The Grilling Season gbcm-7

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Uh-huh,” he said. “You got another statement to make? Some wrongdoing you encountered out on your prowls?”

  “I can’t…” I said between giggles, “help it … if I can’t… sleep.”

  “Soothe me, then. Tell me where you went.” “To the pastry shop. Had a bear claw. Sorry, I didn’t bring you any.”

  He put his arms around me and growled. “Promise me the next time you go on one of these excursions, you take me with you. I feel like a kid who always gets left behind.”

  I snuggled into his arms. “Okay. Whither I go, thou goest. Or words to that effect.”

  “So did you find out anything about Korman at the pastry shop?”

  “Sort of. The missing day’s tapes are for July 14, when Suz Craig called in all the employees who’d complained about her to HQ and threatened to fire them. She must have met with other people that day, too, like Ralph Shelton. So … if you had tapes of yourself blackmailing people, where would you hide them?”

  “I’d destroy them.”

  “Oh, cop, you’re a lot of help.”

  24

  My yoga regimen that morning was made more difficult by the phone ringing insistently at six o’clock. I pulled myself out of a contorted asana with the hope that this was the sheriff’s department calling to tell us they’d captured the Jerk. No such luck: over the wire came the commanding voice of the much-dreaded dollmeister, Gail Rodine.

  “The board doesn’t want you to use the grill tonight for our final dinner,” she announced without a hint of apology for calling so early. “I mean, after what happened to ReeAnn Collins, we just… feel it’s too dangerous.”

  Thinking of the mountains of hamburgers I had made and frozen, and the bags of chicken breasts I had been planning to marinate, my heart plummeted. I could never get them all grilled at home and reheated at the LakeCenter, without ruining them. “What would you like, then?” I asked carefully. “It’ll be impossible to order in more food supplies before tonight.”

  “Well… what do you already have on hand?

  Anything that you could grill, say, at home and then heat up?”

  “Some I could do,” I said confidently. “The last thing I want is for a client to be worried about preparation. But what I have on hand…” I mentally weighed the chicken. “If I grill the chicken I have, it will only feed half your folks. I’ll have to make…” I mentally scanned my refrigerator. “I’ll prepare a Camembert pie to fill things out. It’ll contain shrimp and vegetables, too.” From under the rumpled covers Tom’s sleep-worn face appeared. I held my hand over the receiver and mouthed, “Client needs whole new dish for tonight.”

  “Macguire said he wanted to help you,” Tom replied as he rolled back under the sheet. “Give him some chopping to do. He’s worried about how depressed you are about Arch. He really wants to go back to being your assistant.”

  “Goldy?” Gail Rodine. “Goldy, are you listening to me? How much extra is this going to cost?”

  “I do want you, the board, and the guests to be comfortable, Gail – “

  “Don’t worry,” she said, clearing her throat, “I’ve already called a Denver caterer, and he said no one could meet our needs for a fancy dinner by five o’clock tonight without an exorbitant surcharge.”

  “Gail, please – “

  “That’s ridiculous!” she shrieked into my ear. “I told them, ‘You don’t want us to get blown up by a propane grill, do you?’ “

  “The Camembert pie retails for approximately forty dollars. You’re already getting grilled Chicken a l’Orange and rice. I can add a tossed salad of field greens and perhaps a molded fruit salad, if I have time. Plus vanilla frozen yogurt with those chocolate cookies you had in your box lunches. There’s only a five percent surcharge for changing the menu at this late date.” I

  “Fine, fine, put it on our bill.” She rang off. “I’m afraid to ask what that was about.” Tom’s voice rumbled as he headed for the bathroom.

  “Woman doesn’t want to stage her last barbecue tonight,” I said as I groaned before starting a final stretch. “Doesn’t want to end up like Ree-Ann.”

  “Figures. Hey, let me see that.” He walked over to me, a manly vision in T-shirt and cotton undershorts. He touched my arm. “My God, Goldy! Look at that bruise! I swear I’m going to kill Korman myself, one of these days.”

  I twisted and frowned at the black-and-blue mark that had formed on my lower arm from being banged around by John Richard. I hadn’t noticed it until now. “Uh, well. Say, do you want to go back to bed?”

  He smiled at me but touched the bruise gently. “Does it hurt?”

  I gave a doctor-style shrug. “I’ll live, if we have a roll in the hay first.”

