The Grilling Season (33 page)

While I was trotting back to my vehicle, I realized I now had to turn this whole thing over to Tom. I’d tried to sustain my relationship with Arch by fulfilling a promise to look into the case of the murder of Suz Craig. John Richard had been accused and appeared, for the most part, guilty. But the case had been more than a can of worms. It had been a tankful. With the tapes I’d discovered, and the physical evidence that would soon come back from the
crime lab, Tom would help Donny Saunders figure out what had really happened to Suz.

Still, I couldn’t help wondering how someone could have known, or could have taken the time to find out, what he or she had to know to plan out the murder of Suz Craig.
You can’t put the dish in too early or it won’t come out right.
Timing was everything. Not only would the killer have to know all about Suz, he or she would have to know all about John Richard’s financial situation, what kind of car he drove, the ID bracelet, everything. And, most obscurely, the killer would also have to know under what circumstances John Richard used to beat me, what triggered his abusive rages. He or she would have to know about Suz and John Richard’s monthly anniversary celebrations and that getting the Jerk totally frustrated would set him off—like lighting a fuse. The killer could get him frustrated by sending him notice of a failure to receive a bonus, when he was already deep in financial hot water.

But it all seemed like a terribly long shot. There was still a slim chance that John Richard wouldn’t lose his temper, no matter how provoked.

In my van the cellular phone was bleating insistently. I grabbed it and flipped it open, but whoever it was had hung up. Arch? I called Tom but got his machine. I told him about the tapes and that he should send somebody up to the LakeCenter to retrieve them. Then I picked up the large plastic container of cookies.

The cleaning crew had left by the time I reentered the LakeCenter. The floor gleamed like a mirror and the thousands of little Babsie faces smiled beatifically at me. My cellular squawked again. I
thumped the container of cookies down on the counter and reached for it.

“Goldy? Where’ve you been?” It was Frances Markasian. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours! What’d you give me this number for if—”

“Spare me, Frances.”

“What happened?” she cried. “Where are you?”

“I’m at the LakeCenter doing a catering job for the doll show. What do you want?”

“One of my sources told me a woman with a van was snooping around at Suz Craig’s house, digging around outside. Was it you? What did you find?”

“Nothing. And who’s your source?”

“Suz’s neighbor, Lynn Tollifer. She saw your van and called me. Did you find those tapes?”

“Frances, you’re too much.”

“Well, I didn’t, I mean … I’m coming over. I want those tapes!”

“Forget it! The cops get them—”

“So help me, Goldy, I’ll strip that van of yours and pull every pot out of that LakeCenter kitchen, I’ll—”

“Cool it, Frances, I don’t have the tapes,” I lied.

“You’re lying, I swear. I’m in a meeting, and my editor won’t let me leave. But I’ll be over there in half an hour, so help me—”

I disconnected.

Oh, brother. Wait a minute. This place had a live security guard. This place also had vigilante collectors if the guard couldn’t do his job. Again, I scanned the LakeCenter ballroom. Where could I
put the tapes, in a place that would take Frances forever to find them? The table full of Holiday Babsies looked the most promising. They all belonged to Gail Rodine, and she wasn’t selling. I’d stash them in the doll boxes, call Tom again, and have the cops figure it all out.

It was unlikely that I’d have the place to myself for long, so I raced across the ballroom to the right display and slipped one tape each under the skirts of Holiday Babsies from 1991, 1992, 1993, and 1994. There were at least thirty dolls there. Gail Rodine lived in Aspen Meadow, and when she took the dolls back home, Tom could get the tapes without much trouble. He wouldn’t be happy about it, though.

When I tucked the flap of the last box into place, I heard a loud thump at the front of the LakeCenter. My skin turned cold. The Jerk. Had I locked the side door? I couldn’t remember. I trotted toward it. Unfortunately, the slickly polished floor was as slippery as a skating rink. I skidded sideways, desperately twisted to regain my balance, and finally managed to land with a crash on both of my hands. I yelped with pain. By the time this case was over, I’d be covered in bruises from head to toe.

