Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

Oh, right , I thought, remembering her caustic words to Bobby Whitaker during the cattle call. I said, “Do you miss working with the folks at the museum?”

“No, actually.” Without warning her voice turned bitter. “I am sorry for all the years I gave to the Homestead, with no thanks from the historical society, and certainly no monetary appreciation. I know you’re, keenly aware of how divorce can leave you financially stranded, Goldy. I certainly did not expect my husband to leave, forcing me to live from paycheck to paycheck in my midfifties. I did not expect to have to buy a used station wagon from a person selling it by the side of the road. I did not expect to be Living in a tiny apartment at the Swiss Inn, that my parents used to own! And of course, I did not expect to pay a lawyer more for an hour of his time than I spend on a month’s groceries.” She gave me a mirthless, knowing smile. “And I guess in my heart, I hoped the historical society would give me a little monetary gift when I left. Of all people, I am aware of the funds they can spare. But the society did not see fit to do so.”

“It’s tough,” I murmured sympathetically. When you suffer through a postdivorce reduction in circumstances, it’s a miracle if your attitude doesn’t turn to vinegar.

“I was lucky to find this job,” Hanna went on, her voice defiant. Her tone was threaded with the old authority.

The implied message was: And I’ll be damned if anyone’s going to take this job away from me .

“Hanna, I am happy for you.” Impulsively, I hugged her, but when she remained as stiff as a board, I realized an embrace was a bad idea. I stepped back. “Did you enjoy working with André? He helped me become a caterer back when I, too, was lucky to find a job. Did you like him?”

She twisted her mouth to one side as if trying to decide how to say something negative. “Oh, Goldy. André was an old man with a lot of stories to tell. He told them whether people were interested or not. I would tease him because he talked too much. When he would tie up one of the photo people with his chatter, then you had two people who were not working.” She picked up her briefcase, as if I had lured her into the same idleness. “My only concern has to be that the shoot run efficiently.” She marched out of the kitchen before I could ask just which photo people André had tied up with his chatter.

As soon as she left, I asked Boyd about the rifle. He said Fuller’s people had looked at the Winchester, and found that it was clean of fingerprints and had not been fired. I told him what Rustine had said about Gerald’s claim that he’d found a weapon that would make them rich. Boyd said a gun only made you rich if you used it to rob a bank. Great .

By nine-thirty, Boyd and Julian had set out a crystal bowl mounded with homemade granola and another containing a glistening array of sliced strawberries and kiwi. Crystal pitchers contained cream and skim milk. Carafes of coffee, decaf, and hot water were poised above lit cans of Sterno. I nestled assorted juices and waters into a table-size ice bath. Julian and Boyd had scuttled back to the kitchen, claiming they needed to assemble lunch. I suppressed a chuckle. Apparently, both men were embarrassed to appear openly interested in Rustine’s lingerie shoot.

They would have been disappointed, I reflected, after I watched Rustine go through her paces. The mother of all granny gowns concealed everything. Since I’d just seen the Polaroid of the gown hanging forlornly on its coat hanger, I knew it was quite ordinary, despite Rustine’s coy looks, dipped shoulder, and hands on hips. Behind his camera, Ian prompted Rustine with That’s it, baby. Keep it coming. That’s it. Don’t lose it now . Rustine simpered and kept moving through her poses. I wondered if the lace-trimmed gown could survive the restless insomnia a worrying cop’s wife endured every night, while waiting for her husband to come home with his bulletproof vest intact.

Back in the kitchen, I put these thoughts out of my mind and returned to that old soul-restorer: working with food. I hummed as I mixed the cottage cheese, buttermilk, and egg mixture with the sifted dry ingredients to make the girdle cakes. On the griddle, they would rise, develop a crunchy exterior and featherlight interior, and bring joy to the heart, no matter what you were wearing.

“I’m not staying out there to serve,” Julian announced fiercely, his cheeks pink. “That blond girl, Yvonne, is mean as a skunk. When I asked her what she was doing today, she told me to trot on back to the kitchen and mind my own business. At least Rustine pretends to like me.”

I murmured sympathetically and skimmed oil onto my electric griddle. I was studiously avoiding conversation with Rustine. I did not want anyone at the shoot even to suspect that she wanted me to act as her informal P.I. I hustled the griddle out to the central room, set it on a table, and plugged it into one of the numerous crooked wall outlets. Yvonne sauntered across the set in black bra and panties while Ian fixed his lens and swore. I frowned and remembered Rustine’s words from the first day: The blonde’s … wearing flesh-colored falsies . Was Yvonne dishonestly stuffed now? And how far had I come from pondering questions of eschatology while catering to the Diocesan Board of Theological Examiners?

Ignoring these mental digressions, I retrieved the batter and waited for the signal from Ian and company to start heating the skillet. With any luck, the bra shoot would only take twenty minutes. But the voices on the far side of the room rose suddenly, as did the level of activity. There was general scurrying and knocking into chairs. My heart sank as I gave the batter a gentle stir and wondered if we were in for another ruined meal.

“I told you so, didn’t I?” muttered Rustine at my elbow.

I jumped and barely avoided spilling the batter. “For heaven’s sake, Rustine! You told me what?” No wonder André had a heart attack, I thought uncharitably, as I righted the bowl.

Rustine, now clad in a tightly cinched sky-blue terry-cloth robe, gestured toward the far side of the room. Yvonne, in the lacy bra and panties, sat slumped on a chair beside one of the flats that formed the artificially lit three-sided stage that had been constructed for the day’s shoot. What—mountains were too suggestive a backdrop for department store lingerie? In any event, Yvonne blended in with the flats, which were painted a very light, neutral beige. Hanna, Ian, Rufus, and Leah were huddled in a hasty conference. Behind them, the day-contractors—female stylist, younger male hairdresser, older male makeup artist—shook their heads in bemusement.

Lingerie-Shoot Gridle Cakes

1 egg

1½ cups or more buttermilk

1½ cup cottage cheese

1½ cups all-purpose flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

½ teaspoon baking soda

1 cup blueberries, plus more for serving

Butter and maple syrup for serving

Oil a large skillet or griddle (the Scots call it a “girdle,” hence the name) and preheat it over medium heat.

In a large bowl, beat the egg lightly. Stir in the buttermilk and cottage cheese.

Sift together the flour, baking powder, and baking soda. Sift again into the egg mixture. Stir in the dry mixture very lightly, mixing only enough to combine. If the mixture is too dry, stir in a small amount of additional buttermilk. Gently stir in the blueberries.

Scoop the batter into pancakes into the hot, well-oiled pan. After the cakes have set on one side, lightly loosen them with a metal spatula to make sure they do not stick. When the edges of the cakes appear dry, flip the cakes carefully to cook until cooked through and golden brown on both sides. This can take from 2 to 5 minutes per side.