Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

Balanced halfway up a stepladder, Rufus was adjusting a scrim for the next shot. He listened to my request, frowned, then gestured to the equipment sacks on the far side of the deck. “In one of Ian’s bags. If you can find it, you can use it.”

I rummaged through collapsible stands, lenses, rolls of film, and every kind of focus before my hands finally closed around the Polaroid. I nonchalantly picked it up, frowned at it as if it were a missing piece of cooking equipment, and walked purposefully back to the kitchen. Once there, I explained to Julian and Boyd exactly how I wanted to proceed. They nodded, picked up the first fruited cottage cheese ring and hot water for the French toast chafer, and banged out the kitchen door—right into Yvonne, who shrieked and crumpled to the floor.

“Oh, gosh, we’re sorry,” Julian mumbled. Luckily, no food had spilled. Boyd, who had not yet learned that no matter who causes the problem, the caterer always apologizes, shot Yvonne an irritated glance.

She ran her fingers through her blond hair and hollered up at him, “What’re you looking at, barrel-man?”

I hustled to her side and helped her to her feet. Muttering irritably, she brushed dust off her clothes: white mohair jacket, white pants, white leather boots. “I’m really sorry,” I told her. “They should take that door off the kitchen entrance.”

She fluffed her hair. “Don’t worry about it. Do you like the outfit? Think anyone will notice the dust?”

“I love it,” I lied smoothly. “It looks perfect.”

While Boyd and Julian put the French toast and condiments on the buffet, I circled the folks on the deck to tell Hanna we were ready. She rocked on her small heels and nodded impassively. When Ian announced that the roll of film was done, Hanna efficiently signaled the break. I snagged the Polaroid from the kitchen and scutled outside.

Through the window, I could see the line forming for coffee. I strode to the far side of the last window, pretended to be looking out at the creek, and smiled at Rufus as he climbed down the ladder and headed for the food. Then I waited.

Hanna, Ian, the day-contractors, Rustine vamping Bobby: All these folks came through the line. Ian and the stylist had two pieces of French toast. Rustine had only cottage cheese. Rufus must not have eaten breakfast; he piled his plate high. Behind him stood Yvonne, who reached into the pocket of the mohair jacket, pulled out a jar, and held it close to her as she unscrewed the lid. My heart thumped; I raised the camera. Yvonne dumped the jar’s contents into the cottage cheese. I pressed the yellow button. The Polaroid flashed and spit out the picture. Yvonne looked up, glared, and hurried away from the line. But I had her.

“Arrest Yvonne.” My breathless order to Boyd took him by surprise. “I’ve got it, it’s in the picture, she endangered the food supply at a public function.”

Boyd peered at the image slowly clarifying out of the murky film. “Yup.” Laconic guy. But efficient. He had handcuffs in the pocket of his apron. When he swung the door open to the kitchen, Yvonne was scampering out the front door. Boyd rushed forward and grabbed her by a white mohaired wrist. “You have the right to remain silent,” he began tersely. Yvonne slithered up and down, her back to the front door, her eyes wide with fear. “If you don’t hold still,” Boyd warned, “I’m not going to be able to tell you the rest. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning….”

Time to tell Ian and Hanna what was going on. They were conversing intently, heads together. Rufus and the day-contractors, their mouths agape, watched Boyd cuff Yvonne and talk to her in low tones. Bobby, still appearing impatient, appeared to take no notice.

“There’s been a bit of a problem,” I began, then proceeded to tell Ian and Hanna what I had captured on film.

“That fat caterer is really a cop?” exclaimed Ian, as if I’d just informed him that his elk were all migrating to Mexico. He looked at me incredulously. “That’s why he had a mobile? I thought he got Leah’s ambulance here so quickly because you guys had to be on the lookout for food poisoning!”

When I shrugged, Hanna grabbed my apron bib. “I have to have the mohair outfit and the boots. He can take her to the penitentiary if he wants, but I need her clothes . It’s a twenty-thousand-dollar loss if I have to go over a day. Please, Goldy. Please. I’m begging you.”

The things we do for clients . I headed back to Boyd and conveyed Hanna’s request. Yvonne was crumpled against the door, whimpering. I resisted the urge to slap her face.

Boyd held up the jar. “Salt, she says. But we gotta have it analyzed anyway. She admitted some guy named Litchfield is paying her. She wants to stay and finish modeling for the day. I told her no way, and I’ve called for transport. Department has a unit in Blue Spruce, they’ll be here in about ten minutes.” When I conveyed Hanna’s plea for the garments, he shook his head. “I can’t risk losing her if she changes. She’s gotta wear those clothes. Sorry.”

Hanna’s shoulders slumped when I told her. “Get Rustine into the Go-Gear Ski outfit,” she snapped at the stylist. To me, she snarled, “Clean up the food and then go see if you can help Rustine. And lunch will have to be at two. We must complete this catalog today.” Hey , I wanted to shout, your model sabotaged my food! This is not my fault!

The harried powwow that followed centered on whether the orange ski outfit would work with Rustine’s hair, and whether or not they should move the shot inside. Two uniformed policemen appeared as Julian and I were clearing the buffet; they took the plate with the cottage cheese ring into evidence. I felt a great weight lift off my shoulders as Boyd left with Yvonne and the officers.

I scooped up the last French toast platter and started back toward the kitchen. Julian appeared and asked if I thought the clients would be wanting more coffee. I looked around. Across the cabin, Hanna and the day-workers were squabbling over photographs in the loose-leaf notebook. Rufus and Ian were arguing about the equipment. Bobby caught my eye and waved madly.

“Hey, I get it!” he cried. “That first day you were watching me undress, you weren’t interested in my bod! Were you, Goldy? You’re like, undercover , right? Is that why you were over at that old guy’s house right after he died? Snooping around? Trying to find out what happened? Cool!”

To Julian, I muttered that we didn’t need more coffee. I gripped the platter and wondered, for at least the tenth time since I’d come on this shoot, What is the deal with Bobby? No wonder Leah felt her twenty-four-year-old half-brother wouldn’t be able to survive on his own—his immaturity seemed to guarantee long-term failure.

Bobby crowed, “So, Miss Caterer Lady, didja find anything at Andre’s place?”

I stacked cups on the platter and realized I should be making some snappy comment. Or maybe I should have put down my load and held up my hands as in Who? Me? But I was embarrassed and suddenly insecure at the silence and the fact that everyone in the front room was staring openly at me. Could they guess how close Bobby had unwittingly come with his stupid questions? Could they imagine I’d ransacked a dead man’s condo until I found his salamander and crowbar?

“Would you bring me some coffee?” Rustine simpered as she floated past me toward the dressing room. “With nonfat nondairy?”

“I’d like some, too,” Hanna announced imperiously as she marched along behind Rustine. “Black. We’ll be in the hair and makeup room.”

“Sure,” I replied, glad to have a reason to scoot back to the kitchen. Luckily, Julian had made an extra pot of coffee. “I need to get out of here,” I told him. “And I’m glad you’re here, because I am sick to death of these people.”