The Grilling Season gbcm-7

by Diane Mott Davidson

  His eyebrows lifted. “Hey, Goldy! Ace caterer amateur detective! Wake up! Luella shouldn’t have called Minneapolis first, she should have told the cops about the tapes first. This morning Luella’s suddenly got a big case of remorse, ooh, ooh, she meant to tell us, but she didn’t want to lose her job, see, is what she’s saying. Meanwhile, our department takes an inventory. Looks like one day’s tapes are missing, and the people at ACHMO swear they don’t have a clue where they are. So, bit later in the morning, the sheriff sends a team back up to Suz’s house. They turn up nothing.”

  “Sheesh.”

  “So I’m thinking about your ex-husband, see. I’m thinking, why did he and Suz Craig have that catfight on Friday night? And then I think, the missing tapes, of course! John Richard probably has them.

  What? I pressed my lips together and turned away. I had to think. Delicate material, John Richard had said. I nudged soft scoops of dough into each cup. And what had ReeAnn said? She wanted him to put some stuff… in a safe place, somewhere the AstuteCare people couldn’t find them. I ladled tart, inky jam on top of each dough disc. At John Richard’s office this morning, Brandon Yuille had asked me the same question: If John Richard has given you anything to hide … I popped the cupcake pan into the hot oven.

  “What could be on the tapes?” I asked, perplexed. “And who could have them?”

  “Well, now, those are the questions, aren’t they? The execs are scrambling like crazy. Where’re the tapes, these powers-that-be want to know. And, believe me, this morning? All the ACHMO secretaries were pulling up the wall-to-wall trying to find the damn things. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, since Suz Craig’s house has turned up nothing, the duty judge gives our guys a search warrant for Korman’s house. No tapes, but somebody messed up his house bad with paint – “

  “One day’s tapes… What day? What folks met with Suz Craig that day?” I interrupted.

  “Luella’s trying to reconstruct that.” He shook his head and burped. “Korman doesn’t have anyplace he hides things, does he?”

  “He’s compulsively neat. And he’s just sold his place in Keystone.” I chewed the inside of my lip. “He hasn’t been to his condo in Hawaii since June. I guess he could have stashed the tapes there. But if they’re in Hawaii, what would happen if Suz wanted [hem back?”

  “Man, would I love it if the department sprang for a trip to the islands! Damn! You got another beer?”

  “Donny. Are you driving?” He pulled his chin into his neck. “Well, yeah, but you don’t need to worry about a coupla beers, Goldy, I can handle it. And don’t worry, I’ll callout to Hawaii for a search warrant. Now, how ‘bout – “

  “Let me fix you some coffee. You know my husband’s a cop. I wouldn’t want you having an accident after drinking beer at our house. It’d look bad.”

  “Okay,” he said reluctantly, eyeing the espresso machine on my counter. “Only don’t give me any of that cappuccino crap or I’ll barf.”

  I fixed Donny plain black coffee, which he slurped noisily. The nut-scented Linzer tarts resembled circular stained-glass windows when I removed them from the oven. Since they would go in the doll-show box lunches, I decided to call them Babsie’s Tarts. While I was placing them on a rack to cool, I asked Donny if there were any suspects besides John Richard. He said not since Luella’s alibi had checked out. I asked him if they’d caught the vandals who’d defaced John Richard’s house, and he said, “Oh, do they think it was vandals?” Finally I asked him if he knew about the bonus John Richard was supposed to get, but didn’t.

  Babsie’s Tarts

  1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened

  ž cup sugar

  2 egg yolks

  1 teaspoon vanilla extract

  2 teaspoons finely grated lemon zest (see Note)

  1 ˝ cups bleached all-purpose flour (add one tablespoon in high altitudes)

  1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

  ź teaspoon ground cloves

  ź teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon baking powder

  1 ź cups blanched slivered almonds, ground (see Note)

  1 to 1 ź cups best-quality seedless red raspberry jam

  Beat butter until creamy. Add sugar and beat until thoroughly incorporated. Beat egg yolks slightly with vanilla and lemon zest. Add to creamed mixture, stirring thoroughly. Sift dry ingredients together, then stir into creamed mixture. Stir in almonds.

