The Grilling Season

by Diane Mott Davidson

  I said no thanks and paid the bill. By the time I’d deposited Duke at his apartment—he lived in the same complex as Frances—I’d come up with some more questions. But Duke was no help. He stumbled to his door and declared he was ready to dive into bed. At least he didn’t ask if I wanted to join him for that, too.

  It wasn’t too surprising, I thought as I turned the van in the direction of home, that Suz had been so demanding about the landscaping. In the case of the catered lunch I’d done for her, I realized in retrospect, she’d been eager to make nice and accommodate the ACHMO people from headquarters. She’d wanted to seem calm and flexible in front of her own department heads. But landscaping was something you had to live with and look at every day, sort of like your bathroom or bedroom. Still, why fire the nursery just because Chris had fallen down? Had Suz found somebody else to do the work for her? Somebody she liked better?

  I pulled over on Main Street. It was only one-fifteen; Duke had gotten drunk a lot more quickly than I’d hoped. Cooking could come later. At that moment Macguire was right: I couldn’t quite face going through our door knowing my son wasn’t there. I called Tom on the cellular phone, fully expecting to get his machine.

  “Schulz,” he answered gruffly.

  “Hi. Remember Suz Craig’s tiff with the landscape people? Did she hire somebody else after that?”

  “Well, hey, Miss G., how’s it going? Did you hear we found C-Four in that grill? We put two uniforms on guard at ReeAnn Collins’s room.” I said I knew, but that my urgent question at the moment was about Suz’s landscaping. Tom repeated, “The landscape people. Aspen Meadow Nursery?”

  “Somebody new.”

  “Not that we know of. I mean, nobody’s come forward saying they need to be paid except for Aspen Meadow Nursery.”

  “No bills at all? No mail from, say, a construction company, an independent builder? Somebody in the marble business?”

  He laughed. “What in the world are you up to?”

  “Nothing. Just trying to fill the time between catered events.”

  After I hung up, I sat in my van and brooded. Suz Craig had squabbled endlessly and bitterly with Duke and his crew. Then she’d fired them, but only after Chris Corey had fallen. Why? Why hadn’t she fired them when the first problems erupted? And then Suz had put in some marble stepping-stones that Duke had suggested in jest? Why?

  Oh, Lord. Why, indeed.

  Why would Ms. “I don’t do, I delegate” Craig fire her landscapers and put in some stones herself? Because she’d needed to. I made a careful U-turn on Main Street and headed back to Aspen Meadow Nursery.

  When I got there, I knew exactly what I wanted. Did they have a cap, a workshirt, work gloves, and a gardening apron emblazoned with the words ASPEN MEADOW NURSERY and their plant logo? The cashier gave me another one of her quizzical looks but said the owner had always told her that if customers wanted something, even if it was the funny-looking rock bordering the parking lot, sell it to them.

  “The shirt might not be clean,” she said apologetically.

  “The dirtier the better. And I’d like a shovel and a spade, too.”

  I put it all on my credit card and raced home. In the kitchen Macguire stood back triumphantly from the mountain range of neatly chopped tomatoes, artichoke hearts, and steamed asparagus. Platters were heaped with sliced Camembert and grated Parmesan. I thanked him. Again I was aware of how much better he looked: healthy skin color, shiny-clean red hair, straight posture, a frame that looked as if it had gained at least five pounds in the last two days, bright eyes, and, best of all, a huge, happy smile. No question about it, I was an herb-treatment convert.

  “Great job,” I told him.

  “Need any more help?” he asked energetically.

  I surveyed all the work he had done. “Absolutely not. Thank you many times over.”

  “Two more things,” he said secretively, then opened the walk-in. He retrieved a pan of grilled chicken. “I followed your recipe for marinating and grilling this chicken. Just a few minutes in the oven and it’ll be ready. I already tasted it. Juicy, succulent, tangy sauce, all that great stuff you always say. I’m a success! I can cook!”

  “Macguire, I don’t know what to say—”

  “Hold on, look at this.” He pulled out an enormous Bundt cake pan and held it out carefully for my inspection. Suspended sections of grapefruit glistened inside clear gelatin. “It’s from the Fanny Farmer Cookbook,” he said proudly. “Grapefruit molded salad. No mix. I made it myself.”

