The Grilling Season Page 19

  “So what do you two want, anyway? To talk about ACHMO coming? I don’t have time.”

  I said bluntly, “Do you think my ex-husband killed Ms. Craig?”

  My question seemed to surprise her. She pursed her lips and opened her eyes wide. Macguire watched her in enamored awe. Then she reached back to twirl her ponytail while she considered. “He could have,” she replied noncommittally.

  When she didn’t say more, I prodded, “How about Patricia McCracken? Do you think she could have lost her temper with Suz Craig?”

  ReeAnn snorted. “That’s just as likely.” The phone rang again. “Listen, I’m sorry, I really don’t have time to chat—” I waved to her to answer the phone. ReeAnn disposed of this caller by advising her to give the pharmacy a ring.

  “Where’s Patricia McCracken’s file?” I asked as soon as the secretary was not-so-ready to chat again.

  Her laugh was derisive. “You gotta be kidding if you think I’m going to show you a patient file.”

  “I don’t want you to show me anything,” I replied patiently. “What you might want to do is try to find something. It’s what the ACHMO people are going to be here looking for. It could be a letter, a note, something about the McCracken suit. If John Richard wrote a few lines to himself about Patricia McCracken’s care and the ACHMO people take them, it will adversely affect me and my son. John Richard could be found at fault in the malpractice suit and we’ll lose financial support. Actually, what I really wanted was for Patricia to win her suit.”

  ReeAnn shook her head vigorously; the ponytail bobbed. “You’ve already lost financial support,” she said scathingly. “He was thinking you were making so much money from your food business, he didn’t have to pay anymore. And then when Bailey Products dumped Biocess … It’s been awful. And he works so hard,” she whined. “And what’ll happen to me if they try him for killing her?”

  I took a deep breath. I’d always suspected that ReeAnn and John Richard were cut from the same self-centered cloth. Now I was sure of it. But had ReeAnn and the Jerk been romantically involved in the few months she had been working for him? Could ReeAnn have been jealous of Suz Craig? Jealous enough to kill?

  “My son,” I said with a smile, “is extremely upset about his dad being in jail. So I promised him I’d ask around to see if there was anything to clear him, okay?”

  “Uh, ReeAnn, remember?” Macguire interjected feebly. “Remember when you mentioned you were involved in a project with the HMO? Something to do with Ms. Craig? Remember, you called her Ms. Crank? That’s probably why the police came to visit you.”

  “That woman was a first-class bitch,” ReeAnn spat. “And that’s exactly what I told those cops. I did call her Ms. Crank. And you know what Ms. Crank’s favorite saying was, don’t you?” Macguire and I looked at her expectantly. She raised her voice and trilled, “‘I don’t do—I delegate.’”

  “Oh, yes,” I mumbled, remembering that that was precisely what Suz had said to me regarding the preparation of food for her business lunch. “I guess I did know that. But she did help me with the dishes when I worked for her, and she could have delegated that—”

  “Cheap!” ReeAnn fumed. “I finally told her, ‘Don’t tell me to do another thing, okay? Delegate somewhere else! I don’t work for you!’”

  “What exactly did she want you to—”

  I was interrupted by a knock at the door, followed by the entrance of Brandon Yuille. Today he wore a loose blue oxford-cloth shirt with no tie, navy pants, and Top-Siders.

  “Hey-ho, we’re here!” Brandon’s cheery greeting was more along the lines of How soon will Christmas dinner be ready than This is Eliot Ness, get up against the wall. “Hey, Goldy! What’re you doing here? I forgot to ask you yesterday, did you try that Thai sauce I gave you?” His whole attitude was much brighter than when I’d seen him after church. Behind him, however, Chris Corey appeared even glummer than he had the day before.

  “Ah, no,” I replied, “not yet.”

  “Well, then, why’re you here?” Brandon asked again, still smiling.

  “I’m just looking for some of Arch’s, er, homework papers.”

  “In August? Isn’t school out?”

  “They’ve been missing for a long time.”

  ReeAnn slapped a pile of files down on the counter and shot me a knowing look of exasperation.

  “Well, boys, here’s a batch of D & Cs for you to look through. Did I guess right?”

