The Grilling Season (30 page)

But black-and-blue marks didn’t form on a corpse, as Tom had pointed out. Suz had had a nasty blowout with John Richard, and she’d had the exact pattern of bruises he usually inflicted. He’d even
admitted
they’d had a fight. Yet he was equally adamant that he’d left her alive after their argument and gone home. And really, the way he’d acted at my window yesterday was more typical of him: He got frustrated and he blew up. Then he either beat you until you submitted, or until something else stopped him, like the hanging plant Marla had whacked him with once, or the ill-fated ham I’d cracked over his head yesterday.

And Suz hadn’t accidentally fallen into the ditch. She’d been beaten to death with a metal scratching post and then her body had been dumped into the ditch. It didn’t make sense.

Even if someone else had killed her and wanted to put the blame on John Richard,
how could he or she even know Suz and the Jerk would be together that night? How could he or she know he’d lose his temper?
And even if the Jerk had beaten Suz up, a killer wanting to pin the murder on John Richard would have had to wait
until the bruises formed
so that it looked as if John Richard had not only beaten her but finished her off. Like the timing on the egg dish I was preparing, the killer’s timing would have to be perfect.

And then I remembered what I’d said to Tom:
You can’t put the dish in too early or it won’t come out right.
If John Richard had not murdered Suz Craig, then whoever had had taken great pains to plan it.

I glanced at my watch: seven-forty-five. I quickly packed up the ham, the eggs, and the breads for the breakfast, which was scheduled to start at nine. This last day of the doll show would begin at eleven. The doors would close at four so that the ballroom could be cleaned. Then the show would
reopen at five and close at seven. The final dinner for the board and their guests was set for eight o’clock, to take full advantage of the magical evening light on the lake.

I slipped my cellular phone into my pocket, but not before I’d taken note of three numbers: Patricia McCracken, Frances Markasian, and Lutheran Hospital, in case ReeAnn Collins was well enough to talk. Regardless of the fact that I had catering to do today, I had a crime to try to solve. My heart ached. I wanted Arch home. I wanted to know, once and for all, what had happened in Saturday’s early-morning hours. And I was going to find out. For Arch, and for me.

Carefully, I scanned our garage and my van’s interior. No Jerk. Where could he be? Twice during the short drive to the LakeCenter I had the discomfiting feeling that someone was following me. But my rearview mirror yielded nothing unusual, and even when I pulled onto the shoulder of the lake’s frontage road, no one else stopped. I put it down to nerves.

At the LakeCenter the portly, disheveled security guard again looked and smelled like the “before” picture in an advertisement for Alcoholics Anonymous. His disheveled gray hair was a mass of greasy curls; his red-veined eyes resembled a back-roads map of Utah. In the trash can next to him three empty whiskey pint bottles looked incriminating. As before, I felt sorry for him. And like any kind-hearted caterer, I asked if he wanted some coffee and toast once I got the board’s breakfast under way.

“Wha … ?” he slurred. “Break … fast?
Oh, yeah. Sure, coffee. Put some brandy in, you got any. ‘Kay?”

So much for good deeds. I sighed and asked if there was any way he could open the side door for me.

“Yeah, sure. Pull your van ‘round the far wall. It’s ‘kay. I can’t leave the front for more than a minute to help ya, though. Gotta protect the damn toys. I’ll open the door from inside, it’s ‘kay, I can trust ya. Right?” He burped and disappeared to open the side door.

While the oven was preheating for the eggs and ham, I sallied back and forth to put down an extension cord for the large coffee urn and set out the silverware and plates. The morning was quite cool, and the warming promise of the large coffeepot gurgling on one of the picnic tables seemed especially welcome. The pussy willows beside the lake path shifted and whispered in the breeze. A red-wing blackbird warned its compatriots of my presence by squawking and raising one wing. I smiled, sliced and arranged the bread, then poured the juice. When I’d given the guard a large mug of coffee and put the eggs and ham in the oven, I dialed Lutheran Hospital and asked to be put through to ReeAnn Collins. If she was not well enough to talk, I would not press her.

A man, sounding too old and serious to be ReeAnn’s unreliable boyfriend, gruffly answered the phone. I identified myself and asked to speak to Ms. Collins. The phone was handed across.

“Helloo-oo!” a woman cooed merrily.

“R-ReeAnn!” I stuttered. “It’s Goldy Schulz.
You sound so—good! I was sorry to hear about the accident.”

“Yes,” she said with unusual pleasantness, as if she were enjoying the attention. “Right now I’ve got bandages on my body from the burns. I can’t do much moving yet.”