  “You’re wonderful. And you really can cook.”

  “Oh, and Arch called just when the Druckmans were getting ready to go to the museum. He was, like, whispering into the phone that the food’s not so good over at the Druckmans’ place. They should be back by now, so I’m taking him some of the burgers you made for the barbecue-that-isn’t-happening tonight. Is that okay?” When I nodded, he added, “Maybe Arch’ll come home sooner than you think.”

  “Maybe.”

  Together, we packed the food for the doll people’s dinner into my van. When Macguire had left with the bag of burgers, I made sure the security system was armed. Then I hightailed it to Suz Craig’s house. I had half an hour before I needed to set up at the LakeCenter.

  Grilled Chicken

  à l’Orange

  Marinade:

  Zest of 1 medium orange

  Juice of 1 medium orange (approximately ⅓ cup)

  1 teaspoon dry mustard

  Tiny pinch of cumin (optional)

  2 tablespoons red wine vinegar

  ⅓ cup olive oil

  4 boneless, skinless chicken breast halves

  Sauce:

  2 tablespoons butter

  2 tablespoons flour

  1½ tablespoons sugar

  ¼ teaspoon cinnamon

  ¼ teaspoon dry mustard

  2 tablespoons red wine vinegar

  1½ cups orange juice

  In a 9-by 13-inch glass pan, make the marinade by combining the zest, juice, mustard, cumin, if using, and vinegar. Whisk in olive oil. Spread out a sheet of plastic wrap approximately 2 feet long and place the chicken breasts on it. Spread another sheet of plastic wrap over the chicken breasts. Using the flat side of a mallet, pound the chicken breasts between the plastic to an even ½-inch thickness. Remove the plasticwrap and place the chicken breasts in the marinade. Cover and allow to marinate for 30 minutes to 1 hour.

  When you are ready to cook the chicken, preheat the grill. Then prepare the sauce. In a wide skillet, melt the butter over low heat and stir in the flour. Cook this roux over low heat for a minute or two, until it bubbles. Add the sugar, cinnamon, mustard, and vinegar and stir until well combined.

  Whisk in the orange juice, bring the heat up to medium, and stir until thickened. Lower the heat and cover the pan to keep the sauce hot while you grill the chicken.

  Grill the chicken just until cooked through, 3 to 5 minutes per side. Do not overcook the chicken. When serving, place the grilled chicken on a heated platter, pour some of the sauce over it, and pass the rest of the sauce.

  Serves 4

  In the van I fumbled with the buttons on the Aspen Meadow Nursery shirt, then tied the apron around my waist and stuffed what I could of my curly hair under the cap. It was too bad the van said GOLDILOCKS’ CATERING on the side, but I hadn’t thought the Aspen Meadow Nursery cashier would want to loan me one of the nursery trucks.

  I assumed a confident, businesslike expression, then hopped out of the van, carrying my shovel and spade. Walking quickly across the lawn, I rounded the house, which still had yellow police ribbons taped across each door. Lucky for me, I knew where the picket fence was. And just as Duke had indicated, next to the roses and musk mallow, gleaming white marble stepping-stones were set around three sides of the fence.

  I dug under the first stone and upended it, then dug into the loosely packed soil underneath. Nothing. I set to work on the second and again encountered only dark, loamy dirt underneath
the heavy stone. The third and fourth stones were the same.

  Exhausted, I leaned back on my heels and wiped my brow. A cool mountain breeze ruffled the tree branches. Without warning, I saw a furtive movement by the next-door neighbor’s garage. I held stock-still and waited, but nothing appeared.

  I gazed back at the mess I’d made of the path around Suz’s small picket fence enclosing her water tank. Two more stones to go. The fifth stone yielded nothing. Under the sixth and final stone I hit the real pay dirt. Under a loose inch of soil was a heavy-duty zippered bag. Inside were four audiocassettes.

