The Grilling Season Read online

  I put some hazelnuts in the oven to toast, then melted a jagged brick of unsweetened chocolate in the top of our double boiler. I combined sun-dried cranberries and oversize morsels of semisweet chocolate in a bowl, then scattered the hazelnuts to cool on a plate. I began to feel better. By the time I was beating unsalted butter with sugar and cream cheese, I was humming, and this was a mistake. Jake came bounding into the room on his long bloodhound legs, followed closely by a sleepy-eyed Arch clad in rumpled pajamas. Arch fumbled with his glasses and stared in puzzlement at the bowls, the butter wrappers, and the whirling beater.

  “Gosh, Mom! What are you doing? Did you forget something? Do you have to take cookies to church?”

  “Sorry, honey, I just couldn’t sleep. How about some hot chocolate with marshmallow? That’s what I used to have when I was your age and flunked a test. Or when I was your age and couldn’t sleep. It always worked, despite what they now say about the caffeine in chocolate.”

  “Well, I could have slept if you hadn’t awakened Jake,” my son grumbled crossly. He shuffled to the back door and opened it, but the elk had stopped bugling and Jake wasn’t the least bit interested in a midnight run. Resigned, Arch closed the door and flopped into a chair. “Sure, I’ll have some cocoa, thanks.” Immediately he was up, offering Jake one of Tom’s homemade dog biscuits. “Yeah, boy, there you go! Don’t worry, I’m not going to have a treat unless you do!” The large, tawny dog wagged his tail, licked Arch’s face, and whined with canine contentment.

  I heated more milk and stirred it into a smooth, thick paste of cocoa, sugar, and cream. In his corner, Jake crunched appreciatively. His dark eyes favored my son and me with loving glances. Arch gave him two more dog biscuits, then watched while I generously glopped marshmallow cream on top of his drink. When I put the steaming mug in front of him, I expected him to pounce on the rich treat as expectantly as I had. Instead, he blew tentatively on the foamy top, then sipped.

  “Mom. There’s something I need to talk to you about.” He put his mug down. “It’s about Dad.” When my face fell, he quickly said, “Go ahead, make your cookies, it’s not important.” He added earnestly, “I really mean it, Mom. I don’t want to disturb you. Cook, if it’ll help you go back to sleep. I just have a couple of questions….”

  He had questions, I had questions, everybody had all kinds of questions. My headache returned with a vengeance. I beat the egg and milk into the batter, then added the melted chocolate and vanilla. Once the oven was preheated and the cookie sheets buttered, I measured out what I thought would be a judicious balance of dry ingredients and began to mix them into the batter. These cookies promised to be terrific. But apprehension had drained the joy from cooking experimentation.

  Chocolate

  Comfort Cookies

  1 cup chopped hazelnuts

  2 cups (1 11½-ounce package) extra-large semisweet chocolate chips (Nestle’s mega-morsels)

  ½ cup sun-dried cranberries

  1 cup (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened

  1 cup granulated sugar

  1 3-ounce package cream cheese, softened

  1 egg

  2 tablespoons milk

  2 ounces best-quality unsweetened chocolate, melted

  1½ teaspoons vanilla

  2 cups plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour (high altitude: add 2 more tablespoons, for a total of 2¼ cups)

  ½ teaspoon baking powder

  ½ teaspoon salt

  ¼ cup Dutch-processed cocoa

  1 cup commercially prepared marshmallow cream

  Preheat oven to 325°. Spread nuts on an ungreased cookie sheet and roast for 7 to 12 minutes, or until they are lightly browned and some skins have loosened. Set aside to cool.

  Butter 2 cookie sheets. In a large bowl, combine the chocolate chips, cranberries, and cooled nuts; set aside. In another large bowl, beat together the butter, sugar, cream cheese, and egg until very creamy and smooth. Beat in milk, melted chocolate, and vanilla. Sift together the flour, baking powder, salt, and cocoa, then add to the butter mixture. Blend in the marshmallow cream, stirring until thoroughly combined. Add the chips, cranberries, and nuts. Stir until well mixed. Batter will be thick.

  Using a ¼-cup measure or a 4-table-spoon ice cream scoop, measure out batter and place 2 inches apart on cookie sheets, putting no more than 6 cookies per sheet. Bake 13 to 17 minutes, until puffed and cooked through. Cool on sheet 1 minute; transfer to wire racks to cool completely.

