Prime Cut

“It’s going to be okay,” I assured him, feigning confidence. “No matter how it comes out. Especially after all that’s happened … please, Julian. Listen. I couldn’t have gotten this far without you. I’m very appreciative of your help.”

“Thank me when you get the booking.”

Sylvia Bevans trundled out the museum’s service door just as we began to unpack the van. She wore a lace- trimmed powder-blue linen suit and squat powder-blue heels. “We were very upset to hear about Andre,” she announced, her voice quavering. Her pale, rheumy eyes regarded me as I heaved up a box. “I know you must be devastated.”

“He was my teacher, Sylvia.”

“Yes. Well, life does go on, doesn’t it?” Her dismissive wave said: Back to work, no time to grieve. Well, we would see about that.

“You mentioned to Julian that Andre wanted a photocopy of a cookbook.”

“Yes, Goldy, but he never came to get it.” She exhaled impatiently. “You don’t suppose the little episode Andre had here in the museum contributed to his demise, do you?”

“Sylvia, I don’t know.” I handed Julian a box. “Sometimes severe heart attacks are preceded by mild ones.”

She sniffed. Then, insincerely, she added, “I am sorry we couldn’t cancel the tasting because of Andre’s death. It would have been more respectfull. But the next time these busy women could all meet together was after the Soiree had taken place. Now please pay attention, Goldy, I must tell you about the events of the morning. Edna Hardcastle and Weezie Harrington have arrived. Marla Korman has not. Also, your competitor is here.” She indicated the brand-new cream-colored Upscale Appetite van by the kitchen door. She pursed her mouth and reconsidered. “And you can tell that husband of yours that the sheriff’s department refuses to discuss The Practical Cook Book.” She marched away as Julian returned.

He opened his eyes wide. “She didn’t seem happy.”

I hoisted the platter of bread puddings. “She never does.”

Once we’d hauled our cache into the Homestead kitchen, Julian busied himself with the grill while I set about unpacking the foodstuffs, or trying to. Unfortunately, Upscale Appetite bags, boxes, and platters occupied ninety percent of the available counterspace. Craig Litchfield—dressed today in star-patterned pants and a dapper tan chef’s jacket—swaggered in from the dining room. He refused to acknowledge my presence.

“Excuse me,” I said stiffly. He did not respond. “Please,” I tried again, “could you move some of your stuff? We need a bit of space.”

“We? I thought this was supposed to be a solo operation for both of us. How many helpers did you bring?”

“Just one. And no one told me we had to work alone.”

He scowled disapprovingly, but said nothing, as if he couldn’t be bothered to scold me for a gross infraction of rules every real caterer already knew. Then he pulled a sheet of diagonally sliced egg rolls out of the oven and slithered through the door to the dining room. They looked good. I glanced down at my watch: just after ten o’clock. We weren’t supposed to begin serving until eleven-thirty. What was he doing? And where was the committee?

As if in answer, the lilting voices of Weezie Harrington and Edna Hardcastle floated out to the kitchen.

“Oh, yum! Craig, you doll!” cried Weezie. “You’re going to put this recipe in the newspaper? Fantastic!”

Doggone it. I wedged my greens into the crowded refrigerator. Why was Marla not here at the Homestead with her committee? And what was I supposed to do: appear empty-handed in the dining room ninety minutes before serving time? I glared at a framed article on the dingy kitchen wall. It was a July 1915 issue of the New York Times proclaiming that gunmen had held up a Yellowstone stagecoach. I sighed and forced myself to put on a cheery visage as I walked into the dining room.

Edna Hardcastle, her tight curls as gray as the inside of an aluminum pot, wore a red-checked pantsuit and red-and-white spectator pumps. She held a glass of fizzy champagne aloft. For some reason, my entry made her glance guiltily at the tray of flutes on the sideboard.

