Prime Cut

contents into the cottage cheese. I pressed the yellow button. The Polaroid flashed and spit out the picture. Yvonne looked up, glared, and hurried away from the line. But I had her.

“Arrest Yvonne.” My breathless order to Boyd took him by surprise. “I’ve got it, it’s in the picture, she endangered the food supply at a public function.”

Boyd peered at the image slowly clarifying out of the murky film. “Yup.” Laconic guy. But efficient. He had handcuffs in the pocket of his apron. When he swung the door open to the kitchen, Yvonne was scampering out the front door. Boyd rushed forward and grabbed her by a white mohaired wrist. “You have the right to remain silent,” he began tersely. Yvonne slithered up and down, her back to the front door, her eyes wide with fear. “If you don’t hold still,” Boyd warned, “I’m not going to be able to tell you the rest. You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning….”

Time to tell Ian and Hanna what was going on. They were conversing intently, heads together. Rufus and the day-contractors, their mouths agape, watched Boyd cuff Yvonne and talk to her in low tones. Bobby, still appearing impatient, appeared to take no notice.

“There’s been a bit of a problem,” I began, then proceeded to tell Ian and Hanna what I had captured on film.

“That fat caterer is really a cop?” exclaimed Ian, as if I’d just informed him that his elk were all migrating to Mexico. He looked at me incredulously. “That’s why he had a mobile? I thought he got Leah’s ambulance here so quickly because you guys had to be on the lookout for food poisoning!”

When I shrugged, Hanna grabbed my apron bib. “I have to have the mohair outfit and the boots. He can take her to the penitentiary if he wants, but I need her clothes. It’s a twenty-thousand-dollar loss if I have to go over a day. Please, Goldy. Please. I’m begging you.”

The things we do for clients. I headed back to Boyd and conveyed Hanna’s request. Yvonne was crumpled against the door, whimpering. I resisted the urge to slap her face.

Boyd held up the jar. “Salt, she says. But we gotta have it analyzed anyway. She admitted some guy named Litchfield is paying her. She wants to stay and finish modeling for the day. I told her no way, and I’ve called for transport. Department has a unit in Blue Spruce, they’ll be here in about ten minutes.” When I conveyed Hanna’s plea for the garments, he shook his head. “I can’t risk losing her if she changes. She’s gotta wear those clothes. Sorry.”

Hanna’s shoulders slumped when I told her. “Get Rustine into the Go-Gear Ski outfit,” she snapped at the stylist. To me, she snarled, “Clean up the food and then go see if you can help Rustine. And lunch will have to be at two. We must complete this catalog today.” Hey, I wanted to shout, your model sabotaged my food! This is not my fault!

The harried powwow that followed centered on whether the orange ski outfit would work with Rustine’s hair, and whether or not they should move the shot inside. Two uniformed policemen appeared as Julian and I were clearing the buffet; they took the plate with the cottage cheese ring into evidence. I felt a great weight lift off my shoulders as Boyd left with Yvonne and the officers.

I scooped up the last French toast platter and started back toward the kitchen. Julian appeared and asked if I thought the clients would be wanting more coffee. I looked around. Across the cabin, Hanna and the day-workers were squabbling over photographs in the loose-leaf notebook. Rufus and Ian were arguing about the equipment. Bobby caught my eye and waved madly.

“Hey, I get it!” he cried. “That first day you were watching me undress, you weren’t interested in my bod! Were you, Goldy? You’re like, undercover, right? Is that why you were over at that old guy’s house right after he died? Snooping around? Trying to find out what happened? Cool!”

To Julian, I muttered that we didn’t need more coffee. I gripped the platter and wondered, for at least the tenth time since I’d come on this shoot, What is the deal with Bobby? No wonder Leah felt her twenty-four-year-old half-brother wouldn’t be able to survive on his own—his immaturity seemed to guarantee long-term failure.