  Makes 2 dozen

  Arch said, “So. When was the last time there was an execution in Colorado?”

  “Arch!”

  “No, really, just tell me. And … was it by lethal injection?”

  I sighed and scooped the batter onto the cookie sheets. “No, the last execution used the electric chair. And it was over thirty years ago, I think. Law enforcement in Colorado has switched over to lethal injection. But they’ve never used it.”

  “The death penalty”—his voice cracked—“is for first-degree murder, right?”

  I slid the cookie sheets into the oven and turned. “Arch—”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Yes, for first-degree murder. But—”

  “Are you going to help Dad?” he demanded.

  His question stung. I set the timer and tried to think of what to say. Finally I asked, “What would you like me to do?”

  “Oh, you know,” he replied earnestly, “that stuff you do sometimes, go around asking questions, like that. Try to help with the investigation the way you do with Tom.”

  “Tom’s off this case, and I’m a witness. Which is supposed to mean that I don’t go around talking to people connected with the case.”

  “You did when you found that guy’s body out at Elk Park Prep and when that lady was killed in the parking garage.”

  “Those were different. I didn’t see any suspects, and I certainly didn’t witness an arrest for homicide. And besides, those things happened when I was pretty ignorant about law enforcement.”

  His thin body sagged. “So that means no.” His tone turned morose. “If Dad does get out of jail on Monday the way he thinks he will, I think I should go live with him. Until the trial. I mean, it might be the last time I would see him.”

  I couldn’t believe we were having this conversation, in the middle of the night, in the warm security of our home, here in our warm kitchen. In the extremely unlikely event that John Richard got out of jail anytime before his preliminary hearing, I couldn’t imagine that he would want Arch to live with him. Whatever punishment I had envisioned for the Jerk during all these years, it hadn’t looked like this. It hadn’t looked like losing my son.

  “Arch,” I said quietly, “are you threatening me with moving out? ‘Cause that’s what it sounds like.”

  “Mom! Of course not! I’m just trying to do what’s right here. He is my father.”

  I struggled for clear thoughts and the right words. “Okay, look. If I can talk to some people … and those conversations would help lead to justice … Justice, I’m talking, Arch, not ‘getting somebody off.’ There’s a difference.”

  “Yeah, yeah, truth, justice, and the American way. Courtesy of Super-Mom.”

  “Arch!”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “If I could talk to some people but not jeopardize my position as a witness, would you stay here at home? Your dad’s really not … set up to take care of you. And I would worry about you.”

  He nodded, whispered “Okay,” and drank his cocoa in silence. Then he sniffed, mumbled, “Be right back,” and left the room. Jake, ever faithful, scrambled after him. I took the cookies out of the oven and set them on racks to cool.

  When Arch returned, he clutched a wadded-up tissue. I couldn’t tell if he’d been crying. “I was just thinking, Mom.” He’d changed his tone, a clear indication that he wanted to discuss a new topic. “You said you were having a cup of hot chocolate to drink right now, because you couldn’t sleep? But when you can’t sleep, you shoul
d go out for a drive. Don’t you remember? That’s what you used to do when I was little. When I couldn’t sleep, you took me out for a drive, and you said it made you sleepy, too.”

  “Oh, hon—”

  “You probably don’t remember, but you used to say that driving me around was like having hot chocolate when you were little. The rhythm of the car put me to sleep the way the hot chocolate did you. Even if it was the middle of the night, if I was fussy, you would take me. I don’t remember the drives, I just remember you telling me we used to go.”

  I nodded and checked the cookies; they were almost cool. I remembered the drives, all right. And I hadn’t taken them just because Arch was fussy. Time and again, I’d gripped that steering wheel the way fear had clutched me. Rocking over bumpy mountain roads, I’d been desperately trying to figure out a way to escape from my life, from John Richard Korman’s abuse, and a marriage I just couldn’t hold together anymore. I had been lost in the worst way, and it had taken years to get my life on the right road.

  Now I packed up the cookies, stacked all the dirty dishes in the sink, and threw away the ingredient debris.

  “A drive sounds like a great idea,” I told my son. “But what do you say we get some sleep first?”

