Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

My heart ached. She could be right. So why was I so convinced there was something amiss about André’s sudden death? I glanced at Tom. His face was expressionless. His cop face, Arch liked to call it. “Ah, Rustine?” I asked innocently. “Have you had much experience with other caterers on modeling jobs?”

“Ha!” she chortled. “Usually it’s cold cuts and iceberg lettuce followed by brownies.” She shuddered. “André was the best we’d ever had. Ian’s always made plenty of money to spend on catering. But he hasn’t exactly been generous about spreading it around. Or in treating his helpers or the models very well.”

“That’s too bad,” I murmured sympathetically, myself a veteran of a cheapskate ex-husband. “What do you suppose changed his mind this time?”

“Oh, having André was probably Leah’s idea. She tries to smooth out old chintzy Ian’s rough spots.”

“Turn at the next right,” Tom ordered Julian as we approached the flashing yellow light by the You-Snag-Em, We-Bag-Em Trout Farm.

“So …” I didn’t want to jump right into asking about Ian and Leah; that would surely seem nosy. “Have you known Ian long?”

“Two years. Ian noticed me when he was shooting an ad at the athletic club. He recommended that I audition as a model, and mentioned a couple of agencies in Denver. I hooked up with one.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“The money is super. But the work’s hard, and it’s off-the-charts stressful.”

“Because of not being able to eat?”

Rustine turned around so abruptly I was startled. “For us, our bodies, our faces, the bookings we get, the money we make … it’s our whole lives. We get a zit, it’s a disaster. We gain a pound, we’re on the phone to Kevorkian, you know?”

“I guess I don’t,” I murmured.

“Plus the jealousy, if we don’t get chosen for a shoot?” She rolled her eyes, “Eats us alive. And then you see what’s coming: One day, it’s just over . A model goes in for a cattle call, sure of a booking with a client they’ve worked for for years. The client says, ‘We can’t use you anymore.’ Believe me, you don’t want to be around when that news breaks. I’ve seen it happen, and it’s not pretty.”

“Is that what was going on the day I was there? With Leah’s half-brother Bobby?”

“Oh,” she said with forced vagueness, “who knows? Bobby has an in because of Leah.” She made a noise to indicate her disgust. “It really stinks. You think the world’s fair, and then you see old potbellied, red-eyed Bobby get a job, and you know it isn’t.”

Tom gave me an exasperated look. Guess he didn’t approve of my interrogation methods. I went on: “Do you … have much time for … you know, hobbies, extracurricular activities, schoolwork, whatever, between shoots?”

Rustine didn’t reply. I glanced at Julian, who scowled into the rearview mirror. Guess he didn’t approve of my interrogation methods, either.

“Take the next driveway on the right,” Tom instructed.

We chugged along. Rustine’s hands tightened on the dashboard. The next driveway on the right led to the house of Mr. and Mrs. Cameron Burr.

At the end of the rutted drive, I expected to see the bright yellow police ribbons that usually marked a crime scene, but there were none. A stocky uniformed policeman sitting in front of the guest house got to his feet and lumbered to the car. Julian powered down the window.

“Schulz?” The cop’s voice was surprisingly high and querulous. His dark eyes swept the interior of the car. He lifted his chin in acknowledgment of Tom. “Yeah, you were right,” he observed laconically before walking heavily back to his perch on the deck.

“Right about what? What’s going on?” Rustine asked as her eyes followed the policeman. “I thought we were going on a picnic. Isn’t that what you said?” she demanded of Julian. Julian shrugged and glanced at Tom.

“We can still have dinner outdoors,” Tom said amicably. “You can drive over to the Open Space picnic area now, big J.”

Julian torqued the wheel. The Rover rocked down the Burrs’ driveway.

“Okay, let’s see,” said Tom when we were out on the two-lane road once again. “A week ago, about here,” he pointed out the window, “the officer we just met saw a red-haired woman scavenging along this road. It was in the late afternoon of the day after Gerald Eliot’s body was found at the house we just left. I called the cop back there to see if he’d take a look at you, see if he could identify you as the one searching through the grass.”

Rustine exhaled. Her beautiful eyes remained locked on the road.

“I can’t arrest you, Rustine.” Tom’s voice was gentle. “Can’t even take you in for questioning. But there are a couple of things that have my curiosity up. One report tells us you were going out with this fellow Eliot before someone murdered him. Then you were seen near here, right after Goldy found Eliot’s body. You were obviously looking for something. Now you’re hanging around us, with your we-just-ran-into-Julian line. You want to satisfy my curiosity?”

Chapter 16

“I don’t have to talk to you, you know,” she said defensively, still refusing to look at him.

“You’re right, you don’t. And I’m not accusing you of anything.” Tom maintained his calm, soothing tone. “I’m not allowed to do that. Nor can I keep you here against your will. I’m suspended, remember?”

She whirled in her seat and gave him an icy look. “I did not kill Gerald.”

“Good for you,” Tom countered with a smile. “We’re just wondering what’s going on, that’s all. Eliot was murdered. He was a terrible contractor and an even worse security guard. He had done work for a lot of people who didn’t like him, including unfinished work for Ian’s Images, out at the Merciful Migrations cabin. Then right after his death, my wife’s teacher died suddenly, just when he was working for Ian’s Images. Is there a connection?”

“I don’t know,” Rustine said uncertainly.

Tom went on: “But you must not have found what you were looking for when you were out here searching around. If you had, you wouldn’t be hanging around us, saying you just happened to bump into Julian.” He paused, then said, “Is it because you think André might have told us something? Something that somehow got him into trouble, too?”

She immediately muttered, “Oh, crap.”

Julian’s face in the mirror registered distaste mixed with disappointment. Some picnic.

Rustine seemed to be turning something over in her mind. After a moment, she gave me a girls-only grin. “Actually, my little sister really does think your son is cute, Goldy. And smart, too.”

“If your cute little sister breaks my son’s heart,” I retorted calmly, “I will lop off her cute little blond braid.”

Rustine wrinkled her nose and scowled at me. “Man! What is it with you?”

“Sorry,” I mumbled. I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for Rustine. After all, what had she been doing out here? Playing detective in the wake of losing a loved one? Wasn’t that precisely what I was doing?

Julian pulled up to the picnic tables at the trailhead for Smythe Peak. Tom opened the back door of the Rover and announced that we could continue talking while we ate. We set out the platter of shrimp, the torte, a basket of rolls, and two salads Julian had made. The first was comprised of avocado chunks, romaine lettuce, and sugared walnuts tossed with a champagne vinaigrette; the second was a delectable mélange of fresh grapes and pineapple chunks robed in a buttermilk dressing. I put a pitcher of iced tea next to the rolls and recalled my first day at the cabin, when Rustine had come into the kitchen seeking coffee. What had she said? You’re the caterer who figures things out