  Preheat oven to 350 . Spray two non-stick cupcake pans with vegetable oil spray. Using a 2-tablespoon scoop (or measuring out in 2 tablespoon increments), place one scoop of batter into each cupcake pan. Pat the batter gently to cover the bottom of each cup. Do not indent the dough or the jam that is to be cooked in the center will leak through. Place 2 teaspoons of jam in the center of each tart.

  Bake for about 15 minutes, until the batter has risen and turned golden brown around the jam. After the pans have been removed from the oven, use a sharp knife to loosen the edges of each tart. Allow the tarts to cool in the pan until cool to the touch, at least 1 hour. Using a kitchen knife, gently lever the tarts out onto cookie racks and allow to cool completely. You may serve them plain, or sprinkle with powdered sugar and serve with a scoop of best-quality vanilla ice cream.

  Makes 2 dozen.

  Note: Citrus zests and nuts are easily ground in a clean coffee grinder.

  “Yeah, yeah. That’s part of my theory. The Craig lady didn’t approve the usual bonus for Korman, so he didn’t have any money, and so he wouldn’t give her the tapes he’d hidden, and so they argued and he killed her.” He turned the corners of his lips down, shook his head. “It was his pattern,” he concluded smugly. “Say, those smell awful good.”

  I put a warm, crumbly Babsie’s Tart on a small I plate and handed it to him. “Ah … did you find out why exactly Suz didn’t give him his bonus? Did Luella clue you in on that?”

  He placed the small tart in his mouth, lounged back in the chair, and held up one finger as he chewed. “Billing,” he said finally. “He didn’t bill right. I’m going to really grill Korman’s secretary about that. You know, about whether Korman and Ms. Craig ever argued about bills. Plus there’s a malpractice suit outstanding against him. The HMO didn’t like that, or the fact that they were being sued by the same patient. So our doc was in hot, hot water. Boiling. More reason to kill Ms. Craig.” He glanced at his watch. “Talk about billing! I need to see a couple more people today or the department will have a fit over the hours I submit.”

  “How come?”

  “Well, usually I bill by the hour, but they’ve been saying I’m too thorough with each person and spend too much time investigating. Whoo-ie! Now I bill by the people I talk to. Plus, even though I have a photographic memory, I have to write up a report on each interview. And believe me, those reports can be a bear, you’re typing ‘em up the middle of the night.”

  “I’m sure you can manage it,” I said reassuringly as I escorted him to the door.

  “I wouldn’t mind the typing so much,” he said disconsolately, “if only I didn’t get so hungry.”

  So I gave him another tart. Donny Saunders may be a pig, but I can never resist a hungry soul.

  To my surprise, Arch called and asked if Todd could spend the night. I said yes, and was further pleased when Arch asked for his favorite dinner, baked potatoes with a variety of toppings. I was hopeful that fixing the potatoes would help me reflect on Donny Saunders’s visit. Tapes? What tapes? And where were the missing ones? I’d learned just enough to be frustrated. If Frances Markasian ever did a story on the waste of taxpayer money, I’d point her in the direction of old Donny.

  I filled a wide frying pan with extrathick bacon slices, and for some reason thought of the composer Schoenberg. Schoenberg had been quoted as saying that his music contained all his secrets. His composi tions held the key to unlocking the inner workings of his soul. You just had to know how to listen. Somehow, all the information before me might contain enough data to unlock the secret of what had happened
in the early hours of Saturday morning. I just didn’t know how to decipher it.

  The phone rang. It was the therapist’s office calling to say I’d be getting a call later in the day about scheduling Arch. Apparently there was no way the temporary secretary could do anything now. I sighed and said I’d be waiting for her call.

  I trimmed crisp green broccoli for one of the potato-toppings and thought of Arch. He and Todd were planning an extended “jam” tonight. Jamming, I’d learned, was not about food, but about music. Fine with me. I wanted Arch to have a regular social life instead of fretting about his father. Truth to tell, though, it pained me that I couldn’t relate to the music that today’s fourteen-year-olds liked. I’d faulted my parents for finding the Rolling Stones, execrable. But the Rolling Stones made music. What Arch and Todd listened to was just noise. Well, I thought with a sigh, Schoenberg’s mother probably had trouble with her son’s music. Come to think of it, I thought as I retrieved a dozen fat Idaho potatoes from my pantry, Schoenberg’s music pretty much sounded like noise to me, too.

