Prime Cut

flavorful chicken pieces, then sliced the beef into thin wedges and mixed it with a spicy vinaigrette. At seven, Julian joined me and mixed flour with yeast and buttermilk to make hot rolls to go with the salads. Arch took off for another walk with Jake. Tom announced he was going for his breakfast with Boyd, where he hoped to hear about the latest Andy Fuller shenanigans. Julian and I were happily engaged in our work until just past ten o’clock, when the phone rang. I scooped it up and gave my business greeting.

“This is Dr. Sheila O’Connor, the coroner. Goldy—” Her voice cracked.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” I replied calmly. At the last minute, clients often fear the caterer will forget to show up. “Don’t panic. I’m just putting it all together.”

She cleared her throat. “We have a body with only a tentative identification.”

I made wrapping motions to Julian and pointed to the salads on the counter. “So do you want me later —”

“This … man had no driver’s license, performed no military service,” Sheila said. After wrapping the salads, Julian pointed to the cardboard boxes; I nodded. “We don’t have any fingerprints. There aren’t any dental records.” I exhaled and watched Julian fold in the cardboard flaps. Sheila continued, “And his next of kin can’t do the ID we need. On the body, I mean. This man’s wife—widow—is blind.”

The floor under my feet shifted. I stumbled toward a chair and sat down. I whispered, “What?”

“Goldy, we need you here at the morgue. To identify the body,” Sheila repeated. “We believe the dead man’s your teacher, Andre Hibbard.”

Chapter 11

“Pru.” I was clutching the phone so hard my fingers hurt. “His wife. Where is she?”

“She felt she had to come down here, and she’s on her way. Her nurse is bringing her.” Sheila’s voice had become businesslike. “Goldy, I’m terribly sorry to have to ask you to help us. Nobody here seemed to know who else to call.”

“You’re not sure it’s Andre.”

“We’re pretty sure.” No hesitation. “The arriving crew found him in the Merciful Migrations cabin kitchen this morning. Looks as if he had a massive coronary.”

“A heart attack,” I said dully.

“We won’t know until the autopsy is done. But we can’t do what we need to do until a family member or someone who knew him well identifies the body.” She paused. “Please forgive me. Usually we use fingerprints or dental records or a relative, but none of those are available. His wife said to call you, that you lived nearby and used to work for him.”

“I’m sure there’s been a mistake. When I get there, I can clear it up.”

Sheila hesitated. “Is Tom there?”

“No. Just this … a young man who works for us.”

Sheila said, “Please come, Goldy. I can explain what we know once you get here.”

“Jeez, Goldy, what’s wrong?” Julian wanted to know. “You look terrible. Has something happened to Arch? Has the booking been canceled?”

“No, I … no.”

His dark eyes searched my face. “Look, Goldy, if the booking fell through, I can take this food to Aspen Meadow Christian Outreach. We’ll find some more jobs. Come on.” He ran water into a glass and set it on the table in front of me. “Come on. Drink this. I’m going to call Tom.”

“He’s … having breakfast. With Boyd.”

“No, no, actually he isn’t. That’s just where he wants you to think he is.” Julian hesitated. “Look, don’t get mad at him, okay? He’s having a polygraph today. About the conflict he’s having with that assistant district attorney who thinks he knows everything.”

I stared at the water glass. A polygraph. Tom didn’t think he could tell me.

“Andre … my teacher. He’s dead, Julian. He had a heart attack. They need me to come down to the morgue.” I gripped my old oak table. This was just a mistake. A stupid error.

Julian snagged the cellular phone from its charger, stuffed it into his pocket, and assumed a calm, pastoral tone. “I’ll pack the Rover and then honk from the driveway.”

When he beeped not long afterward, I numbly walked outside. This is just a stupid error, I kept telling myself. It’s not Andre. There’s been an awful mistake.

Less than an hour later, I took a deep breath and prayed for strength as Dr. O’Connor led frail, bent Pru Hibbard, her nurse, and me down the hall to the morgue’s work area. Pru wore a faded pink cashmere sweater and matching skirt, along with a strand of pearls that matched her hair. Her caregiver, a waxy-skinned, thin-lipped older woman with broad shoulders and short, dark hair, nodded at me.

“I’m Wanda Cooney.” Her voice was clear but low. “We can talk more later.”

The four of us walked through the door toward where I was to do the ID. Dr. O’Connor drew back a curtain on metal rings.

I swallowed. There hadn’t been a mistake.

Andre’s body was covered to the shoulders with a sheet. His cheeks were no longer pink, but gray. The small portion of his white shirt that showed was cruddy with dust. His silvery hair was matted.

“Yes.” My voice sounded like someone else’s. “It is Andre Hibbard.” I turned to Pru. “Are you all right?”

Pru’s watery blue eyes wandered around the makeshift cubicle. Her lower lip trembled. She said, “I want to go.” Without waiting for me to respond, Wanda slowly guided Pru away.

I turned back to look at Andre’s immobile face, then at Sheila. “Can’t you tell me anything more about what happened?”

“We needed the ID first.” She moved away from the gurney. “You should go back to the other room.”

“Not yet. Please, tell me something, Sheila. What was he doing when he had the attack? Was he alone?”

“Rufus Driggle called us,” Sheila murmured. “Andre had phoned to see if he could come early to do some prep work. Driggle opened the gate for the taxi at seven. Driggle didn’t stay because he had to go into Denver for film. When he came back at nine, he found Andre on the kitchen floor. When he couldn’t rouse him, he phoned the sheriff’s department.”

I touched the sheet. “How did Andre get so dirty? His clothes? His apron?”

“From falling on a floor, Goldy.” She cocked her head. “Mrs. Hibbard confirms he had a history of heart problems, that that’s why he quit the restaurant. He was on Lanoxin, to amplify his heartbeat. We’ll get his medical file, see if his condition has been worsening lately.”

Andre. I swallowed. “This past Friday he had some symptoms while he was at the Homestead, where he was catering. The paramedics came out and gave him a clean bill of health. Andre swore to me that he was fine.” I shook my head; I should have insisted on catering with him today instead of taking the morgue lunch booking. “He was sixty-five. Vigorous, but—” I stopped, transfixed by something I hadn’t seen earlier. I pointed toward Andre’s hand. “What’s this?”

Sheila leaned in closer. “A burn?”

“No. No way.”

Sheila peered at the curved, inch-long mark on the back of Andre’s left: hand. “Yeah, it’s a burn. Recent.” Her eyes pleaded with me. “Time to go, Goldy.”

I stared at the mark on Andre’s hand. “But,” I protested, “there’s nothing out at that cabin that he could have burned himself on. I mean, not that looked like that.”

Sheila sighed.

I stared at Andre’s right hand, motionless on the gurney. “What’s this?”

Sheila O’Connor reached into her pocket, retrieved a pair of surgical gloves, and snapped them on. She picked up the hand I was pointing to. On the side of the other hand, there was another, smaller dark spot.

“Another burn, looks like. He was a cook, Goldy. You have to trust us. We haven’t started to do our work here yet…. He could have burned himself just before or while he was having the attack. People lose control during a coronary.”