  “Nah, we need C-sections,” Brandon announced brightly. “They’ve been missing even longer than homework papers.” His laugh was infectious, and I found myself smiling in spite of myself. To ReeAnn he said, “Should we start in there?” He motioned down the hall to the filing office.

  “That sounds just great.” ReeAnn didn’t do sarcasm well. “As if I had some choice, right? I’ve got to stay here and do the phones.”

  “Here’s the list of the files we’ll be looking for,” Chris said meekly as he squeezed his pudgy body behind the counter and consulted a clipboard. He waited a moment until Brandon was out of earshot. I nipped over to the counter. “Did you do a dummy duplicate of Patricia McCracken’s file?” Chris asked ReeAnn urgently.

  “Yes,” she whispered back. “Just the way you told me. I’ve got the original up here.” She pointed to a shelf. The phone rang; she snatched it.

  “What?” she squawked. “It’s your turn to bring lunch! You think I can handle one more thing today? Forget it! Tuna sandwiches!” Then she slammed down the phone. It didn’t sound as if she got along very well with whoever it was.

  I said, “Chris! I thought you wanted ACHMO to be caught trying to take the file!”

  He harumphed and readjusted his capacious belt. “If Brandon takes the dummy with McCracken’s name on it before the police get here,” he whispered impatiently, “then they’ll still be committing an illegal act. And with ReeAnn keeping the real file, your husband’s lawyer can still have the information he needs.”

  “He’s my ex-husband, okay?” I hissed fiercely. “And I thought you said it would be a Medical Management lady coming here today. What has Human Resources got to do with checking billing? Does Brandon ever do that?”

  Chris shrugged grandly. “They’re scared.” And then, balanced precariously on his cast, he lumbered off after Brandon.

  “Don’t remove anything, fellas!” I called after them. “My husband’s a cop and I’ll tell on you!” To ReeAnn I said softly, “The sheriff’s department is on its way?”

  “Supposedly.” She eyed the telephone on the marble counter, as if debating which friend she should complain to next.

  “Uh, I guess we’ll be going,” Macguire announced. His face was as sallow as I’d seen it since he’d been living with us. Despite his words, however, he didn’t seem to have the energy or the will to move.

  “ReeAnn,” I whispered as I scooped up the back copies of Architectural Digest she’d spewed on the floor during her first manic phone call. “Can we please talk for a few minutes? It’s for Arch.”

  “I don’t know where his homework is.”

  “Please.”

  “I have to answer the phone.”

  “I know you were romantically involved with my ex-husband,” I improvised. When I said this, ReeAnn shot Macguire a withering look. “It’s okay,” I added.

  “I’m involved with somebody else right now, not an old geezer. And I was with him all Friday night. My new boyfriend can vouch for me, and I told the cops that, too.”

  “Fine.” I tried to think. “Just tell me— What was Suz Craig working on that she was trying to delegate? Delegate to you, I mean? It seems odd she’d ask you to do work for her, when she had a whole army of secretaries to choose from at ACHMO.”

  ReeAnn snorted again, her trademark. “I’m not a secretary, I’m an assistant. And the stuff Ms. Crank had me do was penny-ante. ‘Make our dinner reservations.’ ‘Call Aspen Meadow Nursery. Get them to come out and fix my steps.’”

  When sh
e seemed reluctant to go on, I prompted, “That’s it?”

  “Well. Not exactly.” She bit the inside of her cheek, then confided, “It’s what John Richard told me she tried to delegate to him that was really weird, if you want to know the truth.”

  “The truth would be great.”

  She leaned close. “She wanted him to put some stuff—I guess it was papers or something—in a safe place, somewhere the ACHMO people couldn’t find them.”

  “What stuff? How do you know it was papers? The kind of papers they’re trying to find now?” Suddenly I remembered what John Richard had said to me on the phone: Suz had some kind of delicate material…. What material? I’d thought it related to Ralph Shelton, but was that wrong? “Are you sure it was papers?”

  She shrugged indifferently. “Who knows?” The phone rang. ReeAnn answered it and started to redirect another patient. To my surprise Brandon Yuille suddenly appeared at my side. He flashed me his movie-star smile.

  “Goldy? May I talk to you for a minute?”

  “More Thai sauce?” I said brightly.

