The Grilling Season

by Diane Mott Davidson

  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 have 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.

  Chapter 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.

  I sliced the cooled brioche loaves and then began making the box lunches. Each lunch would contain four sandwich triangles: cucumber, smoked salmon, Swiss cheese, and the pesto-tomato-chèvre combination that Donny Saunders had gobbled up so ravenously. I shuddered and fixed myself an iced latté. Something Donny had said kept swimming up just below my consciousness as I smoothed cool mayonnaise over the bread slices and laid out the sandwich fillings.

  When I finished wrapping the sandwiches, I tucked a miniature bottle of white wine, wrapped cheese straws, a cup of plum, orange, and banana fruit salad, and a plastic bag with a Babsie’s Tart and a chocolate cookie in each box. As I closed the last cardboard box, my eye fell on the computer. Computer, disks, tapes. Tapes. If Luella had told anyone about the taping, she would have lost her job. How significant were these meetings that Suz had taped? I didn’t know, and I’d promised Tom I wouldn’t go nosing around at ACHMO. I put in a call to Brandon Yuille’s office. I would apologize for snapping at him at John Richard’s office, then pump him for info. When his assistant asked suspiciously who was calling and I told her, I had to wait two minutes for her cold response that Mr. Yuille was unavailable. I asked if I could call back at a more convenient time. She responded icily that there just was no convenient time. Fine. I hung up and called Chris Corey’s office.

  His secretary put me right through. “Goldy!” His deep, rumbly voice sounded surprised. “What’s going on? Korman hasn’t come over to bother you, has he?”

  “He wouldn’t dare. Listen, Chris, something one of the investigators said has been bothering me.” I hesitated, remembering I’d promised not to mention that Luella was the one who had spilled the beans to Donny. “It relates to what we were talking to Frances about Sunday at the cafe. You said ACHMO was going into John Richard’s office looking for notes about the McCrackens’ suit.”

  “Well … yes.”

  “It’s just that I heard there were some missing tapes, too.”

  Chris grunted. “Don’t remind me.”

  I persisted innocently, “What’s going on? Why would Suz keep tapes of meetings in her office?”

  He lowered his voice. “Look, Goldy, it’s a huge crisis. Everybody’s upset about it. Nobody seems to know why she was taping in her office. Secretly taping. Makes it much worse.”

  “You say that as if there were other taping systems.”

  “Yeah, sure. The microphones in our main meeting room are sound-activated, and everybody knows that everything there gets taped, then transcribed so we have accurate minutes for each meeting. It could have been Suz was afraid of industrial spying, and that’s why she did some kind of backup taping in her office. Maybe she kept the tapes locked up there and took them from her office to her home or wherever because some threat had appeared.”

  “Did she know about your work with Frances?”

  “Not unless Frances told her, and that’s unlikely.”

  “Who could be doing spying that would make Suz worried?”

  “Look. Our meetings are confidential, Goldy, and if another HMO like MeritMed is trying to find out the details of our expansion plans, there could be hell to pay. And with legal action outstanding against us, the thought of having tapes of other in-house meetings floating around where anybody might get their hands on them is causing mass paranoia in corporate headquarters, believe me.”

  “Are you sure Suz had them?”

  “No! What sends shivers up the bowels of HQ is that somebody Suz fired might have them. If anyone besides Luella knew Suz was taping, there could have been motivation to get in and steal them, especially if they might prove something against ACHMO. Plus,” he added darkly, “they’re panicked that Patricia McCracken might have them somehow. That woman’s gone a little bonkers. It wouldn’t surprise anybody here if she’d managed to steal the key to that cabinet, break into the office, and swipe the tapes from one of the days when Suz met with our lawyers about the McCracken case.”

  “So you don’t even know what day’s meetings are missing?”

  He groaned with frustration. “We’re trying to reconstruct, but it’s a huge mess. We should know today. We’re supposed to have security, but you know how that goes. Anyway, Goldy, speaking of meetings, I’ve got to go to one now. Damage control. Good luck with whatever it is you’re working on.”

