The Grilling Season gbcm-7

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “My neighbor’s son was driving by the park when the helicopter came down. I heard ReeAnn was burned over three-fourths of her body.” she continued. “Was she with John Richard? You don’t know what happened with that, do you?”

  This was the woman who had complained so bitterly to me about our community’s obsession-with-disaster? Incredible. Some people just can’t see themselves as fostering the very problem they’re griping about.

  “I can’t talk, Patricia,” I responded. “I need to finish making some bread.”

  Bitterly, she said, “You’re not much help,” and hung up.

  Not much help. Well, wasn’t that what everyone was saying about me these days? I slid the bread into the oven, then rebooted my computer and added According to the Jerk, Suz was reprimanded by ACHMO HQ honchos to my list of what I knew about her. A brief time later, I took the golden-brown bread out and placed it on a rack. It perfumed the kitchen with its rich, orangey scent. Macguire arrived home as I was feeding the dog and the cat. I assured him I was just fine and told him I’d be kneading cloverleaf rolls in no time. He looked skeptically at the slap marks on my face and the thick bandage I’d placed over my forearm. But unlike Patricia McCracken, he was too polite to say anything.

  Tom arrived shortly after six, bearing vegetarian calzones and a deep-dish sausage pizza. He unloaded the food, gently examined my face and arm, and cursed John Richard. He carefully punched down the mass of pizza dough I’d already made, zipped it into a heavy-duty plastic bag, and popped it into the freezer. When he finished unwrapping the Italian feast, I felt tears prick hard.

  “Please, Goldy, don’t, don’t,” he crooned as he gathered me up in his arms. “What you’ve been through… I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I feel like I failed you.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I did.”

  “Oh, Tom. Arch has gone to live with the Druckmans until John Richard’s hearing.”

  “He’ll be back,” he said confidently.

  I let him hold me. “All this food,” I muttered finally, “it’s going to get cold.”

  He held me out at arm’s length. His warm green eyes gave me a skeptical look. “That’s what I brought my convection oven into this house for, remember? You like pizza, don’t you? Even if it’s pizza made by somebody else?”

  You like pizza? “Sure,” I said uncertainly, and sat down at the table while Tom preheated the oven and opened a bottle of Chianti. I shivered. Even if it’s pizza made by somebody else? Tom had gently asked.

  My afternoon encounter with John Richard had brought another assault of memories I thought I’d repressed. One time, I had tried to serve pizza made by somebody else. Arch had been three months old and sick with a painful ear infection. Exhausted from being up with him all night and then all day, I’d ordered a pizza for dinner. John Richard had thrown a fit, of course. He’d torn the pizza into bits and dumped them in the garbage disposal. If he’d wanted takeout pizza, he’d shouted, he would have stayed single.

  Without being asked, Macguire set the kitchen table. Not one of us mentioned my son. Arch must have told Macguire his plans to live with the Druckmans. Again, Macguire was too polite to mention it.

  The strange thing about going through a difficult time is that eventually, you get hungry. The Italian sausage on the pizza Tom had brought home provided a sharp, juicy complement to the crunchy crust. The calzones were so stuffed with steaming tomatoes, onions, peppers, and cheese that it was hard to take a bite without making a mess. By the time we finished eating, my mood had lifted somewhat.

  “Something I need to discuss with you all,” Tom said in the gentle voice he used whenever he needed to drop a bombshell.

  I said, “Uh-oh.”

  “The deputies couldn’t find John Richard,” he announced matter-of-factly. “He wasn’t at his house. There’s an APB out on him, but you need to know he’s at large.”

  “That sucks,” Macguire said. “It’s probably just as well Arch is at the Druckmans’,” Tom continued. “Here at home, we need to keep the windows shut all the time. Turn on the attic fan if you need ventilation. But the security system stays armed. I mean it.”

  I rubbed my temples and tried to give myself a silent pep talk. No uplifting thoughts came. When Macguire offered to do the dishes, Tom and I consented gratefully. Upstairs, the Chianti and relaxing meal finally took effect. No matter how bad the news is, not only do you have to eat, you eventually have to sleep. I hadn’t slept well since I’d discovered Suz Craig’s body. I yawned.