  He obliged, and we had a wonderful, warm, intimate time. Sometimes the best thing you can do in the morning is go right back to bed.

  After a while Tom said, “I’m going to help you with this breakfast, and go in late. By the way, I bought you another spiral-cut honey-cured ham. It’s in the walk-in.”

  I grinned and kissed him. “You’re marvelous beyond words. And thank you – I’d love the company this morning.”

  I fixed myself an espresso while Tom took his shower. Because the hospital had rebuffed me, and because it was too early to call Marla, I made a quick call to the sheriff’s department: ReeAnn Collins was out of danger and recovering from third-and second-degree burns. John Richard Korman, unfortunately, was still at large. And no, the duty officer informed me, Korman had not shown up at the Druckmans’ house.

  I sipped the espresso and wondered how Arch was doing. He’d only been gone one night, but it felt like an eternity because it was so open-ended. I’m going to live with the Druckmans for a while. At least until Dad’s hearing. I got out leeks, tomatoes, and cream cheese, then retrieved two large bags of shrimp from the freezer. When Tom appeared in the kitchen, with his hair freshly washed and a tiny glob of shaving cream stuck under his ear, I was doubly glad he had decided to stay. Nothing like loneliness and a violent ex-husband on the lam to make one brood.

  “Give me a job, Captain Cook,” Tom demanded merrily after he’d chugged down the espresso I’d given him and heard the news about ReeAnn and the Jerk. “The less savory the job, sir, the better.”

  That was easy: I despise poaching and shelling shrimp. Now I not only needed the shellfish for the doll-club board breakfast, I needed them for the dinner, too. “If you could cook and shell all that shrimp, I’d be eternally grateful.”

  He eyed the bulging bags and chuckled. “Aye-aye, sir.”

  I started on a brioche-style dough that would form a delectable top crust for the dish I’d decided to call Collectors’ Camembert Pie. While we were both working, Macguire made a sudden appearance in the kitchen. I glanced at the clock: not even seven. “This is unexpected,” I remarked. “What’s up?”

  “Give me something to do,” he said bravely, his voice still thick with sleep. “I want to help.”

  I cut a glance at Tom, who resolutely bent over the shrimp. These two had conspired to cheer me up, no question about it. Fine. To Macguire, I pointed out the plump tomatoes to be seeded and chopped, artichoke bottoms to be trimmed, asparagus to be steamed and sliced, Camembert to be thickly cut, and Parmesan to be grated.

  “I’ll worry about putting it all together when I get home,” I said with a smile.

  “Uh,” said Macguire, “that’s a lot of food for breakfast, isn’t it?”

  “It’s for dinner, Macguire.”

  “Uh.” He rubbed his eyes. “Well, can I go back to bed until about ten and start chopping then?”

  I laughed. “Of course.” When he had hauled himself back upstairs, I beat the eggs for the main course. “Tom,” I said thoughtfully as I chopped tomatoes and leeks, “what’s the time frame for John Richard’s trial?”

  “Preliminary hearing should be in about another three weeks. The county’s prosecuting attorney needs to see if there’s enough evidence to go to trial. As soon as th
e drug screen’s done and the skin and hair under Suz Craig’s fingernails are analyzed, they’ll know more than they do now. But as you know, there’s already a lot of evidence against him.”

  “What about the vandals?”

  “No sign of them. They could be anybody. They could have been hired by somebody sympathetic to Suz Craig.”

  “Hmm, I don’t think so.” I melted butter, put in the chopped leeks, and stirred the gold-and-green mixture. The aroma was deliciously sharp and fresh. “I guess it’s conceivable that someone rented a white Jeep. Someone who knew what kind of car John Richard drove. The person would have to live close by.”

  Tom expertly drained the shrimp and ran cold water over them. “The only people connected to the case who live very close by are Patricia McCracken and Ralph Shelton. Patricia says she was asleep and her husband backs her up. Ralph Shelton says that after he and his wife got home from the country club, they went to bed. The wife says he was next to her in bed the whole night. But she admits she’s a sound sleeper.”

  “Lucky her.” I stirred the bright red tomatoes into the bubbling mass of butter and leeks, then gently stirred in the eggs. “I wish I knew why I can’t find out what’s going on inside ACHMO.”

  His voice quivered with anger. “I wish I knew why I can’t seem to protect you from that violent ex-husband of yours.”