  “I’m not really working on anything, Chris. It’s just that my son is very upset. I promised him I’d try to help his dad, much as I dislike the man.”

  I hung up and packed the lunches between freezer bags guaranteed to keep food cold. When I was almost done, Macguire came down to breakfast. His transformation was remarkable. His cheeks were genuinely pink. There was a spring to his only slightly wobbly step, and he had a broad smile on his face that made me laugh.

  “Let me fix you some toast,” I offered. “And some eggs, maybe?”

  “Sounds great.” While the frying eggs sizzled in the pan, Macguire dutifully washed down his ten herb capsules with water turned a science-fiction green by the chlorophyll. “Todd and Arch are still asleep,” he announced. “I’ll wake them up at ten. They listened to music until three A.M., I’ll fix ‘em breakfast, too. Toast, probably.” His grin warmed my heart.

  I thanked him for tending to Arch and Todd, declined his offer to help load my supplies, and hauled the first cardboard box out to my van. When I came back into the kitchen, my phone was ringing.

  “Goldy, my God, I’m so glad I got you.” Ralph Shelton’s voice sounded exhausted and strained. “Look, I’m terribly sorry about running into you at the McCrackens’ party. I just got out of control on those blades. Are you all right?”

  “Sure, Ralph.” No use troubling him with a litany of my lingering aches. “Thanks for calling.”

  He hesitated. “I just need to talk to you for a minute. Remember when you were over here asking how to get to the McCrackens’ place?”

  “Yes. What’s the matter?”

  “Well. I was supposed to drive to Omaha this morning, but they got word that … Oh, God, I need to know if you know anything about these tapes that Suz Craig was making. Please tell me, Goldy, I’m leveling with you. As an old friend.”

  I took a deep breath. “Why do you care about them?”

  His voice wavered, as if he were about to cry. “Because I went in to see her last month, on the fourteenth to be exact, and … I just can’t let anyone know what we talked about. Please, Goldy, help me. Suz was trying to destroy me. Do you have the tapes? Does John Richard? Are they at his office? Or his house? I’ve already driven past Suz’s house and there’s that damn yellow tape all around it—”

  “Ralph, calm down. First tell me—exactly why were you fired from ACHMO?”

  For a moment I thought he wouldn’t answer. But then he sighed. “Patient complaints. No sexual misconduct or anything like that. It’s just that I have a terrible bedside manner. I always have. You can imagine how that can kill you in ob-gyn. So. I was offered an administrative job with MeritMed. I took it.”

  I recalled Suz’s secretary, whom Suz had kept in line with threats. “Was Suz th
reatening you in anyway?”

  He hesitated. “You’ve learned a lot, haven’t you? She did threaten people. Yes, I was one of them. But it was all … exaggeration. I left before she could ruin me,” he concluded darkly. “But if someone gets hold of those tapes … Oh, God,” he moaned.

  “Did you … were you … did you do something to Suz Craig?”

  “Of course not, what the hell do you think I am?”

  Well, that was what we didn’t know, wasn’t it? “I honestly don’t know where the tapes are, Ralph. And John Richard’s out on bail. You could give him or his office a call. But his secretary is frantic with the mess, and there’s no telling what kind of emotional state John Richard is in. If I were you, I’d stay away from both of them.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re not me.”

  At the LakeCenter the Babsie-doll show was in full swing. The security guard, even more hung over today than before, grunted a question about whether my assistant would be helping me, because he had strict orders not to let “that young fellow” near the dolls. I kept my patience and told him my assistant would not be accompanying me today. The armed guard escorted me past the display tables, where shiny arrays of statuesque, ultraslender, elaborately coiffed Babsies in lacy, sequined gowns elicited choruses of oohs and aahs from the crush of excited visitors. Even I was impressed, especially when I saw the price tags.

