Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

“You seem to know the story pretty well.”

The glee that had suffused Cameron’s face as he told the old legend abruptly left. His voice filled with sadness. “Yeah, I do. But only because Vic had researched it after his father died. The Braintree part he only got from one source, in Pittsburgh. The Braintree parents never reported the robbery, according to this source, for fear that a story of their daughter stealing all that jewelry would somehow cause a run on their big bank in Pittsburgh. Vic didn’t care. All he wanted was the story. He went to great lengths to obtain the front page from the New York Times that ran the article about the robbery, and he framed it. Leah even gave that to the museum. Anyway, in all our hours at the fire station, old Vic told that story well, and often, to the recruits.” Cameron sighed deeply. “It was like Vic didn’t have a father, really. But he had this story.”

“Sounds as if Vic Smythe was like a father to the recruits.”

“He was.”

My thirty minutes were over. “I’d better be going—”

“Listen,” Cameron said hesitantly, “I’m glad you came. You’ve been so nice since Barbara got sick, bringing food, checking on me. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back, but my lawyer …”He exhaled softly, too defeated to finish his thought.

“It’s fine, Cam. If I can figure out this mess, maybe it will help you.”

“You have no idea how much your visit has cheered me up. I didn’t think it would, but it has.”

I tapped the glass. “You’re a good man. And a good friend.”

Cameron Burr looked over his shoulder to see if he was being watched. He lowered his voice and covered the phone with his hand as he said, “Your ex-husband is in here.”

“So you’ve met The Jerk. Poor you.”

“You can’t tell anybody I told you this, ‘cause he’s a guy who gets in fights and I can’t risk that. Plus, he didn’t actually tell me this. It’s what I heard from somebody else, who heard it through the gossip mill, which operates at a pretty hefty clip in here. It relates to what you asked me about when you first came in.”

A familiar queasiness threatened. I tried to sound normal. “Why? What’s going on?”

Cameron Burr’s gritty whisper spiraled through the phone. “He’s trying to get revenge on you and Marla, his other ex-wife.”

“Revenge?”

“Before he got caught for beating up his girlfriend, he was having money troubles. Marla was giving him a hard time, you know how she can be. So he turned her into the IRS. Since he got in here, he’s started bankrolling Craig Litchfield to undercut you. Your ex used your son to get your client list, assignments, schedules, menus, and prices off your computer, to give to your competitor.”

The air conditioner fan whirred overhead. I said, “Thanks, Cameron,” and stood up.

His bloodshot eyes watered. “I hope I can see you again soon.”

“You will,” I promised.

A cool breeze whistled through my half-open windows as I reflected on stagecoach robberies, a rifle in the wall, escape from prosecution, unsolved crimes, and the manipulation of my son, my dear sweet son, to do one of his father’s vicious errands. If I had the rifle from the wall, Charlie Smythe’s escape route between Yellow-stone and Blue Spruce, and John Richard Korman standing in front of me, would I shoot The Jerk and be done with it? Goodness, but it would be tempting. The nerve of that man, to try to wreak revenge on his two ex-wives. Leopards don’t change their spots. Especially those big cats who use power to hurt people.

At a red light, I again called Lutheran Hospital to check on Leah Smythe. A new nurse told me Leah couldn’t talk. But the patient was doing fine. Punching in Marla’s home number on the cell, I swerved out of my lane. I swung back to safety and listened as her phone rang over to her tape.

“It’s me,” I said to the machine. “Yes, I can meet you at the St. Stephen’s parking lot at three-thirty. I’d say more, but I’m afraid the IRS is bugging your phone.” I punched off and called home.

“This is Goldilocks’ Catering,” a male voice answered happily, “but Goldy’s out with the bears right now. Can I help you?”

“Tom, please. How likely is it that potential clients would book me after that greeting?”

“Aha, Miss Happy-go-lucky. You must have had a super time at the jail.”

“How’s my kitchen coming?”

“Great. I know you want to see it, but Arch needs his swimsuit. Julian took him over to Lettie’s, but the suit’s in your van, left there after some lock-in at the rec center two weeks ago, he says. Anyway, you’ll have to wait to see your kitchen until you get the suit to Arch.”

Patience. “Tell me how to get to Rustine and Lettie’s place.”

“Sure. Don’t you want to know what I found out from Sheila?”

“Hold on.” I pulled onto the shoulder under the bridge that overlooked the Continental Divide. Forty miles west of the gloom overhead, the peaks shimmered under a cloak of new snow—another chilly harbinger of the winter to come. I pulled my notepad from my purse. “Go ahead with the directions.”

“The girls live in Aspen Hills, at the western end of Troutman Trail. That’s the third hairpin turn after Brook Drive turns into a dirt road. You taking notes? Pass a For Sale sign, pass a gray house with red trim. Their house is the first place on the right after the last set of mailboxes on Troutman. Brown house, green trim. You get to a dead end, you’ve gone too far.”

“Got it.” If that wasn’t an Aspen Meadow set of directions, I didn’t know what was.

“I called Sheila—”

“Go ahead.” I put my notebook away.

“Remember what you asked about how André took too much medication?”

“Yes.”

“There was a very slight amount of bruising around his mouth, but it is inconclusive. So it is not impossible that he was forced to keep the pills in his mouth, although Sheila still doesn’t think so.”

I checked my rearview mirror and pressed the accelerator to get back on the road. “Thanks, Tom. You’re the best.”

Rain splatted gently across my dusty windshield by the time I reached the western end of Troutman Trail. When I drove up to the very plain-looking brown house with peeling green trim, Lettie and Arch were jumping on the trampoline in the front yard. Julian was nowhere in sight.

I parked under a lodgepole pine and considered my wet-haired, happily leaping son. He was dressed in a clean but faded polo-style white shirt as well as too-large navy shorts—both hand-me-downs from Julian, both now quite wet. He was bouncing on an unstable, steel-framed trampoline, in the rain, when lightning could strike any moment. And all this with a girl, no less. Should I tell him to stop? Or confront him about sharing my confidential client information with The Jerk? Neither. The first could be finessed, the second would wait until we were alone.

“Arch! I don’t know where your suit is! You’ll have to find it.” I pulled open the van door. “Lettie? Are Julian and your sister inside?”

When Lettie nodded, I knocked on the front door. Julian, his finger marking his place in the new edition of The Joy of Cooking , admitted me.

“Catching up on your reading?” I asked.

He blushed. “I brought it with me, along with poached veggies for the girls. Arch ate at home, which is probably a good thing. Have to warn you, this place is a mess. I didn’t feel right about cleaning it up, but I don’t know if Rustine would want you to come in. They had a housekeeper, but she quit a month ago. Anyway, Rustine’s doing some beauty treatment. I hollered to her that you were here.”