The Grilling Season Page 11

  Apart from this morning, how long had it been since I’d talked to Ralph? Too long. I’d last seen his daughter as a four-year-old. Now Jill was a teenager, like Arch. I rapped hard on the elaborate, gleaming brass knocker. Of course, Ralph probably wouldn’t even be home. Saturday afternoon on a gorgeous Colorado summer day? He was probably out playing golf.

  But he was not on the fairway. Even before the doorbell stopped donging “Three Blind Mice,” tall, white-mustached Ralph answered the door. He had changed from the gardening clothes to a collarless navy shirt and faded blue jeans—Calvin Klein at Home.

  “What is it?” He stared at me with eyes that seemed to be made of yellow glass.

  “Ralph!” I exclaimed brightly. “Ralph, don’t you remember me? I used to take care of Jill, about ten years ago.”

  He pulled himself up. “I am Dr. Shelton.”

  Always. Is your first name Doctor? I smiled. “Ralph, it’s Goldy Korman. Now Goldy Schulz. Don’t you remember me from all those years ago? I’m a caterer now.”

  He squinted and cleared his throat. “Goldy?”

  “We … saw each other in front of Suz Craig’s house, when the police were there. This morning. Don’t you recall? Over on Jacobean. I didn’t recognize you, either. And then I remembered. And after all we’d been through together way back when …”

  But I couldn’t come up with a last-minute lie to push myself into a conversation with this man. Instead, I stared mutely at the right side of his face, where there was a square, expertly cut gauze bandage. I saw again what I’d seen this morning. Just at the upper end of the bandage, under the clear tape, were the beginnings, just the very beginnings, of four vertical gash marks. The kind of scratches that could be made by a woman’s nails, when she was fighting you off.

  Chapter 11

  Forgive me, it’s been such a trying day.” Ralph’s unctuous tone made me even more uneasy. “I never would have known … and this morning when you were ordering people around, you seemed so distraught….” He tilted his bald head and closed his amber eyes, as if struggling to recall the events. Then he shook his head. “Terrible tragedy. The police even questioned me, since I was out on my walk when …” He paused. “But why are you here now? I mean, if you want to catch up on old times, then give me a call and we can set up a lunch or something…. I’ll bring some pictures of Jill, she’s playing soccer down in New Mexico….” His voice trailed off. A country-club doctor choosing to have lunch with a caterer who was married to a cop? Not likely, regardless of our history. But Ralph pressed on, with an eagerness that seemed almost sad. “Actually, I’ve missed all of my old friends lately, things have been going so badly … and now this has happened. Should we set up a lunch right now?” His hand went nervously to the top button of his shirt. “That would be a terrific idea.”

  “Oh! Well, actually, I can’t make any appointments now, I’m looking for the McCrackens’ house.” It was lame, but it had to do. “Do you know Clark and Patricia McCracken? Remember, Patricia used to be married to Skip all those years ago….” He squinted skeptically and I rushed on. “I’m catering a Stanley Cup celebration there tonight, at the McCrackens’, and I just can’t remember exactly where they live, and then I remembered you were such a big hockey fan …”

  But he had already held up a hand for me to wait. I fell silent as his tall form disappeared down a hallway whose walls were bathed in a vertigo-inducing print of floating cabbage roses. Beyond, I glimpsed a country kitchen with frilly curtains and gleaming copper. I wondered if Ralph had found another job after being fired by ACHMO. If he had not, I doubted he’d be able to keep up life in his old income bracket.

  “Twenty-two Markham,” he said pleasantly as he returned, waving an engraved invitation. Then he regarded me. “I’m going over there in just a little bit myself. We’ve remained friends, in spite of everything. It’s amazing that she … Well. The guests are all going to skate, get another dose of Cup fever. Sound good? But how can you cater at a house you haven’t visited?”

  I was ready for this one. “Do it all the time. Actually, I thought I knew where the McCrackens’ place was. But after this morning my life seems to have turned upside down.” I stared helplessly into his yellow eyes, so much like those of a cat. “It’s just been a nightmare.”