  As I washed and pricked the potatoes, I remembered to call the town veterinarian. I was still wondering about the scratches on Ralph Shelton’s face and if they’d truly come from his feline. The veterinarian’s receptionist said that under no circumstances could she tell me anything about the care of Ralph Shelton’s animals. Patient confidentiality seemed alive and well these days, if you were a cat. Well, maybe Tom would know.

  I placed the potatoes in the oven, then kneaded the brioche dough gently, divided it, and set it into loaf pans for its third and final rising. By the time Arch, Todd, and Tom arrived home, I’d put the loaves in the oven and finished making the dinner. Todd Druckman, who was baby-faced and slightly pudgy, and had hair that was even browner and straighter than Arch’s, pronounced ours the best-smelling kitchen he’d ever visited. A pile of baked potatoes invited slashing and filling. I pointed to where the boys could choose from a vat of creamy cheese sauce bubbling on the stove, broccoli florets heaped in a steaming pile, and a mountain of hot, crispy bacon that beckoned with its mouthwatering scent. The real surprise occurred, however, when Arch, Todd, Tom, and I were bustling around setting the table. We didn’t even notice Macguire entering the kitchen.

  “Hey!” he said. “What smells so great?”

  For a moment we were all speechless. Macguire, hungry? Then Tom winked at me. “What is it Cinderella’s godmother says? Sometimes miracles take some time?”

  I looked at my watch. “Yeah. Six hours. That’s when we left the health-food store. Amazing.” Macguire still shuffled and his body was achingly thin. But healthy color infused his cheeks for the first time in a month, and he wanted something to eat! Both were momentous developments. I offered a silent prayer of thanks.

  The potatoes were indeed out of this world: each flaky bite was robed in golden cheese sauce and melded stupendously with the tender broccoli and crunchy bacon. Macguire, to my amazement, slowly ate two potatoes slathered with toppings, then laughingly pronounced himself so full his stomach ached. Tom, Todd, and Arch cleaned every last bite from their plates. Our meal was full of companionship, good food, and laughter. I never once thought of the corpse I’d found in the ditch.

  Arch broke the spell of family life. He said suddenly, “I wonder what they’re having at the jail tonight.”

  “Hon,” I replied gently, “your dad’s out on bail. This morning we – “

  “You found out this morning that he got out? And you didn’t call me at Todd’s?”

  “I thought… if your dad wanted to call, he would –”

  “And you probably wouldn’t let me talk to him!” He looked accusingly from me to Tom. “And I’ll bet you haven’t done anything today to help him, either!”

  “Excuse me, young man, but I have too done something – “

  But before I could finish my sentence, Arch threw down his fork and ran out of the room.

  Tom shook his head. Todd looked bewildered. I silently put a half-dozen Babsie’s Tarts on a plate, handed Todd a six-pack of soft drinks, and told him to go on up and see what he could do. Todd took the plate along with the pop cans and gratefully excused himself.

  “Maybe I should go, too,” Macguire announced in a guilty tone, and left. Minutes later I saw the light on the phone flash red, indicating that Arch was making an outgoing call from upstairs. The call did not last long. Probably Arch had called John Richard’s number and left a message on his machine. My mind immediately leaped to a fresh question: If the Jerk wasn’t home to answer his phone, where was he?

  Tom said, “Let me do the dishes, Miss G.”

  “You do everything,” I said, disconsolate. “Bring home takeout. Do the dishes. Put up with us. Put up with me.”

  “You make a great dinner,” he countered as he started hot water running in the sink. “And you’re the one who tries to do everything. You can’t make everything go smoothly.”

  “At least I’d be a better investigator than Donny Saunders.”

  Tom chuckled. “Sorry, Miss G., but that’s not saying much.”

  While he was doing the dishes, I asked him about the tapes from Suz Craig’s office. He said the department was listening to the tapes they had found and making an inventory of them. I told him about the discussions I’d had with Amy Bartholomew and ReeAnn Collins. He nodded and didn’t take notes, indicating he’d already heard similar information at his office. Then he punched buttons on the espresso machine. A few moments later he placed a demitasse of crema-laden espresso in front of me and sat down across the table.

