The Grilling Season (27 page)

“Vandals.” I put my free hand on my face, trying to protect it from another slap. “Vandals. The sheriff’s department doesn’t know who they were. They can’t find them. This isn’t a good idea,” I warned him. “Just go away. I promise I won’t tell Tom.”

“Why didn’t you open your door when I knocked?”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I
said
, ‘Why didn’t you open your door when I knocked?’ “

“I told you … agh …” Pain shot through my wrist again. “I didn’t
hear
you.”

“Bullshit. Listen. I didn’t kill her, Goldy.” With his other hand he seized my chin and forced me to look in his eyes. “I did not kill Suz Craig. She’d been reprimanded”—another tug on my arm
made me squeal—“by the Minneapolis people and faced being
fired.
We had a
fight
, but I didn’t
kill
her.
They
killed her.” His fingers bit into my wrist so savagely that I whimpered.

“Tell the cops,” I gasped. “Tell … your lawyer.”

“I did! I just wanted to tell
you!
” His handsome face twisted in rage. I knew he would hit me again. I was panicked about the two boys upstairs. I couldn’t let Arch see us like this again. I wouldn’t let the Jerk
hurt
me like this again. Stunned with pain, I frantically searched for something—anything—to rescue me. There was no knife in sight.

Through gritted teeth he said, “I want to talk to that kid you have living here. Perkins. I think
he
painted my house.”

Pain shot through my arm. I squirmed to get some leverage against the sink.

“For-get it!” I screamed. With my left hand I seized the heavy piece of ham on the counter. I swung the meat up, then down on top of John Richard’s head. The meat glanced off his forehead and his eyes rolled up in his head. Releasing my wrist, he stumbled backward.

I lurched for the phone, dropped it, retrieved it, pressed 911. I shouted that I had an intruder, my ex-husband, John Richard Korman.

I screamed, “He hurt me! I’m bleeding!”

“Is he there now?” The 911 operator spoke calmly.

I scrambled for the window in time to see John Richard, one hand clutching his temple, limping
toward the street. “Yes, yes, but he’s leaving! Hurry!” I yelled. “Quickly! Come and get him and take him
away!”

But I already knew it was too late. The Jeep roared and he was gone.

I
closed and locked the window. Outside, Jake had not stopped his incessant howling. I let him in through the back door. He bounded over to me immediately, whining, putting his muzzle up to my face, trying to lick it. I floundered into the bathroom to wash the blood off my arm. Unfortunately, the sound of sirens brought Arch and Macguire rushing down the stairs.

The bloody fingers of my left hand pressed the lock on the bathroom door. I couldn’t talk to anyone just yet. When the boys called, I responded by saying I’d be there in a minute. I looked dreadful. My face was blotchy; my right cheek bore the scarlet imprint of John Richard’s hand. I turned the cold water all the way up and splashed and resplashed my face. It had been a long time since the Jerk had treated me like this. Our house boasted a security system, a bloodhound, and a live-in policeman. None of these had helped.

Would we ever be safe?

•     •     •

The next hour passed in a daze. At my insistence, Arch and Macguire went back upstairs. The two policemen who came to the door, both deputies I did not know, asked if I could tell them where John Richard had gone. I gave them his address in the country club and begged not to have to go down to the department to make my statement. The deputies instructed me to write down exactly what had happened. As I was scribbling, one of the cops called Tom, who was not at his desk. The other took the ham into evidence. I almost laughed, but I couldn’t stop trembling enough to do so.

By contacting and attacking a witness in the homicide investigation in which he’d been charged, John Richard had gotten himself into deep trouble. When the sheriff’s department located him, they would arrest him again. Somehow knowing this did not make me feel much better. All I could think of was Arch.

I took a shower, changed into fresh clothes, and searched for my son. I found him on a portable phone in his room. Judging from his confidential tone, he was talking to his buddy Todd. When I knocked on the door, he quickly disconnected.

“May I come in?”

I could tell he felt horrible. His voice cracked when he whispered, “Mom, are you okay?”

“No, hon, I’m really not.”

“I didn’t even have a chance to see him.”

“I know.”

Arch slumped morosely on his bed, his lips pressed together. Finally he said, “I just feel as if it’s so hopeless. You promised you’d help him and—”

“I
have
tried to help him,” I interrupted, careful
to keep my tone soothing. “Not because of anything good he’s done, but because I promised you that I would—”

“Excuse me, Mom, but you have
not
helped him. He says he didn’t kill Ms. Craig. I believe him.”

“Arch, please. I have spent the last three days on the telephone asking questions, going around talking to people, and—”

Behind the glasses, his eyes burned ferociously. “And what have you found out? Nothing!” Guiltily, he softened his tone. “I know you want him to go to prison. In your heart.”

Poor, miserable Arch. It didn’t help that he was probably right. I did want John Richard in prison, where he couldn’t hurt another woman. I said patiently, “I am waiting for people to call me back. I can’t make people talk to me.”