  He grinned sympathetically. “Yes, well, I’ll just see you over at the McCrackens’ place—”

  I leaned against the doorframe. “Ralph, can you just show me how to get to Markham? Please? I’m feeling extremely disoriented.”

  With obvious reluctance, he walked outside and gestured at Chaucer, where, as I well knew, I needed to take two rights and then a left to get to the McCrackens’ place. He turned and again squinted. My forlorn expression must have finally ignited a spark of curiosity, for before going into his house, he hesitated.

  “How did you happen to come upon … Suz Craig … er, in the ditch?” he asked abruptly. “I mean, did you drive over it or something?”

  “I was on my way to the Rodines’ place to pick up my son and take him to his father. I just saw her there … in front of her house. Uh … how about you?”

  “Oh, I was out for my walk.”

  I sighed. “I’m sorry for ordering you around this morning. Did you say the police questioned you? I seem to remember them wanting to talk to everybody, you know?”

  “Yes, well.” He cleared his throat. “You wouldn’t believe what they wanted to know from me.” He rubbed his bandaged cheek. I felt my own face heat up. “How had I scratched myself, they asked. So I told them what I’m telling you.” I didn’t like the tone of his voice. Did it mask hostility, or was I imagining things? “Our cat doesn’t like to go to the veterinarian’s. She scratched me when I tried to put her into the cage.”

  I nodded sympathetically and thought that Sergeant Beiner was probably on the phone with the veterinarian right now, finding out if in fact Ralph Shelton had just brought a female cat in for a visit. I thanked him for helping me, then backed away. Time to grill fish for the McCrackens.

  “So,” Ralph said slowly, “the police suspect my old friend, John Richard Korman?” His fingers brushed the top of his shirt, then went to his bandage again. Suddenly, he didn’t seem to want me to leave.

  I shrugged as convincingly as possible. “Who knows? I try to keep up with that guy as little as possible.” I turned toward my van. “Thanks for your help, Ralph.”

  “Wait,” he called. “I’m sorry. Of course you have as little to do with him as possible. I … I remember how he treated you.” I turned back and waited for him to speak. Finally he said, “It’s just that I’ve had such a horrible morning.” I pressed my lips together. “I knew her, you know,” he said bluntly. Was his voice wistful? Hard to tell. “I knew Suz Craig.”

  “Really?” I asked. “Oh, right, the HMO. And you’re a doc. I hardly know anyone in the medical business anymore. Do you practice in Denver?”

  “I did. Our group was affiliated with ACHMO. Still is, actually, I’m just not a part of it.” He heaved a sigh. “I’ll see you at the party later. Sure you know where you’re going?” Before I could answer, however, he said, “Good-bye.” Then he closed the door.

  Well, doggone. Ralph was in some kind of pain, no question, and it wasn’t just from cat scratches. I gave the brass knocker one last glance and walked back to my vehicle—in case he was watching through a window—and hightailed it over to the McCrackens’ place. Within five minutes I’d eased up to the curb in front of a tall wooden house that had been stained a bilious purple, with shutters painted a dull maroon. They should have photographed this place for a National Hockey League advertisement. Avalanche flags hung from the lampposts along the walk. Oversize Avalanche banners were draped from each upstairs window. The place looked like a sporting-goods store.

  When I drove into the McCrackens’ driveway, though, I was prevented from pulling up to the back entrance. A rope had been put up around a large, rectangular paved area that had been marked with
bright white lines to resemble a hockey rink. I couldn’t imagine what my tires would do to all those brilliant chalky lines if I drove over them. I dreaded contemplating how I was going to unload, much less serve.

  Clark McCracken, a long-legged fellow with a thin, sweating red face and lots of sweat-streaked brown hair, flapped his arms maniacally as he came loping down the drive toward me. He was wearing a maroon Avalanche jersey, shiny maroon shorts, and stiff, bulky kneepads that made his gait resemble the canter of a crippled race-horse. No question—this man was ready for the end-of-the-driveway game. There was also no question that he wasn’t ready for my van to ruin all his chalk marks. I sighed. Unloading a hundred pounds of supplies anywhere near the shortest route to the kitchen was going to be impossible. I rolled down the window and resolved to stay pleasant.

