Prime Cut

When Tom heard us drive in, he put his special crumb-covered crab cakes into the oven. As soon as we had our boxes unpacked and ourselves cleaned up, we were digging into hot, crispy, divinely spicy little cakes. I said a prayer of thanks that I had such a wonderfull husband … and that fish, owing to a doctor’s warning that he wasn’t getting close to enough protein, was now occasionally included in Julian’s diet. We raved over the crab cakes and had seconds. I stretched the truth and said the tasting party hadn’t been too bad. Just as I was actually beginning to forget the wretched day I’d had, however, the lights flickered, went out, then flickered on again. Tom announced he had to check the fuses. He’d been working on the kitchen’s electrical outlets during the day, he told us cheerfully.

I rinsed our dishes and told Julian he had to take a break. What I didn’t say was that if he wanted to cure the loneliness he’d felt so keenly in college, he needed to go out and make friends. Hopefully friends of the female variety. Thanks to my experience with Arch, however, I’d learned long ago not to give advice to young people. The lights flickered and went out. Great. I wondered how we’d manage to prep Weezie’s party in the morning without electricity.

The lights came back on. Then they went out again. “It’s okay!” Tom called from the basement. “I’ve turned the power off!”

“No problem!” I called back cheerily, then groaned.

“Where’s Arch?” Julian asked. He glanced anxiously around the kitchen space, as if he couldn’t bear a moment with nothing to do.

“In town,” Tom supplied as he returned with a handful of tools. He frowned at the first set of electrical outlets. “Having hot dogs with a couple of eighth graders in front of the Grizzly Saloon. If you’re wanting company, they’d probably enjoy chatting with a college student.”

“Tom,” I reprimanded when Julian banged out the front door. “That wasn’t very sensitive.”

He put down his screwdriver and frowned at the outlet. “Sorry. But the kid has to kick back a litlle. AU he does is work, with occasional bursts of so-called relaxation when he swims a hundred laps all by his lonesome. I only said he should walk into town and maybe meet up with Arch. It’ll be good for him. Besides, I need to talk to you.”

“We do need to talk,” I agreed. I pulled unsalted butter and eggs out of the dark refrigerator. “But I lied about the electricity being no problem. If you’re done with those outlets, I need you to turn the power back on so I can make Weezie’s birthday cake.”

To avoid another disagreement, he trundled off silently to do as bidden. The lights blinked back on as I readied my recipe for orange poppy seed cake, Weezie’s favorite.

On his return, Tom pulled out a metal tape measure and extended it across the floor with a clinging thwack.

“Speaking of lying,” I said casually, “how did the polygraph go?”

“Ah, so you ferreted that out. Well, don’t know yet about the results. But I did speak to Sheila about the autopsy. Looks like Andre somehow burned himself, had some chest pain, then took an overdose of his nitroglycerin, maybe because he was confused. Apparently, he was extremely sensitive to the nitro. I know you know how nitroglycerin works, opens the blood vessels to the heart. He took too much and his blood pressure crashed. The cops interviewed the photo people. Everyone at Ian’s Images feels bad. They claim to have loved Andre.”

“Right.” But of course none of this was right. On Friday, the paramedics had mentioned that Andre’s sensitivity to his medication had made him reluctant to take any, even at the first sign of symptoms. On the other hand, maybe these symptoms had been much worse, and he had indeed become confused…. “What caused the burn marks?” I asked.

Tom snapped the measure; it slithered back into its chrome housing. “The guys who secured the scene couldn’t find a pan or burner that exactly matched the curve of the burns on Andre’s hands. They found his empty bottle of medication. But there’s no indication of foul play, and it’s not a suspicious death. So they’re not going to pursue it.” He cracked the tape across the floor the other way. “End of story.”

I sifted flour and shook my head. “Come on, Tom. On Friday Andre’s his usual temperamental self. The following Monday he uncharacteristically burns himself with no-one-knows-what, then takes an overdose of a medication to which he knows he’s extremely sensitive? And Sheila says that’s the end of the story?” I set the beater to whip the egg whites. Delicately scented strands of orange zest curled onto my cutting board as I reminded myself that Tom was not the enemy.

He finished his measuring and scribbled numbers into his trusty spiral notebook. “Sheila’s not done, of course, but she’s probably going to rule the death an accident. They’ve put one investigator on it and he agrees.” He pocketed his measure and notebook and enclosed me in a bear hug. “I thought you should know. I’m not saying it’s right.”

“Well, it isn’t.”

As he traipsed back down into the depths of the basement, I scraped the light, seed-specked batter into a buttered pan and set it in the oven. The kitchen clock indicated it was exactly four o’clock. After a moment’s hesitation, I reached for the phone and punched in the number of the morgue. I counted it a blessing that I was only put on hold four times while waiting to get through to Sheila O’Connor.

“Listen,” I began breathlessly after identifying myself. “Andre was extremely careful about his pills. And I think it’s really odd that he would have burned himself —”

“Goldy, please. You always think that something’s suspicious—”

“No, please,” I interrupted, although I knew Sheila’s scenario of burn, symptoms, overdose, hypotension, death, was not impossible. I took a deep breath. “I was at a tasting party today, a contest between caterers for a big booking. Andre was supposed to be there, but he wasn’t, of course. He probably would have won. The other caterer, Craig Litchfield, is a real scumbag.”

“Goldy, I’m not the one—”

I took another steadying breath, inhaling the tart-sweet orange scent, and ordered myself to be patient. “But you are the one, Sheila. If you rule Andre’s death an accident, no one at the department will do anything. Tom’s not allowed to poke around. He certainly doesn’t want me to go out to the cabin to nose around the kitchen—”

“You’d better not,” she cautioned.

“So when was the last time anyone out at the cabin saw Andre alive?”

“Friday. Andre called Rufus Driggle on Sunday night and asked to be let in early to do some prep work. Rufus opened the gate for him at about seven, and then left to get film. The cabdriver confirms the gate was open when they arrived. When Rufus came back at nine, Andre was already dead.”

“And Pru didn’t tell you he’d burned himself over the weekend?”

“Nope. I asked her specifically.”

“Is anybody at Ian’s Images admitting they were out at the cabin early Monday?”

“No.”

“All right then, listen to this,” I went on urgently. “Within an hour of Pru leaving the morgue, Craig Litchfield practically broke down her door, trying to buy Andre’s client list and recipe book. The guy is bad news, Sheila. I wouldn’t put anything past him. Where was Litchfield early Monday morning when Andre died? Has anybody asked?”

“Goldy, look. I like you and trust you. So I’m going to tell you that Craig Litchfield called Andy Fuller yesterday and complained that you should be investigated. I only know because Andy ran it by me. I told him it was nonsense, just sour grapes from one of your competitors. But Litchfield said you can’t deal with competition. He told Andy about some incident with a cake plate?” I groaned. “Litchfield claims you were at the Hibbard house yourself trying to get the clients and the recipes, and that you knew Andre’s schedule, so you had the means, motive, and opportunity to kill him.”

Stunned, I was speechless for a moment. “Sheila, you know I went to be with Pru. And Andre’s always given me all the recipes I’ve ever asked for. Fuller can’t, the department can’t—”

“Of course not, and that’s exactly what I told him. But you see how it looks. So if you’d rather not be investigated as the leading suspect in a homicide case, you’d better let me close the books on Andre Hibbard’s