“I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

“Well, you know, I got thrown into the creek by the explosion. The doctor told me it was a good thing, getting cold water on the burns right away. Anyway, I’m in excellent physical shape. Even though I was numb, I managed to paddle over to the creekbank. Everybody was pretty impressed. Plus now I’m on painkillers,” she added with a giggle. “Beats working, that’s for sure. Gotta roomful of flowers from my boyfriend. Plus, I’ve met a couple of cute interns, if the b.f. doesn’t work out.”

“ReeAnn,” I whispered with relief.

“Plus,” she continued gaily, “there’s a cop at the door and one here to answer the phone, ‘cuz the sheriff’s department figured out there was explosive in the grill.”

“What?”

“Oh, I forget what kind it was. The boyfriend feels guilty.” She sighed. “Somebody
supposedly
from his bike shop called and said ‘Forget the sandwiches.’ Then whoever it was set up our lunch for twelve-thirty. I was going to get there at noon, dump charcoal on the grill, get it started. I got to the park, dumped on the charcoal, and the grill went ka-boom. Total bummer. So,” she said in a hungry-for-news voice, “how’s John Richard? Have you gotten any money? Think he’s going to be able to give me my last paycheck?”

I swallowed. “You haven’t heard from him?”

“Are you kidding?” she scoffed. “The only people I’ve heard from are my boyfriend, my mother, and the damn ACHMO people. They still seem to think I’ve hidden some tapes of theirs. I told them what I’ve always told them: Go to hell. Now the sheriff’s department screens my calls. So have you gotten your money or not?”

“No, I haven’t gotten it.” I thought again about my speculation concerning timing. What had John Richard and Suz been arguing about Friday night at the club? “Ah, ReeAnn, if it’s not too much trouble, do you remember if there was something that happened on Friday, some negative thing that could have set off a fight between John Richard and Suz Craig?”

“How could I forget? It was the last day I worked with him. That Friday, a FedEx came. When I opened it, I thought, Uh-oh, the doc’s going to be ticked off now! First the condo in Keystone, now he’s gonna lose the one in Hawaii!”

“And the FedEx was … “

“A letter from Suz Craig’s office at ACHMO. Saying no bonus this year. He went ballistic.”

No kidding. But this was interesting, since I was thinking about timing. The no-bonus notice hadn’t come by postal service—too unpredictable as to arrival time. Nor had the denial of bonus come as a phone call—too easily argued with. Whoever had sent the letter had sent it FedEx, so he or she could be absolutely certain the message would arrive on a certain day, and virtually guarantee a conflict.

“What did the letter say?”

She sighed impatiently. “Something about how
we hadn’t done the billing properly or consistently or within their guidelines or something. And he wasn’t going to get his bonus. That’s it. At the bottom, it said, ‘signed for and on behalf of Suz Craig.’ I told him it was because she was afraid to sign it!”

“Who signed it for her?”

“Didn’t say. I couldn’t tell, anyway, because John Richard snatched that letter away and started to have one of his fits.”

I gritted my teeth. I checked the timer for the eggs: one minute to go. The doll collectors had gathered outside and were drinking their juice and pulling large cups of coffee for themselves from the silver urn. “ReeAnn, look, I just have one more question for you, and it has to do with Suz Craig.” She groaned. “I’m just trying to figure out about that night, Friday. Was there any reason they were going out? Did they have a standing date for Friday night?”

“Oh, now that I
do
remember, because Ms. Crank was always wanting them to celebrate their little anniversaries. First month of going out, they exchange balloons; second month, they buy each other workout clothes; on and on until they’ve been going together six whole months, then she gets a fur coat and he gets an ID bracelet, for God’s sake. Pull-leeze.”

“And Friday night was …”

“August first? The Month Seven anniversary, where have you been? I think she wanted tickets to Bermuda, but instead she got herself killed. What can I say? She should have given him the bonus. Oh, man, listen to me. I need another painkiller.” Chortling, ReeAnn hung up.

The timer beeped. I took out the casserole and
had a taste with a small plastic spoon. The silken texture of the eggs, combined with the tomatoes, leeks, hot, barely melted chunks of cream cheese, and seasoned poached shrimp, was divine. I carried the pan out and placed it next to the warm ham and baskets of bread. The doll board members included Tina Corey dressed as Sea Queen Babsie and Gail Rodine in a formidable wide-brimmed hat covered with netting. They all piled up their plates with food and talked excitedly about what a smash their opening day had been. I was surprised to see Frances Markasian, her wild black hair and ratty trench coat at odds with the perfect coiffures, stylish clothes, and occasional doll costumes of the board members, at the end of one of the picnic tables. She whispered to me that she was covering the show for the paper.