  “Need you … to park …” Out of breath, Clark wobbled, stiltlike. I certainly hoped he wasn’t participating for more than five minutes in today’s face-off or whatever the hockey equivalent of a scrimmage is. “Park behind the line,” he blurted out as he pointed to the closest chalk stripe. He pressed his hair against the sides of his head and gasped. “Then … you can walk down with the beer and food to where we’ll be playing, with a tray or something.”

  “Clark,” I began patiently. “There is no way—”

  “Back up then,” Clark interrupted, waving dismissively toward the front of his house. “It’ll be okay, the cake’s going to come in that way, too. Back to the sidewalk. Open your doors and …” He took another deep, agonizing breath and squeezed his eyes shut. “I’ll help.”

  Oh, sure, I thought as I gunned the van in reverse. And within ten minutes of you trying to help me, I’ll be trying to remember the CPR course I took right after Marla had her heart attack. The van sputtered. I braked a little too hard at the beginning of the sidewalk, a herringbone-brick path that led back to the garishly decorated house.

  It was not my place to tell Clark McCracken that he should not be tugging two fully loaded dollies up his sidewalk so soon before his party. But Clark seemed determined to be as physically involved with the setup for his hockey celebration as possible. I knew what he would do next—splash ice water on his face, comb back his sopping hair, and leap down the stairs to be the official greeter. Then, with an enormous sense of justification, our host would slug down a speedy half-dozen beers before beginning the roller hockey derby in his driveway, which would be followed by a lot more brewskis, a minimal amount of food, and passing out on a piece of patio furniture before I’d finished serving the entree. That is, if he didn’t hurt himself with all the activity first.

  On second thought, maybe I should summon an ambulance. Just in case.

  “Okay,” he said, still panting heavily. “What goes in first?”

  Twenty minutes later I was set up in the kitchen. Clark, wheezing from his exertions, made a martyrlike declaration that he was going to light his gas grill—ever a man’s job, even if no actual starting of fires was involved.

  “Clark,” I cautioned politely, “please be careful. There was just a big article in the Mountain Journal about how those grills need to be checked—”

  Again I got the dismissive wave. “Don’t quote Frances Markasian to me, please. I’ve never heard of mountain moths building nests in propane grills! What will that woman think of next?” He rolled his eyes. “I don’t believe a word that crazy woman writes. She’s not a reporter, she’s a viper looking for a cause. Explosions from moths, give me a break! But don’t worry, I’m going to clean the vents. It’s my job.”

  “Just be careful,” I repeated gently.

  I unwrapped the appetizers for the party: an enormous oval basket of fresh vegetables meant to resemble, as did the rest of tonight’s food, a hockey rink. In the place of the goals were baskets of chips, and in the center of the rink-basket I gently lowered a huge crystal bowl of Mexican dip, my own concoction of thick layers of guacamole, cubed tomatoes, smooth sour cream, shredded crisp lettuce, chili beans mashed with picante sauce, sliced black olives, and an ample blanket of golden grated cheddar cheese.

  “Ooh, may I taste?” Patricia McCracken cooed as she tiptoed into the kitchen. Her tousle of streaked curls was held back with a twisted headband printed with tiny Avalanche logos. But her fine-featured face was haggard. She wore an oversize Avalanche jersey that reached almost to her knees. She looked like a coed who’d spent the night in a fraternity house, complete with borrowed pajamas and bags under her eyes.

  Despite my best intentions to cater this event, I couldn’t help but ask what was on my mind. “Patricia, are you sure you want to go through with this? You look exhausted.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I do. Tyler’s already over at somebody’s house. Besides, what am I going to do, call everyone and say, ‘Sorry! Murder in the neighborhood! Gotta cancel!’ Oh, gosh, that reminds me, the centerpiece cake’s not here yet. Could you call the bakery and find out if Mickey is going to send somebody over with it?”

  “No problem.”

  Patricia extended an index finger to scoop up a bit of dip. I punched in the buttons for the Aspen Meadow Pastry Shop and handed Patricia a small plastic bowl of dip that I had set aside for sampling. She wrinkled her nose and whined, “Is this the same?”

  “Patricia, please. Of course.” I removed the plastic wrap from the Grilled Slapshot Salad.

