The Grilling Season (16 page)

“Tell me again why we’re here,” Marla said doubtfully.

“All this happened to John Richard yesterday,” I reminded her. “You know Frances Markasian. She’s a fast and efficient snooper. If somebody knows anything, she will.”

“All I know is that she’s also covering the doll show at the lake,” Marla grumbled. “Maybe she’s doing a story on Coroner Babsies.”

The elevator was out of order. We walked up the stairs to apartment 349, the Markasian residence, and knocked. No one home. An elderly man came
out into the third-floor foyer and unabashedly watched us as Marla rapped harder. The elderly man cleared his throat.

“Hey, you girls!” he snarled. His white hair had been brutally shaved in a crewcut, and his deeply lined face looked malevolent. “What do you want? You’re not more of them, are you?”

I held my index finger up to Marla:
Let me handle this.
To the elderly gent I said pleasantly, “More of whom?”

He made an impatient gesture. “Parade of people all day. That woman’s not a reporter, she’s a bureaucracy. Get out of here, you’re ruining the place.”

I felt my cheeks redden.

But Marla wasn’t merely blushing. She was purple with rage. “Cool your jets, fella! If we want to look for somebody, we’ll look, you got it? We’ll knock on every door in the place if we want to. Ever heard of freedom of the press? Do you know where we can find Frances Markasian?”

“Look, you two!” he cackled. “You want stories on your dolls? Grow up! Dolls for grown women,” he spat. “You want Frances Markasian, go down to the lake and find her!”

I was ready to retreat, but Marla insisted on having the last word, as usual. She wagged a lilac-painted nail at the man.

“Watch your mouth, please! Collecting is a venerable hobby. And it’s a smart investment! Not only that, but you’re rude!”

“I may be rude, but I’m not crazy!” he cackled before disappearing into 350.

Marla shot after him and I had to limp along
behind her to catch up. Fortunately, the man’s apartment door slammed before Marla could force her way in for a confrontation. Marla rapped hard and repeatedly on his door. Squeals of “Shut up!” and “Go away or I’ll call the cops!” issued from other apartments. But our white-haired, unpleasant critic did not reappear.

I
n the afternoon sun Aspen Meadow Lake shimmered like sugar on ice. Several dozen cars in the dirt parking area made me wonder if there was a waiting line for skiffs and paddleboats. We got out of the Mercedes and approached the LakeCenter’s front door.

The LakeCenter was a jewel of that architectural species known as “mountain contemporary.” Constructed of row upon row of massive blond logs, wide, soaring trapezoids of glass, polished plank flooring within, aprons of flagstone without, and topped with a phenomenally expensive all-weather shingle roof, the structure was the glory of the Aspen Meadow Recreation District. The interior consisted of a huge space, fancifully called “the Ballroom,” and a more intimate adjoining space known as “the Octagon.” Both rooms provided unequaled views of the lake. There was a kitchen, too. I would be working there when I catered to the Babsie people. Alas, the kitchen afforded no scenic vista.

Unfortunately, the LakeCenter was locked up tight. We rounded the building, looking for Frances
Markasian and any evidence of the doll show. The cormorants paddled furiously along the lake’s edge. When they dove for fish, they would stay underwater for so long it seemed impossible that a land-based animal would not drown. But then, miraculously, the sleek black birds would pop back up, triumphantly clasping tiny, slithering fish in their beaks.

When we came up on the boat-rental shop, we found that it was indeed open. Thirty or so people waited for skiffs.

“A land-office business,” Marla commented, “despite the fact that it’s on the water.”

“But no Frances,” I pointed out.

“Think we should go talk to those other people John Richard mentioned, Ralph Shelton and Amy Bartholomew? And how’d you get messed up, anyway?”

“I’d rather not see either of them just yet. Ralph Shelton banged into me yesterday at the McCrackens’ party. Literally. Amy Bartholomew patched me up. Before Ralph used me for a landing pad, I tried to ask him some questions about Suz. He didn’t have much to say. Ditto with Amy, except I got some New Age gobbledygook about Suz Craig’s negative karma. I don’t want to ask them any more questions until we know better what we’re looking for.”

“What exactly are we looking for?” Marla said as she va-voomed the Mercedes. “I wish I knew.”

“Speak for yourself,” she shot back. “We know the Jerk did it. I’m looking for lunch.”

“Hold on a minute,” I replied. “Frances hates to cook. She’s a cheapskate, but every now and then
she shows up at the Aspen Meadow Cafe, especially if she’s doing an interview and the paper is springing for the meal. With any luck, we could run into her there.”

We trekked over to the cafe, but Frances Markasian was again nowhere in evidence. So Marla insisted on treating me. With the Jerk finally in jail where he belonged, she claimed, we should have every manner of salads to celebrate. Using her best queenly manner, she waved at the waitress and announced: “Bring ‘em all.” Soon platter after platter arrived: roast beef salad, pasta salad, corn and pepper salad, fruit salad, and an arugula salad with toasted walnuts that I went wild for. I knew from experience that I’d never get the recipe from the cafe chef, so I made a mental note to reinvent it in my own kitchen, using some meringue-baked pecans I had frozen. Not one to neglect balance, Marla ordered a bottle of champagne and hot popovers to go with our salads.

