The Grilling Season

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Legitimately?” he asked with a frown. “We send out questionnaires to a sampling of a doctor’s patients. If we get even one serious complaint, the bonus is automatically denied. Or if a doctor refers patients to specialists too much, or if he refers too little, the bonus is denied. If he hasn’t seen enough patients or cut costs over the past year, the bonus is denied.”

  “Now that’s what I call both a carrot and a stick,” Marla murmured.

  I said, “Look, Frances, we both knew he was having money problems.” But truly, neither Marla nor I had known the full extent of the problems.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Frances was saying. “And now ACHMO is going to raid him. And you know they’ll make him the fall guy for the McCracken mess if they find one scrap of paper they can use to blame him for the whole thing.”

  I asked Chris, “You mentioned that you’d be looking for what you called ‘personal notes’ that John Richard might have made when you go in tomorrow. What kind of notes?”

  Frances eagerly interjected: “They’re looking for anything John Richard might have written to cover himself, like ‘I told Patricia that my recommendation was for her to go into the hospital. But then I had to tell her that the HMO vetoed it.’ Or like ‘Told P. McCracken today that HMO had denied her hospital stay because they’re penny-pinchers. Cheap sons of bitches!’” she finished with a flourish.

  I addressed Chris Corey. “Do you think there were such notes? And exactly who is going in looking besides you and the Medical Management lady? Somebody who represents Suz’s interests in protecting ACHMO?”

  Chris leaned forward. “Korman and ACHMO are not exactly on the same side on these suits, you know. If Korman kept notes to try to cover himself, ACHMO wants those notes very, very badly. If Korman criticized the HMO to a patient, he violated the terms of his contract with us. Worse for AstuteCare, if the HMO recommended bedrest at home while Dr. Korman claims he recommended a hospital stay or she’d lose that baby … Well, you can see what would happen to the malpractice suit, and how bad ACHMO would look. ACHMO needs to know what he’s thinking, what he’s done.” He shook his head glumly.

  “Something else,” Frances said. “Chris tells me ACHMO was considering putting Korman on probation as a provider, just for being sued for malpractice.”

  Marla erupted in a gale of laughter. As Frances lit yet another cigarette, I wondered how ACHMO was reacting to the Jerk being accused of murder.

  Frances exhaled and went on. “Plus, if Korman was saying one thing to Patricia McCracken and another to ACHMO, then ACHMO claims they can put him out the door. And, believe me, if Korman got kicked off the ACHMO provider list, he’d have nothing, since he sold his practice to them. And the person deciding about his probation is Suz Craig. Or should I say was Suz Craig?” she concluded gleefully.

  “Why don’t you talk to the police?” I asked with a glance at Chris. He shook his head sadly. “Why tell me?”

  Frances quirked her bushy black eyebrows and, true to form, ignored my questions. Of course I already knew the answer: Because she wanted a story. “Listen,” she demanded, “did Korman give either you or Marla anything to keep? Like any files or packages or notes on the McCracken case? I won’t be able to nab ACHMO without something concrete.”

  Again Marla burst out laughing. “He gives me any files, he knows I’m going to shred them. Goldy might smoke them in her barbecue.”

  “Are you kidding?” I protested. “I’d put them through the vegetable shredder.”

  Frances shook her head. “Okay, okay, it was worth a try. But think. You probably heard the story about Suz and John Richard arguing at the club Friday night. After what I just told you, wouldn’t it make sense that they argued about money? He says he needs his bonus, she says he’ll be lucky not to be cut off by ACHMO completely. Goldy, does Tom know yet what they were fighting about?”

  “I’d like to stay married, thanks, Frances.” I’d had enough. “Okay, Marla, I really need to get home. I’m worried about Arch.”

  “I’m with you,” she said heartily, and took a last sip of coffee. We shook hands with Chris and Tina, thanked them for treating us to dessert, and started to leave.

  “Hey! Hold on!” Frances cried as she nipped along behind us. “I need to know what Korman called about from jail!”

  I finally managed to get Frances to let go of the Mercedes door handle by promising to call her if there were any momentous developments in the case of John Richard. “Momentous developments” to me meant anything the Furman County Sheriff’s Department public information officer was about to announce to all the newspapers, but I did not make this clarification to her.

