Prime Cut by Diane Mott Davidson

By Diane Mott Davidson

A caterer's nightmare...Caterer Goldy Schulz is confident issues could not worsen. An unscrupulous rival is using her into bankruptcy. An incompetent contractor has left her valuable kitchen in shambles. and he or she has simply agreed to cater a way shoot at a nineteenth-century mountain cabin along with her mentor and outdated buddy, French chef Andr? Hibbard.A sprint of cold-blooded murder...Together Goldy and Andr? fight in a hopelessly superseded kitchen to cater to a vacuous crowd of gorgeous humans whose own dramas climax while a digicam is pitched via a window...into the buffet. Then Goldy's contractor is located striking in the home of 1 of her most sensible neighbors. A moment homicide follows and Goldy needs to in some way remedy a secret and get ready for a society soir?e that may make--or break--her career.A recipe for disaster...It's a secret that contains the useless contractor's unwholesome earlier, a nutrients saboteur, the robbery of 4 historic cookbooks, and an overzealous D.A. who has suspended Goldy's detective husband, Tom, from the strength. What Goldy discovers is the appropriate recipe for homicide. and he or she can be dessert!

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In the pictures, stocky, jovial Cameron and blond, plump Barbara looked as excited as kids. But these photos did not reflect the way Cameron looked now. Disheveled, grizzled, he was snoring loudly on an unmade sofabed pushed up against the wide part of the A. His gray hair, pushed askew like windblown barbecue ash, desperately needed cutting. Mouth open, his chunky body contorted, he looked more like a wrestler on the skids than a historian. One shoe lay on the floor; there was no sign of a second.

Nope. ” “Aspirin would be in the main house bathroom. ” He grunted, undoubtedly pulling clothes on over damp skin. “I bought some old window frames and glass … thought I’d do the glazing myself. Made a pot of coffee, started working, broke two pieces of glass, got frustrated. Poured some rum into the coffee. Then I cracked a window frame. ” So you got sloshed instead. I looked down at the blinking message machine. ” “Don’t know, need to call the hospital. ” I trotted out the guest house door. When I rounded the corner of the big A-frame, I heard what sounded like cars starting up Cameron’s driveway.

And we can’t care that you drank a lot of coffee waiting for us. Your stomach’s not flat and your eyes are bloodshot. ” Bobby-with-the-slight-paunch shrieked. I sighed, checked all the foodstuffs one last time, and squared the cheesecakes between the spring rolls and breadbasket. With infinite care I turned back, determined to invite Bobby over for a bite to eat and a glass of sparkling water. Too late. Bobby, his beige shirt open, was pulling up his trousers. Now his much-criticized stomach hung over his undies like a hot-water bottle; his thighs jiggled as he grappled with the pants waistband.

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