Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

Serve immediately with butter and maple syrup or more fresh blueberries.

Makes 8 to 12 cakes

“She doesn’t have any cleavage!” Rustine whispered. “She may be blond, but it’s not enough. She can’t fill that bra.” Rustine lifted her chin and shook her red hair in triumph. Up close, I could again see that her face was flawlessly, if heavily, made up. “They’re going to have to use me. That’s great, because we need the extra money.”

“Why will you make extra?” I asked innocently.

She stared at me as if I had just offered to don the black bra and underwear myself. “Because more skin shows in a lingerie shot. They have to pay extra, and especially for yours truly, who will now be used for both shots.”

“Ah.” I cocked my head toward the set. “How close would you say we are to the coffee break?”

She frowned, then assessed the conference.

“Dammit!” Ian was yelling at Rufus. “Why can’t you check out the equipment before we start?” Ian stomped toward his tripod, then tripped. Flailing wildly, he crashed to the floor. “How many times,” he shouted angrily at Rufus, “have I told you to get rid of Eliot’s damn air compressor? Are you brain-dead? Were you deprived of oxygen at birth, Driggle? Get that damn thing out of here!”

Rufus, head bent in embarrassment, picked up the heavy compressor and struggled across the great room. He passed me without a glance, pushed the compressor against the wall outside the kitchen, then hustled back to Ian’s side to see about the problematic equipment. Ian’s cursing got more colorful. Still slumped in her chair, Yvonne was scowling at her gleaming fingertips.

Rustine continued as if nothing had happened: “The coffee break will be earlier than if they’d done the shot. They’ll break in about five minutes.” Time to cook, I thought. I turned on the skillet. “Getting me ready will take at least half an hour.” Rustine sniffed the batter, then whispered, “Have you been able to figure anything out about Gerald?”

I considered her question as I dipped a measuring cup into the bowl, then poured the contents out on the steaming griddle. The pale golden batter sputtered invitingly. This was not the time to get into a discussion of the Winchester, I decided. “Is there anything you haven’t told me?” I asked.

She blushed. “Like what? The names of other remodeling clients who were mad at Gerald?”

“ Anything else. About that weapon, say.”

“Break!” called Ian. He turned to catch my eye. I grabbed my spatula and hastily loosened the undersides of the sizzling cake.

“Rustine!” cried Leah. “Dressing room!”

Rustine couldn’t conceal her grin as she scampered down the hall. Yvonne rose and stalked out behind her. As she went by, I noticed a fat roll of toilet paper tucked under the bra’s back strap. The toilet paper roll pulled the bra tight across Yvonne’s breasts, but apparently, not tightly, or alluringly, enough. The black panties, smooth as cream over her abdomen, had been pinned in a multitude of folds on her buttocks. For crying out loud! I reflected as she passed me. No wonder lingerie never fits me right!

For the next twenty minutes I was occupied flipping and serving girdle cakes, which I heaped onto the famished workers’ plates next to their bowls of granola and fruit. Yvonne and Rustine did not choose to indulge in the coffee break goodies, despite the low-fat offerings. Leah reappeared from the cabin bedroom used for hair, makeup, and dressing only long enough to snag herself a bowl of granola and duck into the second bedroom, the space devoted to storage. She re-emerged with a rack of jewelry and whisked back to Rustine. For their part, the hair and makeup fellows devoured their girdle cakes, then answered Leah’s call to tend to Rustine. I had only peeked in on the hair-and-makeup-and-dressing room once. The endless mirrored reflections of hot curlers, hair spray, honey-beige foundation, and racks of clothing had made me dizzy.

“This is really good,” commented Bobby Whitaker at my elbow. Wearing a bright yellow shirt, black pants, and black-and-gold striped tie, he looked like a handsome, if somewhat plump, bumblebee.

“I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Yeah, I’m always turning up! Didn’ja expect me?” he crowed.

“Oh, really? How did you happen to turn up at the Hibbard house right after André died?” I ventured calmly.

He blushed and straightened. “High Creek Realty has an agreement with the morgue. Look, I’m sorry we had that little argument after your teacher died,” he added ruefully. His curly dark hair fell forward provocatively. “I’m under a lot of pressure to get a sale, Miss Caterer Lady. One thing I need to do is check out all the dead people. I’m supposed to see if their survivors want to sell, and if the house has a designer kitchen. Sometimes my showing up doesn’t go very well.”

“Forget it.” I heaped a spill of girdle cakes on his plate. “Did you see André at all when he was here?”

He shook his head and dug into the cakes with gusto. “This is my first day out here since the cattle call. I brought some papers for Leah. But she says they’ve had some scheduling glitches, so she’s going to use me tomorrow or the next day, after all.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Congratulations. So, do you prefer modeling or real estate?”

“Oh, modeling, no question. Lotta money. But I’m getting out of it now. I’ve got some other things going on.” His eyes flickered toward Rustine, who was striding confidently toward the set. Now she wore the black bra pulled tight across ample breasts by the toilet paper roll. The black panties had been nipped and tucked into place. She stretched her neck and assumed a provocative stance between the lighted flats. As Ian cued her, she began to move, smile, cock her hip, and otherwise seduce the flashing camera. Drawn by the action, Bobby moved away.

I picked up the coffee break detritus—there wasn’t much—and hauled it out to the kitchen. Boyd relieved me of the tray of dirty dishes and filled a sink with hot, soapy water. I felt thankful for his diligence in maintaining the charade, especially when it extended to cleanup.

Julian had finished plating an extra appetizer: crostini , small rounds of toasted baguette generously smeared with goat cheese and topped with a fat, spicy walnut that would provide crunch. The three of us quickly divvied up the task of heating up the Harrington birthday dinner to serve outside. We devoted the first deck table to the plates and appetizers: the layered Mexican dip, chips, and crostini . The adjoining table squeaked under its load of coq au vin, rice, and sugar-snap-pea-and-strawberry salad. For dessert, I sliced the orange poppy seed cake while Julian and Boyd carried out the beverage bottles, silverware, and glasses.

I finished my work, hefted my tray, then stared across the rushing creek to the sandbank. I tried not to think of André directing the cabdriver to carry his boxes across the bridge for the last time. Tomorrow afternoon was the memorial service. An ache swelled in my throat and I hurried back inside with three pieces of the cake wrapped in plastic for Rufus.

He was waiting by the door to the kitchen.

“Ready for tasting?” I asked merrily.

“Am I ever. Gotta get this thing back there. Ian’s splitting a gut ’cuz he keeps tripping over this thing”—he bent over and started scooting the compressor along the hallway, grunting mightily—“and of course”—he scooted and grunted, scooted and grunted—“it’ll be my job to put a notice in the paper and sell it.”

I followed him into the empty storage room and watched as he savagely kicked the compressor toward a corner cluttered with grotesque skeletons of photographic equipment. When he turned to face me, I offered him the cake. His large, somewhat dirty hands delicately pulled apart the plastic wrap, then broke off a huge chunk, which he popped into his mouth with glee.