Diane Davidson - The Grilling Season

“ReeAnn didn’t know anything about why my reimbursement was dropping off,” Marla went on smoothly, “so I called AstuteCare. I demanded to know how much money John Richard was due to get and when.”

“Sheesh, Marla.”

“Oh, it was fun. I talked to Suz Craig’s secretary and then I talked to some guy named Chris Corey, who handles Provider Relations. Corey used to be a doctor, but now he’s making it big in administration,” she added with a coarse laugh. “He was so-o- o polite, trying to tell me that how much John I Richard made was none of my frigging business.”

“Yes, I know him – ” In my mind’s eye, I saw a heavy man tumbling down a flight of steps. “Chris I Corey sprained his ankle over at Suz’s.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen him limping around. He lives with his sister, Tina, up here. She’s one of the women in charge of the Babsie show at the LakeCenter.”

I tried to focus. I didn’t care about the Coreys. “Are you telling me,” I said, “that John Richard has gone from earning up to eight hundred thousand dollars a year down to making three hundred thousand dollars a year?”

“Sad, ain’t it?”

“And he supplemented that income by endorsing Biocess and working in the hospital. You’re saying you didn’t like the way your share dropped and you tried to find out if he was stiffing you.” What on earth did any of this have to do with the death of Suz?

“Right!” Marla said firmly. “So finally I called my lawyer about the drop in income and told him about all the people I’d talked to. My lawyer made some more calls and then let me know that the Biocess endorsement was in some kind of limbo. Plus John Richard hasn’t yet received the latest bonus he was supposed to get from ACHMO. A bonus in the big fat neighborhood of two hundred thousand dollars. When the bonus does come through, I should see some more cash. I would love to have my cut of that, Goldy. But mainly I did all this just to annoy John Richard, because I knew it would get back to him that I was nosing around. The guy is up to his ears in debt from the good old days, what with payments to you, and payments to me, and payments on his condos, and payments on his new house, and payments on his cars, and dealing with the McCrockens. So. I wanted the Jerk to know I was on his case. I wanted him to squirm.”

“And the connection to Suz Craig is …” Marla raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t I tell you? Suz was the one who decided whether or not he got the bonus.”

6

Marla and I were prevented from further discussion of John Richard’s plummeting finances and mounting problems by the sudden reappearance of my son. Arch bounded awkwardly off the Rodines’ porch and frowned as he lugged his overnight bag toward us. I had the sinking feeling that the overnight had not gone well. Marla asked if I wanted her to stay and I said no. After giving Arch a quick, wordless hug and me a bright, reassuring smile, she va-voomed off in her Mercedes.

“Why was Marla here?” Arch asked as he clicked his. seat belt in place. He had the thickened voice and strong boy smell that always seems to accompany the morning-after of slumber parties.

“Just visiting,” I said lightly.

“Do you think Dad’s up yet? I haven’t had any breakfast.”

“You don’t seem very happy,” I observed, more as a probe to see if anyone had called the Rodines to report the situation on Jacobean Drive.

“Oh, well.” His tone was disgusted. “I mean, we were going to have breakfast, we were supposed to, but then something happened.” He shook the hair out of his eyes. “You know Clay Horning?”

“Yes.” Clay Horning was the resident hooligan of the Elk Park Prep eighth grade. I kept my opinion to myself, however.

“Clay took half a dozen of Mrs. Rodine’s Babsie dolls off a chair. He couldn’t understand why Mrs. Rodine had them there. I mean, she never plays with them, but they’re on the chairs, on the tables, on the sofas, on the beds, on the bureaus, everywhere! You ask me, Mrs. Rodine is a doll junkie! Anyway, Clay wanted to see how the heads from some of the dolls would look on the bodies of others. He pulled off all the heads and was switching them around – I mean, they pop right on – when Mrs. Rodine had a hissy fit. She swung her frying pan at him. Clay jumped out of the way, but all the uncooked bacon slid out on those headless Babsies. Do you believe that something so stupid could ruin a slumber party?” He shook his head. “Some people.”

I didn’t reply. After a few seconds Arch pushed his glasses up his nose and squinched his mouth to one side. “Mom? I don’t mean to complain.” He waited for me to speak. “Are you upset about Mrs. Rodine and the frying pan? Or are you mad that she didn’t give me anything to eat? I’m really not that hungry.”

“Mrs. Rodine is not an easy person to deal with,” I said softly. “But I don’t want to talk about her, Arch. Let’s just sit here a minute. I need to think.”

He shrugged. “Ohh-kay. Whatever.” I watched my son and felt my heart ache with love, with my inability to communicate, and with foreboding. In the last year Arch had finally adjusted to a new family life. He adored Tom, while maintaining a ferocious devotion to his father. But John Richard did little more than tolerate Arch and use him in arguments with me. When Marla’s nephew, our much-loved boarder Julian Teller, left for Cornell, the resulting hole in Arch’s life had been filled by an adopted bloodhound, Jake. Lately, Arch and Macguire Perkins had become friendly. The two boys liked to listen to music and – as they put it – hang out at John Richard’s office. All of which now seemed charmingly innocent and faraway. It was unlikely that they would still hang out at the office of a doctor who’d been accused of murder.

Before I could phrase what needed to be said, a forlorn feline howl erupted from the back of the van. Another quickly followed. Arch whirled.

“Mom? Is that Scout? What’s going on?”

“No.” I sighed. Tippy wanted out. “I’ll be right back.” When I hopped from the van, Gail Rodine, a top-heavy, matronly brunette, stood glaring on her spacious porch. Holding a clipboard to her chest, she scowled at me, as if my presence at her curb was intrusive. At Gail’s side was a tall, similarly heavyset woman with long blond braids. The blonde appeared to be wearing a doctor-type jacket. I yanked open the van’s rear door and caught sight of the little calico cat lurking behind my spare tire. “Come on, Tippy,” I urged. “Out you come.”

Suz’s cat did not need to be coaxed. She leaped from the van, crouched on the Rodine lawn, then dashed to one of the blooming pink rosebushes encircling the porch. The cat tried frantically to claw her way up a rosebush. Gail Rodine squawked. The woman with the blond braids swiftly descended the porch steps, arms outstretched. Between Gail’s angry yelps, the soothing words the blond woman offered the panicked cat were barely audible. The cat, sensing a friend, leaped from the destroyed rosebush into the open arms of the woman. Then she clawed her way up to her shoulder.

“Mom?” said Arch. “What is going on? Whose cat is that? It looks like Ms. Craig’s.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, approaching the blond woman, whose hand reached up to stroke the cat on her shoulder. “It’s not mine, it’s… somebody else’s.” Her wide blue jacket had “Dr. Babsie” embroidered in dark blue script over her head. “I know you, don’t I? Do you practice in our town? I’m Goldy Schulz.”

The woman let out a strange, eager laugh. She gave me an intense blue-eyed look. “You’re the caterer, right? You’re doing several meals for us next week. I’m Tina Corey. Head of the Aspen Meadow Babsie Doll Club. How do you know me?”