He got up and slid halfway under his bed. When he inched back out, he was clutching his backpack. “Sorry, Mom, but I’m going to live with the Druckmans for a while. At least until Dad’s hearing. Todd’s mother said it was okay.” He opened a drawer and began pulling out shorts and shirts. “If I hadn’t been here, Dad never would have come around and started hitting you. He was probably looking for me.”

“Honey, please, please don’t go.”

“This way,” my son continued, avoiding my eyes, “we won’t have another big mess with the police coming over. Please leave my room now, Mom.”

He’d ordered me from his room. He wouldn’t speak to me. He refused to even
listen.
I retreated to my kitchen, where I sat in silent shock for ten minutes.
Then I called the Druckmans to apologize for my son being a freeloader and to see if I could at least bring over some food. Kathleen Druckman assured me that she was happy to have Arch for as long as he wanted to stay. I didn’t need to deliver any meals, either, she said with a laugh, she’d be insulted. She and her husband would even take Arch down to the jail to see his father. And was it true that John Richard had knocked me unconscious with a whole poached salmon? I said no, thanked her again, and hung up.

Macguire had left a note taped to my computer:
Going out for a walk, hope you’re okay. See you at dinner. Can we have pizza?

Not even Macguire’s renewed appetite cut through my misery. When Arch slammed out the front door, I almost burst into tears. Instead, I dialed Tom’s number.

It was four o’clock. He wasn’t there, so I left a very brief voice-mail message. John Richard had been here. Both Arch and I were okay. If he wanted more information, he could talk to the officers who, I hoped, would have arrested John Richard by the time he got this message.

The memory of the Jerk’s slap rushed back into my consciousness. But what had he shrieked about Suz Craig?
She’d been reprimanded.
For what? I put in another call to Brandon Yuille. He was the Human Resources person, after all. Unfortunately, he again refused to speak to me except through his secretary. I told her to ask Brandon if the ACHMO bigwigs were about to fire Suz Craig and if so, why. And remind him, I said, that I was sorry we’d had a misunderstanding. Also that I had a close personal
relationship with the investigative journalist of the
Mountain Journal
and she’d just love to start bothering him for an interview. I hung up with a bang that did nothing to improve my mood.

I cleaned up the mess in the kitchen left from my fracas with the Jerk. To fulfill Macguire’s request, I mixed up some pizza dough and set it aside to rise. I called my supplier to see about replacing the ham and got her machine. Then, because I couldn’t think of anything else to do, I started over on the orange poppy-seed bread.

This time, just as I was again at the fateful point of folding in the poppy seeds, the phone rang. I thought it might be Marla or Tom or even Brandon Yuille getting back to me, but I was wrong. To my surprise, it was Patricia McCracken.

“Well,” she demanded breathlessly, as if none of the sorry events of the last three days had ever transpired and we were still happy confidantes, “what have you found out?”

“About
what?
” I gently scraped a poppy seed-speckled pillow of the light, moist batter into a buttered and floured loaf pan.

“About John Richard, silly! Has he gotten himself into any more trouble?”

“Like what?” I really did not want to discuss this. Any info I gave Patricia would be all over Aspen Meadow in an hour, given her feud with the Jerk. At least she hadn’t heard the crazy story about him hitting me with a salmon.

“My neighbor’s son was driving by the park when the helicopter came down. I heard ReeAnn was burned over three-fourths of her body,” she continued.
“Was she with John Richard? You don’t know what happened with that, do you?”

This was the woman who had complained so bitterly to me about our community’s obsession-with-disaster? Incredible. Some people just can’t see themselves as fostering the very problem they’re griping about.

“I can’t talk, Patricia,” I responded. “I need to finish making some bread.”

Bitterly, she said, “You’re not much help,” and hung up.

Not much help. Well, wasn’t that what everyone was saying about me these days? I slid the bread into the oven, then rebooted my computer and added
According to the Jerk, Suz was reprimanded by ACHMO HQ honchos
to my list of what I knew about her. A brief time later, I took the golden-brown bread out and placed it on a rack. It perfumed the kitchen with its rich, orangey scent. Macguire arrived home as I was feeding the dog and the cat. I assured him I was just fine and told him I’d be kneading cloverleaf rolls in no time. He looked skeptically at the slap marks on my face and the thick bandage I’d placed over my forearm. But unlike Patricia McCracken, he was too polite to say anything.

Tom arrived shortly after six, bearing vegetarian calzones and a deep-dish sausage pizza. He unloaded the food, gently examined my face and arm, and cursed John Richard. He carefully punched down the mass of pizza dough I’d already made, zipped it into a heavy-duty plastic bag, and popped it into the freezer. When he finished unwrapping the Italian feast, I felt tears prick hard.

“Please, Goldy, don’t, don’t,” he crooned as he gathered me up in his arms. “What you’ve been through … I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I feel like I failed you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Oh, Tom. Arch has gone to live with the Druckmans until John Richard’s hearing.”

