Diane Davidson - The Grilling Season

The hockey-party menu indicated that I had promised Mediterranean orzo salad, a vegetable melange I’d dubbed Grilled Slapshot Salad, and Vietnamese Slaw, all of which needed to be prepared and chilled. While the pasta was cooking, Marla called.

“That didn’t take long,” I commented as I began to pit Kalamata olives.

“Give me a break, I’ve been worried about you. How are you doing?” Her voice trembled with concern. I felt the usual pang of gratitude that she was such a long-suffering friend.

“I’m not doing very well at all.” I rinsed my hands. “It’s like I’m having post-traumatic stress disorder. Every time I look around this house, something reminds me of the Jerk.”

“Take a Valium. Go lie down for a while.”

“For crying out loud, Marla, I’ve got a party tonight.”

She paused to take a bite of food: her tranquilizer. “Oh, right, the McCrackens’ hockey party. You’re going to have to wear a T-shirt that says ‘I don’t know anything.’ Otherwise, the guests are going to drive you nuts wanting to know what’s going on. Plus Patricia’s husband is a doctor, isn’t he?”

“Her first husband was. Skip. Skip interned with John Richard and Ralph Shelton. Don’t you remember?”

“Not really. That was before my time with the Jerk, honey.”

“Well, Skip dumped Patricia when she said she wanted to adopt a child. I got to know Patricia when she was going through the divorce. Her new husband is a dentist. Clark.”

“Still, their friends all know the Jerk, so you’re going to get a slew of questions.”

Ah, Aspen Meadow, which alternated between being intimate and incestuous. “I’ve already had a slew of questions. The cops just left.”

“What did they want?”

“Oh, the usual. What did I see. What did I know about her. What did I know about the two of them.”

“Hmph. Have you heard anything else? About the two of them, I mean?”

“No.” I sliced the olives into delicate black bits. Then, as usual, my curiosity got the better of me. I murmured, “How about you?”

She took another noisy bite of whatever she was chewing and then washed it down with something liquid. “Well, I’ve been trying, God knows. I’ve been waiting ages for the Jerk to get his due, although I’m truly sorry Suz Craig had to die for it. ” She paused. “Okay. For one thing, John Richard and Suz were at the club bar last night, drinking and arguing almost until the place closed at midnight.”

“Aspen Meadow Country Club?” I asked. “Says who?”

“Yes, the country club. You know how John Richard loves to see folks and be seen. And the per-son who said so was Fay Shelton, current wife of Dr. Ralph Shelton, recently fired by ACHMO by none other than Suz Craig herself.” She paused. “Or so I heard. Hold on, there’s somebody at my door.”

I moved the olives aside and began on some fat, ripe tomatoes that smelled so delicately sweet, I was tempted to pop a couple of juicy red chunks right into my mouth. But the health inspector had recently sent out a sign to be posted in all commercial kitchens: NO SMOKING, EATING, OR DRINKING IN THE FOOD AREA! USE PLASTIC GLOVES WHEN HANDLING RAW MEAT! Across the state, chefs had promptly denounced the first admonition. How were they supposed to serve what they were preparing if they couldn’t taste it? A subsequent missive from the inspector allowed as how we could taste with a plastic spoon, which was to be immediately tossed out. As Macguire and Arch would say, Whatever.

“Can you believe that?” Marla asked when she returned to the phone. “Frances Markasian from the Mountain Journal here at my doorstep already, wanting to interview me about what a bloodsucker my husband was. I told her ex-husband and suggested she go back to covering the doll show. Then I got this idea: ‘Press Babsie – ‘ “

“Frances knows about Suz? She knows about John Richard’s arrest?”

“She knows all about it. Maybe she’s got one of those police-band radios. More likely, somebody who lives on Jacobean called her. Frances insisted she needed to talk to me. Said it was urgent. What would be urgent about talking to me?” “What in the world did you say?” “I told her to come back on Monday,” Marla replied gleefully. “I know I’ll have more to report on the Jerk’s bloodsuckiness by then.”

“For heaven’s sake.” I glanced at the clock. Nearly noon. “Exactly when was Ralph Shelton fired?” I tried to remember the last time I’d catered any event where the Sheltons were present, but drew a blank. I’d known Ralph when John Richard was in medical school with him, and Ralph had a different wife and a daughter I adored. But when your marital situation changes, many of the friendships sadly seem to evaporate. “Where do the Sheltons live, exactly? Aren’t they over there near John Richard?”

“Yes, of course. On Chaucer, I think. Ralph’s a huge hockey fan so you’ll probably see him tonight. Listen, though, here’s something else I found out from Fay. Her hubbie, Ralph, wasn’t the only one who had problems with Suz Craig. There was a nurse with a gambling addiction. ACHMO didn’t fancy one of their RNs taking the bus up to Central City and avidly playing the slots, hour after hour.”

“Gambling? Do you know the nurse’s name? Would Fay?”

“She didn’t say, but I could ask her. On second thought, the word is that Ralph Shelton has a temper, which he usually reserves for yelling at referees at Avalanche games. If I act nosy, he might slam me into the glass. Metaphorically speaking, of course. You’re more subtle, Goldy. You should go talk to him.”

“Oh, sure. What am I, the local gal who deals with bad-tempered doctors?” I heard Tom’s Chrysler roll into the driveway.

“How’s Arch handling his father being arrested?” Marla asked.

“Wretchedly. He and Macguire are out for a walk now.”

“Did Arch like Suz?” I sighed. “Arch never likes or dislikes John Richard’s girlfriends. He just tolerates them. It’s a survival mechanism.”

“You know he’s going to want you to help him clear his dad. You’ve acquired a reputation as a woman who can nose around criminal cases like that godawful bloodhound of his.”

I groaned. “Yeah, sure. This is one criminal case I’m going to keep my nose out of, thanks all the same.”

“Listen,” she insisted, as I heard Tom’s foot-steps approach on the deck. His slow trudge signaled that things were not going well. “You could drop by the Sheltons’ place on your way to the McCrackens’, Goldy. Say you got lost, need directions, and” – here she raised her voice to a trill – “oh, by the way, Ralph, old buddy, any ideas about what John Richard and Suz Craig were squabbling about last night? Think he got mad enough at the club bar that he went home and beat her to death?”

“Marla – “

“On second thought, Ralph baby,” she trilled, undeterred, “were you so mad at her for canning you that you went home and killed her? Keep your hockey helmet on now, Ralph, and your stick down – “

“Please, I have to go.” “Promise you’ll call me if you have any more post-traumatic whatever-it-is flashes.”

I hung up. Tom lumbered into the kitchen and headed straight for the sink to wash his hands. I suspected it was less because of my careful training than it was his desire to rid himself of whatever psychological muck he was bringing home from the sheriff’s department. His face seemed haggard and downcast. My heart sank.

“I’m sorry,” I blurted out, “it looks as if you’ve been dealing with John Richard.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said as he dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. He had pulled on blue jeans and a navy cotton shirt when I’d called him this morning. Despite the casual clothes, he didn’t look as if he’d had anything close to a casual day. He rubbed his eyes, then added, “It’s not your fault he is the way he is. Never was.”