  Frances’s black coat billowed out behind her and the smoke from her cigarette whipped away as she strode back to the cafe for another Jolt cola. I would call her if I wanted to know something. But next time I’d be careful not even to mention Arch.

  Chapter 16

  At home Macguire announced he was having trouble swallowing. His fever had abated somewhat, but he still would not eat a morsel. I made him some soft-serve strawberry Jell-O. After three bites he announced he needed to go back to sleep. Well, great.

  I perused the contracts for the doll-show meals that Gail Rodine and I had worked out. Babsie-doll collectors were apparently as paranoid about getting mayonnaise on those itsy-bitsy plastic high heels as they were about having their dolls taken out of their original boxes. So the Babsie-bash organizers, despite the fact that they were expecting over two hundred people per day at the show, had only sold tickets for forty box lunches on Tuesday. Then on Wednesday a sit-down breakfast for the executive committee and helpers—twenty people—would be followed that evening by a concluding barbecue, for which the show organizers had sold sixty tickets. All the meals would be served on the LakeCenter patio picnic tables. A guard would be stationed at the back door so that not a smear of barbecue sauce could touch a single doll’s ponytail. Best of all was that Gail Rodine’s down payment would provide the first installment of Arch’s fall tuition at Elk Park Prep, an expense John Richard was supposed to cover. The likelihood of that happening was now as slender as spaghettini.

  Arch, Tom, and I had takeout Chinese food that Tom had insisted on bringing home. I was both curious and apprehensive to hear the details of their afternoon. How did your father look in an orange suit? Was he handcuffed? And most important: Did he say he did it? But Arch mumbled that he didn’t want to talk about it. I was bothered that he was so very subdued. While we were doing the dishes, I brought Tom up to date on all I had learned from Frances and Chris Corey. He placed the last serving spoon in the dishwasher, washed his hands, and took some notes that he said he’d pass on to the D.A.’s investigator. Then he set his notebook aside and told me that Arch hadn’t uttered a word all the way home.

  “Did you see John Richard, too?” I asked him.

  Tom shook his head. “Miss Goldy, you’d better prepare yourself. This is a classic lose-lose situation. Tomorrow John Richard may get out on bail. It’s a long shot, but … The county judge who’s coming up on rotation? Name’s Scott Taryton. Taryton’s stated publicly that he’s tired of all the mollycoddling women are getting these days. For mollycoddling, read rights.”

  “Oh, don’t—”

  Tom held up a fleshy palm. “Listen. A female judge down in Denver let a first-degree murder suspect out on thirty thousand dollars’ bond last summer. The woman had shot her husband, alleging abuse. Taryton blew a gasket when that judge granted bond. We’ve been waiting for some kind of retaliation from him. Setting bond for a man implicated in a murder—especially one stemming from a domestic dispute—would be just his cup of tea. John Richard could be it.”

  “But isn’t there a law about not letting murder suspects out?”

  Tom scowled. “Oh, sure. Murder suspects, according to state law, need to be held without bond until a hearing on the evidence. But after bail was granted last summer for that other suspect, the upholding of that particular state law has be
come fuzzy. Fuzzy enough for Taryton to do exactly what he wants.”

  “God help us.”

  “Taryton’s no friend to women,” Tom concluded grimly.

  It was no wonder that I once again had trouble sleeping. The insomnia came despite an expert shoulder massage from Tom and a late-night phone check from Marla—did I want help from her for any of the doll-club events? I thanked her and said I would be fine; I needed the work to keep my mind occupied.

  I fell asleep dreaming of dolls bearing trays of grilled burgers. At two I awoke with my heart hammering. Bam, bam, bam, John Richard used to hit me. He’d shake me and then strike my face with his fist. I’d try to get away or fight back. No use. Bam. One leg, the other leg, my back. He was a great believer in symmetry.

  I shuddered and crept out of bed. Then I took a shower to relieve my cramping muscles. I toweled off and listened for noise in the house. Had I awakened anyone this time? Apparently not. I dressed silently—sleep was now impossible—and suddenly remembered Arch’s advice: You should go out for a drive. That’s what you used to do when I was little. When I couldn’t sleep….