  Chapter 27

  Using my teeth, I wrenched off the work gloves. I shakily unzipped the bag and removed the tapes from their plastic boxes. To my surprise, they were labeled: Corey, Yuille, McCracken, Shelton. And every one was dated Monday, July 14. I shoved the tapes back into the plastic bag, folded the bag under my right arm, picked up the shovel and the spade, and scampered back to the van. I threw the bag of tapes onto the passenger seat, dumped the tools into the back, and jumped into the front seat.

  As I was ripping off the nursery apron and shirt, I wondered how I was going to listen to the tapes. I wanted to hear them immediately, but I had to cook if I was going to get my job done. Sitting in my van attending to my tape player wouldn’t get the Babsie-doll people’s final meal prepared. Then I remembered what I’d first grabbed when I was looking for my tablecloth the night I encountered the vandals. I pawed wildly behind the driver’s seat and pulled out Macguire’s Walkman.

  I shivered as I faced forward. I glanced in my rearview mirror. Why had I sensed another movement close by? Had someone sprinted across the street behind my vehicle? I set the earphones on my head, put in the McCracken tape, revved up the van, and accelerated down the street.

  Voices crackled at a slight distance from the recording device. The first audible words were from Suz Craig. It was startling to hear her voice. “Minneapolis says we’re going to have to settle, but I wasn’t ready to give in…. Chris? Didn’t she have an abortion a few years back? Anything we could do with that?”

  Chris Corey’s rumbly voice was unmistakable: “Not an abortion. Her primary-care physician gave her a referral to a psychiatrist. Anxiety. Don’t know if we can use it. Or how.”

  Suz snapped, “Put in a call to that Markasian woman, see if she can run something. God knows, I live in that town now, I have to read that local rag. Markasian’s gone on and on about McCracken’s damn suits. Now she can run an anonymous-source article about McCracken having emotional problems. That’ll balance things out. Make her do it, or we’ll pull our tasteful little ACHMO ad from that damn paper.”

  The meeting was interrupted by a woman buzzing Suz to say that Ralph Shelton had arrived. The tape ended. A car behind me honked impatiently. I’d have to wait until I arrived at the LakeCenter before putting in another tape.

  At the waterfall between the lake and Cottonwood Creek, the cormorants perched and preened and regally surveyed their domain. I would miss them when summer was over. Similarly, I would miss the red-winged blackbirds, noisy heralds of my arrival at precisely four o’clock at the side door of the LakeCenter. The guard, sitting in desultory fashion on a trash can, waved me over. I was willing to bet there was nothing about his guarding sojourn in Aspen Meadow that he would miss.

  I pressed the rewind button on the Walkman, took the headphones off, put on my catering apron, and made my first trip through the side door. A cleaning crew of four—two men and two women—were buffing the highly polished wood floor and gently dusting the tables and displays. At my van, I slipped the Walkman and bag of tapes into my apron pockets. Then I hauled in my second box of supplies. When one of the cleaning women happened to glance up at me, I quickly turned away. I would listen as I worked. After schlepping my boxes into the empty kitchen, I laid out all the ingredients. I slipped in the next tape, marked “Shelton,” and began to layer vegetables over the shrimp.

  Ralph and Suz exchanged a cold greeting before getting down to business. “You can’t hurt me like this, Suz.” Ralph Shelton’s frightened voice shook.

  “Excuse me, Ralph, but I can. Know what a group of people from a California church congregation did? Drove two hundred miles to tell another congregation not to hire the priest they were firing. These folks didn’t trust the bishop to tell the church considering their old priest that this was a cleric with a credit-card problem. Thirty thousand in debt, to be exact.”

  There was a pause, then Ralph spoke. “If you … if you … go to MeritMed with these complaints about me, which are totally frivolous, I’ll tell everybody about your unauthorized use of patient files. Confidential files, mind you.” He tried to sound more confident. “And that’s not a frivolous complaint.”

  “You helped me get some of those files. You wouldn’t dare go public. If I go under for using files, you’re coming.”

  “I don’t care.” His voice was on the brink of tears. “You have no reason to be so cruel.”

  This was followed by the sound of a door slamming.

  Wow. I put in the tape marked “Corey.”