  “Put on your pajamas,” Tom ordered with a loving smile, “and let me rub your back.”

  “It’s not even eight o’clock.” “Miss G., let me take care of you. No fussing.” I winced as I pulled the pajama sleeve over my bruised arm, then remembered the arnica and antidepression herbs from Amy Bartholomew and slid the tablets and capsules onto the table next to the bed. Before I could take any, though, I had to ask my husband a few questions.

  “Tom,” I said as I lay carefully on my stomach, “where could John Richard be?”

  “Aw, he’s someplace he thinks is safe. With friends, probably. I don’t think he’d dare come after you. Not after today.”

  “Beg to differ.” After a moment I said, “Arch doesn’t think I’m looking into the charges against his father. After all I’ve done, that almost hurts more than anything.”

  Tom’s large hands pressed and massaged my aching body. “He’s a kid, Goldy. He just doesn’t understand. Cut him some slack.”

  “I’ve cut him tons of slack. He just hasn’t cut any for me.”

  Tom chose not to respond to this. Under his hands my weary muscles began to relax. I felt my eyes closing.

  “I’ve got something else to ask you,” I said weakly.

  “I wish you wouldn’t talk.”

  “Has anybody at ACHMO told you Suz was about to be fired? Or why?”

  He chuckled. “Korman sure claimed that in his interview. But he was the only one who mentioned it, and he can’t prove a thing. Everyone else swears her job was secure.”

  “Ah,” I said. I downed the herb capsules and slipped the arnica under my tongue. A few minutes later, I did not resist when sleep claimed me.

  I awoke at two A.M. in such a state of alertness that I felt sure Arch had come home, the security alarm had gone off, or either Scout or Jake was scratching to go out. None of these was the case. I looked out the window: the night was still. No breeze or rush of creekwater was audible, of course, as every single window in the house was locked up tight. I turned on the dresser light and saw a note from Tom. Miss G., Arch called before he went to bed. You were sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to wake you. He wanted to tell you good night and that he loved you. Also, Marla phoned. ReeAnn C. is banged up pretty good but they think she’s going to pull through. T.

  Peachy. But it was not worries about Arch or even ReeAnn that had awakened me. It was something else.

  If Suz Craig was about to be fired, or was even in danger of being fired, how could that relate to her being murdered? And why had Brandon Yuille, my buddy-in-Thai-food, refused to answer any of my calls? Was he still annoyed about our conversation at the Jerk’s office, despite my apologies? John Richard was on the loose, but I doubted he was watching our house. I slipped on jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt. During the day, Brandon could refuse to return my calls all he wanted. But at this hour, I knew exactly where to find him.

  23

  The Aspen Meadow Pastry Shop had undergone a sea change since Mickey Yuille, my old master baker friend, had bought it, refurbished it, and hired an energetic cleaning service. Lacy, pristinely white European-style curtains now hung in the windows. The glass display cases, formerly messy with weeks of fingerprints, gleamed spotlessly in the dimmed light of the cozy dining room. The former owner had offered a hodgepodge of almost-stale cookies and partially baked pastry shells. These had been replaced by appetizing rows of truffles, chocolate-dipped macaroons, and French cream cookies so
buttery, they gave new meaning to melt-in-your-mouth.

  Since it was a quarter past two in the morning, I stopped lusting over the offerings in the dark shop-front and looked for movement in the kitchen. An oblong of yellow light illuminated Mickey hustling back and forth. As I sidled across the front window to get a better view, I caught sight of Brandon. He sat at a long table, gesturing as he spoke earnestly to his father. The back door had been left partially open, probably to bring cool night air into the oven-heated space.

  I nipped past the comics shop, the insurance agent’s office, and the Christian Science Reading Room. I rounded the back of the building and came noiselessly up to the back entrance with its open door. Mickey had suggested I come by for some fresh, hot cinnamon rolls. Now the unmistakable scent of that most prized of spices, Indonesian cinnamon, came wafting out into the darkness. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  “Howdy all,” I said brightly, as if I customarily popped into closed bakeries at two A.M. “I had insomnia, so I just thought I’d drop in.”

