The Grilling Season Read online

  Serves 4

  “Tom, if there’s something I know well, it’s that John Richard lies. He lies so much it’s exhausting to try to untangle what he says. This morning, when I saw those roses in his hand, I thought: This is one of his lies. It just comes naturally to him. I used to try to figure out why he lied. I thought it was because his mother was an alcoholic or because of the trouble with his father. But that’s no excuse. He’s still a pathological liar.”

  Tom actually chuckled. “Yeah, Miss G., they usually are.” He pushed his chair out from the table. “How about a hug for a hardworking cop?”

  I smiled and dumped the mushrooms on the hot grill, where they made a delicious hissing sound. Then Tom pulled me into his lap for a marvelous, tight embrace.

  “Captain called me in for a heart-to-heart,” he murmured into my ear. “They’re appointing a district attorney’s investigator to head the case. But I’m not officially off the homicide investigation. I’m just behind the scenes. Can’t go anywhere or interrogate anyone or gather any evidence unless I take somebody with me. That’s how they avoid conflict of interest.”

  “I thought you hated that D.A.’s investigator. He’s always mooching food. What’s his name?”

  “Donny Saunders. The laziest guy in a four-state area. And arrogant on top of that.” He sighed. “Better go get those mushrooms before they burn.”

  I jumped up and scooped the mushrooms into a large bowl, then placed golden ears of corn and thick, glistening onion slices on the grill. They hissed and sputtered and filled the kitchen with a divine scent. I flipped the slices and rotated the corn so the kernels browned evenly. When I was removing these, I felt Tom’s arms gently circling my waist.

  “I’m cooking,” I reminded him as I turned off the burners.

  He nuzzled my cheek and whispered, “Looks to me like you’re almost done. And I’m not hearing Arch, Macguire, and Jake. Can that possibly mean we have the house to ourselves for one brief moment?”

  I tried to suppress a smile. I couldn’t. “Actually, it does.”

  He took my hand and we walked wordlessly up the stairs. The bed-sheets were cool and inviting. As we began to make love, a warm, gentle summer breeze filled the lace curtains, like a woman’s skirt being lifted.

  “I love you,” I said afterward.

  He turned his handsome, wide face to me and smiled. “I love you, too.”

  “And in case reading ID bracelets has put any doubt in your mind,” I added, “you’re the best.”

  Chapter 9

  Tom kissed me and said that unless I needed him, he was going to catch up on his sleep. I told him to nap away, I still had tons of work to do. Then I tiptoed down the stairs and took the chilled bag of tuna fillets out of the walk-in refrigerator just as the boys traipsed back into the kitchen with Jake. While Arch diligently ran water and plopped ice cubes into a bowl for his bloodhound, Macguire slouched with a gusty, exhausted sigh into one of the chairs. He put his head in his hands and groaned. I ran the water to rinse the fish. I was waiting for Macguire to say, at long last, that he was hungry. He didn’t.

  “I should go back to bed,” he said after another guttural moan. “I’m so tired. Can you do this bash without me?” When I told him I could, he turned to Arch. “Buddy? Thanks for the walk. Sorry we couldn’t get over to your dad’s office. I’m trashed now, need to hit the sack.”

  Arch nodded and poured himself a glass of pink lemonade.

  “Macguire,” I attempted, “please, can I fix you a little something to eat—”

  He waved this away and put his head in his hands again, apparently too weary to climb the stairs to his room. I placed the first tuna fillets in a glass pan. Unfortunately, at that moment Murphy’s law of telephones kicked in and my business line rang. I begged Arch to answer it so I wouldn’t slime the receiver with fish juice. He gave me a world-weary look that immediately changed to one of concern when he realized who was on the other end of the line.

  “Oh! Dad! How are you doing? Can I come see you?”

  I swallowed hard. Macguire blinked and then blinked again, his expression turning quickly from fatigue to interest. I patted the fillets dry, then washed my hands, trying to decide what to do. Grab the phone from Arch? Write him a note to let me talk? Did I really want to speak to the Jerk? I viciously ground pepper over the fish. But it was too early to marinate the fillets. I dithered, stamped from foot to foot while trying to catch Arch’s eye, then snapped plastic wrap over the fish.

