The Grilling Season

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “I’m not doing very well at all.” I rinsed my hands. “It’s like I’m having post-traumatic stress disorder. Every time I look around this house, something reminds me of the Jerk.”

  “Take a Valium. Go lie down for a while.”

  “For crying out loud, Marla, I’ve got a party tonight.”

  She paused to take a bite of food: her tranquilizer. “Oh, right, the McCrackens’ hockey party. You’re going to have to wear a T-shirt that says ‘I don’t know anything.’ Otherwise, the guests are going to drive you nuts wanting to know what’s going on. Plus Patricia’s husband is a doctor, isn’t he?”

  “Her first husband was. Skip. Skip interned with John Richard and Ralph Shelton. Don’t you remember?”

  “Not really. That was before my time with the Jerk, honey.”

  “Well, Skip dumped Patricia when she said she wanted to adopt a child. I got to know Patricia when she was going through the divorce. Her new husband is a dentist. Clark.”

  “Still, their friends all know the Jerk, so you’re going to get a slew of questions.”

  Ah, Aspen Meadow, which alternated between being intimate and incestuous. “I’ve already had a slew of questions. The cops just left.”

  “What did they want?”

  “Oh, the usual. What did I see. What did I know about her. What did I know about the two of them.”

  “Hmph. Have you heard anything else? About the two of them, I mean?”

  “No.” I sliced the olives into delicate black bits. Then, as usual, my curiosity got the better of me. I murmured, “How about you?”

  She took another noisy bite of whatever she was chewing and then washed it down with something liquid. “Well, I’ve been trying, God knows. I’ve been waiting ages for the Jerk to get his due, although I’m truly sorry Suz Craig had to die for it.” She paused. “Okay. For one thing, John Richard and Suz were at the club bar last night, drinking and arguing almost until the place closed at midnight.”

  “Aspen Meadow Country Club?” I asked. “Says who?”

  “Yes, the country club. You know how John Richard loves to see folks and be seen. And the person who said so was Fay Shelton, current wife of Dr. Ralph Shelton, recently fired by ACHMO by none other than Suz Craig herself.” She paused. “Or so I heard. Hold on, there’s somebody at my door.”

  I moved the olives aside and began on some fat, ripe tomatoes that smelled so delicately sweet, I was tempted to pop a couple of juicy red chunks right into my mouth. But the health inspector had recently sent out a sign to be posted in all commercial kitchens: NO SMOKING, EATING, OR DRINKING IN THE FOOD AREA! USE PLASTIC GLOVES WHEN HANDLING RAW MEAT! Across the state, chefs had promptly denounced the first admonition. How were they supposed to serve what they were preparing if they couldn’t taste it? A subsequent missive from the inspector allowed as how we could taste with a plastic spoon, which was to be immediately tossed out. As Macguire and Arch would say, Whatever.

  “Can you believe that?” Marla asked when she returned to the phone. “Frances Markasian from the Mountain Journal here at my doorstep already, wanting to interview me about what a bloodsucker my husband was. I told her ex-husband and suggested she go back to covering the doll show. Then I got this idea: ‘Press Babsie—’”

  “Frances knows about Suz? She knows about John Richard’s arrest?”

  “She knows all about it. Maybe she’s got one of those police-band radios. More likely, somebody who lives on Jacobean called her. Frances insisted she needed to talk to me. Said it was urgent. What would be urgent about talking to me?”

  “What in the world did you say?”

  “I told her to come back on Monday,” Marla replied gleefully. “I know I’ll have more to report on the Jerk’s bloodsuckiness by then.”

  “For heaven’s sake.” I glanced at the clock. Nearly noon. “Exactly when was Ralph Shelton fired?” I tried to remember the last time I’d catered any event where the Sheltons were present, but drew a blank. I’d known Ralph when John Richard was in medical school with him, and Ralph had a different wife and a daughter I adored. But when your marital situation changes, many of the friendships sadly seem to evaporate. “Where do the Sheltons live, exactly? Aren’t they over there near John Richard?”