  Mickey, balding, shrunken, but with a smile so endearing he always reminded me of a stuffed troll, looked up from the thick layer of golden dough he was rolling out. “Goldy! So glad to see you!” He set aside his marble rolling pin and bustled forward to embrace me. He smelled marvelous, sweat mixed with spice and flour. His long white apron dusted my outfit. I grinned and returned his hug, then looked over at Brandon. His handsome face was no longer set in its usual impish expression. He looked as if a monsoon had arrived at his doorstep.

  “Morning, Brandon,” I said pleasantly. “So glad I could run into you here. I’ve been trying to call you to apologize for our misunderstanding at my ex-husband’s office.”

  His shiny dark hair fell in his face and he immediately brushed it back. “Sure, okay, no hard feelings,” he mumbled without visible enthusiasm. “Glad to see you.”

  “Coffee, coffee, let’s have some fresh,” said Mickey, obviously glad of my company, even if his son was not.

  “Why didn’t you answer my calls?” I asked Brandon as I sat in one of the chairs at his father’s worktable. Out of earshot, Mickey ran water and measured out ground coffee.

  “I can’t call you back,” Brandon rejoined. “They are watching me every second. I’m afraid every call of mine is monitored. .

  . .”

  “Who’s ‘they’? Who would monitor your calls?” Brandon’s handsome face screwed up in dismay. “The same guys who were here before, from the headquarters office of Human Resources. They’ve come back in from Minneapolis until the preliminary hearing with your ex is over. I’m telling you, Goldy, it’s a bad scene.”

  “You think that’s a bad scene? My fourteen. year-old son has moved out until the preliminary hearing. That’s how ticked off with me he is over this case. I want to find out what the hell is going on with my son’s father a whole lot more than your corporate bigwigs do.” He said nothing. “Please, Brandon. Please help us.”

  Brandon exhaled unhappily. “Whatever I tell you, you’ve got to say you didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Brandon, for heaven’s sake! You didn’t participate in any illegal activity, did you?”

  His smile was a younger, less wrinkled version of his father’s. “Of course not. No illegal activity. I didn’t even kill Suz Craig, as is believed in some circles.”

  “What circles?”

  His face turned pink. “Oh, you know. The gossip mill.”

  “Was she about to be fired by ACHMO when she was killed?”

  His father reappeared with the coffee. It was marvelous, dark and hearty. We took grateful sips and showered praise and thanks on Mickey.

  “You all go ahead and visit,” Mickey told us. He eyed the rectangle of dough. “I gotta work.”

  “Can’t we help you?” I offered. Cloth towels shrouded the domed top of another enormous bowl of risen dough.

  “Naw, naw,” Mickey replied, waving a floured paw. “The priest is doing grief work with me. Says I gotta work. Stay busy. Best antidote. I like having you here, though.”

  I looked back at Brandon, who shrugged. He murmured, “Just let him. He knows what he needs. I’m here for company. When I help him, it’s usually on the weekends.”

  “Was Suz about to be fired?” I asked Brandon again. “Or had she been submitted to some kind of disciplinary action?”

  Brandon sipped his coffee and was silent. For a moment I feared he’d decided not to answer. “Not exactly reprimanded. She was… being observed. In her dealings with people.” I waited for him to go on. He shifted in the wooden chair. “Headquarters had had a lot of complaints.” He seemed to go into a trance as he watched his father spread butter on the rolled dough.

  “Complaints from whom?” I prompted. Brandon blinked and shrugged. “Everybody who’d ever had to work with Suz Craig.”

  When he seemed in danger of going into another trance, I said, “Amy Bartholomew said the same thing. She said Suz set a trap for her. Amy wanted to control her own destiny, as she put it, and Suz had other ideas. Suz accused Amy of compulsively feeding the slots up at Central City. Then Suz tried to make it impossible for Amy to buy the health-food store.”

  Brandon’s eyes were on his father as he sprinkled dark cinnamon sugar over the golden dough. “Yeah, I know. I’m the very young, very unsuccessful head of Human Resources, remember?”

