The Grilling Season (3 page)

I
told the 911 operator who I was, where I was, and why I was calling. “She doesn’t seem to be alive,” I added. Did I know CPR? the operator wanted to know. No, no, I replied, sorry.

“Just stay where you are,” the operator commanded.

For some reason I looked at my watch. Five to seven. I had to call Tom. Although I knew it would irritate the 911 operator, I disconnected and punched the digits for the personal line into our house.

“Schulz,” Tom barked into the phone.

“Listen, something’s happened …” This was a mistake. Even with the worst-case scenario, which I did not want to contemplate, I surely knew they would never assign this—what would he call it?—this
matter
, this
incident
, this
case
, to my husband.

“It seems … I didn’t …”

“Goldy,” Tom commanded, “tell me what’s going on. Slowly.”

“I … I was driving up Jacobean in the country-club
area,” I began, and then told him bluntly exactly what
I
was looking at through the windshield—a young woman. Looked like Suz Craig, John Richard’s girlfriend. Lying half-dressed in a ditch. Not moving. Not breathing.

“Sit tight,” he ordered. “If you see John Richard, or anyone, say nothing. If someone comes, get out of the car. Don’t let anybody near that ditch. I’ll be there before the ambulance. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Goldy? I’ll be there.”

I closed the phone and felt relief. I scanned the quiet landscape and had a sudden memory of the time a live power line had snapped during a blizzard and landed on our street. Touching the wire meant sure electrocution. The most important job, the fire department had warned, was to keep people, especially children, away from the dark wire that had curved onto the street like a monstrous snake. And how similar was this situation? I couldn’t think. I only knew I had to keep prying eyes and intrusive, questioning people away from what lay in that ditch.

And speaking of children, I had to call Arch. Of course I couldn’t remember the number of the house where he was. People named Rodine. I called Information, got the number, and phoned. Gail Rodine didn’t sound too happy, but I told her tersely that there would be a delay before I arrived.

“I’m leaving to start setting up the doll show at ten,” Gail petulantly announced.

“I’ll be there long before that,” I said, and disconnected before she could whine any more.

I peered out through the windshield of Tom’s car and wondered how long it would be before someone came along. Tom was right:
Sit tight
, he’d said. If
someone saw me, a stranger, standing in the road looking out of place, that would excite curiosity. My heart quickened as the front door to one of the houses swung open. A chunky man in a dark bathrobe came out, bent to retrieve his newspaper without looking up the street, then waddled back through his columned entryway. I let out a breath of relief that I quickly gasped right back in as John Richard’s white Jeep roared into view from the opposite side of Jacobean.

What should I do?

Don’t let anybody near that ditch.

John Richard catapulted the Jeep up into Suz’s driveway. Apparently he’d taken no notice of Tom’s car or of me sitting in it. Springing from his own vehicle, John Richard turned and scanned the road. Did he hesitate and narrow his eyes when he saw the toppled mailbox, then my sedan? I couldn’t be sure. The soil between the house and the ditch had been churned up and heaped into a small hillock by the landscapers. The body in the ditch could not be seen from the house. At least I hoped it couldn’t. John Richard turned back to his Jeep, reached into the passenger-side seat, and pulled out a bunch of roses.

I’m going to be sick.

I knew without knowing what had happened. They’d fought.

You left, angry, thinking she was going to be just fine. You wanted her to recover; take aspirin; cry a little. You’d call later. But she stumbled out the door, looking for help. She fell into the ditch and died. And yet here you are with roses. You bought them at the grocery store this morning. The store is open all night and always helps you with your
morning-after remorse. So here you are, figuring you can just patch everything up. Not this time.

I forced my leaden hand to open the sedan door. Fear pulsed through every nerve. But I’d told Tom I would keep people away from the ditch, and I had to do that. Even if that meant undergoing this most dreaded of confrontations.

John Richard had already bounded up to Suz’s door and was impatiently ringing the bell. He didn’t take any notice of me until I was almost by his side. Then he turned and faced me, and I prayed for strength: mental, spiritual, and physical. Especially physical.