  “Well, it doesn’t look the same.” She shoveled a pile of dip onto one chip and popped it into her mouth.

  “Aspen Meadow Pastry Shop,” announced Mickey Yuille in the sad, gruff voice I recognized so well.

  “Mickey, hi, it’s Goldy Schulz. I’m over at the McCrackens’ place and she’s waiting for her cake. Can I tell her it’s on the way?”

  Mickey sighed. “Brandon always insists on helping out with my Saturday deliveries. But now they’ve had some kind of crisis down at his office, and my other guy is sick, so all the Saturday-afternoon deliveries have been delayed.”

  I held my breath. Brandon Yuille, head of Human Resources at ACHMO, was already being questioned? By whom? The police? His Minneapolis head office? “We really need somebody to bring the cake over,” I implored.

  “Yeah, yeah, okay. That’s what I was going to tell you. Brandon came in late. He’s out on his rounds now and should be there any minute. And say! Great fudge, Goldy. Brandon brought me some made from your recipe. Come by and see me sometime. I want you to try out my new cinnamon rolls. They’re bigger than the other guy used to make them.”

  I thanked him, hung up, and unwrapped the biscuits. To Patricia I said, “The cake’s on its way.”

  Using two chips, Patricia scooped up another precariously balanced load of dip from the plastic bowl. “Mm-mm,” she exclaimed as she delicately wiped an errant glop of sour cream from the side of her mouth. My words registered and she gave me a puzzled look. “The cake is on its way? So are my guests! We’re starting the hockey game earlier than we’d planned, in case we need overtime!” Her voice was full of panic.

  “Patricia! Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “No, I’m not okay, thank you very much. Am I ever going to see John Richard in civil court now, do you think? Unlikely. I sold my car to pay my lawyer’s retainer. Your ex-husband is sucking me down a drain.” She sounded very bitter.

  Captain Ahab, I thought again, and cocked an ear toward the hallway. “I think either the cake or some of your guests might be arriving.” I loved catering. Occasionally, though, while placating a nervous hostess, I ended up burning the butter or committing some other faux pas culinaire. I wanted her to leave the kitchen, but I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

  “Clark can greet the guests,” she rejoined excitedly. “I want to talk about what happened this morning. What did you see? Were you in on the—”

  Mercifully, she was interrupted by dark-haired, handsome Brandon Yuille. Banging through the kitchen door, Brandon balanced an enormous white box on his outstretched arms. The cake. I motioned to the kitchen island and he exp
ertly slid the box to safety. With his eyes twinkling, Brandon swept his long hair off his forehead. Of medium height and slightly—but appealingly—chubby, he wore a loose yellow oxford-cloth shirt with no tie, khaki pants, and loosely tied brown leather boat shoes. He was good-looking and single, although somewhat too young for Marla, much to her chagrin. With a flourish, he opened the top of the cardboard box.

  “Oh, Brandon, it’s super,” I said admiringly. The rink-shaped cake was actually made of two thick layers of ice cream topped with a thin layer of yellow cake. Mickey had icing-painted all the right red and blue lines and the Avalanche logo. He’d even placed tiny plastic hockey players at various places and miniature goals at each end. “The cupcakes will look perfect surrounding it. Let’s get it into the freezer.”

  Patricia was staring at Brandon. “Don’t you work for ACHMO?” she demanded suspiciously.

  He reddened. “Yes, I … I’m just helping my father….” His look grew puzzled. “Wait a minute. You’re the one who’s suing … Oh, I’m sorry, I know you’ve had a hard time—”

  “You all are spying on me,” Patricia responded hotly. “Don’t think I don’t know about all the records you’ve been trying to get your hands on or have destroyed. You can leave my home now.”

  “I apologize for coming,” Brandon mumbled as he slid the cake into the freezer.

  “Patricia, please,” I soothed. “Mickey Yuille is the new proprietor of the pastry shop. Brandon works for ACHMO during the week and helps his father on the weekends. Brandon, I’m sorry about this—”

  But Brandon’s leather shoes were already making squeaking noises as he hastened out of the kitchen. So much for asking him any questions about ACHMO’s response to the recent demise of their vice-president.