“He’ll be back,” he said confidently.

I let him hold me. “All this food,” I muttered finally, “it’s going to get cold.”

He held me out at arm’s length. His warm green eyes gave me a skeptical look. “That’s what I brought my convection oven into this house for, remember? You like pizza, don’t you? Even if it’s pizza made by somebody else?”

You like pizza?
“Sure,” I said uncertainly, and sat down at the table while Tom preheated the oven and opened a bottle of Chianti. I shivered.
Even if it’s pizza made by somebody else?
Tom had gently asked.

My afternoon encounter with John Richard had brought another assault of memories I thought I’d repressed. One time, I
had
tried to serve pizza made by somebody else. Arch had been three months old and sick with a painful ear infection. Exhausted from being up with him all night and then all day, I’d ordered a pizza for dinner. John Richard had thrown a fit, of course. He’d torn the pizza into bits and dumped them in the garbage disposal. If he’d wanted take-out pizza, he’d shouted, he would have stayed single.

Without being asked, Macguire set the kitchen
table. Not one of us mentioned my son. Arch must have told Macguire his plans to live with the Druckmans. Again, Macguire was too polite to mention it.

The strange thing about going through a difficult time is that eventually, you get hungry. The Italian sausage on the pizza Tom had brought home provided a sharp, juicy complement to the crunchy crust. The calzones were so stuffed with steaming tomatoes, onions, peppers, and cheese that it was hard to take a bite without making a mess. By the time we finished eating, my mood had lifted somewhat.

“Something I need to discuss with you all,” Tom said in the gentle voice he used whenever he needed to drop a bombshell.

I said, “Uh-oh.”

“The deputies couldn’t find John Richard,” he announced matter-of-factly. “He wasn’t at his house. There’s an APB out on him, but you need to know he’s at large.”

“That sucks,” Macguire said.

“It’s probably just as well Arch is at the Druckmans’,” Tom continued. “Here at home, we need to keep the windows shut all the time. Turn on the attic fan if you need ventilation. But the security system stays
armed.
I mean it.”

I rubbed my temples and tried to give myself a silent pep talk. No uplifting thoughts came. When Macguire offered to do the dishes, Tom and I consented gratefully. Upstairs, the Chianti and relaxing meal finally took effect. No matter how bad the news is, not only do you have to eat, you eventually
have to sleep. I hadn’t slept well since I’d discovered Suz Craig’s body. I yawned.

“Put on your pajamas,” Tom ordered with a loving smile, “and let me rub your back.”

“It’s not even eight o’clock.”

“Miss G., let me take care of you. No fussing.”

I winced as I pulled the pajama sleeve over my bruised arm, then remembered the arnica and antidepression herbs from Amy Bartholomew and slid the tablets and capsules onto the table next to the bed. Before I could take any, though, I had to ask my husband a few questions.

“Tom,” I said as I lay carefully on my stomach, “where could John Richard be?”

“Aw, he’s someplace he thinks is safe. With friends, probably. I don’t think he’d dare come after you. Not after today.”

“Beg to differ.” After a moment I said, “Arch doesn’t think I’m looking into the charges against his father. After all I’ve done, that almost hurts more than anything.”

Tom’s large hands pressed and massaged my aching body. “He’s a kid, Goldy. He just doesn’t understand. Cut him some slack.”

“I’ve cut him tons of slack. He just hasn’t cut any for me.”

Tom chose not to respond to this. Under his hands my weary muscles began to relax. I felt my eyes closing.

“I’ve got something else to ask you,” I said weakly.

“I wish you wouldn’t talk.”

“Has anybody at ACHMO told you Suz was about to be fired? Or why?”

He chuckled. “Korman sure claimed that in his interview. But he was the only one who mentioned it, and he can’t prove a thing. Everyone else swears her job was secure.”

“Ah,” I said. I downed the herb capsules and slipped the arnica under my tongue. A few minutes later, I did not resist when sleep claimed me.

I awoke at two
A.M.
in such a state of alertness that I felt sure Arch had come home, the security alarm had gone off, or either Scout or Jake was scratching to go out. None of these was the case. I looked out the window: the night was still. No breeze or rush of creekwater was audible, of course, as every single window in the house was locked up tight. I turned on the dresser light and saw a note from Tom.

Peachy. But it was not worries about Arch or even ReeAnn that had awakened me. It was something else.

If Suz Craig was about to be fired, or was even in danger of being fired, how could that relate to her being murdered? And why had Brandon Yuille, my buddy-in-Thai-food, refused to answer any of my calls? Was he still annoyed about our conversation at the Jerk’s office, despite my apologies? John Richard
was on the loose, but I doubted he was watching our house. I slipped on jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt. During the day, Brandon could refuse to return my calls all he wanted. But at this hour, I knew exactly where to find him.