By any panel of judges, John Richard would be declared one of the handsomest men to walk the earth. His wide, dark blue eyes regarded me as his angular face instantly assumed its familiar what-the-hell-do-you-want expression. The bunch of roses wobbled in his large, strong hand.

“Why are
you
here?” he demanded. “What’s your
problem?
” Of course, I couldn’t find my voice. When I didn’t respond immediately, he smirked. “Suz said you seemed real interested in her place. Smells a little bit like
obsession
to me.”

Don’t get into an argument.

“Well … I … uh,” I faltered. I looked at him warily. Was he going to lose his temper? Turn all that rage on me? In front of this upscale neighborhood with its watching windows? “I … was actually driving by … looking for you. I … didn’t want Arch to arrive at your place and have it be empty.” My voice sounded absurdly high.

He surveyed the street for my van. “Really.”

I held my breath.
Please let the body not be visible from the house.

“Where is Arch?” asked John Richard, the man I had once loved. The man I now loathed beyond measure, the man I did my best to ignore, despite his constant bad behavior, which always demanded attention. “Where is your
van?
Look at me, dammit.” His blue eyes drilled into mine. His icy, threatening tone was all too familiar. “Why won’t you
tell
me why you’re
here?
No Arch? No van? This certainly smacks of the ex-wife
spying
on the ex-husband’s girlfriend.”

“I just—”

At that moment the familiar wheeze of my van sounded its way up Jacobean. Tom parked behind his own sedan and within three seconds was striding across Suz’s lawn from the acute angle of the neighbor’s yard. Smart man. Any visual diversion from the ditch would buy time. With one of his large, pawlike hands, Tom motioned for me to move away from John Richard. I inched backward until my feet bumped the edge of the porch. Tom’s green eyes never wavered from John Richard as he approached the porch where we stood.

“What the—?” John Richard was furious. “Is this some kind of family incident? You’d better tell me what’s going on, Goldy,” he commanded.

Take a wild guess.
But I was going to say nothing to that arrogant voice.

Bordering the expansive front step was a fat clay pot brimming with vivid red geraniums and dusty-blue ageratum. I had backed up beside it and now stared down at the tall red flowers, unable to
meet John Richard’s enraged gaze. “I don’t really know very much,” I murmured.

“Hey there,” said Tom, as if we were all meeting on the golf course.

John Richard wasn’t fooled for a moment. “You want to tell me what the
hell
you’re doing here at seven o’clock in the morning, cop? Or why Goldy just happened to be passing by?”

Tom’s wide face stayed flat, passive, totally unreadable. He blinked and took a deep, measuring breath that pulled up his expansive chest. He regarded John Richard’s handsome face and athletic frame.

Finally Tom said, “We seem to have a situation here.”

“What?” cried John Richard, incredulous.
Or acting incredulous
, my skeptical inner voice immediately supplied. John Richard’s face tightened with fury—and something else. “What kind of situation?” His voice was stone-hard, but there was a crack in that stone, something rarely heard when he spoke:
fear.
“What’s the matter with you two?” He turned his wrath on me. “What, did Suz call you early this morning, Goldy? Trying to get a little girlie sympathy? Strength in numbers, right? Just like you and Marla, a whimpering duo going for the gold medal in pettiness.” He swept his scathing glance over Tom and me. “So you just rushed right out early in the morning, then called your personal police squad to back you up, right? What did Suz tell you, that we mixed it up last night?”

“You mixed it up last night,” Tom quietly repeated.

John Richard flung the roses down. The paper
made a crinkly sound as the bouquet landed on the grass, and a bloodred petal shook free. “Well, let me tell you, both of you, this is none of your damn business, do you understand me? Suz has lots of problems you don’t even know about. It really wasn’t as bad as—”

He was silenced by the wail of a siren. The ambulance screamed from the club entryway. I knew from all Tom had told me that unless a victim’s body has mold on it, the paramedics feel duty-bound to try to revive that victim. Still, as the ambulance shrieked to a halt, I wanted them to do their damnedest. I prayed they would be able to bring Suz back while knowing in my heart that it was no longer within the realm of possibility.