Bobby crowed, “So, Miss Caterer Lady, didja find anything at Andre’s place?”

I stacked cups on the platter and realized I should be making some snappy comment. Or maybe I should have put down my load and held up my hands as in Who? Me? But I was embarrassed and suddenly insecure at the silence and the fact that everyone in the front room was staring openly at me. Could they guess how close Bobby had unwittingly come with his stupid questions? Could they imagine I’d ransacked a dead man’s condo until I found his salamander and crowbar?

“Would you bring me some coffee?” Rustine simpered as she floated past me toward the dressing room. “With nonfat nondairy?”

“I’d like some, too,” Hanna announced imperiously as she marched along behind Rustine. “Black. We’ll be in the hair and makeup room.”

“Sure,” I replied, glad to have a reason to scoot back to the kitchen. Luckily, Julian had made an extra pot of coffee. “I need to get out of here,” I told him. “And I’m glad you’re here, because I am sick to death of these people.”

“No kidding. It’s almost over, right? Three more hours, and we’ll be done with this place for good.” He slid a tray of miniature quiches—formerly for the Hardcastle reception—into the oven. “And, maybe it’ll rain in the next three hours, too.” He closed the oven door and waved his hands, as if conjuring up a vision. “Picture all the wedding-reception guests at the Hardcastles’ place getting soaking wet as they chomp into soggy cheese puffs. I’ll bet you a thousand bucks Craig Litchfield’s hors d’oeuvre can’t touch ours.”

I grinned, poured the fragrant coffee into a large silver pitcher, clamped the top down, and put it along with nonfat creamer, artificial sweetener, and cups on a tray. But Hanna barred me from entering the door to the hair and makeup room. Inside, Rustine and the hair fellow were shrieking at one another about how Rustine’s French twist should be held in place.

“Not yet with the coffee,” Hanna snarled. “Go get us the barrette stand, would you? Do you know what it looks like, and where it is, in the storage room?” When I nodded, she said, “Then go get it so we can deal with this crisis.”

Crisis? I hoisted the coffee tray, walked to the storage room, and kicked the door open with my foot. Was there anything having to do with a hairdo that could truly constitute a crisis! Sheesh!

I glanced around the room for barrettes. Along the back wall, by an old pole-mounted strobe and Gerald’s broken compressor, a tilted card table was piled with racks of bracelets, necklaces, and earrings. I crossed to it, banged down the coffee tray, and was so intent on pawing through the racks looking for barrettes that I barely heard the storage room door quietly click shut.

“How close were you to old Andre?” Ian Hood asked as he started across the room. “Did he tell you something about this cabin that you felt you had to tell the police? Is that why you brought them here?”

“I—”

But he was already too close. He grabbed for my shoulder; instinctively, I jerked backward. His dark, dark eyes bored into mine. His fingers clamped my arm. He knows, I thought. He’s the one.

“Who else knows?” he demanded.

I scarcely heard him. He had me pushed against a rack of dresses lining the wall and his fingers had closed around my neck. Black spots formed in front of my eyes.

The burns are deep, instantaneous, Andre’s voice came from some distant part of my brain. They are like molten lava….

I kicked at Ian frantically. Too late, I thought as I tried to scream. Julian was busy with the food. Boyd was gone. Everyone else was staking a claim to hair, makeup, or ego. It will be over by the time anyone misses me. Ian’s hands tightened. Visions of Arch, of Tom, flashed and vanished. I stretched my arms behind me, groping for anything. I couldn’t get my breath. We struggled and fell away from the dresses; he lost his hold on my neck. My hands clawed futilely at the wall: I couldn’t breathe. Where was the cord to the strobe light? Could I blind Ian if I plugged it in? My fingers closed around the cord. Ian lunged for me, hands outstretched. He tripped over something as I groped along the wall for the outlet. A piece of metal skittered across the floor. Ian righted himself and lurched toward me. I pushed in the plug as I wrenched away from him.