I tried to roll over and was only partially successful. My back seemed to have regained its flexibility, but the only thing really paining me now was my left hand, in particular, my left thumb. Broken in three places by the Jerk, and destined forever to give me trouble.

I looked at my aching thumb. I looked at it and looked at it, and I had a dawning sense of horror.
You’ll be throwing pizza in no time
, the orthopedic surgeon
had told me after a particularly savage beating had brought me to the hospital along with the broken thumb. He knew the pattern of bruises inflicted by the Jerk because he’d seen them before.
I’ll be kicking field goals in no time
, he’d promised, much later.
What do you think … you’ll go back to being an orthopedic surgeon?
Suz had said.
Your voice sounds so familiar
, I’d said.
Did you treat Arch?

No. He’d treated
me.
A long time ago. He could plan the murder because he knew exactly what to do and how to make it look as if John Richard Korman had done it.

At that moment the side door of the LakeCenter swung open and Chris Corey appeared, a heavy, bearded study in fury. He saw me on the floor, holding my aching thumb. He snarled: “I see you’re still good at getting yourself injured! How’s the thumb? And while you’re telling me, give me those tapes!”

I
scrambled to my feet. Pain shot through my body, but I had to think. The front door to the LakeCenter was locked; the back door was locked—for security. Somehow I had to get out through the entrance where Chris Corey stood.

“I don’t have them,” I replied shakily.

“I know you do! I paid that kid, Luke Tollifer, to watch Suz’s house. Where are they?”

“In the car, in the car! My van!”

“Show me!”

I made my way to the door, thinking I might be able to slip past him and run. Before I could squeak by, however, he grabbed my left hand, and then my thumb. Cruelly, he twisted it behind my back. I yelped. At the same time, I noticed the cast on his ankle had mysteriously vanished.

“Where’s your phone?”

“In … in my apron pocket.”

He felt inside my pocket with his free hand, tugged my phone out, and sent it skittering across the shiny floor. “I want the tapes, then I’ll leave. Walk to your van, get those tapes, then I’m gone.
Scream, and I swear to God I’ll hit you harder than I did her.”

Oh, God.
Fear washed through my body. My feet slid out from under me. He wrenched me up off the slippery floor.

“Please, Chris, don’t,” I gasped. “Think about what this is going to do to you. To Tina.”

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Think about Tina’ is what I should have done before, huh? Move.”

“Okay, okay,” I gasped. My thumb throbbed in agony. I feared I’d pass out. Chris pushed me forward through the threshold of the side door. I looked back at him, insanely confused that his limp had also disappeared. As he fiercely nudged me along the log wall, a gaggle of red-wing blackbirds erupted from the wetlands bordering the Lake-Center.

I looked around wildly for help. The parking lot was empty except for my van. Where had Chris parked? I thought about screaming. But who would hear me? We were hundreds of yards from the road, even farther from the Lakeview Shopping Center.

As we rounded the building, Chris pushed me along the sidewalk toward the parking lot. I caught a glimpse of a car on the far side of the building—the side opposite the kitchen. Of course. He’d driven up quietly and parked away from the kitchen. And naturally he knew how to be quiet; hadn’t he approached Suz’s house in the darkness and quiet, in a Jeep just like John Richard’s?

The guard was no help. Chris had clobbered him—the crash I’d heard at the front—and he lay sprawled next to the trash can.

“Where are the tapes?” Chris asked as we neared my van.

“Aah … aah … “

He wrenched my thumb brutally. “Where?”

“I can’t … think … if you’re hurting me,” I protested in a low voice. I was using negotiating skills I had learned long ago, to keep John Richard from hurting me. When he relented a bit, I said, “Aah … under the … passenger seat. It’s a tight squeeze, you’ll never be able to reach. Better let me … get them.”

The first cars of the doll people appeared at the far end of the dirt-road entryway to the LakeCenter.
Stall, stall
, I thought desperately. Chris wrenched open the passenger-side door and pushed me inside, still gripping my thumb.

“You have to let go of me,” I gasped. “Or I can’t get them.” I tried to think. Where was my tire iron? Did I have any spare kitchen utensils anywhere, something I could use on him? He shoved me into the van on my stomach. But at least he relinquished his death-grip on my thumb. I reached under the seat with my numb left hand. Nothing, of course. “Hold on,” I called. “Just a sec.”