I laughed at her indulgence. Really, I’m extremely fortunate that I have both Marla and Tom to be sure that I’m regularly fed as well as loved and fussed over. For someone in the food business, such care is a rare treat.

Marla claimed to want none of the leftovers. When our waitress handed me the bulging bags of goodies, I observed, “Our family will have enough here for a week.”

“That’s the idea,” Marla replied happily. “Besides, dealing with the Jerk, you’re going to need all the help you can get.”

When she was signing her credit-card slip, a
newly arrived group of diners caught my eye. I grabbed Marla’s arm. “Hey, check it out.”

She followed my gaze. We watched Frances Markasian trying to decide which of the outside patio tables would suit. With her were Chris Corey and his sister, Tina. Tina had changed into some kind of costume. This time, I was
sure
it was a Babsie outfit.

“Do you know why Tina changed into that getup?” I asked Marla, who made it her business to know as much as possible about the lives of Aspen Meadow residents.

“The costume? Who knows. Tina is an aide at Aspen Meadow Preschool. She’s the head Babsie-club organizer, too, so it might have something to do with the show starting. Maybe Frances is interviewing her.”

Tina now sported the same long blond pigtails she had at Gail Rodine’s house yesterday. She wore a frilly lace blouse and a royal-blue vest with matching skirt, both covered with a lace-edged, snow-white apron.

I said, “For the doll show I’ve mainly been dealing with Gail Rodine. She’s in charge of hospitality and security.” Marla made a face. I pushed my chair back. “I promised Arch I would help him. Let’s go crash their lunch.”

“Mah-velous,” she said. “I love crashing anything.”

Frances was peering into the cafe for a waitress. As she did so, she impatiently tapped one foot. The foot was encased in a duct-tape-wrapped sneaker. Her black trench coat was, of course, unnecessary in the August heat. But Frances was (or fancied herself) a high-powered investigative reporter temporarily
trapped in Aspen Meadow, Colorado. With long, wildly frizzy black hair, skin of an unhealthy pallor, thrift-shop clothes, and a chain-smoking habit that would undoubtedly blacken her lungs within a decade, she at least knew how to
dress
the part.

Frances’s ambition in the county was legendary. She went after every crime and disaster story like a starving wildcat pouncing on its prey. Her headlines were certainly creative. In May we’d had I-70 DRIVER SHOOTS ROADSIDE BUFFALO IN COLD BLOOD! June had seen EXPLOSION IN MOTH-INFESTED PROPANE GRILL SAILS PRESIDENT OF KIWANIS INTO CREEK! Readership of our town paper had tripled since Frances had come on staff two years ago.

“Hey, Goldy,” she said amiably as we neared her table. She pushed the black frizz from her forehead. “I’ve already been by to see you today, but you weren’t home. Do you know the Coreys? Chris is head of Provider Relations with ACHMO—the AstuteCare Health Maintenance Organization in Denver. And this is his sister, Tina. She works at Aspen Meadow Preschool and presides over the local Babsie doll club.”

“Good to see you, Frances. And I know both Coreys,” I replied. “In fact, we’ve already chatted this morning.”

Chris brought his unwieldy bulk to a standing position, balancing awkwardly on his cast. His pale beard bobbed as he greeted us.

“We’re sorry to disturb you,” Marla lied in a breathy gush.

Frances rumbled a laugh and lit a cigarette.
“No, you’re not sorry. Anyway, this is great. I’m absolutely
desperate
to talk to Goldy. Sit.”

Tina nodded at us. Her cold manner had changed completely from her behavior at church. She blushed. If I’d been wearing her outfit, I’d have blushed, too.

Gaping at Tina, Marla said, “Well, Heidi, where’d you leave your sheep?”

Chris smiled indulgently, but the color deepened painfully on Tina’s neck and cheeks. She lowered her head and smoothed the frilly apron. I knew better than to ask about the cat again. Frances scowled in the awkward silence. This was not a good way to start a lunch-crashing, no doubt about it.

“Wait a minute,” I said enthusiastically. “I know that outfit, Tina! It’s the Icelandic Babsie!” Tina raised her head, grasped a blond pigtail, and gave me a shy smile. “I’m catering the doll show,” I reminded her, since she seemed not to have remembered me at church. “Do you remember me from the Rodines’ place yesterday?” I shook Tina’s limp, fleshy hand. “Do you remember me?”

Tina regained her composure. “Of course. You gave me my new kitty.”

Finally, we were on solid ground. Maybe she just didn’t discuss dolls or cats at church. “That cat sure took to you,” I said warmly. Tina beamed.

Under her breath Marla muttered, “Gosh, Goldy, run for office, why don’t you?”

