Read Online Prime Cut by Diane Mott Davidson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Diane Mott Davidson
Tags: Fiction, General, Humorous stories, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Detective and Mystery Stories, Mystery Fiction, Women Detectives, Cooking, Murder, Colorado, Caterers and Catering, Cookery, Bear; Goldy (Fictitious Character), Women in the Food Industry
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the window overlooking our backyard.
The comforting noise of Tom's revving Chrysler floated out of the garage toward us. Jake raised mournful eyes to Arch: Leaving so soon? "I'll be back," Arch consoled him. "Look, Mom, double-check the gate, okay? Yesterday, Jake got out somehow. He was barking at elk and got out of control."
"Okay, hon," I promised. Arch hopped down the deck steps. The Chrysler roared away, carrying my family. As if on cue, a sudden cracking noise indicated a dozen elk were shattering branches underfoot as they plodded through our neighbor's yard. Jake, of course, instantly began to howl.
"Stop, Jake. Come on, boy, come in." But the hound would not budge. Nor would he be quiet. I went inside, closed the door against the canine uproar, and shook my head. In late summer, the huge dun-and-brown elk herds flood through Aspen Meadow, fleeing the first wave of hunters. No respecters of property lines, the elk leap fences, use their powerful necks and big tongues to tear out strawberry plants, strip fruit trees, devour flowers, and gobble bushes. Then they defecate happily and plod on. Our neighbor occasionally bags one with his rifle, hunting season or no.
Only Tom had managed to outsmart the marauders. With great care, he'd lofted nets over our Montmorency cherry trees and tied the nets to the trunks. While awaiting his captain's call the previous night, Tom had patiently salvaged the last of the scarlet fruit. Through the back window, I watched the elk quizzically appraise our trees. Nothing there, boys, time to move out.
I crossed to the counter, moved the faxed map showing the location of Eliot's body, and surveyed with a sinking heart the clutter of glasses, plates, and measuring cups. Before Gerald Eliot had revved up his saw, he'd asked me to empty the cabinets on the left side of the window. Then he'd crashed through the window and the right-hand cabinet, and the contents of those shelves had ended up in smithereens.
The next day, Eliot had bounded up my front steps all smiles, sketchy plans for a new kitchen tucked under his arm. He'd claimed he could have my new kitchen done before the first snow. Ha. Although it was always difficult for me to believe that people could so heartlessly try to take advantage, I'd been forced to accept Tom's assessment of constructor sabotage. I'd stonily told Eliot to fix the window; my husband would repair the cabinet. Now my remaining glasses teetered in stacks; the broken cabinet stood on its side in the hallway. How many other people had Eliot tried to cheat this way? And had any other clients wanted to strangle him the way I'd longed to?
I took a steadying breath of the sweet, fresh air pouring through gaps in the dusty plastic. With The Jerk and his violent nature temporarily locked up in jail, I had taken for granted the fact that we could finally relax with our windows open. Or rather, relax with our windows missing. I refilled my espresso machine with water, ground a handful of fragrant coffee beans, and rinsed Tom's bowl of homegrown cherries.
As the water gushed over the fruit, my mind snapped back to the traumas of the last two days. What would happen to Cameron now? Had Cameron murdered Gerald Eliot? What could I do? Interfere and you'll get Cameron, Tom, and yourself into more trouble, my inner voice warned.
I sharpened a knife, started pitting the cherries, then washed my hands and put in a call to Lutheran Hospital to check on Barbara Burr. I was told she could not be disturbed. Next I phoned the sheriff's department to see if they could tell me anything about Cameron. Burr was being processed, I was told. Like liverwurst? I longed to ask.
I energetically mixed the pitted cherries with sugar and cornstarch. I loved the Burrs; both had been extraordinarily kind to Arch when he was eight and I was doing my docent work. Cameron, then president of the county historical society, could
The comforting noise of Tom's revving Chrysler floated out of the garage toward us. Jake raised mournful eyes to Arch: Leaving so soon? "I'll be back," Arch consoled him. "Look, Mom, double-check the gate, okay? Yesterday, Jake got out somehow. He was barking at elk and got out of control."
"Okay, hon," I promised. Arch hopped down the deck steps. The Chrysler roared away, carrying my family. As if on cue, a sudden cracking noise indicated a dozen elk were shattering branches underfoot as they plodded through our neighbor's yard. Jake, of course, instantly began to howl.
"Stop, Jake. Come on, boy, come in." But the hound would not budge. Nor would he be quiet. I went inside, closed the door against the canine uproar, and shook my head. In late summer, the huge dun-and-brown elk herds flood through Aspen Meadow, fleeing the first wave of hunters. No respecters of property lines, the elk leap fences, use their powerful necks and big tongues to tear out strawberry plants, strip fruit trees, devour flowers, and gobble bushes. Then they defecate happily and plod on. Our neighbor occasionally bags one with his rifle, hunting season or no.
Only Tom had managed to outsmart the marauders. With great care, he'd lofted nets over our Montmorency cherry trees and tied the nets to the trunks. While awaiting his captain's call the previous night, Tom had patiently salvaged the last of the scarlet fruit. Through the back window, I watched the elk quizzically appraise our trees. Nothing there, boys, time to move out.
I crossed to the counter, moved the faxed map showing the location of Eliot's body, and surveyed with a sinking heart the clutter of glasses, plates, and measuring cups. Before Gerald Eliot had revved up his saw, he'd asked me to empty the cabinets on the left side of the window. Then he'd crashed through the window and the right-hand cabinet, and the contents of those shelves had ended up in smithereens.
The next day, Eliot had bounded up my front steps all smiles, sketchy plans for a new kitchen tucked under his arm. He'd claimed he could have my new kitchen done before the first snow. Ha. Although it was always difficult for me to believe that people could so heartlessly try to take advantage, I'd been forced to accept Tom's assessment of constructor sabotage. I'd stonily told Eliot to fix the window; my husband would repair the cabinet. Now my remaining glasses teetered in stacks; the broken cabinet stood on its side in the hallway. How many other people had Eliot tried to cheat this way? And had any other clients wanted to strangle him the way I'd longed to?
I took a steadying breath of the sweet, fresh air pouring through gaps in the dusty plastic. With The Jerk and his violent nature temporarily locked up in jail, I had taken for granted the fact that we could finally relax with our windows open. Or rather, relax with our windows missing. I refilled my espresso machine with water, ground a handful of fragrant coffee beans, and rinsed Tom's bowl of homegrown cherries.
As the water gushed over the fruit, my mind snapped back to the traumas of the last two days. What would happen to Cameron now? Had Cameron murdered Gerald Eliot? What could I do? Interfere and you'll get Cameron, Tom, and yourself into more trouble, my inner voice warned.
I sharpened a knife, started pitting the cherries, then washed my hands and put in a call to Lutheran Hospital to check on Barbara Burr. I was told she could not be disturbed. Next I phoned the sheriff's department to see if they could tell me anything about Cameron. Burr was being processed, I was told. Like liverwurst? I longed to ask.
I energetically mixed the pitted cherries with sugar and cornstarch. I loved the Burrs; both had been extraordinarily kind to Arch when he was eight and I was doing my docent work. Cameron, then president of the county historical society, could
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