He yanked back on my legs so violently that I thought I would break in two. I landed half in, half out, and on my side.

“Help!” I screamed. I had no idea if the doll people were even within earshot. “Somebody!
Help!”

Chris picked me up by the waist and threw me on my back on the passenger-side seat. Then he flung his whole, heavy body on top of me. His fleshy hand clamped over my mouth. I kicked wildly. But
with him on top of me and outweighing me by a good one hundred and fifty pounds, I had zero leverage.

“Shut up!” he breathed. His hand tightened on my throat. Panic shot through me. He was going to strangle me. I’d never see Arch again. Or Tom. I thrashed wildly. Chris’s hand slipped off my throat. The glove compartment banged open.

Marla’s bag of drugs fell onto the van floor.

Oh God, help me
, I prayed as I strained under Chris’s weight. I groped desperately.
Keep calm, keep calm, keep calm.
I reached into the bag, found nothing, scrabbled around frantically. Then my fingers closed over what I sought. I popped off the needle cover.

Chris had grabbed my throat again. He squeezed. With every ounce of strength I had left, I stabbed him with Marla’s hypodermic of Versed. I pushed down on the plunger, hard.

Stunned, Chris squealed with pain. His hold on me relaxed momentarily. He screamed again and hauled back to tear the needle from his body. I scrambled through the open door. By the time I was outside, Chris was stumbling dazedly down the parking lot, toward the LakeCenter and his car.

I watched him, open-mouthed, gasping for breath. Was he going to just … take off? Was he so big that a dose of a superpotent tranquilizer had no effect on him? He faltered, appeared to trip, and then staggered forward.

“The Babsies!” I screamed at the large group of beautifully dressed women who were sashaying across the lot toward the LakeCenter door. “That big blond man! He’s stolen them!” I pointed at
Chris. He turned to stare open-mouthed at me, not comprehending. He was slowing down, no question. But he was only twenty feet from his car. “The Babsies!” I shrieked again at the women, gesticulating wildly. “That man knocked out the guard! He’s going to take the dolls!”

The women started to trot. Chris gaped at them. Then he turned and floundered toward his vehicle. The women picked up speed.

“No, no!” he cried as the first doll collector attacked him. “No!” I heard him shout when two more women jumped on him. Bellowing in astonishment, he staggered forward. Then, under the onslaught of furious Babsie protectors, he fell to his knees.

I walked shakily back to the LakeCenter to call the sheriff’s department. Chris Corey wasn’t going anywhere.

T
om, as it turned out, had been up at his cabin. Empty since high creekwaters had flooded the first floor with two inches of water, unrented since Arch, Tom, and I had spent several weekends scraping off dried mud, the cabin now awaited a professional interior paint job. When Tom drove up and parked half a mile away, then used a little-known path through the woods to approach the place from the back, he had a hunch that the cabin held a squatter—one of the very few people who knew about the flood damage and the time we’d spent cleaning the place up. Unfortunately, John Richard hadn’t figured that Tom would be able to take him so easily. By the time Tom arrested the Jerk again, Sergeant Beiner had appeared at the LakeCenter and arrested Chris Corey.

That night, Chris confessed to the murder. He had wanted to end the torment of working for Suz Craig. He remembered how John Richard had attacked me; he had waited for the right time—the silly monthly anniversary. He had stolen the ID bracelet when John Richard was helping a woman
with an induced delivery that had been scheduled—and approved—by ACHMO. Finally, he had written the bonus-denial letter. The drug screen on Suz’s body fluids indicated that she, too, had been the recipient of a high-potency tranquilizer: morphine. Once Chris had primed John Richard to beat Suz, all Chris had to do was go to Suz’s door pretending to be distraught and wanting to talk things out. He’d offered to treat her contusions, then he’d given her a shot much like the one I’d given him. He’d waited until the bruises from John Richard appeared. Then he’d killed her by whacking her with the carpet-covered, solid-metal scratching post. Finally, he’d laid her in the ditch, with the bracelet as the nail in John Richard’s coffin. And then he’d gone back to pretending to be a helpful, sympathetic guy, complete with a fake cast.