“I’m telling you, Goldy,” Frances said as she shoveled up a heaping forkful of eggs, “I’m going to have to do a bikers’ convention next, to recover from this.”

“I need to talk to you,” I whispered back. “I’m just about done serving here, and I was going to call you today, anyway. I have some information and some … lingering questions about Suz Craig’s murder.”

She brightened. “You promised you’d share stuff with me and you’re actually going to do it? Wonders never cease. These eggs are yummy.”

“Thanks. I’ll give you the recipe. Want to talk?” I asked conspiratorially.

She dropped her fork, eased off the picnic bench, and shouldered her huge purse. “I need to take notes while we talk. Let me meet you in the kitchen, before I die of ecstasy.”

“I
’ve been thinking about you a lot lately, Goldy,”
I
Frances announced when she’d heaved herself up on one of the counters, armed with her notebook, a newly popped Jolt cola, and a cigarette strictly forbidden by the signs posted everywhere in the LakeCenter. She blew the smoke in a rolling stream out the kitchen’s open window. “With all that John Richard’s up to, it’s almost as if you’re being punished, too. I heard he beat you up and then skipped. Any idea where he is?”

“No. And if those women catch you smoking around their precious dolls, you’ll be punished so badly you’ll never be able to say the words ‘Bail-Jumping Babsie’ again.”

She shrugged. “Aw, you’re breaking my heart.” The cigarette dangled from her thin lips. “Spill it. Tell me everything you’ve got. I’ve got a police band radio, remember. How badly did John Richard hurt you yesterday?”

“I’m okay,” I said briefly. “You remember who Ralph Shelton is?”

“Course I remember. I may have been covering
the doll show, but I haven’t been covering it from Peoria. He’s the guy, the ob-gyn doctor, who got canned by Suz Craig. I went over to his house. Asked him about the scratches on
his
face and he said it was from a cat, then slammed the door in
my
face. The vet wouldn’t talk to me about Shelton’s cat.”

“Yeah, I know. Have you discovered anything about what was going on between Ralph Shelton and Suz Craig?”

“I thought you got me out here to tell
me
stuff.”

I took a deep breath. Brandon Yuille hadn’t told me I couldn’t share what he’d divulged; I just couldn’t say he was the one who’d given me the info. “Apparently, there were patient complaints outstanding against Shelton. Not only did Suz fire him, she was trying to use the complaints to poison his future at MeritMed. Or so I heard.”

Frances made a quick note. “Very good, Goldy. Who’d you hear that from?”

“Can’t say.”

“Was it Chris Corey?” I shook my head. She smiled. “Well, I
had
heard about the patient-complaint action, and how Suz planned to use it, from Chris Corey.” Another stream of cigarette smoke swirled out the window. “What else have you been able to get?”

“That’s it.” Which, of course, was not true.

She inhaled reflectively. “Chris also told me Ralph Shelton had an appointment with Suz Craig in her office on Monday morning, July 14. What were the two of them going to talk about, do you know? This patient-complaint packet?”

Monday morning, July 14. The missing day in Suz’s secret tapes. On that Monday morning,
what
had Ralph Shelton talked to Suz about? Had Ralph received some of Suz’s wrath that day, too? I had no idea.
Could
the Jerk have Suz’s tapes from July 14? Had whoever tried to blow up ReeAnn thought the Jerk had given
ReeAnn
those tapes? Didn’t know that either, and I certainly wasn’t going to start speculating with Frances. We were friends, but there are some things you just don’t share with a journalist.

“I still think Korman did it.” Frances stopped scribbling but held her pen poised. “I’m just looking at ACHMO for my other story. But you’re really into this.”

I slumped against the counter. “It’s awful.”

Frances energetically stubbed out her cigarette in the sink, then slapped her notebook closed. “Two things, Goldy. You seem very stressed. It’s your involvement in this case.”

“Oh, gee, Frances, how would you like it if your violent ex-husband was accused of murder? How would it feel if he came over and tried to beat you up before escaping to God-knows-where? Relaxing? Besides, I’m asking questions to soothe Arch, I told you.”

Frances swept a dark mass of frizzy hair off her forehead. “Know what, Goldy? You need a hobby.”

I said glumly, “Cooking used to be my hobby.”

“Naw, you need something else. It
is
like you’re being punished, you’re so obsessed with this case. You need to get some distance.”

I grabbed a box for the dirty breakfast dishes. “What would you suggest, Frances, doll collecting?”

She burst out laughing and jumped off the counter. “Now
you’re
punishing
me.”