  “Not to make any excuses for him, but the man can’t deal with frustration. Especially when he’s had a few drinks. Maybe he knocked on the front door the way he said he did. But just because I didn’t answer right away is no reason to lose his temper.”

  Doll Show Shrimp and Eggs

  1 teaspoon Old Bay Seasoning

  8 large frozen easy-peel shrimp

  3 tablespoons butter

  ź cup chopped leek, white part only

  1/3 cup chopped fresh tomato, seeds and pulp removed

  6 eggs, slightly beaten

  Salt and freshly ground black pepper

  3 ounces cream cheese, cut into ź inch cubes

  Preheat oven to 400°. Bring a pint of water to boil and add the Old Bay Seasoning and the shrimp. Cook the shrimp until they are just pink. Do not overcook the shrimp. Drain and peel the shrimp, then cut each one in half. Melt the butter in an ovenproof skillet, then add the leek and tomato. Saute gently for about 5 minutes, until the leek is softened.

  Pour the eggs into the leek-tomato-mixture, season with salt and freshly ground pepper, and cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally to prevent browning, until eggs have almost congealed but still have some liquid left. Stir in the shrimp and the cream cheese. Bake in the oven for about 10 minutes, or until cream cheese is melted and eggs are completely congealed.

  Serves 2 to 3

  Collectors’ Camembert Pie

  Crust:

  1/3 cup milk

  2 tablespoons butter

  2 teaspoons sugar

  2 ˝ teaspoons (1 package) dry yeast

  ž teaspoon salt

  1 egg, slightly beaten

  1 ˝ teaspoons oil

  1 ź cups flour (or more)

  Heat the milk, butter, and sugar until the butter is melted. Remove from the heat and set aside to cool slightly (to 105 to 115 ). Stir the yeast into the milk mixture and let it stand for 10 minutes. Stir in the salt, egg, and oil. Add the flour ź cup at a time, stirring well, until each addition is thoroughly incorporated and dough holds together well. Turn out onto a lightly floured board and knead for 10 minutes, adding small amounts of flour if necessary, until dough is smooth and satiny. (Or use a dough hook and knead in a mixer for the same amount of time.) Place the dough in an oiled bowl and turn it once to oil the top. Cover the bowl and set aside to rise at room temperature until tripled in bulk (about 2 hours). Punch the dough down, roll it into a rectangle approximately 9 by 13 inches, and place it in a jumbo-size zippered plastic bag. Refrigerate for up to 6 hours. When you begin to prepare the pie, remove the bag from the refrigerator to allow the dough to come to room temperature.

  Filling:

  1 tablespoon Old Bay Seasoning

  36 large (1 ˝ pounds) easy-peel shrimp

  8 ounces fresh asparagus, trimmed

  1 pound fresh tomatoes, cored and seeded

  1 pound canned artichoke bottoms (5 or 6 per can)

  2 12-ounce wheels (1 ˝ pounds) Camembert

  1 cup mayonnaise

  2/3 cup freshly grated Parmesan

  2 teaspoons pressed garlic (4 to 6 pressed cloves)

  ž teaspoon dried thyme, crumbled

  ž teaspoon dried rosemary, crumbled

  ž teaspoon dried oregano, crumbled

  In a wide skillet, bring a quart of water to boil and add the Old Bay Seasoning. Add the shrimp and cook until just pink. Do not overcook the shrimp. Drain the shrimp and discard the cooking water. Peel the shrimp and set it aside until you are ready to assemble the pie.

  Slice the asparagus spears into thirds. Slice the cored and seeded tomatoes into eighths. Drain the artichoke bottoms, trim them of any rough edges, and slice each artichoke bottom into sixths. Scrape most of the rind off the Camembert and slice each wheel into sixteenths. (You will have thirty-two pie-shaped pieces of cheese.) In a small bowl, thoroughly combine the mayonnaise, Parmesan, garlic, and herbs.

  Preheat the oven to 350°. Butter a 9-by 13-inch glass pan. Assemble the pie by placing half of the shrimp in the bottom of the pan (three rows of 6 shrimp each), then evenly layer half of the asparagus, half of the tomatoes, half of the artichoke bottoms, and half of the Camembert over the shrimp. Using a small spoon, dab half of the mayonnaise mixture over the Camembert layer. Repeat the layers in the same order, ending with the last layer of shrimp. Carefully place the brioche dough over the top and cut several vents to allow steam to escape.