  “Oh, Dad, I’m so glad you called me. Wow, I’m sorry you have to … Oh, that sounds awful! Gosh, I can’t believe …”

  Saturday, just past noon—less than five hours since the arrest. John Richard had been processed; was he calling me or his son? Had he talked to his lawyer? Why call here? Unfortunately, despite my feelings on the subject, I could not prevent Arch from talking to his father.

  “Where’s Tom?” Macguire whispered as I forced myself to turn my back on Arch and glare at the menu. I was not going to listen to the conversadon. No matter what the Jerk was up to, I still had to finish my next catering task.

  Goalies’

  Grilled Tuna

  4 (6 to 8 ounces each) fresh boneless tuna steaks

  Salt and freshly ground black pepper

  ¼ cup sherry vinaigrette (see Exhibition Salad with Meringue-Baked Pecans)

  Rinse the tuna steaks and pat them dry. Place them in a glass pan, season with salt and pepper, and pour the vinaigrette over them. Cover with plastic-wrap and marinate for 30 minutes to 1 hour.

  Preheat the grill. Grill the steaks for 2 to 3 minutes per side for rare, 5 minutes per side for well done.

  Serves 4

  I said, “Tom’s asleep.”

  Still the earnest whisper from Macguire. “You should wake him up. He should know—”

  “Macguire. If John Richard Korman wants to talk to me, he would have demanded to do so. That’s the way he is. But he called our son. They have a right to talk. And as a witness, I can’t talk to him.”

  Still, when I sneaked a glance at Arch’s freckled face, I was shocked. My son’s cheeks, previously flushed with color from his walk with Macguire and Jake, were now translucently pale. A scowl set his face in an expression of worry so deep that I hated John Richard more than ever. How could the man drag our son into this? Arch held out the phone.

  He said eagerly, “Mom, Dad wants to talk to you.”

  Well, great. I shook my head vigorously at the proffered phone. Arch’s eyes flared wide behind the tortoiseshell glasses.

  “Yes, yes, you have to!” he whispered fiercely.

  I reached for a kitchen towel and grabbed the receiver. “What is it?” I asked in a clipped tone. “I’m not supposed to be talking to you. You must know that. I’m a witness, remember?”

  “Witness to what?” His voice grated through the wire. I was sorely tempted to hang up. No matter how hard I tried to put this man out of my life, he always insisted on reappearing, full of menace. At that moment I didn’t care what kind of trouble he was in. I didn’t want to hear about it. I didn’t want to be a part of it.

  Arch leaned toward me and whispered earnestly, “You need to help Dad, Mom. Please!” Behind Arch, Macguire opened his eyes wide. He had perked up considerably since the phone call began. If Macguire was thinking about getting involved with criminals again, I’d have the kid thrown into jail myself.

  “I’m listening,” I said brusquely into the receiver. “But you’re jeopardizing your case by talking to me.”

  “I’ll take that chance.”

  “I have a lot of work to do.”

  “Well, excuse me for interrupting your cooking schedule,” John Richard snarled. “I just need to discuss this mess that you got me into. Understand? I’m in a life-threatening situation here. I’m sitting in the jail, I don’t know what’s going on, and I need you to do something for me. If you hadn’t been cruising by Suz’s house at that hour—”

  “I told you,” I said t
hrough clenched teeth. Just like the man to make Suz Craig’s murder my fault, just because I’d had the bad luck to discover her body. “I didn’t want Arch to get to your place with nobody home—”

  “Shut up and listen for once, Goldy, will you? There’s a whole line of thugs waiting to use this phone. I just … I can’t … nobody will tell me anything. It’s driving me nuts. I need to know what the police have found out about when Suz died.”

  More than ever, his supreme arrogance astonished me. “Even if I knew that”—which of course I did—“I couldn’t tell you. Look, I don’t think we should be—”

  “When she died is important—”

  “Why do you think I—”

  “Well, I’ll find out soon enough,” he fumed. “If you want our son to suffer from this escapade, because that’s all it is, then just be difficult.”