It took a solid hour to clean up after the breakfast. By the time I finished, I felt as drained as the empty silver coffee urn. But the breakfast had been a success. When the doors opened for the hordes waiting to get into the doll show, I was glad I could slip out the side exit and avoid the stampede. I hustled to my van. A phone call to the McCrackens wouldn’t do. I stepped on the gas and headed toward the country club. I wanted to see Patricia in person.

She was pushing Tyler the Terrible on their swing set constructed on the sloping backyard beyond the driveway, scene of the infamous roller hockey game. For a moment I stood watching them, unobserved. It had been a long time since I’d seen Patricia look happy. Her face was relaxed, her arm movements enthusiastic and graceful. She and Tyler were wearing matching navy sweatsuits. With each tug on the ropes she cooed to her son, a blond little fellow whose round face and squeals of laughter showed he was loving every minute. I almost hated interrupting them. On the other hand, unlike Patricia, my son was estranged from me, and I had information to gather before Arch and I could be reconciled.

“Howdy!” I called, and stepped carefully down the embankment. “I was in the neighborhood! Thought I’d stop by!”

Patricia smiled unenthusiastically and allowed the swing rope to go slack, which caused Tyler no end of grief.

“Keep swinging,” I told her, once I was beside her. “Don’t disappoint him.”

Obediently, she started pushing again, but less energetically, so that Tyler again squawked.

“Do you want me to do it?” I suggested. “I felt bad about not being able to talk to you yesterday when you called. So I just thought I’d come by. Sort of for an update.”

She brightened and moved aside so that I could push Tyler, who gave me only one command:
“Really
hard, okay?
Really
hard.”

“Okey-doke,” I agreed, and gave him a good push as Patricia flopped onto the grass, watching us. Tyler squealed with delight. “Hey, buddy!” I called to him as he lofted up over the bill. “I’m a swing pusher from way back! I’m the queen of the swing pushers!” I gave him another vigorous shove and he yelped happily.

“Be careful,” Patricia cautioned.

“One of the reasons I’m here is that I want
you
to be careful,” I said in a normal voice so as not to frighten Tyler. “John Richard is out on bail. And now he’s disappeared.”

She lifted her pale eyebrows. “I took tae kwon do before I got pregnant and after I got out of the hospital. Have a red belt, black stripe, now. I can take care of myself. What’s the other reason you’re here?”

“Well, I was just thinking about John Richard’s finances.”

She wrinkled her rabbitlike nose. “He had to auction the condo just … what? In the last ten days.”

“But why auction it at all? See, he hadn’t gotten news about his bonus yet—”

Patricia perked up. “Bonus? Did he not get a bonus from ACHMO?”

“Apparently not.”

Patricia’s grin was wide. “I may be able to use that in my suit.”

“Anyway, I’m just wondering …” I gasped from the exertion, but Tyler crowed with delight. “You said you’d give me the details at the hockey party, but everything got so crazy … “

She smiled wickedly. “Oh, I
do
know why he had to auction the condo, Goldy. My husband said it was almost as if I’d planned it, so I could make Korman miserable.”

I inadvertently stopped pushing and the swing knocked me in the abdomen. I recovered, but Tyler howled. I pushed again, a tad more moderately. “Why did he have to auction off his condo?”

She squinted at me. Keeping track of Tyler’s trajectory so I wouldn’t get whacked again, I couldn’t return her look. “Because of his legal bills. Have you ever been sued?” When I shook my head, she said, “You’re looking at ten thousand just to get started. At least fifty thou to keep your lawyer going. Sure, he had malpractice insurance, but it didn’t cover everything, not by a long shot. He just didn’t have the cash he needed.” She plucked a piece of grass from her pants. “I was so happy when they auctioned off that condo, you can’t imagine.” She chuckled, then stood and brushed the rest of the grass from her pants. She walked over to spell me with the swing pushing. “Goldy, listen. I may
wish
I were God,” she said very deliberately. “Unfortunately,
I’m not. But let me tell you. John Richard Korman hasn’t begun to suffer for what he did to me. And he won’t be able to escape, no matter how hard he tries.”

As if in agreement, Tyler emitted an earsplitting yowl. I fled.

I called Macguire from the cellular once I’d roared out of Patricia’s driveway. To my astonishment, he answered on the first ring.

“Goldilocks’ Catering!” He brightly launched into my official greeting. “Where Everything Is Just Right! Whaddayawant?”

“Macguire! Please don’t say ‘whaddayawant?’ to potential clients. It sounds unprofessional.”