Tom strode off the porch in the direction of the ambulance. When the paramedics were out of their vehicle, Tom pointed. The medics vaulted toward the ditch.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered John Richard as he shoved past me. Caught off balance by the power of his push, I fell backward onto the flowerpot. I tripped off the edge of the porch and landed facedown in the dirt. When I scraped the soil off my elbows, I thought I heard a forlorn meow. I looked around but only saw John Richard. He was a preppy vision in khaki pants and burgundy shirt as he swiftly approached the area where the emergency medical folks were establishing their territory. “Hey! I’m a doctor!” he called. “What’s going on?”

The medics were already working and paid him no heed. From beside the ditch Tom issued instructions. When John Richard arrived at the side of
the ditch and yelped at the sight there, Tom shook his head grimly.

I pulled myself up, brushed the dirt off my clothes, and walked down the driveway. Neighbors were clustering on their porches. Three men walked purposefully toward the activity, as if they’d been appointed by the homeowners’ association to find out what was going on and therefore were above nosiness. Tom pointed to me, then swept his arm toward the approaching men.
Keep those guys away.
I picked up the pace.

“Okay, folks,” I said to the men, “just stay back. Please … That man’s my husband and this is a medical emergency.”

One of them, a bald, pinch-faced fellow whom I recognized as a minor dignitary from the Bank of Aspen Meadow, narrowed his eyes at the ditch. “That’s not your husband, that’s your ex—”

“The ex and the current,” I replied sharply. “The current’s a cop and he has
asked
me to keep you all—”

“What happened?” rasped another man. He was short and pudgy and sported a goatee that matched his gray sweatsuit. “Aren’t you … haven’t I seen you … aren’t you the town caterer?” He inhaled angrily. “I demand to know why that ambulance is here. Was there a break-in? I have children. Tell me what’s going on.” The third man, tan, white-mustached, wearing gardening clothes and a billed cap, nodded mutely.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” I said, just a decibel higher than necessary.

From the ditch John Richard squawked. I
couldn’t help it: I turned around. I couldn’t see Suz, but I saw the medics working to hook her up to some equipment. I knew the drill: Check for vital signs. In those horrible few moments they’d already sought her pulse. They’d looked into her eyes to see if the irises were fixed and dilated. The only problem I was having was in accepting the next step. A dull thump reverberated through the air.
Dammit.
They were trying to get her heart to beat. Once more the thump echoed through the morning stillness.

Even though my view was partially blocked, I knew the next stage was for the paramedics to send telemetry down to a Denver hospital. An emergency-room doctor would make the declaration to stop trying to resuscitate.

John Richard shrieked: “What the hell is that thing doing there?” He torqued his head around and stared at Suz’s house.

One of the paramedics was holding something. The medic held it out to Tom, affording me a sideways view of it. He held a piece of jewelry, a thick, heavy gold bracelet.

I stared, uncomprehending, at the bracelet, then felt my eyes being drawn to the naked spot on John Richard’s left wrist. My worries about personal bankruptcy seemed a century old. The street felt as if it were moving under my feet.
Steady, girl.

“I don’t believe this!” John Richard yelled. “This is entrapment! This is a setup! Why won’t you talk to me?”

The three bystanders I was trying to keep away from the ditch nudged urgently past me.

“Hey!” I yelped. “You can’t go—”

But by the time I caught up with them, they stood beside the ditch. Damn them. Tom could not stop the men from gaping at the medics and poor, wretched Suz; he was talking into his mobile phone. And what was I now hearing? No. Yes. Tom was reciting the Miranda rights to John Richard Korman.

“Stop this,” John Richard protested loudly as Tom’s caution continued. “You have no idea what you’re doing! Suz had … She … AstuteCare had more … enemies … than I have patients. She was into more—”

I could not believe my ears. This was so fast … too fast. What had John Richard said or done? He and Suz had “mixed it up.” And the ID bracelet—where had the medics found it? Were John Richard’s admission of a fight and a piece of his jewelry enough to warrant an arrest? Apparently so. But John Richard had brought flowers, he must have
thought
Suz was alive, or must have wanted to
believe
she was alive, or wanted to
appear
to believe she was alive.