Prime Cut

burned?”

“I didn’t notice anything wrong with his hands, and he didn’t mention them. What is this about?”

I told Mike it was nothing, thanked him, and signed off. When I’d replaced the cell I gripped the wheel. Andre had made custards and muffins ahead of time, gone to work early to do unknown extra work, burned himself before or during a coronary attack, and died. Made perfect sense. I wrenched the wheel to the right and turned into the Blue Spruce Retirement Village.

Wanda had Pru settled in her small blue-and-white sitting room. I offered to make tea. The condo was a tribute to Pru’s love of teapots. Every available table, shelf, and cupboard in the sitting room and kitchen was crowded with teapots: fat and gold-rimmed, slender and blue, pink and detailed, new and antique. I’d been in their home only once before, when Pru and Andre had first moved in and I’d brought over a loaf of oatmeal bread. I veered away from that memory as I found cups, bags of Pru and Andre’s favorite English Breakfast tea, spoons, lemon slices, sugar, cream, and arranged them on a tray with a plain ivory pot.

“Pru, I want to help,” I said, once I’d served her tea and we were settled in the sitting room on plump blue- and-white slipcovered chairs. Wanda Cooney had excused herself to make phone calls. I told Pru about the church and funeral arrangements. She nodded, sipped from her cup, and smoothed the folds in her pink cashmere skirt. The wall above the couch where she sat was crowded with mounted photos of Andre: offering a full-size fudge football to a Denver sportscaster, frosting his renowned Stanley Cupcakes for our triumphant Avalanche. I’d later begged for the recipe; of course, he’d given it to me.

“Thank you for the tea,” Pru murmured, her unseeing eyes fixed on her hands, clasped around her fragile teacup.

I took a deep breath; the doorbell bonged. Wanda’s voice murmured into the phone in the next room. When the bell rang again, I rose to answer it.

Through the peephole I was surprised to see Leah Smythe’s half-brother, Bobby Whitaker. The handsome male model was quickly combing his long, dark curls in anticipation of the door being opened. Unfortunately, Bobby, now dressed in a shiny suit, did not appear much more confident than when he’d been ordered to take off his shirt a week ago.

I opened the door. “Bobby? Why are you here?”

“Ah, are you a relative of the deceased?” he said nervously. He was clutching an expensive raincoat. He did not remember me from the auditions. I told him who I was and why I was there.

“Are you here to see Pru?” I asked, confused. As before, I wondered, what is the deal with this guy?

“Yes, well, I’m with High Creek Realty.” He scooped a business card out of his inner pocket and handed it to me. “We … try to meet the needs of mountain residents. You don’t know if … Mrs. Hib-bard’s going into a nursing home, do you?”

“I thought you were concentrating on modeling.”

“I do both, actually. Modeling and real estate. I’m here to see if Prudence Hibbard wants to sell the condo.”

Anger fizzed through my frayed nerves. “We just got home from the morgue, you idiot.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got a client ready to buy this condo—”

I thrust his card back at him. “Go away.”

“You don’t know if she needs the money,” Bobby objected. He held up his hands in a defensive posture. “Hey, listen to me for a sec. How do you know Mrs. Hibbard doesn’t need the cash that’s tied up in the equity of this place?” The wide shoulders inside the shiny, fashionable suit lifted in a gesture of helplessness.

“Scram,” I said tersely. “Don’t ever come back. And if any more vultures like you show up, I’ll boil them for stew to serve at the next High Creek Realty lunch.”

He backed away. I gripped the door hard. Much as I wanted to slam the heavy wood into its casing, I restrained myself. Pru mustn’t be further upset. Think about Pru, I told myself as my heart hammered. And calm down, I added as I leaned against the closed door. Pull it together for Andre’s sake. After a few moments, loud knocks banged against my head. The doorbell bonged, followed by more rapping. I wrenched the door open. If it was another real estate agent, I would kill him with my bare hands….

It was not a real estate agent.

It was a caterer.

Chapter 12

Craig Litchfield’s hair was neatly coiffed, his handsome face carefully blank. He was dressed in a collarless dark brown shirt and matching pants, the mahogany equivalent of the coal-black outfit muddied by Jake the previous week. Was this a uniform you could get in different colors? I wondered. Did he order it from a catalog?

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. He cocked his head and grinned when I didn’t answer. “What, that big dog of yours got your tongue?”

“I’m here to help Pru Hibbard,” I said in a low voice.

“Oh?” he replied, mock-polite. “May I help her, too?”

“I doubt it.”

He glanced down the row of town houses. “Okay, Goldy. I’ve had enough. Let me in. I’m here for the same reason you are.”

Had I missed something? “What reason? Please. You need to leave. You couldn’t be here for the same reason I am. He was my teacher. And an old friend.”

He bristled. “Let me talk to her.”

“No.”

“I’ll take you to court.”

“For what?”

He reconsidered, then softened the muscles of his handsome face and passed a hand over his helmet of manicured hair. Of course, these conciliatory gestures put me even more on my guard. “I want to offer forty thousand for Andre’s client list, menus, schedules, prices, and recipes. Cash.” He tilted his head, oozing sympathy. “You know you can’t match that. You need to let me see the widow. She might need the money right away, to pay for the funeral, whatever.”

From the sitting room, Pru’s thin voice called my name. I told Litchfield, “I don’t know how you found out Andre had passed away. But I’m going to close this door now. Don’t knock. Don’t come back. If you want, call Pru’s caregiver and set up an appointment with their attorney.”

His face darkened with fury. He put out his foot. But I was too quick for him and slammed the door.

I returned to the sitting room. The telephone had rung and Pru was speaking into it. Wanda Cooney tugged my arm. I followed her into the kitchen. Andre’s gleaming copper pans hung clustered from a thick wrought-iron ring suspended from the ceiling. It was a beautiful, spotless kitchen, lined with pans and teapots that Andre would never saute with or make English Breakfast in again. Tears pricked my eyes.

“Pru will be all right,” Wanda told me. “I’ve called several of her friends. They all want to talk to her or come over.”

My shoulders relaxed with relief. “Thanks.”

“Who was at the door? We’re expecting Monsignor Fields, but he said he couldn’t be here for about an hour.”

“Nobody, really. Just … a couple of creeps wanting to buy the house, Andre’s business, even his recipes. I sent them packing.”

Wanda was incredulous. “How could they have known—?”

“Oh, somebody at the morgue probably gets paid to tip people off. Anyway, they’re gone, so don’t worry. If anybody comes to the door that you don’t know, call the Furman County Sheriff’s Department.” Wanda, speechless, nodded. I glanced into the sitting room. Pru held the phone to her ear, weeping softly. I took a deep breath and asked, “Should I stay?”