  “Yes, of course. On Chaucer, I think. Ralph’s a huge hockey fan so you’ll probably see him tonight. Listen, though, here’s something else I found out from Fay. Her hubbie, Ralph, wasn’t the only one who had problems with Suz Craig. There was a nurse with a gambling addiction. ACHMO didn’t fancy one of their RNs taking the bus up to Central City and avidly playing the slots, hour after hour.”

  “Gambling? Do you know the nurse’s name? Would Fay?”

  “She didn’t say, but I could ask her. On second thought, the word is that Ralph Shelton has a temper, which he usually reserves for yelling at referees at Avalanche games. If I act nosy, he might slam me into the glass. Metaphorically speaking, of course. You’re more subtle, Goldy. You should go talk to him.”

  “Oh, sure. What am I, the local gal who deals with bad-tempered doctors?” I heard Tom’s Chrysler roll into the driveway.

  “How’s Arch handling his father being arrested?” Marla asked.

  “Wretchedly. He and Macguire are out for a walk now.”

  “Did Arch like Suz?”

  I sighed. “Arch never likes or dislikes John Richard’s girlfriends. He just tolerates them. It’s a survival mechanism.”

  “You know he’s going to want you to help him clear his dad. You’ve acquired a reputation as a woman who can nose around criminal cases like that godawful bloodhound of his.”

  I groaned. “Yeah, sure. This is one criminal case I’m going to keep my nose out of, thanks all the same.”

  “Listen,” she insisted, as I heard Tom’s footsteps approach on the deck. His slow trudge signaled that things were not going well. “You could drop by the Sheltons’ place on your way to the McCrackens’, Goldy. Say you got lost, need directions, and”—here she raised her voice to a trill—“oh, by the way, Ralph, old buddy, any ideas about what John Richard and Suz Craig were squabbling about last night? Think he got mad enough at the club bar that he went home and beat her to death?”

  “Marla—”

  “On second thought, Ralph baby,” she trilled, undeterred, “were you so mad at her for canning you that you went home and killed her? Keep your hockey helmet on now, Ralph, and your stick down—”

  “Please, I have to go.”

  “Promise you’ll call me if you have any more post-traumatic whatever-it-is flashes.” I hung up.

  Tom lumbered into the kitchen and headed straight for the sink to wash his hands. I suspected it was less because of my careful training than it was his desire to rid himself of whatever psychological muck he was bringing home from the sheriff’s department. His face seemed haggard and downcast. My heart sank.

  “I’m sorry,” I blurted out, “it looks as if you’ve been dealing with John Richard.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he said as he dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. He had pulled on blue jeans and a navy cotton shirt when I’d called him this morning. Despite the casual clothes, he didn’t look as if he’d had anything close to a casual day. He rubbed his eyes, then added, “It’s not your fault he is the way he is. Never was.”

  “He’s like herpes,” I said. “You just never know when he’s going to erupt.”

  Tom offered no reply. I glanced at him expecting a smile, but his handsome face stayed set in deep thought, his lovely liquid green eyes fixed on the table. I turned back to the orzo salad.

  The densely fragrant chèvre cheese fell into appetizing bits as my knife sliced through it. I chopped fragrant fresh basil and crisp stalks of celery, then mixed them in with the orzo. Next I whisked seasonings into balsamic vinegar and began to beat in garlic-flavored oil for an emulsion. When the dressing turned thick and creamy, I poured it over the orzo and vegetables, then stirred it carefully. Although I knew the salad sh
ould chill, I was ravenous. I delicately mixed in the chèvre, then reached for a plastic spoon to have a taste. When I put the spoonful into my mouth, the pungent Mediterranean flavors of crumbly cheese and garlic-robed pasta almost made me swoon.