  I sighed. “If I drink this, I’m going to be up all night.”

  “Aw, drink it. You’re going to be up all night anyway. You’re going to be up every night until this is over. And trust me, Goldy, these things always come to an end. One way or another.”

  I closed my eyes and sipped the rich, satisfying espresso. When Tom placed the last dish in the dishwasher, I slid the golden-brown brioche loaves out of the oven and placed them on racks to cool. Their rich, homey scent bathed the kitchen.

  Tom said, “Let’s take some cookies out on the deck: I want to talk to you about the autopsy, but I want to be somewhere the boys won’t hear us.”

  “Chocolate, coffee, and death. Dark topics all.” We stretched out on one of my fancy deck-furniture couches that had been in disuse for so long. The night air was sweet, mellow, and filled with the buzz of unseen insects. Just above the mountains’ dark silhouette, Venus glowed like an ice crystal.

  We savored the Chocolate Comfort Cookies in silence, curled together in each other’s arms. The! cookies were chock-full of fat chocolate chips and crunchy toasted hazelnuts. The sun-dried cranberries gave a delicious, tart chewiness to each bite.

  I asked Tom if the cops had called Shelton’s veterinarian and he said yes. The scratches on Ralph Shelton’s face had been inflicted by his cat but were minor. Then Tom sighed. He asked, “Did you also know Suz Craig had a cat?”

  “Yes, a shy calico one named Tippy. Saturday morning, right after you went to talk to the deputies, that cat jumped into my arms. I know Tippy was part of the crime scene, but I was afraid she’d get trampled if I abandoned her. I left her with Tina Corey. Why?”

  He didn’t answer right away. I snuggled in close and just enjoyed his warmth.

  “Here’s what we found out today,” Tom said at length as he massaged my back. “Suz Craig’s security system was turned off. Also, Suz Craig didn’t die from falling into the ditch. She died of a subdural hematoma. No blood, because she was hit with her cat’s scratching post. It’s a solid metal cylinder covered with carpeting. You know what a subdural – “

  “Yes. A blow causes bleeding into the brain. The bleeding brings on death.”

  “Right. It takes eight hours for lividity to fix, and she’d only been in the ditch two, maybe three hours before you found her. It’s very unlikely she could have gotten the fatal blow there. So somebody put her outside. Why, we don’t know. We’re sti
ll waiting for the drug screen to come back; that’ll take a few days.”

  “Yes, I remember.”

  Tom continued thoughtfully. “Here’s the odd thing. She definitely has the same pattern of bruises that you used to have when John Richard attacked you. If he’d beaten her up and killed her immediately, the bruises wouldn’t have shown up on the corpse. Bruises take about three or four hours, minimum, to develop, unless the victim’s one of those rare people who show a bruise within an hour. So what happened between the time Suz Craig got beaten up and the time she died of a blow from the cat’s scratching post? And how did she get into that ditch?”

  “The vandals say John Richard left that night and then came back. Or somebody in a Jeep just like one of his, no lights, came there.”

  “Yeah.” Tom sighed wearily. “I know what they said. We’re checking to see if any white Jeeps were rented anywhere in the Denver area. And we’ve got the drug screen to wait for. Plus the skin under her nails has been sent to a crime lab. So we’ll know more by the end of the week. If it’s Korman’s skin, at least we’ll have him for assault.”

  But not necessarily for murder. Would he walk? I didn’t want to think about it.

  As Tom had predicted, I did not sleep well. At one point I crept down to the kitchen and typed into the computer my own notes on what ReeAnn Collins, Amy Bartholomew, Donny Saunders, and Tom had told me. I didn’t nave a photographic memory. But then, after what I’d been through when I lived’ with the Jerk, I’d prayed never to have a photographic memory.

  20

  Despite the fact that Tuesday morning dawned with a bright sun and jewel-bright hummingbirds whirring past my downstairs windows, I did not feel the least bit cheered. Tom had left early. I went through my yoga routine trying to empty my mind – not easy. Today, among all the other crises, I was set to begin catering to the doll people. I’d read recently about the necessity of going into a zone of enjoyment when doing your work, especially if you expected to derive pleasure from your career over the course of a lifetime. I tried to see the zone and imagine Gail Rodine not in it.