. But when you say weird , do you mean eccentric? How was he … during the shoot?”

“Well,” she said, “like if anybody put salt on food before tasting it, he had a fit. One time Ian blasted Rufus to go get him some soy sauce from the kitchen. That didn’t go over very well with André, who yelled that Rufiis was an imbecile.” She giggled. “Rufus really isn’t very smart, but he hates it when people draw attention to it.” Her tone turned mock-serious. “And you can’t imagine how upset André got when some catsup got poured into a raspberry sauce he’d made for a cake, or some pickle ended up on his seafood stuff. Plus,” she added resignedly, “some people just have bad manners. You know, they stick their fingers instead of vegetables into bowls of dip. So Chef André would get after us in the hygiene department. Anyway, with all that butter and anger, it’s no wonder he had a heart attack.”