  I said nothing. I’d learned this lesson the hard way. You talk, you give him something to criticize. You say nothing, you may eventually get out of the conversation. Without getting hurt.

  “Goldy? Are you listening to me? Goldy? Or are you holding the phone away from your ear?”

  I smiled at Arch and Macguire, who were both staring at me in consternation. “I’m listening,” I replied evenly.

  John Richard resumed his fake-earnest tone. “Look. It’s just that if I could know the time of death right now, instead of having to wait for the damn lawyers to jaw about it, a lot of things could get cleared up. My attorney is hiring his own investigator, and he thinks if we get the right judge there’s a chance I’ll be able to get out of here on Monday—”

  Dream on, I thought. Actually, as I’d told Arch, one in a million chance. I’d heard of it exactly once. So in our state that would make it one in four million point … What was our state’s population?

  “Did you hear what I said?” my ex-husband yelled.

  “Monday,” I repeated. I glanced at the tuna fillets and the menu with lists of dishes I still had to prepare for this evening. Actually, I was running a bit ahead of schedule. No way I was telling him that, though.

  “Okay, now listen up,” the Jerk continued, undaunted, “I want you to use that morbid curiosity of yours to check on a few things. First, there’s this nurse named Amy Bartholomew. Suz fired her. Now she’s doing something with the new health-food store, I think. Also, Suz had an unpleasant visit in July from Ralph Shelton. Do you remember him? She fired him, too. Plus, Suz had some kind of delicate material—”

  “Hey! Stop!” I interrupted him. Goosebumps ran over my skin. “I can’t do any of that. Even you must recognize how inappropriate it would be for me to go poking around—”

  “No, I don’t recognize that—”

  “It is hard for me to believe that your self-centeredness extends this far,” I snapped. “You cannot possibly think that the wife of a police officer, who happens to be your badly treated ex-wife, should go snooping around—”

  “Mom!” Arch’s eyes blazed. “Stop it!” he hissed. “You have to help him!”

  “My self-centeredness!” John Richard was shrieking. “My self-centeredness!”

  This time I did hold the phone away from my ear. Arch pressed his fingers against his eyes and shook his head. The tormented expression on his face made my heart ache. With a ragged breath I said: “John Richard, I need to get off the phone.”

  His icy tone chilled my blood. “I did not kill Suz Craig. I loved her.” He paused, then continued very deliberately, “It’s time for you to set aside your own self-centeredness. For the sake of our son and his mental health, you need to help me prove that I’m being set up for this damn murder. Do you understand?”

  I covered the phone with my hand. “Arch?” I asked with as much calmness as I could muster. My son gave me a defiant look, scowled, and crossed his arms. He was silent. “Would you please go upstairs for a few minutes and let me finish this phone call?” After a fractional hesitation he turned and hurtled out of the kitchen. Macguire made no move to go anywhere except to shuffle toward the walk-in, muttering about needing a Pepsi. “Macguire,” I pleaded, “just give me a minute here, okay?”

  “I’m not going to bother you,” Macguire said innocently. “I just need a pop. Maybe I’ll see something in there that will make me hungry. You never know.”

  “Goldy,” John Richard raged, “could you let go of domestic life for a minute and listen to me? I did not commit this crime. I left Suz’s house at one A.M. When I left, she was fine.”

  “If you left her house at one and she was fine,” I repeated calmly, “then tell that to your investigator. If you have done nothing wrong, then you have nothing to worry about.” Then I hung up.

  “What’s going on?” asked Macguire solicitously. He held a soft-drink can in one hand and the parfait glass of chocolate pudding in the other—the same one he’d turned up his nose at earlier.

  I cleared my throat. “Apart from the fact that my ex-husband has been arrested for homicide and my son believes I should try to get him off?” I sighed. My head ached. I sat down, rubbing my temples. “Let’s see, the only other things going on are that I’ve got a big party to cater tonight. Oh, yes, and my son is absolutely furious with me. Apart from that, not much.”

  “Bummer,” said Macguire. He set the pudding aside, untouched, poured the soft drink into a glass, then slurped fizz from the top. “Know what? I don’t need a nap, I think. I’ll see if Arch wants to talk or listen to music. We’ll be quiet, though. We won’t bother you, I promise.”

