Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

So you got sloshed instead . I looked down at the blinking message machine. “How’s Barbara?”

“Don’t know, need to call the hospital. You making that coffee?”

I trotted out the guest house door. When I rounded the corner of the big A-frame, I heard what sounded like cars starting up Cameron’s driveway. Visitors? I wondered how many cups Cameron’s coffeepot made, and if it would be enough for a slew of guests.

An orange auxiliary power line snaked out of the concrete foundation for the sun room. On the near side, glass of different hues filled the completed windows: one was slightly pink, one gray, one blue. This, Cameron had told me, was the result of Gerald Eliot trying to get a better deal by ordering windows from three different places. On the far side of the sun room, the plastic-swathed framing looked more like a ruin than a building-in-progress.

I took hold of the orange cable and stepped onto the concrete floor. I hopped gingerly over another empty Bacardi bottle, pieces of broken window glass, and several open boxes of nails. The cord wormed over one sawhorse and under another, then disappeared beneath a pile of broken drywall. I yanked on the cord: Chunks of drywall skittered across the floor, as did a jagged piece of cornice molding, a nail gun, rope, measuring tape, boxes of tools, a cutting blade, and glazing material. I finally located the coffeepot and picked it up. Then I dropped it.

Hanging by his blond hair between a pair of studs was Gerald Eliot. His stiff body was clothed in filthy jeans and a bloodied white shirt. His face was dark. His tongue protruded from his mouth.

He was dead.

Chapter 4

I backed up and promptly tripped over a pile of two-by-fours. My hand came down hard on broken glass. Pain snaked up my arm. A fist seemed to be pushing my voice into my throat. From between the studs, Gerald Eliot’s dreadful face and unseeing eyes looked at nothing. Bits of drywall clung to his hair, as if someone had broken a piece of it over his head. His forehead had dark, bloody marks on it and I involuntarily glanced at the nail gun. Oh, God , I prayed, no .

I leapt ungracefully off the subfloor and onto the ground, then cried out as I stumbled over a tree root and landed painfully against the house’s foundation. Where was I going? What was I supposed to do? My rubbery legs would not move. Nor would my brain cooperate. Where was my cellular? I gained my balance and started to run back to the van. Then I stopped.

Two Furman County Sheriff’s Department cars had pulled up beside Cameron Burr’s maroon truck. Assistant District Attorney Andy Fuller and three uniformed deputies slammed out of the first vehicle. Out of the second came my husband, followed by Furman County coroner Dr. Sheila O’Connor and another deputy I did not recognize.

“Tom!” I yelled frantically, then waved my arms. “Here! Tom! It’s Gerald … back there—” I pointed mutely in the direction of the sun room.

Andy Fuller barked an order at Tom: Tom shook his head. What is going on, I wondered. Did they know about Eliot already? With one of the deputies in tow, Andy Fuller strode toward the guest house door. Tom trotted in my direction. He motioned me away from the big house. Dr. O’Connor and another deputy followed Tom at a slower pace. The other two cops grimly surveyed the main house and surrounding property. One pointed toward the Burrs’ garbage receptacle beside the driveway. As they walked toward the trash, the cop who had pointed talked into a radio.

“Goldy.” Tom hugged me. I clasped him like a life preserver. “Goldy, what is it?”

So they didn’t know yet. “Gerald Eliot … He’s … he’s … in the sun room…. He’s …” I choked. “Dead.”

“That’s what we heard. A hiker called in a while ago from a pay phone at the parking lot by the boundary of Furman County Open Space. By the Smythe Peak trailhead.” Tom took a deep breath, then added curtly, “Eliot worked at the museum, where there’s been a break-in. Looks like a botched robbery. The hiker saw Eliot’s body here … hanging up. Is it back there?” His head indicated the rear of the A-frame. I nodded and he frowned. “They’re going to ask what you were doing out here.”

“Bringing Cameron food, then getting his stupid coffeepot and some aspirin from the main house. He was fast asleep when I arrived, and he sent me to get his percolator—”

“We got a complaint that Gerald Eliot and Cameron Burr fought at the Grizzly Saloon last night.” Tom fell silent as Sheila O’Connor, tall, oblong-faced, her black-and-gray hair pulled into a taut ponytail, walked by with the deputy, whom I did not know. We nodded to them. Then Tom continued: “It wasn’t the first time that had happened, but this time Burr brought a window frame into the bar. Apparently he was half in the bag already. Yelled something at Eliot like, Hey! I saw your pickup out front and wondered if you wanted to do a little glass work . We’ve got guys talking to the bartender now. Anyway, Burr threatened Eliot, and Eliot left for his night-guard job at the museum. That was the last time anybody saw Eliot alive.”

“Cameron didn’t do this, Tom. His wife is in the hospital. Please. He couldn’t have. Are you listening to me?”

Tom chewed the inside of his cheek. His green eyes and handsome face filled with concern and worry. “Goldy, we need to get you taken care of. Somebody will ask you questions in a few minutes, then I’ll take you home. I knew you were bringing Burr food today. But I thought you had another job—”

“I just … it was over early.” A wave of shivers washed over me.

“Good God, Goldy, your hand is bleeding.”

Blood dripped from my palm onto the ground. To my amazement, I saw that it had also splattered and smeared up my arm, probably from when I’d tripped over the tree root.

“I fell and hit some glass. I need to get Cameron that aspirin….” While Tom whipped a handkerchief out of his pocket to tie up my wound, my eyes traveled to where Andy Fuller and the remaining uniform were leading Cameron Burr out of the guest house. “Why is Fuller here? And how could a hiker have seen Gerald? I didn’t even see him until I’d spent a few minutes poking around in that mess.”

Tom put his arm around me. “Hold your hand up.” I obeyed and he began to walk with me back to the van. “Fuller thinks he’s going to be a hero in this case, make up for his past mistakes. The guy has political ambitions, Goldy. So he’s got a case of—”

“Case? Case of what? He hasn’t even talked to, to … Hold up.” I fought dizziness. I turned my face toward the sun room: Dr. O’Connor and the deputy stood near Gerald Eliot’s body. A late afternoon breeze swished through the pines near the house, and a pattern of shadows played over the pink window. My vision blurred. I need to get away from here. I need to get Cameron that coffee .

One of the uniforms called to Fuller from the Burrs’ green trash receptacle, piled high with construction debris. A hundred feet from us, Andy Fuller, chin up, hands thrust deep into his trench coat, strode resolutely toward the cop. The thin, metallic blond hair over Andy Fuller’s red scalp shone in the sunlight as he peered down at what the cop had found. Fuller nodded, checked a radio on his belt, then asked the cop for his radio. I knew that the frequency used by the district attorney’s office was different from the one used by sheriff’s department deputies. So Fuller was trying to call a cop. Tom’s radio crackled on his belt. Shaking his head, Tom pulled away from me and tugged out his receiver.

“Looks like the item the curator reported missing from the museum is here.” Fuller’s nasal voice crackled. “Schulz, I need you to come down here and arrest Burr.”