  Arch agreed. For once, he wasn’t in the mood to taste my new cookies, and neither was I.

  Chapter 14

  I begged the Almighty to help me rest up before church began the next morning. Finally I fell into a restless slumber at dawn. Tom woke me, bearing a cup of steaming espresso.

  “If you want to make it to the late service,” he advised gently, “we need to get a move on.” As I struggled upright and promptly winced, Tom added with concern, “Sure you don’t want to just stay in bed this morning?”

  I assured him I was just stiff. Plus I’d been up during the night cooking. He shook his head and began to massage my aching shoulders. My lower back was still in spasm, and my right ankle throbbed. After drinking the espresso, I checked the ankle. It was ominously blue-black. I limped into the bathroom to take a hot shower, dabbed bits of makeup over the scratches on my face, and finally felt ready to get spiritual succor. While Arch rummaged through the clean laundry for a pair of pants, I tiptoed into Macguire’s room. His forehead felt hot, but he moaned a refusal when I suggested his seeing a doctor. I begged him to take a couple more ibuprofen, which he did. By the time I closed his door, he was asleep. Damn Gail Rodine for making Macguire fall into the lake over her damn silly dolls.

  When Tom, Arch, and I arrived at the massive oak entryway to St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, the two men in my life held the doors ajar chivalrously. I hobbled through. When the sea of faces turned to appraise my entrance, I immediately realized we’d have done better asking for communion to be brought to the house. For the infirm, having the sacrament delivered was a common enough practice. But it wasn’t a very common practice for a caterer who’d been trampled by an inebriated hockey player the same day her ex-husband was arrested for murder. So I hadn’t thought of it.

  Still, I should have known what kind of spectacle, and fuel for gossip, my bruised self would present. The ripple of whispers rose to a wave. Marla, wearing a lilac-print designer sundress, bolero jacket, matching purple earrings and high heels, immediately bustled over.

  “I don’t think they’re staring because they want to book a buffet brunch,” she confided.

  “Gosh, Marla. Thanks for the news flash.”

  The choir shuffled into the vestibule. I took advantage of their arrival to whisper to Marla, “I told Arch I’d ask around about John Richard.”

  Her taupe-and-lilac-shadowed eyes widened at my confession. “Bad move, Goldy Schulz.”

  Tom guided us to a pew at the back and the four of us squeezed in. Marla hugged Arch and palmed him two Cadbury bars, which he stuffed into his pants pocket. If Marla’s cardiologist ever X-rayed her Louis Vuitton handbag and discovered the bulges were chocolate bars and cream-filled cupcakes, he’d probably have cardiac arrest himself. She leaned close to me.

  “Check out who’s visiting. I’m an Episcopalian, so I can’t point.”

  It took me a few seconds of scanning the pews to locate Chris Corey, his sister, the cat-loving Tina, and Brandon Yuille, sitting together on the opposite side of the nave. Tina had already told me she was a parishioner. Brandon attended occasionally. I’d never seen Chris at St. Luke’s before.

  “Probably here to plan Suz’s memorial after coffee hour,” Marla whispered. “Anyway. As long as you’re poking around, have you heard anything new? And what happened, did you lose a fight with your blender?”

  I glanced quickly at Arch. My son always made a good, but not perfect, pretense of not listening to adult conversations.

  “No and no,” I whispered back to her. She opened her mouth, probably to ask another question. Mercifully, the opening bars of the processional hymn rang out. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

  As much as I tried to concentrate, my eyes wandered back across the nave where Tina and Chris sat with Brandon. As the Old Testament lesson was read, I tried to recall when I’d seen Tina attending church, if ever.

  To my horror, I giggled. Stress. I gulped and caught a glimpse of Marla’s puzzled face, as well as the sudden confused looks from the two Coreys and Brandon Yuille. Well, great.

  As we rose for the reading from Luke, I thought of what Marla had said about why two ACHMO department heads would be in church this morning: all the other department heads were away in San Diego. Chris and Brandon were indeed probably here to make funeral arrangements for Suz Craig. Suz had no relatives to perform this task, and Arch had told me that Suz was a nominal Episcopalian. Arch had also reported that Suz had accompanied John Richard on his rare appearances at St. Luke’s. Of course, John Richard did not go to church so much to worship as he did to brag about or show off whatever new possession he had, be it car, condo, or concubine.