  I murmured a grateful thanks and stared at the ingredients for a second batch of biscuits. As usual when dealing with John Richard, a sense of unreality closed in. Was I crazy, or was he? He was crazy. No question. A crazy liar, always had been. But then—and this had always puzzled me—how could he be so successful in the rest of his life, the part of his life that did not involve me? He had a fantastic job, lots of money, and a steady stream of girlfriends. People liked him. Was it his looks? Well, that was part of it. And he was intelligent. No genius, but he could sound good and fake his way through the situations he knew nothing about. Add to that his great ability to talk and charm his way into people’s hearts. And so far he’d been able to lie and cheat his way out of the many, many messes he’d made. And he’d been able to keep the messes quiet.

  I did not kill Suz Craig. Yeah, sure. I again measured flour, baking powder, and salt into my food processor, scooped in smooth white vegetable shortening, and let the blade slice the mixture into tiny bits. Then why were you bringing flowers over this morning? Why did she have a death grasp on your ID bracelet? Why are you trying to find out the time of death? So you can change your story? I shuddered. I was not going to help him. No matter how manipulative he managed to be. No matter how much he dragged Arch into this.

  Poor Arch. I pulsed the processor and watched the blade bite through the ingredients. He wanted so much for me to help his father. But I couldn’t. The man was evil. I dribbled in buttermilk until the dough clung together in a ball. I wanted to tell Arch that trying to follow one of his father’s lies to get to the truth was futile. You get involved with John Richard, you get sucked into a vortex just like old Captain Ahab, and end up at the bottom of the ocean. As I scooped the silky dough out of the processor, my mind reverted to one of its common themes: How come the evil people in your life don’t just die? How come the evil people in your life are able to kill smart, promising women like Suz Craig?

  Well, the rain falls on the just and the unjust.

  Then again, had Suz been so smart and promising? Had there perhaps been an evil side to Suz Craig, too? I thought of the rumors Marla had gathered about the dead woman. No, no, no, I chided myself. Don’t get into this. So what if she fired Amy Bartholomew, the nurse who supposedly had gambling problems? So what if she fired Ralph Shelton? I preheated the oven and rolled out the biscuit dough into a soft, rectangular pillow.

  Suz, after all, was a boss-type person, and a boss-type person sometimes had to fire people. As sole pr
oprietor of my business, I was thankful I’d never had to perform that particular function myself. I brandished the puck-size biscuit cutter I’d finally found at a baking supply store and cut the dough into circles. Then I arrayed them carefully on a cookie sheet.

  I was not going to get dragged into this. Suz had an unpleasant visit in July from Ralph Shelton. Do you remember him? John Richard’s sarcastic voice echoed in my thoughts. Of course I remembered Ralph Shelton the doctor, the hockey fan extraordinaire. We used to be friends. Like John Richard, Ralph had specialized in ob-gyn at the University of Colorado Medical School. Another buddy of theirs had been Patricia McCracken’s ex-husband, Skip. Skip had moved to Colorado Springs, and I hadn’t seen him in years.

  Ralph Shelton. What was his history? I set the timer for the biscuits and thought back. Ralph had divorced his first wife, a petite, very erudite teacher, and over her pained objections, obtained sole custody of their daughter, Jill, who was Arch’s age. Problem was, Ralph hadn’t been able to take care of Jill when he’d gone on business trips, had late meetings, or had to deliver a baby. So he’d turned to me to take care of his daughter, over and over and over. Meanwhile, Jill’s own mother was desperate to have the girl down in her new place in Albuquerque. With mounting problems in my own marriage and young Arch unable to shake a string of ear infections, I’d finally told Ralph I couldn’t take care of his daughter three or four times a week. Combined with my separation from John Richard, this had meant the end of the friendship with Ralph Shelton, unfortunately. The worst part was that Ralph had finally sent his daughter to live with her mother in New Mexico. Arch and I had missed Jill terribly. She’d been a fun-loving child with such an infectious laugh that our house had felt empty for weeks after she moved away.