  At the appointed time, I passed out box lunches on the patio to women clutching blue lunch tickets. While they ate, I indulged in a more detailed tour of the show. One table was dedicated solely to Holiday Babsies from 1990 to the present. All the dolls belonged to Gail Rodine. All were marked “Not for Sale.” The costumes were festive and fantastic: tiny rhinestones glistened above shimmery red and green taffeta gowns; white furs set off dark velvet evening dresses. Another table featured Babsie as astronaut, Babsie as veterinarian, Babsie as a prima ballerina, Babsie horseback riding, Babsie walking her poodle on the Champs-Elysées, even Babsie as President. All that was missing was Babsie as Elvis. A long aisle was devoted to Babsie accessories. I looked with awe at teensy-weensy toreador pants; high heels; sequined leotards; compartmentalized Babsie suitcases; flip-curled wigs in blond, black, brunette, and red hair; and sexy lingerie that befit the Babsie Massage Parlor. As Donny Saunders would say, Whoo-ie!

  The few attendees not indulging in box lunches were cooing over a table on the far side of the ballroom. When I joined them, I realized their drooling wasn’t from craving my cucumber-brioche sandwiches. Their eyes were greedily fixed on a display of a single Babsie. I stared at the display: Babsie in a “Japanese exclusive” gown. I didn’t know if that meant the gown was made or sold in Japan or both. No matter. I was transfixed by the miniature image of a fashion plate.

  Babsie’s blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and bow-shaped mouth were demure, and her long, perfect blond coif did not reveal a single flyaway strand. The bodice and skirt of the tiny full-length gown were made of snowy white satin, and the toes of itsy-bitsy pink high heels peeked out at the hem. A hot-pink embroidered chiffon overskirt pouffed and swirled above the white satin. A miniature stole of the same pink fabric hugged the doll’s shoulders, while a choker of minuscule pink pearls decorated her neck. Very nice, I thought appreciatively, the sort of thing you’d wear to an inaugural ball or a royal wedding. Then I looked at this Babsie’s price tag: three thousand dollars. When the woman next to me asked if I didn’t think it was just unbelievable, I said, “Yes, incredible beyond words.” Never let it be said that I was a caterer who couldn’t appreciate her clients’ hobbies.

  The first woman said, “The dealer said to me, ‘How can you refuse this adorable doll?’ Now I feel as if this poor doll is a refugee who will starve if I don’t buy her!” A tear slid down one of her cheeks.

  A second woman whispered, “I’ve got a spy in France. You should see my phone bills. But when the French Babsies come out—you know, the ones we can’t get?—I have my spy get it. She airmails it in a plain brown wrapper. For security. It costs me, but it’s worth it.”

  John le Carré, eat your heart out. I tore myself away from the dolls and returned to the patio. In a large plastic garbage bag I collected dirty cups, wrappers, used plastic spoons, and empty miniature wine bottles. Suddenly the cormorants near the shore rose in a frenzied flutter, and I was dimly aware of a distant wap wap wap wap wap.

  I sat on one of the patio benches and squinted at the sky. Wap wap wap, louder and louder. In the summer, this was the most dreaded sound in Aspen Meadow. It was the Flight-for-Life helicopter. Usually the only time you heard it was when someone, frequently a child, had drowned, fallen while rock climbing, or been lost for hours after straying from a wilderness hike.

  I trotted to the Dumpster near the lake and lofted in the trash bag. The helicopter circled near Main Street. That was odd. The copter appeared to be hovering over Cottonwood Creek, not too far from our house. I reached into my apron pocket for the portable cellular phone I took to events and shakily punched in our number, reminding myself that not all disasters in Aspen Meadow had to involve me.

  One second, two seconds, three … then the phone connected and Arch answered on the first ring. “I’m okay, Mom.”

  “How did you—?”

  “Are you kidding? All you do is worry about me. I heard the helicopter a minute ago and called Marla to make sure she wasn’t having another heart attack. She’d already found out what was going on. Somebody was in an explosion. A grill at the park blew up. They think some mountain moths built a nest in the vent. Then when the person lit the propane, the grill exploded, just like Frances Markasian wrote about in the paper. Oh, wait, there’s the other line. Maybe it’s Marla again.”

  I watched the slow sweep of the second hand on my watch while I waited for Arch to come back on the line. As usual, I tried to reconstruct where Tom was—

  “Oh, Mom,” Arch said, his voice subdued. “Marla says that, you know, she survived the explosion, but she’s burned and bloody—”

  “Who survived, Arch?” I was frantic. “Marla?”

