The Grilling Season (26 page)

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. But 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.

Most of my food ideas and experiments succeed. But it’s hard to bear that in mind when the failures occur. And instead of responding to these setbacks with an optimistic, Thomas Edison-style, now-I-know-what-doesn’t-work attitude, I usually feel frustrated and angry that I spent time and money on ingredients yielding such disasters. Worse, the anguish accompanying the failures always plunges me into a psychological well of uncertitude. Questions like Are you really in the right line of work? and Who do you think you are, anyway? taunt me. Eventually, of course, I always pull myself together, toss the messes in the garbage, and go on to the next concoction.

It was that pulling-together time that I now longed for. Poor ReeAnn.

When I pressed the buttons on our security system and entered our home, the warmth inside brought a small lift in my spirits. It’s not so bad, I told myself. ReeAnn was alive, if injured. I was upholding my promise to Arch. I was trying to find out what really had happened to Suz Craig. I didn’t want to clear the Jerk, I didn’t even care if anything
ever
exonerated him. But I did want to know what had happened, and why, so that when they hauled John Richard off for an extended prison stay, I could tell Arch with a clear conscience that I had done my darnedest.

I called Lutheran Hospital and asked to check on the condition of ReeAnn Collins. Since I was not family, I was told, the information could not be divulged.
Upstairs, Arch and Macguire were listening to what could advisedly be called music. Macguire showed me a huge box of imported chocolates that Marla had brought over. She’d told the boys she was going down to Lutheran Hospital to check on ReeAnn personally, and she’d call me later. I knew she’d get the info. When Marla told people she was a family member, they rarely argued.

The boys offered me a wrapped Mozartkügel and I took it. It was somewhat ironic that the only way these two would acknowledge the classical masters of music was through candy. Within moments more chocolate bulged in their cheeks and noise blared down our street. I thought again of Schoen-berg’s mother and retreated hastily to my kitchen.

I booted up my computer and went through the file I’d opened on the circumstances surrounding Suz Craig’s death. What significance could ReeAnn have to the murder of Suz Craig? What was the link? I couldn’t see any, apart from the fact that ReeAnn had known all about the Jerk’s affairs, and probably a great deal about Suz’s as well.

I scrolled back through my computer file and reread an early entry, where I summarized the catering job I’d done at Suz’s house in July. It had been a clear, sunlit day, with clouds piling up over the mountains to the west and birds flitting among the blue campanula and columbine. Suz had been nervous about the appearance of her yard with its unfinished landscaping. She’d fretted about the weather, since she hadn’t wanted the ACHMO honchos to be soaked by an unexpected mountain shower. She’d shown little interest in the food preparation and presentation. To me this said: Career
woman whose postcollege path did not detour through the kitchen. Which was just fine. That kind of client uncritically appreciates my work, even thinks of it as a kind of magic. Suz had appeared cheerful, but she had not really enjoyed the food. And when Chris Corey had fallen down the steps, she’d been distraught.

All of this begged the question I’d never thought to ask in the first place: Why had the Minneapolis people been visiting in July? The people at the party had certainly made no mention of an annual review, audit, or meeting. In retrospect, that seemed strange. When I’d asked one visiting staff member what had brought him out to Denver, I’d received a noncommittal response along the lines of “Fighting fires.” Exactly what kind of fire? Suz’s guests had all been from Human Resources at ACHMO headquarters, that much I knew. I did have a foodie buddy in the Denver ACHMO HR office. But the last time I’d seen Brandon Yuille, at John Richard’s office, he had been upset with me for not telling him where the Jerk would hide something. Now I realized he’d probably been referring to the missing meeting tapes, as well as notes about the malpractice and negligence suits. I felt guilty all over again for snapping at him, and resolved to be reconciled before asking him more about Suz.

To keep my promise to Tom, I knew I couldn’t pay Brandon a visit at the ACHMO office itself. Not that they’d let the ex-wife of the man accused of murdering their vice-president through the doors. So instead I phoned Brandon’s office and again identified myself: Goldy Schulz, the caterer, the
friend of Brandon’s.
Once more Brandon’s secretary was either
well-trained or just her usual wary self. She asked the nature of my call.

“I need to apologize to him for a misunderstanding we had. Also, I’d like to talk to him about a lunch I catered a while ago,” I replied. I avoided mentioning the name of Suz Craig. “We talked about Thai food and fudge, remind him of that. I have a couple of questions about the event itself.”

There was a pause. “Aah,” the secretary said finally, with mock regretfulness, “it looks as if Mr. Yuille will be in a meeting for the next three days.”