  “Please. Just right outside the front door. Just for a sec, if you don’t mind.”

  I walked outside with him. I’d tell him what he wanted to know—maybe—if he’d answer a couple of questions, too. I made my voice pleasant. “Brandon, I was wondering … Was Suz Craig as hard to work for as some people say?”

  His fine-featured face bloomed pink. “Some people thought she was … difficult.” His tone grew guarded.

  “So, what people are we talking about?”

  He brushed my question away. “Goldy, there’s something important I need to ask you, but it’s … delicate.” Man, they all loved that word, like they had to rinse out some lingerie. “You know how folks going through a divorce will sometimes hide assets from each other? Like money?”

  I laughed. “Of course I do. Who’s getting the divorce?”

  He squirmed. “I … can’t say. But you know about hiding assets?”

  “Sure. One person in a marriage hides assets, the other gets to hire a forensic accountant, as I had to do, to go through the books of the person doing the hiding. Sometimes you find the stash and sometimes you don’t. Lucky for me, I did.”

  Brandon’s eyes, ordinarily deep brown, turned almost black. His voice became painfully earnest. “I promise, Goldy, if John Richard has given you anything to hide … we … I … need to know.”

  I almost laughed again. I imagined a list of intimate—make that delicate—questions: Have you had cosmetic surgery? Do you dye your hair? How much do you weigh? which could develop into How much money do you make? Now, apparently, to that invasive list I could add: Has your abusive ex-husband given you anything incriminating to hide?

  “Brandon,” I said with equal earnestness as the phone pealed again inside, “if my ex-husband had given me a bald eagle that he had shot and stuffed, I wouldn’t tell the ACHMO honchos.”

  Brandon Yuille, my foodie buddy, turned on his heel and strode away. I immediately felt bad. I liked Brandon; I didn’t want to alienate him. From inside the office ReeAnn said, “What? Who? Yeah, she’s here. Goldy!”

  When I went back into the office, Chris Corey had not reappeared and Macguire was still slumped in one of the chairs looking catatonic. As soon as Brandon found out the call wasn’t for him, he brushed past ReeAnn on his way back into the file rooms.

  “Man!” ReeAnn exclaimed, gesturing with the phone. “What is his problem? Anyway, the phone’s for you.”

  I sighed and walked back to the counter. “Yes?” I said tentatively into the receiver.

  “Miss G.” Tom’s warm, calm, reassuring voice. “I had a feeling you’d be over there. Bad news, I’m afraid.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I warned you. The judge did it. John Richard made bail. He’ll be out in two hours, probably back up in Aspen Meadow by noon.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. Now listen, you’re a witness in this matter. He’s been warned not to talk to any witnesses, but you know how poorly this guy follows directions. If he shows up at the house, or does anything to try to contact you, you ignore him, understand? Call us. We don’t want this case ruined before it even starts.”

  “Okay.” My voice was on novocaine.

  “Goldy? Don’t want to press a point here, but you’re in danger. You found the body. You saw him drive up with the flowers. You’re the main person who can testify about his physical abusiveness. He’s in some kind of mental state, and he may just want to rid himself of you altogether. Is Macguire there? I thought we agreed you weren’t going to go poking around through files.”

  “I’m just here at the office for a few minutes. And I’m not doing any poking through files. The people poking are the ACHMO folks. Are your people on their way? ReeAnn said they were.”

  “They should be there in five minutes. Be sure you’re in your kitchen in two hours, okay? I’m warning you, Goldy. I don’t want you hurt. Okay, please put me on with that secretary so I can get her to kick those ACHMO guys out until our people get there.”

  I handed ReeAnn the phone, then told her that Macguire and I had to go. She tossed her ponytail in a suit-yourself gesture. But Macguire and I were not going straight home. We had someone else to warn.

  Chapter 18

  As we drove away from the office, I waited for a barrage of questions from Macguire. Ordinarily, the teenager took great interest in criminal cases. But he regarded me dully when I said we had one further stop to make.

  “You don’t want to go right home?” he asked. “You’re always talking about how dangerous the Jerk is.”

  “I promised Arch I’d ask a few questions.”

