Prime Cut

half the estimate a hardware store employee I’d called had given when he’d come by to reckon what repairing Gerald Eliot’s damage would cost. And then there were the costs of Arch’s tuition if The Jerk didn’t pay; footing the bill for the free tasting party; keeping the larder stocked for the family. Add to this only a few hundred that might come in as an extra gratuity from Weezie’s party and the Hardcastle reception, and financial disaster loomed depressingly large.

When I poured tall glasses of ice water, my stomach rumbled. Never worry about money when you’re hungry, I’d learned during my lean post-Jerk days. Luckily, deliciously scented grill smoke was curling into the kitchen. I peeked through the back door. Tom had thawed the last of our jumbo shrimp and skewered them with fresh vegetables and fruit. The man was incorrigible.

Ten minutes later, the four of us were digging into tender grilled shrimp, hot, juicy pineapple, and dark, crunchy onion. I murmured thanks to Tom; he squeezed my hand. While we ate, Julian and I filled him in on what had happened at the Homestead: the report and the denial of Andre’s illness, Sylvia’s distress, Rufus’s tales of Gerald Eliot’s mess at the cabin. I peppered Tom with questions: Had Eliot been seeing a woman? Specifically, had he been seeing Rustine the model? Had they found other Eliot clients who might have been willing to kill him? Tom said his buddies at the department were questioning Cameron Burr, Leah Smythe, a country-club couple in the middle of a North Atlantic cruise, and the Montessori School people, where the directress had changed since Eliot had redone a bathroom there. The investigators hadn’t been able to find other clients of Eliot’s who still lived in Aspen Meadow. All those folks, according to neighbors, had had their houses finished by other remodelers, and moved away. Tom asked if I’d obtained a last name for Rustine. I replied in the negative.

“They’re looking into Eliot’s social life,” Tom told us. “He prided himself on being a bachelor. Was frequently seen getting hammered at the Grizzly Saloon. I’ll call Boyd, see if any more evidence has turned up at Burr’s place. Maybe they’ve found the last two cookbooks, but they just haven’t told Sylvia Bevans. Maybe they won’t tell me either.”

“Look at it this way,” I reasoned, “what if we found out Cameron didn’t kill Eliot? Which he didn’t, of course. It could help to clear you, since you didn’t want to arrest him for the murder in the first place.”

Arch and Julian exchanged a look. Tom said, “Who’s we, woman? I’m suspended and you’ve got your hands full trying to hold your business together.”

I helped myself to the last succulent shrimp. “It’s just not fair that Fuller gets to do a shoddy job, then blames you.”

“You’re reaching, Goldy. Besides, it’s Fuller’s show now. If I go around asking lots of background questions, and it gets back to him, he’ll claim interference. It’ll work against the investigation into me.”

“I bet that creep Litchfield who’s harassing Goldy had something to do with it,” Julian said defiantly. “Where was he the night Eliot was strangled? What if he knew about Eliot redoing Goldy’s kitchen and wanted to get rid of him, so Goldy’s kitchen stays a mess? Then, as a bonus, Goldy’s business falls flat because she hasn’t got a kitchen, Tom gets into trouble, and she has to sell out?”

“Now you’re really reaching,” Tom murmured.

“Andre did say someone had put pickles in his crab cakes,” I added, “and I found a hair in the food he served on Monday—a very unlikely mistake for him to make. Food sabotage is a long way from murder, though.”

“Don’t go off on some investigative campaign, you two,” Tom warned Julian and me.

“We’ll never even mention your name,” I vowed.

“That is not reassuring,” Tom observed.

Saturday I woke up disoriented, with a vague sense of dread. I stared at the clock. Seven o’clock. Downstairs, Tom was already sawing away on his mysterious project.

The phone rang. One of Tom’s co-workers returning his calls about the evidence? No: I suddenly remembered where I was going at ten this morning. To the jail. With Arch. To visit The Jerk. Maybe this was The Jerk calling now, from the cell block pay phone.

“Goldilocks’ Catering—” I began, but whoever it was hung up. I didn’t have caller ID. But at least I’d put a password on my computer.

I stretched my way through my yoga routine and pulled on a skirt and blouse. Arch met me downstairs, already dressed for his jail visit in dark jeans and an oxford-cloth shirt. On the kitchen table, a large platter of golden homemade biscuits had been stacked on a china platter next to a bowl of what looked like strawberry jam. Next to these delicacies was a note from Julian.

Gone to swim laps. New Southern biscuit recipe. Taste the strawberry conserve. Call the lifeguard at the rec if you need me today. J.

Arch bit into a conserve-slathered biscuit. Mouth full, he mumbled, “All I know is, Julian sure works hard for a guy who’s dropped out of college.”

“Yes, he does. He’s just … trying to prove himself, I think.” I sliced a biscuit and spooned on some conserve. The biscuit was light and flaky, the conserve tangy and filled with warm chunks of fresh strawberry. Heavenly. I fired up the espresso machine and told myself maybe this wouldn’t be too bad a day after all.

“All right!” Tom announced himself heartily as he banged up from the basement. His arms were laden with wooden panels, rolls of paper, and two large paper bags. “Time for you to see what your new kitchen is going to look like.” While Arch and I gave him puzzled looks, he paused and bowed. “Mrs. Schulz, this suspended cop is pleased to announce a metamorphosis. Meet your new contractor: Tom Schulz, kitchen builder extraordinaire.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“First,” Tom continued, undaunted by my bafflement, “cabinets. Voila!” He placed a two-foot-by-one-foot cabinet door in front of the cans and glasses cluttering the counter. “You always told me you wanted solid cherry, Miss G. So here you go.”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded.

Tom sighed. “Just tell me if you like it.” I eyed the dark, smooth, cleanly detailed door. It was gorgeous.

“I like it,” Arch volunteered.

“Well, good.” Tom slapped sawdust off his hands. “While your mom’s deciding, take a look at this flooring.” He pulled several slats of wood from his mountain of supplies and pushed them together. “White oak. Select. It’ll lighten up the dark of the cherry.” His green eyes regarded me, begging for approval. “You like it?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. A voice in the back of my brain screamed: This is madness. How in the world are we going to pay for this?

“And now,” said Tom, with a Houdini flourish, “marble countertops.” He brought out a pale, gray-veined rectangle of stone. “Buddy of mine works for a granite fabricator,” he explained. “We were in the army together and I got the Saigon Special.” He placed the stone with its glints of silver next to the cherry cabinet door.

“Tom—” I began.

He straightened and put his arm around me. “Don’t say no. You’ve been wanting a new kitchen for a long time. You deserve one. Let me give it to you.”

“No.”

“And I took out a loan on my cabin.” He continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “Line of equity, actually. If I start the kitchen today, I should be done by the time they let me go back to work.”

“Tom, I have three bookings in the next week. I have to have a place to cook. What you’re talking about is too expensive and too much hassle. Please. Don’t do it.”

He kissed my cheek and gave me a wide grin. “Don’t worry, Miss G. I thought of your cooking needs already. I’m going to drape everything with plastic, set you up in the dining room, no sweat.”

I sank into a kitchen chair. “Please, Tom, what you’re talking about is a remodeling, not a repair. I would have to close. If the county health inspector came by, which he could at any time night or day, I’d be dead.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve already taken out a building permit! If the county health inspector can’t be bothered to stop by, that’s his problem!” Tom said with mock huffiness. “Besides, I’ve ordered everything. You wouldn’t believe how fast some people will move for a cop. The only thing you need to pick out is a window treatment for your bay window and back windows.”

“Tom! What back windows? For that matter, what bay