Our waitress reappeared, and Chris announced that he was treating everyone, what would we like? Chris, his sister, and Frances ordered sandwiches. Marla, suddenly the picture of charm, said she’d love some fudge meringue pie. I went for Linzertorte and
iced coffee, trying to think of how to ask Frances my questions about John Richard.
What have you dug up? Are you on to something? Exactly why did you want to see me this morning?
Lucky for me, Frances pried so blatantly that we were spared subtle inquisition. Instead, she plunged right in.

“Hey, ladies, think your mutual ex-husband will grant me an interview from behind bars?” Her slightly yellow teeth flashed in a wide, crooked smile.

“I don’t know,” I answered sincerely.

Marla said, “I’ll pay for you to do the interview, if you get a photo of him in an orange suit that you publish in the paper.”

“Has it been hard, or are you two just
loving
this?” Frances wanted to know, with her usual sensitivity.

Marla shrugged.

“I wouldn’t say I’m loving it,” I told Frances tartly. “A woman is dead. Plus my son’s suffering pretty badly, especially after his father called from jail yesterday. Arch is down there visiting him right now.”

Too late, I realized I should have kept my mouth shut. Frances and I were friends, but nothing came before a scoop. She dug frantically in her voluminous black handbag, yanked out a pen and a grimy pad of paper, and began to scribble. “What did Korman say in this phone call that upset Arch?”

“Nothing! Please, stop taking notes. For crying out loud, Frances, this is
personal.”

Chris mumbled, “Maybe we should talk about something else, Frances. I don’t think—”

She gestured imperiously. “It’s always personal for somebody, Goldy.”

“Don’t give me that low-brow journalistic jive. Please. If you want me to stay here and visit, promise not to print anything about my son.”

She kept on scribbling, pursed her lips, and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Okay, I won’t if you’ll let me run some stuff by you. Besides, I’m sure you’ll want to hear all I’ve learned about this Craig business. Chris here”—she flapped a casual hand in his direction—“is an insider. There’s all kinds of scuttlebutt. You know this town. Once something happens, it’s like a …” She closed her eyes and sought the perfect simile. “Like a … volcanic energy erupts around the desire to know what’s going on.”

Chris took a deep breath and shifted his weight uncomfortably. Tina sipped some water. Marla, of course, was all ears. But Mount Saint Frances calmly lit a cigarette. My attempt to ask Frances a few delicate questions was going awry pretty quickly.

“Run some stuff by me?” I echoed. “Such as?”

“Okay, this is top secret. If somebody comes up to the table here and wants to know what we’re talking about, we say I’m interviewing Tina for the doll show.”

“So what are you running by me?”

“ACHMO is planning a raid,” she informed me blithely, her tone a shade lower. “On John Richard Korman’s office. Tomorrow morning.”

Marla shrieked with glee. I said, “A raid? Frances, what on earth are you talking about?”

Our food arrived and I was thankful for the momentary distraction. A raid? What were they looking
for? And why would ACHMO raid anyone’s office? This could not be true. I assumed an expression of polite interest and, because the waitress hovered over us, attempted to change the subject.

“How’s your ankle coming along?” I asked Chris. “I should have asked after church.”

He smiled shyly. “I’ll be kicking field goals in no time.”

Frances took three bites of her sandwich, pushed it away, and relit the half-finished cigarette she had carefully squashed out when the food arrived. “So. You want to hear about the raid or not?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” urged Marla, eyes sparkling.

“Why don’t you just tell the police about it?” I asked. The Linzertorte was delicious, a crunchy crust covered with jewel-colored raspberry jam. “A raid by the HMO has
got
to be illegal, Frances.”

“But it isn’t.” Chris’s surprisingly powerful baritone commanded attention. “We do it all the time. Usually we call first, which is what we’ll do tomorrow. We come in to check information in the files.”

“What?”
Marla exclaimed. “What about patient confidentiality?”

Chris readjusted his ankle and went on. “Marla. Goldy. May I call you by your first names?” Frances nodded, I noticed, before we had the chance. “It’s in our contract,” he continued. “We can visit any practice we own. A nurse, a doctor, someone with medical training who’s working for the HMO, comes in. It’s not really a
raid.
” He grinned indulgently at Frances, who was lighting her second cigarette. “We just want to check how certain procedures get billed, and we do it by going through
individual files. The provider’s office has to let us have what we want.”

Well, my curiosity was piqued, no question. John Richard in jail and ACHMO was going to crash into his office to go through his
files.
Small wonder that Frances was interested, too.

“What are you going to be looking for tomorrow morning? Something related to Suz Craig?” I asked mildly.

“And may I come?” demanded Marla.

Chris’s reply was matter-of-fact. “No, oh, no. And actually, Suz is—was—the one who ordered this visit. It’s been planned for a while, but we were waiting until Korman was called out on a delivery. Now we’ve got a perfect opportunity to go in. And it’s not what the Medical Management person will
say
she wants that matters. Or what I say, as head of Provider Relations. Since she’s a nurse and I’m a doctor, that’s how ACHMO gets around the patient confidentiality issue. But in this case what we
say
we want and what we’ll
actually
be after are two entirely different things.”

“What is it you’ll actually be after?” I inquired innocently. “And why are you telling us this?”