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
“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.
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.
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 hove to settle, but I wasn’t ready to give in… . Chris? Didn’t she have on abortion a few years back? Anything we could do with that?”
Chris Corey’s rumbly voice was unmistakable: “Not an abortion. Her primary-core 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 tastefull 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’II 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’ll 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 he
r 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 j 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 to 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 wont to know their beloved pastry-shop owner two-timed his wife who was terminal with cancer?”
Even on the tape I could tell Brandon was startled. I could imagine his sparkling dark brown eyes and enthusiastic smile dimmed with pain. “My mother… ” his anguished voice was just above a whisper “was barely conscious for the last three months of her life. That other woman was her nurse.”
“An ACHMO nurse. Your father slept with her.
“You’re insane.”
“He’s lonely, Brandon. During the day I’ll bet he’s lonely all the time.”
And that was the end of that tape. Sheesh! Again I was stunned that Suz Craig had had the audacity to make these tapes. And to threaten people like that? Incredible. I could certainly see why she’d felt she had to hide the tapes from July 14. These cassettes were much more incriminating of her than they were of the people she was attempting to blackmail. Although someone hadn’t thought so. Were there any tapes of the Jerk visiting her office?
Exhibition Salad with Meringue-Baked Pecans
Pecans:
1 egg white
ź teaspoon cinnamon
ź teaspoon salt
1/3 cup sugar
4 tablespoons melted butter
2 cups (˝ pound) pecan halves
Preheat the oven to 325°. Butter a shallow 10-by15I-inch jelly-roll pan.
Beat the egg white until stiff. Mix the cinnamon and salt into the sugar. Keeping the beater running, add the sugar mixture, 1 tablespoon at a time. Fold in the melted butter and the pecans. Spread the pecan mixture in the prepared pan and bake for 15 minutes.
Remove the pan from the oven. Using a spatula, carefully flip the pecan mixture one small section at a time. When all the pecans have been turned over, return the pan to the oven. Bake an additional 15 minutes. Watch them carefully-do not allow them to burn. Cool the pecans on paper towels.
(Only 1 cup of pecans is used in the preparation of the salad. The other cup can be eaten as a snack or frozen in a zippered plastic bag. These pecans also make a wonderful holiday gift.)
Sherry Vinaigrette:
1 teaspoon Dijon mustard
ź teaspoon sugar
1 tablespoon best-quality sherry vinegar
2 tablespoons best-quality olive oil
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
Whisk together the mustard, sugar, and vinegar. Whisking constantly, dribble in the olive oil. Add salt and pepper to taste. Makes ź cup.
Salad.
2 cups (2 ounces) fresh arugula
6 cups (6 ounces) of a mixture of fresh radicchio, endive, and escarole
ź cup sherry vinaigrette
1 cup sugared pecans
Wash, dry, and trim the arugula and the other greens. Tear them into large bite-size pieces. Just before serving, toss with the vinaigrette. Sprinkle the pecans over the top and toss again. Serve immediately.
Serves 4
I nudged the brioche dough over the pies and slid them into the ovens. They were the kind of concoction you could serve at room temperature or reheated. The final job was to prepare the promised salad. Macguire had filled several large zippered bags with freshly washed bunches of arugula and other delicate field greens. Before leaving home I’d snagged a jar of homemade sherry vinaigrette and packed up a batch of crusty, meringue-coated pecans.
By the time I had the salad assembled, the pie crusts were golden and puffed. The melted Camembert filling, with its garlic-and-herb seasoning, smelled heavenly. I carefully removed the pies and placed them on the counters to cool. I’d reheat them, along with the chicken, just before the closing supper.
I stared at the four tapes on the counter. I needed to do something with them. If Suz Craig had felt they were so incriminating that they should be buried, then I certainly didn’t want to keep them. ReeAnn had gotten herself blown up, I was willing to bet, by someone who thought she had these very tapes. I didn’t want to have them in the LakeCenter kitchen, in my van, or even in my home. I wanted them to be in a safe place until Tom could get them. But where?
As I scanned the ballroom, I couldn’t get the nasty, threatening voice of Suz Craig out of my head. What would she have been able to find out about me? I wondered. If she’d married John Richard, she could have gotten hold of Arch’s records from when he was in therapy after the divorce. Maybe she would have used them to gain a reduction in child support, or for some other, more sinister intent. I shuddered. I needed to call Tom. In my haste, I’d forgotten the cellular in the van.
While I was trotting back to my vehicle, I realized I now had to turn this whole thing over to Tom. I’d tried to sustain my relationship with Arch by fulfilling a promise to look into the case of the murder of Suz Craig. John Richard had been accused and appeared, for the most part, guilty. But the case had been more than a can of worms. It had been a tankful. With the tapes I’d discovered, and the physical evidence that would soo
n come back from the crime lab, Tom would help Donny Saunders figure out what had really happened to Suz.
Still, I couldn’t help wondering how someone could have known, or could have taken the time to find out, what he or she had to know to plan out the murder of Suz Craig. You can’t put the dish in too early or it won’t come out right. Timing was everything. Not only would the killer have to know all about Suz, he or she would have to know all about John Richard’s financial situation, what kind of car he drove, the ID bracelet, everything. And, most obscurely, the killer would also have to know under what circumstances John Richard used to beat me, what triggered his abusive rages. He or she would have to know about Suz and John Richard’s monthly anniversary celebrations and that getting the Jerk totally frustrated would set him off-like lighting a fuse. The killer could get him frustrated by sending him notice of a failure to receive a bonus, when he was already deep in financial hot water.
But it all seemed like a terribly long shot. There was still a slim chance that John Richard wouldn’t lose his temper, no matter how provoked.
In my van the cellular phone was bleating insistently. I grabbed it and flipped it open, but whoever it was had hung up. Arch? I called Tom but got his machine. I told him about the tapes and that he should send somebody up to the LakeCenter to retrieve them. Then I picked up the large plastic container of cookies.
The cleaning crew had left by the time I reentered the LakeCenter. The floor gleamed like a mirror and the thousands of little Babsie faces smiled beatifically at me. My cellular squawked again. I thumped the container of cookies down on the counter and reached for it.
“Goldy? Where’ve you been?” It was Frances Markasian. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours! What’d you give me this number for if “
“Spare me, Frances.”
“What happened?” she cried. “Where are you?”
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