Prime Cut

“So where are we headed?” Julian asked once we were all in his Range Rover and he was driving us toward Main Street, ten minutes later.

“To the Smythe Peak Open Space area,” Tom replied. “I’ll direct you.”

A cluster of blush-rose clouds rimmed the horizon as the summertime sun slowly sank. I bit the inside of my cheek as we passed the ornately carved entry to the Dragon’s Breath Chinese restaurant. Back at home, I had left a note for Arch under the front doormat, our agreed-upon spot for messages. Gone out for a picnic dinner, just in case you get home first. Home by eight. Please stay on the porch with your friend. I doubted Lettie’s dad would approve of a fourteen-year-old boy inviting his daughter up to his bedroom to see his ham radio equipment.

Rustine, who sat next to Julian, turned around to smile at Tom and me. She was so pretty, so perfectly made up, so disarmingly clothed in what I usually considered underwear, that it was challenging to come up with casual chatter, much less a friendly interrogation.

She said matter-of-factly, “You must be freaked out about Chef Andre. That day you worked with him and gave me the coffee? I didn’t know he was your teacher. Julian told me. And to think he died in that same kitchen … spooky.”

I frowned. Was she offering sympathy? How was I supposed to respond to freaked out? We whizzed past the library and headed out of town. “Did you … get to know Andre at all during the shoot?”

She shrugged her bare shoulders. “He seemed … a little weird, you know. But real lovable.”

I glanced at Julian, who was frowning at the road. Given the nature of Rustine’s alleged relationship with the late Gerald Eliot, I wondered how she defined lovable. “Oh,” I commented knowingly, “Andre had his ways. But when you say weird, do you mean eccentric? How was he … during the shoot?”

“Well,” she said, “like if anybody put salt on food before tasting it, he had a fit. One time Ian blasted Rufus to go get him some soy sauce from the kitchen. That didn’t go over very well with Andre, who yelled that Rufiis was an imbecile.” She giggled. “Rufus really isn’t very smart, but he hates it when people draw attention to it.” Her tone turned mock-serious. “And you can’t imagine how upset Andre got when some catsup got poured into a raspberry sauce he’d made for a cake, or some pickle ended up on his seafood stuff. Plus,” she added resignedly, “some people just have bad manners. You know, they stick their fingers instead of vegetables into bowls of dip. So Chef Andre would get after us in the hygiene department. Anyway, with all that butter and anger, it’s no wonder he had a heart attack.”

My heart ached. She could be right. So why was I so convinced there was something amiss about Andre’s sudden death? I glanced at Tom. His face was expressionless. His cop face, Arch liked to call it. “Ah, Rustine?” I asked innocently. “Have you had much experience with other caterers on modeling jobs?”

“Ha!” she chortled. “Usually it’s cold cuts and iceberg lettuce followed by brownies.” She shuddered. “Andre was the best we’d ever had. Ian’s always made plenty of money to spend on catering. But he hasn’t exactly been generous about spreading it around. Or in treating his helpers or the models very well.”

“That’s too bad,” I murmured sympathetically, myself a veteran of a cheapskate ex-husband. “What do you suppose changed his mind this time?”

“Oh, having Andre was probably Leah’s idea. She tries to smooth out old chintzy Ian’s rough spots.”

“Turn at the next right,” Tom ordered Julian as we approached the flashing yellow light by the You-Snag-Em, We-Bag-Em Trout Farm.

“So …” I didn’t want to jump right into asking about Ian and Leah; that would surely seem nosy. “Have you known Ian long?”

“Two years. Ian noticed me when he was shooting an ad at the athletic club. He recommended that I audition as a model, and mentioned a couple of agencies in Denver. I hooked up with one.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“The money is super. But the work’s hard, and it’s off-the-charts stressful.”

“Because of not being able to eat?”

Rustine turned around so abruptly I was startled. “For us, our bodies, our faces, the bookings we get, the money we make … it’s our whole lives. We get a zit, it’s a disaster. We gain a pound, we’re on the phone to Kevorkian, you know?”

“I guess I don’t,” I murmured.

“Plus the jealousy, if we don’t get chosen for a shoot?” She rolled her eyes, “Eats us alive. And then you see what’s coming: One day, it’s just over. A model goes in for a cattle call, sure of a booking with a client they’ve worked for for years. The client says, ‘We can’t use you anymore.’ Believe me, you don’t want to be around when that news breaks. I’ve seen it happen, and it’s not pretty.”

“Is that what was going on the day I was there? With Leah’s half-brother Bobby?”

“Oh,” she said with forced vagueness, “who knows? Bobby has an in because of Leah.” She made a noise to indicate her disgust. “It really stinks. You think the world’s fair, and then you see old potbellied, red-eyed Bobby get a job, and you know it isn’t.”

Tom gave me an exasperated look. Guess he didn’t approve of my interrogation methods. I went on: “Do you … have much time for … you know, hobbies, extracurricular activities, schoolwork, whatever, between shoots?”

Rustine didn’t reply. I glanced at Julian, who scowled into the rearview mirror. Guess he didn’t approve of my interrogation methods, either.

“Take the next driveway on the right,” Tom instructed.

We chugged along. Rustine’s hands tightened on the dashboard. The next driveway on the right led to the house of Mr. and Mrs. Cameron Burr.

At the end of the rutted drive, I expected to see the bright yellow police ribbons that usually marked a crime scene, but there were none. A stocky uniformed policeman sitting in front of the guest house got to his feet and lumbered to the car. Julian powered down the window.

“Schulz?” The cop’s voice was surprisingly high and querulous. His dark eyes swept the interior of the car. He lifted his chin in acknowledgment of Tom. “Yeah, you were right,” he observed laconically before walking heavily back to his perch on the deck.

“Right about what? What’s going on?” Rustine asked as her eyes followed the policeman. “I thought we were going on a picnic. Isn’t that what you said?” she demanded of Julian. Julian shrugged and glanced at Tom.

“We can still have dinner outdoors,” Tom said amicably. “You can drive over to the Open Space picnic area now, big J.”

Julian torqued the wheel. The Rover rocked down the Burrs’ driveway.

“Okay, let’s see,” said Tom when we were out on the two-lane road once again. “A week ago, about here,” he pointed out the window, “the officer we just met saw a red-haired woman scavenging along this road. It was in the late afternoon of the day after Gerald Eliot’s body was found at the house we just left. I called the cop back there to see if he’d take a look at you, see if he could identify you as the one searching through the grass.”

Rustine exhaled. Her beautiful eyes remained locked on the road.

“I can’t arrest you, Rustine.” Tom’s voice was gentle. “Can’t even take you in for questioning. But there are a couple of things that have my curiosity up. One report tells us you were going out with this fellow Eliot before someone murdered him. Then you were seen near here, right after Goldy found Eliot’s body. You were obviously looking for something. Now you’re hanging around us, with your we-just-ran-into-Julian line. You want to satisfy my curiosity?”

Chapter 16

“I don’t have to talk to you, you know,” she said defensively, still refusing to look at him.

“You’re right, you don’t. And I’m not accusing you of anything.” Tom maintained his calm, soothing tone. “I’m