  “Oh, no, Mom. The person trying to light the grill … the person who got hurt … It was ReeAnn.”

  Chapter 21

  I asked Arch how Macguire was doing. He was asleep. I asked if Arch had heard from his father. He said no. I told him to make sure that all the windows were closed and that the security system was armed. And stay inside, I said. It wasn’t a logical order, it was an emotional one, a fact my son hotly pointed out. I told him I’d be home in less than an hour. Then I disconnected and called Tom.

  He wasn’t at his office. I checked my watch: two o’clock. Rather than leave a message, I redialed the department and asked to speak with Sergeant Beiner. When she answered, I identified myself and told her what had happened.

  “Hold on,” she said. In the background she rustled paper. “This ReeAnn? Korman’s secretary, right?” I insisted that this accident involving ReeAnn had to be related somehow to Suz Craig’s murder.

  Calmly, Sergeant Beiner said, “How?”

  I bit the inside of my cheek and watched the cormorants land back on the lake. A hummingbird soared and then dipped to sip the nectar from a nearby poppy.

  “How,” I repeated not so patiently to Sergeant Beiner, “could an accident involving ReeAnn Collins relate to Suz Craig? John Richard might have thought she killed Suz and decided to punish her. Aah … maybe somebody thinks ReeAnn has possession of something incriminating.”

  “Hmm,” said Sergeant Beiner, clearly unconvinced.

  I told her I knew about Suz secretly taping meetings. I added that Donny Saunders and Chris Corey had reported that some tapes were missing. Maybe somebody thought ReeAnn had them. Maybe Patricia McCracken or Ralph Shelton or somebody was so desperate for the missing tapes that they had tried to blow ReeAnn up. Sergeant Beiner said that these people had all known ReeAnn for some time, why do something to her now?

  “I don’t know,” I replied persistently. “Maybe because of the tapes. B
ut there is a connection, I’m certain of it.”

  “Goldy,” advised Sergeant Beiner, “take a breather.”

  “Please help me,” I begged her. “I know you usually keep the families of those affected apprised of the progress of an investigation … Can’t you please help us, just so we’ll stay informed and my son won’t have so much anxiety?”

  For a moment she was silent. Then she said tersely, “Patricia McCracken I don’t know about. She called this morning to get an update on the criminal investigation so she can decide what to do about her civil suits. I just called her back an hour ago. Now”—there was a rustle of pages and I knew she was consulting her notes—“Amy Bartholomew was interviewed by Donny Saunders this morning. Ms. Bartholomew told him she was leaving to go camping alone for a few days in the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve, and that you were the one who told her to get away for a while. Maybe she didn’t go, but I don’t think that she had any grudge against ReeAnn Collins that was life-threatening. Do you?”

  “I guess not.”

  “As for Dr. Korman, he’s out on bail, as you no doubt are aware. You might want to put your efforts into recalling that judge in the next election.” She paused. “I don’t know about Ralph Shelton. We’ll have somebody go up and talk to him. But I have to tell you, it’s going to be a while.”

  “Okay.” I felt defeated, not because I wanted Amy or Patricia or Ralph or somebody at ACHMO or even John Richard to have hurt ReeAnn, but because I was completely confused. I mumbled an apology to Sergeant Beiner for bothering her and hung up.

  I raced back to the LakeCenter and finished cleaning up the box lunches. Occasionally, I reflected as I stooped to pick up the last of the trash the visitors had left, I have a great culinary idea that fails. But before I know things aren’t going to work out, the inspiration stokes my energy and makes my brain fire on all cylinders. Blue cheese pizza was the product of such thinking. Coffeecake swirled with frozen pitted Bing cherries was another, as was sausages baked with apples and hominy. They were all failures. I’d gagged on the too-salty pizza. The coffeecake turned first inky, then mushy, then inedible. And when Arch had had two bites of the sausage concoction, he’d asked if we could go to Burger King for breakfast.