  Bake for 45 minutes, or until dough is golden brown and filling is hot and bubbly. Allow to cool slightly before serving, about 5 or 10 mintues.

  Serves 6 to 8

  Tom shook his head, then measured out the shelled shrimp I needed for the breakfast dish: Doll Show Shrimp and Eggs. I stirred in the shrimp, then removed the pan from the heat. At the LakeCenter this morning I would add the cream cheese chunks to the eggs, vegetables, and shrimp, then bake the dish for a short time, just until the cheese melted and the ingredients had all melded into an irresistible mélange.

  “Why don’t you just bake it now?” Tom, ever the efficient cook, wanted to know.

  “You can’t put the dish in too early or it won’t come out right.”

  “Ah. Well. If I leave now I’ll be exactly an hour late. Think you can handle the rest of the morning?”

  “With you for a helpmate, my dear sir, I can handle anything.”

  He sighed skeptically. “Just be careful, Miss G., please?”

  “Yessir. Now, please, go serve and protect and don’t worry about me, okay? Stop crime. Make America safe for the consumption of apple pie. My apple pie.”

  After he left, I brushed my fingers thoughtfully over the ugly bruise on my arm. Something I had seen and something I had said were working their way into my consciousness. It takes at least three hours for an injured area to turn black and blue, I knew that from Med Wives 101. As well, alas, from personal experience.

  But black-and-blue marks didn’t form on a corpse, as Tom had pointed out. Suz had had a nasty blowout with John Richard, and she’d had the exact pattern of bruises he usually inflicted. He’d even admitted they’d had a fight. Yet he was equally adamant that he’d left her alive after their argument and gone home. And really, the way he’d acted at my window yesterday was more typical of him: He got frustrated and he blew up. Then he either beat you until you submitted, or until something else stopped him, like the hanging plant Marla had whacked him with once, or the ill-fated ham I’d cracked over his head yesterday.

  And Suz hadn’t accidentally fallen into the ditch. She’d been beaten to death with a metal scratching post and then her body had been dumped into the ditch. It didn’t make sen
se.

  Even if someone else had killed her and wanted to put the blame on John Richard, how could he or she even know Suz and the Jerk would be together that night? How could he or she know he’d lose his temper?

  And even if the Jerk had beaten Suz up, a killer wanting to pin the murder on John Richard would have had to wait until the bruises formed so that it looked as if John Richard had not only beaten her but finished her off. Like the timing on the egg dish I was preparing, the killer’s timing would have to be perfect.

  And then I remembered what I’d said to Tom: You can’t put the dish in too early or it won’t come out right. If John Richard had not murdered Suz Craig, then whoever had had taken great pains to plan it.

  I glanced at my watch: seven-forty-five. I quickly packed up the ham, the eggs, and the breads for the breakfast, which was scheduled to start at nine. This last day of the doll show would begin at eleven. The doors would close at four so that the ballroom could be cleaned. Then the show would reopen at five and close at seven. The final dinner for the board and their guests was set for eight o’clock, to take full advantage of the magical evening light on the lake.

  I slipped my cellular phone into my pocket, but not before I’d taken note of three numbers: Patricia McCracken, Frances Markasian, and Lutheran Hospital, in case ReeAnn Collins was well enough to talk. Regardless of the fact that I had catering to do today, I had a crime to try to solve. My heart ached. I wanted Arch home. I wanted to know, once and for all, what had happened in Saturday’s early-morning hours. And I was going to find out. For Arch, and for me.

  Carefully, I scanned our garage and my van’s interior. No Jerk. Where could he be? Twice during the short drive to the LakeCenter I had the discomfiting feeling that someone was following me. But my rearview mirror yielded nothing unusual, and even when I pulled onto the shoulder of the lake’s frontage road, no one else stopped. I put it down to nerves.

  At the LakeCenter the portly, disheveled security guard again looked and smelled like the “before” picture in an advertisement for Alcoholics Anonymous. His disheveled gray hair was a mass of greasy curls; his red-veined eyes resembled a back-roads map of Utah. In the trash can next to him three empty whiskey pint bottles looked incriminating. As before, I felt sorry for him. And like any kind-hearted caterer, I asked if he wanted some coffee and toast once I got the board’s breakfast underway.