Free Prime Cut by Diane Mott Davidson Page A

wished I had one of Julian Teller's indescribably flaky, bittersweet-chocolate filled croissants to go with it, then stared glumly at my calendar. The day after the tasting party was Wednesday, the twenty-seventh of August. That night, I would be doing a birthday dinner party for twenty for Weezie Harrington. Wealthy widows and divorcees always worry that no one will remember their birthdays, so they often give a party for themselves. Weezie was no exception, although she'd had a friend issue the invitations.
     
     
I moved my finger across the calendar. My next booking after Weezie's party was Saturday, August thirtieth. That day, Edna Hardcastle's daughter Isabel would finally, finally be married, and I would cater the twice-postponed reception. But two booked events and one tasting party would not be enough. With Tom suspended, and no money coming in, I had to find more work.
     
     
I put in a call to Andr‚'s condominium and got the caregiver for Andr‚'s wife, Pru. Pru's handicap made her extremely shy. I had only met her once, as she disliked going out or having people over. Dealing with Pru's condition, plus the cost of her maintenance, had contributed to Andr‚'s concerns after his retirement.
     
     
"Yes? What is it?" Chef Happy sounded even more brusque than usual.
     
     
I told Andr‚ about discovering Gerald Eliot's body at the Burrs'. I also told him about Tom's suspension. In order to avoid digressing, I left out the details. But Andr‚ clucked that the Ian's Images people had already had a fit when the police canceled the shoot at the Burrs' house. I told him I was desperate for work. If he could bridge me in to work part-time on the shoot, I promised to take only two dollars over minimum wage.
     
     
"Goldy! You worry how the models demean themselves, and then you do it to yourself," my old friend chided. "Yes, come on Friday." He tsked. "They have agreed to pay me double for that day. Which I am happy to take, since the cost of living in the mountains is so exorbitant."
     
     
"Double? For what?"
     
     
"The shoot has many problems. I have had much over- time. Ian Hood broke his lens. He already destroyed one of his cameras, but does he care? No. The police are at the Burrs' house. So the studio will move up the shooting at their third location, the place Hanna secured for them, the living room at the Homestead Museum. They will do the children's clothes there on Friday - if the police are through there. Leah will rent a Santa Claus and the children will sit in his lap. But will the little ones eat what we prepare? Who knows?" He exhaled in disgust. "The models complain the meals are too fattening. Rufus Driggle, the handyman? He likes the blond one, Yvonne. But Yvonne does not like Rufus. Someone put pickles on my crab cakes. But they always want my food. They are pigs."
     
     
For Friday, I penciled in Cater at H. museum on my calendar. Might give me a chance to snoop a little bit, see if Gerald Eliot had indeed met his untimely end there. "When should I show up?"
     
     
"Coffee break, nine o'clock? This kitchen is approved for commercial use, thank the good Lord. Yogurt, fruit, and we will make a sweet."
     
     
I hung up and out of habit called Marla. I checked the cobbler - strictly taboo for her, as she'd barely survived a heart attack the previous summer-and listened to her husky-voiced message: "I'm out being persecuted by the federal government. Leave a message, unless you think they'll trace this call and make your life a living hell, too."
     
     
Ah, yes. Starting this week, Marla was being audited by the IRS for last year's taxes. She had promised to stop by to fill me in on all the odious details.
     
     
My business line rang. I sent a quick appeal to the Almighty for a new client.
     
     
"Goldy, it's Sheila O'Connor." My heart froze: the coroner. Where were Tom and Arch? "Don't worry," she said, immediately sensing my concern. "I have a job for you, if you're interested. Lunch