  Should I? Well, why not. I found my keys and purse and tiptoed out onto the back deck. Overhead, shreds of cloud drifted across a river of stars. The air was warm. A sudden bleat! bleat! accompanied a rustling of leaves. A wave of panic swept over me. Then I saw a dozen elk moving slowly under the pine trees. It was a one-in-ten year for the big animals.

  I sat in the van and wondered how long a drive I needed to make to get tired enough to go back to sleep. I didn’t have anyplace to go. But even as I turned the key in the ignition I knew where I was headed.

  My van engine sounded loud on Main Street. All the stores, of course, were dark, from Darlene’s Antiques & Collectibles to the Doughnut Shop. A breeze washed through the aspen trees lining the street. Cottonwood Creek splashed and rumbled, while a cloth sign advertising Aspen Meadow Barbecue flapped like a forgotten flag. Gone were the rows of motorcycles ordinarily parked at acute angles in front of the Grizzly Bear Saloon on summer evenings. They had roared off into the night hours earlier, and the saloon was engulfed in darkness.

  The van chugged past the spotlight trained on the waterfall emptying out of Aspen Meadow Lake. The cormorants had abandoned their perch, and I wondered fleetingly where the birds spent their nights. The LakeCenter roof twinkled with a string of Christmas lights that our recreation district board had insisted would give the place a festive look year-round. They’d been right.

  The small shopping center housing one of our two grocery stores was also dark, except for the Aspen Meadow Pastry Shop, where, I was sure, the ever-industrious Mickey Yuille was making cinnamon rolls for his Monday-morning customers. Perhaps Brandon was there keeping him company.

  At the entrance to the country club, a dark car sat under the streetlight. Its door read MOUNTAIN SECURITY, but no one was inside. Perhaps the fellow had succumbed to sleep and was lying across the front seat. I was tempted to find out how ticked off he would be if I blasted him with my horn.

  I turned onto Jacobean and glanced at the clock on my dashboard. Eleven minutes from our house to Suz’s, no traffic. The streetlights cast a neon glow on the asphalt and all the mown lawns. The yards were perfect except for Suz’s. There, mounds of topsoil lay untouched, and yellow police ribbons were pulled taut around the crime scene and the house.

  Even though it was only one day after the murder, the sheriff’s department could not afford to put deputies in front of the house. I pulled up slowly by the ditch and glanced again at my dashboard clock. Thirty-two minutes after two. John Richard’s place onto Kells Way was three blocks in one direction, then another two around a curvy road that cut a circle through the club’s residential area, then two more blocks in the direction of the golf course. His house was on the downhill side of the road leading to the course. I wondered if there were police ribbons around it, too.

  When my van accelerated noisily down Jacobean, I saw a curtain being drawn back in the Tollifers’ front room. A yellow trapezoid of light framed a figure peering out. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one with insomnia tonight.

  A scant six minutes later I turned onto Kells Way. Here the streetlights were tucked into the tops of lodgepole pines. The light that fell on the asphalt shifted and swayed with the movement of the trees. Six minutes to the street sign—but how long to his driveway? I let the van drift down to the curb in front of the mammoth mock-Tudor residence that John Richard occupied all by himself. It took only a few seconds. I cut the engine and rolled down the window. Was I feeling tired? Not even remotely. So much for Arch’s prescription for insomnia.

  The wind picked up. Wind chimes on a nearby deck swirled and tinkled. The sound filtered through the rush of clicking aspen leaves. I breathed in the sweet summer air and wondered if John Richard had a window in his cell.

  Okay, now, think. If John Richard had left Suz’s house around one A.M., as he claimed, then he could have been back at his place before one-ten. Say he went inside. Had a few more drinks. Decided to go back and finish their argument. This was a possible reconstruction of events, but not a likely one, given his violent way of finishing things once he’d started them.

