Slice and Dice Read Online Free PDF Page A

times.”
     
    She ground out her cigarette, a faint smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
     
    “Well,” said Bram, holding up his drink. “Here’s hoping you find it.”
     
    She touched her glass to his. “I think I already have.”
     

4
    When Sophie entered George Gildemeister’s office on Saturday morning, she found him sitting in his chair, feet up on his desk, reading a seed catalog. In his jeans and red plaid shirt, he was the picture of a burned-out food critic. His office, while almost neat to a fault, reflected far more interest in his current passion: horticulture.
     
    Plants were everywhere — draped off cabinets, crowded onto his desk and on the window ledge behind him. There were even seed pots resting under a grow lamp on top of a filing cabinet. On the floor to Sophie’s right was a circle of nasty-looking cactus plants. To her left was a table filled with orchids. This greenhouse-away-from-home might have made sense if George wrote the gardening column, but he didn’t. He would talk endlessly about his hobby farm, the weather, the new corn hybrid he’d just planted, but rarely would he ever mention the wonderful sea bass Provençale or espresso fudge soufflé he’d been served at a local restaurant. When Sophie spied the Jell-O snack carton on his desk, it was the last straw. She marched into the room and said, “Jell-O, George?
Jell-O?”
     
    He glanced up at her. “Oh, morning, Soph. Have a seat.
     
    Yale will be here any second.” He returned his attention to the catalog.
     
    People had known for years that George was coasting on the reputation he’d made during the Eighties. Five years earlier, after buying the hobby farm up near Fergus Falls, he’d become the farmer in the dell. Colleagues at the paper even called him silly names behind his back. It seemed that his passion for food was totally gone. He still kept an apartment in the city, but every moment he could spare away from his job at the paper was spent on “the land,” as he referred to it, with his wife, his two golden retrievers, and his garden.
     
    Well, Sophie thought, glaring at the Jell-O carton, the corn plants could have him.
     
    She was just about to sit down when there was a knock on the door. A second later Yale McGraw entered. He looked his usual harried self, the stub of an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. Yale, like George, was in his early sixties, but whereas George could easily have passed for middle-aged with his dark hair and healthy tan, Yale looked every minute of his sixty-two years. He was tall and lanky — well over six foot five — and when stressed, his arms and legs flew out at odd angles, much like a marionette manipulated by a novice puppeteer. He combed his white hair straight back from his forehead, allowing the world an unencumbered view of his classic Roman profile. Put a laurel wreath on his head and he’d be the spitting image of Julius Caesar — Caesar with a stogie. It was an image he nurtured, though everyone knew McGraw was a notorious softie. It didn’t always make him the best managing editor, but it did make him a valued friend. He was well loved at the
Times Register.
     
    Dumping a pile of papers onto George’s desk, Yale fell into a chair. “Lord,” he said, biting down hard on the cigar. “What a day.” He glanced at George, then at Sophie. “I’m glad you could make it,” he said, giving her his trademark scowl. “I hope you brought a decision with you.”
     
    “Me, too,” said George, tossing the seed catalog into a side drawer. “I’ve given two weeks’ notice, but I’d like to be out of here as fast as possible.” He sniffed the air, then glared at Yale. “You smell like an ashtray.”
     
    “I’ve been down in the smoking lounge. Don’t worry, George, I won’t light my stogie around your precious plants. We wouldn’t want them to have a collective asthma attack. The noise would be deafening.”
     
    “Damn right you won’t,”