  Mediterranean

  Orzo Salad

  1 cup (6 ounces) uncooked orzo pasta

  3 tablespoons finely chopped red onion

  1 cup seeded, chopped fresh tomato (about 3 small tomatoes)

  ¼ cup chopped celery

  2 tablespoons chopped fresh basil (or more if desired)

  2 tablespoons finely chopped pitted Kalamata olives 2 tablespoons capers

  1 teaspoon “grained” Dijon mustard

  ¼ teaspoon sugar

  1 tablespoon balsamic vinegar

  2 tablespoons garlic oil (available in specialty food shops, such as Williams-Sonoma)

  Salt and freshly ground black pepper

  3½ ounces chèvre, crumbled

  Bring a large quantity of water to a boil and cook the orzo just until tender (“al dente”). Drain and allow to cool. Mix the pasta with the onion, tomato, celery, basil, olives, and capers. In a small bowl, whisk together the mustard, sugar, and vinegar. Gradually beat in the oil until an emulsion forms. Pour this vinaigrette over the pasta mixture and season with salt and pepper. Chill the salad. When it is cold, mix in the crumbled chèvre, then serve.

  Serves 4

  I turned to Tom. “Hungry? I’ll bet you haven’t had anything besides vending-machine coffee and Danish.”

  “Sure. I’ll take whatever you’ve got going.”

  I ladled out a large bowl of the warmly fragrant pasta salad. On a whim, even though it was just past noon, I poured him a glass of Chianti. I figured he needed it. Then I poured myself one, figuring I needed it even more.

  “This is absolutely delicious,” he murmured appreciatively after the first few bites. “I’m sure the hockey folks will love it.” I gave him a kiss, thanked him, tucked the rest of the salad into the walk-in refrigerator to chill, and turned to the mountain of mushrooms, onions, and zucchini I needed to trim for the Grilled Slapshot Salad.

  I said, “Want me to keep working, or do you want me to sit with you for a bit?”

  He shook his head. “Think I need my hand held?”

  “No, I didn’t mean—” I blurted out. But he held out his hand and I took it.

  “No. Fault’s mine, Miss G. I’ve been put in the background on this case and I’m blaming you, which I shouldn’t. Actually, please stop worrying about me. You’re the one who should be stressed out. My wife the caterer, the one who refuses to see a victim advocate no matter how bad things get.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Oh, please, yourself, Miss G. Talk to me.” I sat at the table across from him and took a sip of wine. Its acrid taste burned into my chest. I sighed. “This … event. It’s horrid. Whenever I stop chopping or cooking, the memories flood in. I’m desperate to know what’s going on. At the same time, I want—I need—it to be over.”

  He nodded. “Makes sense. Should we all go up to the cabin for a while?” Tom’s lovely, remote log dwelling outside of Aspen Meadow had flooded this spring, and he’d lost his tenants. Tom and I had scrubbed the floors and walls. Over the Jerk’s objections that we were spoiling Arch, we’d paid him to wash the windows. But we hadn’t yet advertised for new renters. Maybe going to the cabin wasn’t such a great notion. I knew Tom, Arch, and Macguire wouldn’t relish being away from our home base for an extended time. And if I stayed up there alone, I’d brood and fret even more.

  “No, thanks. I just need to work. Be with you all. And … although I know it’s going to be tough, I’d like to keep informed on what’s happening. Arch is going to have questions around the clock.”

  His fingers stroked my hair. “Okay. Keep cooking, if that’s what you need to do. And I’d be happy to tell you what’s going on. It’ll make me feel as if I’m doing something on this case.” He sounded glum.

  I frowned at the vegetables. “There’s one thing I told Beiner that you should know.” I related to him Macguire’s suspicion that ReeAnn Collins, John Richard’s secretary for the past six months, was romantically involved with him. Tom put down his fork, retrieved his spiral notebook from his back pocket, and made a note. While I heated the kitchen stovetop grill for the Slapshot Salad, I shared Marla’s news about John Richard and Suz’s fight at the club last night, and that Suz had reportedly fired a doctor named Ralph Shelton and a nurse whose name I did not know.

  “Yeah”—Tom shook his head—“there was some kind of problem with this Craig woman being able to keep people. We don’t know much yet, but we do know that.”

  I nodded, then felt a pang of guilt. “Are you sure you want to talk to me about the case? I mean, after what happened last time, when Marla got into so much trouble?”

  He looked at me intently. “Miss G. I can’t believe you’d really want to get any more involved in this than you are already.”