  Stop. In any event, our priest, now delivering his homily, liked to think of St. Luke’s as a happy, if not always harmonious, family. Supposedly only family members could use the church building, even if they were dead. You couldn’t be baptized, married, or dispensed to the Hereafter unless both you and the people making the arrangements were churchmembers. So it looked as if Suz belonged to St. Luke’s, albeit posthumously.

  Man, what was the matter with me? I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on the intercessions. A woman prayed for the repose of the soul of her neighbor, Suz. By the time I opened my eyes, the woman’s prayer had ended. I had not seen who it was. Brandon quietly echoed the supplication for Suz, then offered a plea for his father, who spent many hours alone. My mind took off again. Brandon had been at the bakery with his father from midnight to five? Sounded like a weird explanation of your whereabouts, even if your father was a lonely widower. The idea of spending many hours alone made me think of John Richard, who, I was willing to bet, was not attending chapel this morning in the Furman County Jail.

  During the offertory, two visiting bagpipe players sounded the mournful notes of “Amazing Grace.” While one of the choir sopranos sang the lyrics, my brain reverted to Ralph Shelton. Why had I had the strong feeling Ralph was hiding something when I went to his house? He’d been so hesitant, as if he wanted to talk to me but was afraid to. At the words, “I once was lost, but now am found,” I glanced over at Arch. Tears slipped out of his eyes. My heart twisted in my chest.

  Forget hugging him. Forget asking what was wrong. I knew better than to treat a fourteen-year-old boy in a way that would embarrass him. Still, it had been years since I’d seen Arch weep openly. I rummaged through my handbag, found a paper napkin, and wordlessly handed it to him. Without acknowledging me, he snatched the napkin. Tom patted my shoulder. Marla shook her head.

  During the final hymn, Arch decamped to the men’s room. As soon as he left the pew, Marla leaned over. “We should skedaddle before the horde descends on us during the coffee hour. Let’s see if Brandon Yuille or the Coreys will talk to us.
As ex-wives of the accused, we can say we have the right to know why he might have killed their boss.”

  “I don’t want to leave Arch….”

  Marla said, “Arch’ll be better off with Tom than with you right now. Think about it. Tom should take him down to the jail for visiting hours.” She addressed Tom: “Can the Jerk see Arch today?”

  Tom ignored the perplexed glances we were receiving from the people in the pew in front of us and nodded. “Let me take him down to see his father, Miss G. It’ll be okay,” he reassured me.

  My sore shoulders slumped in defeat. Arch returned. The four of us bowed as the cross went by. Then we waited endlessly for the choir, bagpipe players, and priest to process out. When I finally told Arch that Tom would take him to see his dad while Marla and I ran a few errands, he brightened. I was surprised. I’d have thought he’d have responded with apprehension. It seemed I was past knowing what my son needed.

  Marla pinched me and I scooted out of the pew, ignoring my aching body. I was feeling every hour of my age today. Once we were outside, she used her sixth sense—the one that fed on gossip—to locate Brandon Yuille and Chris and Tina Corey, who were standing by a pine tree at the edge of the parking lot.

  “Yoohoo!” Marla called. “Need to chat for a sec!”

  Brandon waved unenthusiastically while Chris, his ankle still in a cast, shifted the weight of his cumbersome body and forced a smile. Brandon, ever sharp, wore khaki pants and a military-style khaki shirt. Tall and heavy, Chris Corey had an enormous potbelly and pale hair and beard. He looked like a young blond Buddha, or rather a young blond Buddha who wore a white dress shirt and gray slacks, and limped. What I’d liked best about Chris when I first met him was that he didn’t insist anyone call him doctor. His rumbly baritone had reminded me of a physician from our family’s distant past. But when I’d asked him if he’d ever treated us—a pediatrician who’d treated Arch, maybe?—he’d said no. Maybe Chris reminded me less of Buddha than of Santa Claus. When he smiled, his blue eyes crinkled. Apparently, Tina, a female version of her portly brother, hadn’t been able to find a Babsie-goes-to-church outfit. She wore a severe black cotton suit, and her hair was twisted back in a tight bun.