  My neck stiffened and I tried to get comfortable. The pain in my shoulders had subsided to a mild ache. I reached for a tablecloth I kept stored in a plastic bag behind the passenger seat. I shoved aside the earphones and wires of Macguire’s Walkman and pulled out the damask cloth. Tucking it around me, I tried to envision another way of timing Friday night’s events.

  No matter how much other people may not have liked Suz, John Richard was the one who’d been with her, arguing with her at the club, possibly about his terrible financial situation. Say he’d fought with Suz at her home, left her dead or near dead, then had gone back to his house around three or three-thirty A.M. This, I thought, was a more likely scenario. It fit the way he acted. Once he was enraged, it could have taken him several hours to work his way through it. What had Tom said? Near as they can figure, Suz Craig died between three and five … Rigor hadn’t set in when the medics arrived. If John Richard left Suz sometime after three A.M., then everything fell into place.

  The breeze died; the rustle of leaves and pine needles stopped. In the distance a car rumbled around the club’s circle. A wide swath of light swept the end of Kells Way. Then there was sudden quiet.

  Say John Richard’s fight with Suz had gone on and on. She screamed and contradicted him. The argument became violent, with pots and pans being used for weapons. Then Suz finally got the usual bam bam bam. Then more arguing and maybe another horrible whack. Then he left in a huff, with her hurt and screaming. She would have cried for him not to leave her in such a state. Then she stumbled outside for help, fell into the ditch, and died. All this would explain why rigor hadn’t set in until just after seven A.M.

  There was a noise on the street that was not from a tree, a car, a herd of elk, a sprinkler system, or a set of wind chimes. My heart stopped. Someone whispered with loud insistence.

  “Hey, man! Aren’t you done yet?”

  My spinal column turned to ice. The voice was about fifty feet away, on the same side of the street where I sat in my van. Whoever this was, he or she or they must have come along after I’d parked my vehicle, during that ten minutes when I’d been sitting deep in thought.

  I cut my eyes both ways, without moving, but could make out nothing. Kids sneaking home after hours? Car thieves? Burglars? If a couple of guys were going to rob a private residence, I didn’t care. I just didn’t want them to add assault of caterer to their list of crimes.

  “No, man, I’m not done!” came the urgent whispered reply. “This fluorescent stuff is dripping all over the damn place! Plus, I’m almost out! So hand me another can and shut up!”

  There was grunting and clinking. “I’m tired of doing a good deed, man!” was the bitter response. “That security guy comes this way right on the hour!”

  “I told you to
shut your mouth, or the neighbors will get him here even earlier!”

  “But it’s almost three!” his partner insisted. “He’s going to be here any second! We need to split! Just leave it!”

  My dashboard clock said 2:52. Eight minutes until the security guy showed up … if he did. Ever so slowly, inch by inch, I leaned forward to look out the windshield. If I could see them, I could figure out how to drive off without incident. Kells Way was a dead end. If these two guys—whoever they were, whatever their intentions—were in front of me, I could rev the ignition, throw the van into reverse, and zip backward up the street. If they were behind me on Kells, I could make a U-turn and accelerate across someone’s driveway to get past them.

  Spotlights shone down on the homes, drive-ways, and lawns on each side of the street. John Richard’s house boasted spotlights above the garage that did not quite illuminate the two darkened stories of the rambling, beamed structure. Nothing out of place appeared on his blacktop. Then I noticed several cans that looked as if they’d been discarded to one side of the driveway. Farther over, almost to the stone entryway that was topped by an expansive burgundy awning, I could see the bottom of a ladder. Why would John Richard have left a ladder out? He hated doing home repairs.

  Inching forward slowly in my seat, I strained my eyes to see more. A figure was moving through the trees. Then I made out someone on the ladder. A car door slammed, and the movement under the trees abruptly stopped.

  “Hurry up, man! What’re you doing, getting high on fumes?”

  This whisper came from high on the ladder. From the same direction as the car door, a motor started up. Someone was going somewhere. The guy under the trees scrambled up the ladder rungs, and I heard the unmistakable hiss-s-s of a spray-paint can.

  It was the country-club vandals.

  The car that had started around the circle above Kells revved and moved. Was it the security man? I couldn’t tell. Headlights coursed along the left side of the street, the dead end, then John Richard’s house.