“Don’t they ever take breaks?” I asked good-naturedly. “This won’t take long.”

She didn’t respond immediately. I had the feeling she was looking straight at Brandon, who was vigorously shaking his head. At length she stiffly announced, “I can connect you with Mr. Yuille’s voice mail, if you’d like.”

I assented and briefly told the recorded voice that I was trying to help my son deal with his father being arrested by keeping him informed about the murder investigation. Could Brandon forgive me for being short with him at Korman’s office? And could he satisfy my curiosity, tell me why the Minneapolis HR team at Suz’s house had come to Denver in the first place? Finally, did he happen to know if anyone had it in for John Richard’s secretary, ReeAnn Collins, who’d just been badly injured in a barbecue incident?

Well
, I thought as I hung up,
that ought to either ruin our friendship or take it to a whole new level.
I had the disconcerting feeling that I’d been too pushy. Moreover, whether any useful information would
come out of my requests was, it seemed at this point, extremely questionable.

I wanted to cook. But my growling stomach announced I was too hungry to concentrate. I’d had nothing to eat in the last eight hours except a piece of toast, coffee, and a Mozartkügel. Looking around, I dove into the container of Chocolate Comfort Cookies like a madwoman. Although I’ve read accounts of how addicts heighten their drug experiences, in my opinion nothing beats a large mouthful of dark, velvety chocolate on an empty stomach. I closed my eyes, bit into the cookie, and waited for the rush. An ecstasy of shivers began in the small of my back. I sighed with chocoholic contentment. Now I was ready to face whatever the rest of the day cared to deliver.

According to my catering calendar, the following morning—Wednesday—Gail Rodine’s doll-club board of directors wanted a fancy breakfast by the lake. I’d promised her baked scrambled eggs with cream cheese and shrimp, fruit kebabs, honey-cured ham, and an assortment of breads. My supplier had delivered the meat last Friday. I heaved the plump, bone-in ham onto the counter to check if it had been spiral-cut as I’d ordered. It was, and would only need heating in the morning. The eggs and shrimp I would assemble at the LakeCenter, but the breads needed to be organized today.

I had two large loaves of the brioche left over from the box lunches, plus several dozen dark pumpernickel rolls that I’d made and frozen particularly for this event. But one more bread was needed to round things out. Experimenting to put together a delectable new bread for an upscale breakfast?
Please
don’t throw me in the briar patch.
Thomas Edison, here I come. I knew I could do it. I scanned the walk-in pensively.

In the use-up-stray-ingredients economy that good caterers invariably subscribe to, I noted egg whites left over from making the Babsie Tarts, a couple of oranges that I’d ordered along with the lemons, and several unopened jars of poppy seeds. I pounced on these ingredients. I’d assemble a cake-like orange poppy-seed bread. Or die in the attempt.

As always, cooking lifted me from the doldrums. While the egg whites were whipped into a froth, I measured the dry ingredients and then delighted in the fine spray of citrus oil that slicked my fingers when I scraped the zest from the oranges. Outside, the sun shone brilliantly in a deep blue sky and a warm breeze swished through the aspens. I opened the window over the sink. The boys’ music reverberated along the street. Out back Jake howled an accompaniment. I smiled. If the music made the boys happy, I wasn’t going to say a thing.

I was folding the poppy seeds into the batter when John Richard Korman jumped in front of the window. I screamed and dropped the bowl in the sink. The bowl shattered. Jake howled. Locked out back, the dog couldn’t help me. I’d disarmed the security system. I hadn’t turned it back on. Oh, God.

Unthinking, I wheeled around wildly for the phone. But by then John Richard had pulled off the screen, reached through the window, and grabbed my wrist.

“Let go!” I cried as I wrenched my hand back. “Go away!” I screamed. He lurched up through the
window, with my wrist still in a death grip. His free hand slapped my face. He smelled like whiskey.

“Shut up!” he growled. “I’m telling you, Goldy,” he said in a menacing voice as I opened my mouth to scream again, “shut the hell up. I want to talk to you. I want to talk to Arch. Let me in.”

Instead I pushed hard to try to get him out. Mercilessly, he twisted my wrist. I cried out in pain. Again he told me to
shut the hell up.
Then he yanked my hand over the window frame. Blood spurted from my forearm where the skin scraped against the metal. Poor Jake howled to no avail. My abdomen pressed painfully against the sink. My feet barely touched the floor.

“Who wrote that shit on my house?” He twisted harder on my wrist. “The neighbors say you know. Who was it?”