He just hadn’t figured on the tapes. Luella Downing had called him, as well as Brandon, on Saturday to tell him about the existence of Suz’s secret taping. He’d used the visit to John Richard’s office to look for them. ReeAnn—his ally—had told him she’d didn’t have them. In desperation, he’d tried to blow up ReeAnn—he’d learned she was meeting her boyfriend for an outdoor lunch—because he had a feeling she’d stolen the tapes from John Richard. But just in case she hadn’t, he’d paid Suz’s nosy teenage neighbor, Luke Tollifer, to watch Suz’s house, which is how he found out about my digging effort.

That evening the results came back from the crime lab: the skin and hair under Suz Craig’s fingernails belonged to John Richard Korman. John Richard was charged with first-degree assault and
tampering with a witness. They’re talking about a plea bargain, but it looks as if he’ll face at least two years in prison.

After the police hauled Chris Corey away from the LakeCenter, Sergeant Beiner took the briefest of statements from me and seized the tapes I pulled from their hiding places in the doll boxes. Gail Rodine, looking on, glared. I’d never get a Babsie booking again as long as I lived. I somehow managed to finish the dinner for the doll people. Happily, the preparation was easy; I couldn’t have handled any additional grilling.

On Thursday morning, the day after Chris Corey was arrested, I saw Frances Markasian at Suz’s memorial service. Afterward, we talked. I wanted her to leave Arch out of any article she wrote about the case and Chris’s arrest. She felt terrible about being duped by Chris, and apologized for yelling at me about the tapes. Of course, I forgave her. Frances said she’d already talked to Brandon Yuille about an expose on Suz’s use of confidential medical files. Brandon had told Frances to tell me Ralph Shelton had agreed to cooperate; he would try to get Amy Bartholomew to help, too. I accepted Frances’s promise to keep Arch out of her wrap-up article on the case.

Unfortunately, Tina Corey’s mental illness did get leaked, and not just to the
Mountain Journal.
Both the
Denver Post
and
Rocky Mountain News
reported on her history of multiple-personality disorder. She went into a stress trance and ended up in the psychiatric ward of St. Joseph’s Hospital. No visitors allowed.

On Friday afternoon, Arch came home. Tom
had called him and they’d talked for over two hours. My son was having a hard time, as was to be expected. Macguire picked Arch up at the Druckmans’, then drove him to the Coreys’ house, where they helped the Mountain Animal Protective League load up Tippy the cat and Tina’s other pets into a van, so the animals could be delivered to foster caretakers. But back at home, Arch was dejected. Even when Julian Teller called, saying he was coming for a visit, Arch did not appear cheered. Macguire offered to talk to him up in his room. After the two boys went up, Marla phoned and told us all to sit tight, she was bringing us take-out Vietnamese food for dinner.

Tom and I sat together on the couch. He pulled me close, and I felt the tension that had knotted my body for the last week begin to ebb. He said, “The only thing I can’t understand is why you just wouldn’t let Korman take the fall for this. I’m glad we’ve got the right guy, don’t get me wrong. But you’ve wanted revenge for so long. Don’t deny it now, I can read you better than you think, Miss G. Plus, this seemed like a perfect opportunity to get Korman sent down. And not just for a year or two.”

I sat for a long time, thinking, enfolded in his arms. “I couldn’t sacrifice Arch. Just to get my revenge, I mean. Chris Corey wanted his revenge on Suz, and his sister got trampled in the process.”

“God,” he said, “I love you.”

“Mom?” Arch’s call came from the bottom of the stairs. “Mom?”

I stood up. “Yes, hon.”

He wore a crumpled khaki shirt and baggy black shorts. I wondered if he’d had a shower in the
time he’d been at the Druckmans’ house. Even his glasses were smeared.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I said.

His chin trembled. “Will you … will you take me to see Dad?”

“Oh, please, honey.” I beckoned, and he ran toward me. I held him tight, as I always had, from when he was very small. I said, “Of course.”