  “Excuse me, but my first responsibility is to Arch. Whatever that looks like.” I felt the edge creep into my voice and despised myself for it. Tom, after all, was not the enemy. “I’m sorry. I … just need to know what’s going on. No surprises.”

  “Some cases have surprises. It’s the nature of the work.”

  “Maybe so, but I need to know the surprises in this case before Arch does.”

  He sighed. I slathered slices of zucchini with a mixture of olive oil and minced garlic. When I laid the glistening wedges on the heated grill, Tom pushed his empty bowl aside.

  “All right. Near as they can figure, Suz Craig died between three and five this morning. Rigor hadn’t set in when the medics arrived, which is one of the reasons they tried to revive her. There are signs of a struggle in her house, pots and pans strewn about in the kitchen. The guys are out doing a neighborhood canvass asking questions, but so far there’s very little.”

  “Two policewomen were over here.”

  “Beiner and Irving. They’re good.” His sandy eyebrows rose. “There was more vandalism in the country club sometime during the night. Looks like kids painting street signs and fences again, but who knows? One possibility is that Suz surprised the vandals somehow, and they killed her. On the other hand, only the club’s walls and a few street signs were spray-painted last night. We thought we were dealing with late-at-night vandals, but we may be dealing with early-morning ones. Of course, that wouldn’t explain why her kitchen pans were on the floor. Or why she died clutching a gold ID bracelet that said ‘To JRK: You’re the best. Love, SC.’” He took a deep breath. “Korman, of course, is claiming someone stole his bracelet. He also says he left her house between midnight and one o’clock, after they had that little disagreement you were referring to.”

  I removed the grilled zucchini slices with their lovely diagonal dark stripes, then placed them in a separate, lightly oiled pan to finish in the oven. “Little disagreement, my Aunt Fanny. John Richard will drink and argue for hours. Sometimes he loses his temper right away, sometimes he waits, especially if he’s trying to get something out of you. Like a bonus, say.” I slipped the pan into the oven. The air was wonderfully fragrant. “I think he just snapped. Beat the daylights out of her, then had no idea she’d walk out of her house and go looking for help. That’s my theory, anyway.”

  Tom shrugged. “He’s been unwavering on the leaving-at-one story. But even if he did leave after assaulting her, if she walked out of her house and died from falling into that ditch, he’s still our man.”

  Grilled

  Slapshot Salad

  2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil

  Salt and freshly ground pepper to taste

  3 large or 4 small garlic cloves, pressed, or 1½ teaspoons finely minced garlic

  3 medium-size or 4 small zucchini

  8 ounces fresh whole mushrooms

  1 sweet onion (sometimes called Mexican sweet onion or Peruvian sweet onion)

  2 ears fresh or frozen corn, de
frosted

  1 tablespoon (or more) sherry vinaigrette (see Exhibition Salad with Meringue-Baked Pecans)

  1 to 2 tablespoons chopped fresh basil

  Whisk together the oil, salt, pepper, and garlic and divide it between two 9-by 13-inch glass pans. Slice the zucchini on the bias into ¼” slices, place the slices into one of the pans, and mix carefully with your hands so that all the zucchini slices are lightly coated with the oil-garlic mixture. Trim the stems of the mushrooms. Slice the onion horizontally into ¼” slices. Place the mushrooms, onion slices, and corn into the other glass pan and again mix carefully by hand so that all the vegetables are lightly coated with the oil-garlic mixture.

  Oil and preheat the grill. Preheat the oven to 400°. Place the zucchini slices on the grill and cook briefly—no longer than 30 seconds—on one side only. Place the zucchini slices back into their glass pan, cooked side up, and put them into the oven while you prepare the rest of the salad (no longer than 10 minutes). Briefly grill the mushrooms, onion slices, and corn on all sides, until they have grill marks but are not cooked through. This should only take a few minutes. Remove the onion slices and mushrooms and set them aside to cool. Holding each ear of corn perpendicular to the cutting surface, slice off the kernels. Remove the zucchini from the oven. Combine the zucchini slices, mushrooms, onion slices, and corn kernels. Pour the vinaigrette over the vegetables and carefully stir in the fresh basil. Serve immediately or chill for no more than 1 hour.