“Oh,
Goldy!
Sorry! No problem. Listen, I’m chopping all these vegetables. They look good, too! Think you should slip a little chlorophyll into the filling?”

“No,” I said firmly. “Listen, did Arch call?”

“No, but that therapist’s office called you back and said everyone’s on vacation. You want a therapist for Arch, you’re going to have to use a referral to someone in Denver.”

Great, I thought. First, of course, I’d have to convince Arch to come home.

“Also,” Macguire went on, “Mrs. Druckman called. She’s taking Todd and Arch down to the Natural History Museum. Oh, and Marla called, too. She was on her way to Denver to see ReeAnn, wanted you to come have lunch with her, just so you could relax! But it’s too late now, she’s gone.”

“That’s okay, I’ll come home.”

“No, don’t! Let me finish what I’ve got going here. If you come home, you’ll just mope around about Arch. You should go out for lunch! How about Aspen Meadow Barbecue? My buddies and I think it’s great. Plus, you’ve got that dinner tonight, you might as well get some food now! Have a bowl of chili and a beer! Relax and leave the chopping to me!”

“Macguire—”

“Oh, oh,
scrrk, scrrk”
—he started making fake squishing noises—“you’re breaking up, you know, it’s those
scrrk scrrk
cellular phones
scrrk!
” And he disconnected.

“Macguire,” I said to the dead phone, “I’ve seen you do this trick before.” But I smiled anyway and dutifully headed the van in the direction of Aspen Meadow Barbecue, famed creekside hangout of construction workers, truck drivers, wannabe cowboys, and assorted tough guys, all of whom had the single-minded intention of getting completely smashed at lunch. An outdoor dining area separated the hard-drinking crowd inside from tourists and the occasional brave group of ladies coming for a luncheon get-together on the water. The last time Marla and I had eaten there, she’d told me that the de rigueur item for the crowd inside was extra hot chili consumed with shots of tequila.

But Marla wasn’t with me today, I remembered. I sighed. Did I really want to have lunch out alone? Macguire was doing the prep for the dinner tonight, and I could use a break. Across the street from Aspen Meadow Barbecue was a banner draped across the wooden sign of Aspen Meadow Nursery. It advertised a perennial-and-bush sale. I thought of
Frances’s admonition:
You need a hobby.
Well, maybe I’d go scope out the shrubs before braving the rough lunch crowd at Aspen Meadow Barbecue.

I wandered through sparsely stocked aisles and finally decided on some Fairy roses. The bushes featured lovely pink blossoms and were guaranteed hardy at our altitude, a key asset. As I loaded them into the van, I pictured Tom getting a huge kick out of my sudden interest in things horticultural.

Wait a minute.
I stopped dead and looked again at the carved sign:
ASPEN MEADOW NURSERY
. In the list of questions I’d entered into my computer about Suz Craig’s murder, had I even thought to look into these people,
also fired by Suz Craig?
No. Well. No time like the present.

I hustled back inside and told the cashier that on second thought I’d like to have my yard landscaped. And I wanted to have the same person who’d done Suz Craig’s in the Aspen Meadow Country Club. Suz had raved to me about the great work he’d done.

The cashier’s face fell. “Uh, you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, Duke’s out in the yard. Big blond fellow. Better go catch him, he does an early shift, then goes out with the guys for lunch on Wednesdays, then he goes home and sleeps. I have to tell you, Duke didn’t like that Craig woman. You might want to find somebody else, if she was your friend. He had a big grudge against her. Still does, even if she’s dead.”

Yes, yes
, I thought,
take a number and get in line.
The cashier pointed me in the direction of the nursery’s yard, which was on the same side of the street
as Aspen Meadow Barbecue. The man at the yard gate pointed to a Paul Bunyanesque, platinum-haired giant who wore ear protection and drove a Cat loaded with mulch. The gate guard waited until the Cat had turned in our direction, then waved to the giant, whom I assumed was Duke. Duke dumped the mulch in the waiting bed of a truck, then chugged over to us. He flipped a switch and the engine died. He hopped out of the Cat and loomed over us—he was at least six foot six—and asked the gate guard what he wanted, for crying out loud. The guard jerked his thumb in my direction.

Duke turned his attention down to me. His dark blue eyes were not friendly. The bus-yellow ear-protection device dangled from one of his meaty hands, and I had the feeling that if he didn’t like what I had to say, he’d pop it right back on. I looked way, way up at him.

“Ah, I understand that,” I began sincerely, “you did some landscaping for Suz Craig. I thought it looked great.”

“Yah, what about it? You a friend of hers?”

“Well, sort of—”

“Okay, see ya later,” he said abruptly, and snapped the ear protection back on.