“Oh, Goldy, here you are, finally,” cooed Weezie Harrington, brandishing an egg roll. In her early forties, with a trim body and dyed blond hair zinging out in improbable waves, Weezie wore a trio of thin gold necklaces, a tailored lemon-yellow blouse, navy shorts, and navy flats with perky bows. “So glad to see you.” She giggled. “And to see this.” When she snagged a champagne flute from the tray proffered by Craig Litchfield, the enormous diamond ring on her left hand threw off a huge beam of light. What was going on with the booze? Not only was the champagne illegal—this was government property, after all, and our dispensation to serve wine was only good the night of the Soiree itself—but drinking was strictly banned under the terms of our tasting party. Craig Litchfield whisked past and set his tray down. I looked to Sylvia Bevans for direction, but she was showing Edna Hardcastle the damage to the display cases wrought by Gerald Eliot’s killer.

“Hello, everybody!” called Leah Smythe as she breezed in. Unlike the preppily dressed committee members, Leah wore black pedal pushers, a black shell, and large, modernistic silver jewelry. She fluffed her streaked coal- and-gold hair with one hand and dropped her oversized leather sac on the floor. Tall, blond Yvonne, the model I’d last seen a week ago at the first P & G fashion shoot, hovered behind her.

“Check out Yvonne’s shirt, ladies!” Leah exclaimed as she stepped to one side and pointed theatrically. One thing I had begun to wonder about models: Didn’t they have last names? I’d met Rustine, Bobby, Peter, and Yvonne, and the only last name I’d heard was Whitaker, for Bobby. Yvonne mutely cocked a narrow hip and lofted an arm to better show her forest green sweatshirt. Leah declared, “We’re going to sell them at the door. Catchy, no?” The shirt was emblazoned with the white silhouette of a buck elk’s horned head and the phrase Lawrence Elk Loves The Bubbly!

Craig Litchfield jumped in with: “Oh, my God, that’s the best-looking sweatshirt I’ve ever seen.”

Weezie touched her sister’s arm. “You are too creative, Leah,” she gushed. “People will snap them up.”

Edna frowned. “How much will they cost? Will the Welk people sue us? Or demand a cut?”

“Sue us?” said Leah. She winked at her sister. “For what?”

Sylvia Bevans turned to Craig Litchfield and me. “I believe we’re ready to start,” she said frostily. Litchfield grinned, lifted his chin, and shook his shoulders, like a runner eager to start the race.

“Wait a minute.” I pressed my sweaty palms on my apron. “Marla Korman is this committee’s chairperson. The tasting isn’t supposed to start for another hour. She would want us to wait for her. Not only that,” I added boldly, “but no wines were to be served.”

Weezie waved this off. “Goldy, look. We all know Marla’s your friend, but hey, the poor dear’s in an audit. Lord knows when those IRS people will let her go. And we’ve just started drinking a tad of champagne, to celebrate.” She giggled again, then held up the hand with the diamond ring.

“Celebrate what?” I asked, but she ignored me.

“Marla will be along,” Edna Hardcastle said sweetly, adjusting the belt on her red suit. She looked slightly apologetic. “We know it’s early. We’ll make allowances for that.”

“But we have to wait for Marla,” I said stubbornly.

Sylvia Bevans moved so close to me I could smell her lavender talcum powder. “I don’t know when Marla is coming, Goldy. I only know this party has already been postponed once because of you, and the other chef who was supposed to come is dead. We’ve got a group of fourth graders coming at one o’clock and you need to be out by then. We must stop talking and get cracking. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sylvia,” I said in my most placating tone. “Absolutely.” I glanced at Craig Litchfield’s confident smirk, then wished I had not.

I sailed back to the kitchen and out the service entrance.

“Julian, forget the grill,” I said tersely. “They’re starting now. We’ll have to broil the fish and not serve the polenta.”

Julian swallowed a curse and tossed water on the smoky coals to put out the fire. Like me, he’d learned that in food and client situations, argument is fruitless.