  He shrugged and was silent. When we rounded the lake, spumes of dust were rising from the LakeCenter parking lot. The doll-show organizers had arrived. Without enthusiasm, I realized I needed to talk to them, too, before I went home, so that made two stops. I pulled into the lot of the sleek wood-paneled Lakeview Shopping Center, a two-story, L-shaped constellation of boutiques and offices that had recently been constructed on the old site of a gaudy saloon. Before the saloon went bankrupt, it had boasted a Vegas-style light display arranged in the shape of a covered wagon that appeared to roll from one end of the building toward the lake. But drunk wannabe cowboys exiting the saloon frequently thought the neon wagon was going to roll over them. Numerous car accidents had ensued. The sheriff’s department had ordered the light display turned off, and that had been curtains for the saloon.

  I parked in front of Sam’s Soups, which had a For Lease sign in its darkened window. Food service in Aspen Meadow is always a touchy business, and Sam’s alternately gluey and thin soups had not been a local hit. Next door to Sam’s, Aspen Meadow Health Foods had held on, but only by going through a number of permutations. Up until a few months ago, my friend Elizabeth Miller had offered everything from twenty-pound bags of millet to gallon jugs of soy milk. Elizabeth had sold the store to Amy Bartholomew, R.N., late of the AstuteCare HMO and new purveyor of homeopathic remedies.

  Only she wasn’t purveying at the moment. Amy’s paper clock sign indicated that she opened at eleven. It was barely ten. Not only that but Amy had scribbled “Most Days” on the clock’s center. Great. I glanced across the road at the LakeCenter.

  “Mind if we drop by over there?” I asked Macguire, pointing at the LakeCenter. “I just want to see how they need me to set up for the breakfast Wednesday.”

  “Sure.” He gave me a weary smile. “I’m not ready to go back to bed yet. I feel as if I spend my life between the sheets.” His face was cadaverous. Poor guy. I felt terrible that ReeAnn Collins had treated him so offhandedly. It’s difficult to take cruel treatment from a member of the opposite sex, especially from someone you care about. At nineteen, I’d been some kind of basket case myself when it came to relationships, and I hadn’t been struggling with mononucleosis and a flaky, egotistical father in the bargain.

  “We’ll come back over here when t
he proprietor opens,” I promised. “You want to rest for a minute before we go talk to the Babsie Bash ladies?”

  “Whatever,” Macguire repeated, apparently too tired to think of anything new to say. He stared glumly at the lake, a meadow of sparkles broken up by paddle-and sailboats. I wondered how Tom thought I’d be protected from the Jerk with poor, listless Macguire accompanying me. He’s out. I shivered. But I shook this off, the same way I always tried to rid myself of thoughts that included the Jerk.

  Soon we were back in the van, rocking over dirt potholes, past the boundary of the municipal golf course, and into the wildflower-rimmed lot of the LakeCenter. After I parked, the two of us walked toward the large log building, where men and women with plastic-coated badges that said DEALER were carting boxes of wares inside.

  “Gail?” I said when we approached.

  Gail Rodine, in conversation with a uniformed man, lifted her chin in acknowledgment. Actually, her chin was about all I could see of Gail’s face. She sported a floppy-brimmed hat that sprouted feathers in every direction and might, I reflected, serve well as a centerpiece for the annual Audubon banquet. Her mid-thigh-length dress was a glittering black-and-white-striped affair. Where did this woman get the money for her hobby? The LakeCenter was not a cheap space to rent, and I was not a cheap caterer to hire. The local Babsie club must get a cut of the profit made from the sale of dolls, and that percentage must be considerable.

  “I’ll be with you in a moment,” she announced, and continued her low murmur with an older man in a gray security uniform that hugged his belly like a sausage casing. The man’s complexion was splotched, his nose was bright red, and his silver-gray hair lay in flat, greasy curls against his head. He punctuated every few sentences of Mrs. Rodine’s with a hiccup. He was not the sort of security guard to inspire confidence. Still, I stopped a respectful distance away from their conversation. Despite the fact that Arch had spent the night at the Rodines’ house, Gail and I did not move in the same social circles, as we both well knew. Wealthy folks are very conscious of service-sector people who are intrusive. Macguire held back another ten feet behind me. I think the memory of the women chasing him to the end of the dock two days before made him less anxious to be sociable.