  Suz’s voice began. “… you know I’ve told you how being so fat is unprofessional. And being ungrateful to me isn’t going to get you anywhere, either.”

  Chris Corey’s voice rumbled, “I’m a physician. I don’t appreciate being humiliated in meetings. I’m tired of it.”

  “Really?” said Suz. “You think complaining behind my back is going to do any good?”

  “That wasn’t my idea,” intoned Chris.

  “Don’t bring Brandon into this. What do you think, that if this job doesn’t work out, you ‘11 go back to being an orthopedic surgeon? You can’t just waltz back into being a doc, Chris, you’re as rusty as an old knife. Face it, you’re finished as an M.D.”

  “I am so unbelievably tired of listening to you—”

  “Something else. You don’t think I know all about your sister? Multiple-personality disorder, goes into trances when she’s stressed? Tell me, is she Tina when she’s taking care of stray animals and dressed up like a doll? Or is that Mary Louise, so prim and proper, who goes to church and doesn’t know a thing about dolls? You know I have access to her files. I know everything. Think the school where she works wouldn’t like to know about her long history of emotional instability? Think about leaving this job, or criticizing me again to Minneapolis, and your sister’s secret is all over the place.”

  Chris’s voice quickly pleaded, “Don’t do that. Tina has only shown two personalities. She’s not violent. She’s no danger to anyone. She’s suffered so much … and now her personality’s fragmented … I take care of her. Please don’t hurt her.”

  “I just want a fair shake,” Suz said firmly. “You’ve got a problem, come to me, got it? Those are the rules.”

  End of tape. Multiple-personality disorder, good Lord. Actually, I should have suspected something at church. There, I’d asked Tina about a doll outfit and the cat. She’d acted as if she hadn’t known what in the world I was talking about. I’d put it down to stress over planning Suz’s funeral. But I hadn’t been talking to Tina; I’d been talking to Mary Louise. I shuddered to imagine the humiliation that Tina Corey would undergo if the administration at Aspen Meadow Preschool, much less the rest of people in town, found out about a history of psychological problems. For starters, she’d lose her job. Then she would be shunned. Whatever Tina’s problems were, if she was functional and her brother was taking care of her, they were certainly none of Suz Craig’s business. I placed the Camembert slices over the vegetables, slipped in the fourth tape, and began on the last layers of the pie.

  “You called them.” Suz Craig. “You set up the appointments. You got people to betray me. How do you think I’m supposed to feel?”

  Brandon Yuille’s voice was the clearest yet. “Suz, I had to, I had people coming to me day and night complaining about working with you. I couldn’t just ignore them.”

  “Brandon, you could have talked t
o me—”

  “I tried to talk to you. Before and after—” “Before and after we broke up?” Suz’s laugh was sour. “Maybe I didn’t notice, what with all that passion.” Brandon said nothing. “Look, I know you’re hurt that I started going out with Korman, but he and I are right for each other. You’re too young.” Suz made young sound like a dirty word.

  No wonder Brandon had blushed when he’d told me how caring Suz could be. I suddenly realized why Brandon wasn’t talking on the tape. He was crying.

  “Brandon! Why did you call Minneapolis in? To punish me? Because it worked.”

  I heard a sob. “I was trying to do my job.”

  “Well, don’t do your job so well, okay?”

  “I am going to do my job” he said defiantly. “I’m in charge of Human Resources. Don’t tell me not to do my job.”

  “Your job? Your job? You drag your sorry ass into this office late, day after day, looking more tired than a nomad lost six weeks in the desert. You’re not doing your job! And you don’t find me complaining about you, do you?”

  “You’re the only one … who seems to mind that I don’t look good.” I heard him blow his nose. He cleared his throat. “And I thought you didn’t care about how I looked anymore.”

  Her voice was cruel. “Listen. If you call the Minneapolis people again, you’ll be very sorry. I’ll fire your ass and have your records altered so they say you have cancer. You’ll never get another HR job in Denver. You won’t be able to stay near your father. Something else. You don’t think I know your father supported a blond nurse down in Denver while your mother was sick? You think people in Aspen Meadow would want to know their beloved pastry-shop owner two-timed his wife who was terminal with cancer?”