  “Amy said Suz criticized you for spending too much time here with your father and for coming into the office too tired to do good work. She criticized Chris Corey, too.”

  “Oh, boy, don’t remind me.” He looked at the ceiling. “Chris was putting together a new Provider Relations Manual. He’s very thorough, and Suz kept changing the language of certain guidelines. It was her fault he missed the deadline. But she threw a fit anyway, in front of everybody.”

  “Did she criticize Ralph Shelton?”

  “Of course,” he said simply “She told us she was putting together a file of patient complaints, plus a critical letter from her, into a packet to go to MeritMed.”

  “Why would she do that? He already told me that was why he was fired.”

  “Who knows? Plus, Goldy, I’m not convinced she should have fired him. Every doctor gets unhappy patients. Last year, the state board of medical examiners received over seven hundred and fifty complaints. Eighty-five percent were dismissed.” He sighed. “And then Shelton was so pathetic, calling each of us after she fired him, to see if we could stop her from sending the packet of complaints on. We all suspected Shelton was trying to renew his old friendship with Korman to get him to prevent her from sending the packet to Shelton’s new employers at MeritMed. But apparently Korman repeatedly gave Shelton the brush-off through that cute secretary of his.”

  “Sort of the way you gave me the brush-off today.”

  “Sorry. I really was in a meeting.”

  “Did Suz criticize and threaten John Richard, too?”

  Brandon’s large brown eyes and narrow face suddenly seemed overcome with sadness. “She could be the warmest, most loving person you could ever imagine.” He paused and looked away. “She could also be vicious. Every day when I drove into that parking lot, my stomach would clench. What kind of mood was she going to be in today? What would she try to do to me? How could I fend her off?”

  “Did she want to have control over John Richard?” I persisted.

  He frowned, then shook his head. “Who knew? He didn’t share much with us, you know, the administrators. Suz’s control of information was what concerned her, and she was good at it.” His forehead wrinkled. “I did hear that Korman’s billing was problematic, and that he didn’t automatically qualify for a bonus he was expecting.”

  “Who told you those tidbits?” When he shrugged, I went on. “Where do the ACHMO honchos come in? Why were they here last month? One of them told me they were fighting fires.”

  “Thank you so very much,” I told Mickey. “You can’t imagine how much I appreciate this.”

  H
e poured me more hot coffee. “Of course I do. Food-service people are the last ones to sit down and actually enjoy eating anything. Besides, I love the company, as Brandon can tell you. I’m about to make some sour-cream cakes now… . You two need anything else?”

  “Thanks, Dad. No,” said Brandon warmly as he squeezed his father’s hand. For the first time I noticed the bags under Brandon’s eyes. His schedule must be brutal, I thought. He’d told the cops he went to bed at eight P.M. every night so that he could be here by two A.M. It wasn’t a regimen I would want to follow on any long-term basis, especially since I’d tried it for the last few nights and now felt like a walking zombie.

  “I’m going to leave in a few minutes,” I told Brandon. “I think I understand better now why everyone, especially my ex, had trouble with this woman. It’s hard to believe that Suz would threaten you with changing your medical records, though. Couldn’t anybody call her on trying to intimidate people? It sounds so much like blackmail.”

  Brandon chewed the last of his bear claw. “Great idea, Goldy. Now we know those meetings she had with us in her office were taped. When I called headquarters the week after HR left, they said to me, ‘You get proof she’s threatening you and we’ll fire her.’ Not that I would trust them. But I checked the labels on the tapes Luella Downing found. None were from the Monday after the HR people left, when Suz went on her threatening rampage.”

  “That’s it?” I said, astonished. “Monday – what would it have been, July 14? The tapes from that day are missing?”

  “Why? You know where they are?”

  “No,” I said with a sudden yawn I couldn’t suppress. “I don’t have a clue.”

  When I crawled back into bed at four, Tom rolled over and said, “I’m beginning to think there’s someone else.”

  I started to laugh and couldn’t stop. They were the kind of giggles you get when you’re very young, at camp or a slumber parry, and can’t contain, no matter how valiantly you try.