Diane Davidson - The Grilling Season

I filled a wide frying pan with extrathick bacon slices, and for some reason thought of the composer Schoenberg. Schoenberg had been quoted as saying that his music contained all his secrets. His composi tions held the key to unlocking the inner workings of his soul. You just had to know how to listen. Somehow, all the information before me might contain enough data to unlock the secret of what had happened in the early hours of Saturday morning. I just didn’t know how to decipher it.

The phone rang. It was the therapist’s office calling to say I’d be getting a call later in the day about scheduling Arch. Apparently there was no way the temporary secretary could do anything now. I sighed and said I’d be waiting for her call.

I trimmed crisp green broccoli for one of the potato-toppings and thought of Arch. He and Todd were planning an extended “jam” tonight. Jamming, I’d learned, was not about food, but about music. Fine with me. I wanted Arch to have a regular social life instead of fretting about his father. Truth to tell, though, it pained me that I couldn’t relate to the music that today’s fourteen-year-olds liked. I’d faulted my parents for finding the Rolling Stones, execrable. But the Rolling Stones made music. What Arch and Todd listened to was just noise. Well, I thought with a sigh, Schoenberg’s mother probably had trouble with her son’s music. Come to think of it, I thought as I retrieved a dozen fat Idaho potatoes from my pantry, Schoenberg’s music pretty much sounded like noise to me, too.

As I washed and pricked the potatoes, I remembered to call the town veterinarian. I was still wondering about the scratches on Ralph Shelton’s face and if they’d truly come from his feline. The veterinarian’s receptionist said that under no circumstances could she tell me anything about the care of Ralph Shelton’s animals. Patient confidentiality seemed alive and well these days, if you were a cat. Well, maybe Tom would know.

I placed the potatoes in the oven, then kneaded the brioche dough gently, divided it, and set it into loaf pans for its third and final rising. By the time Arch, Todd, and Tom arrived home, I’d put the loaves in the oven and finished making the dinner. Todd Druckman, who was baby-faced and slightly pudgy, and had hair that was even browner and straighter than Arch’s, pronounced ours the best-smelling kitchen he’d ever visited. A pile of baked potatoes invited slashing and filling. I pointed to where the boys could choose from a vat of creamy cheese sauce bubbling on the stove, broccoli florets heaped in a steaming pile, and a mountain of hot, crispy bacon that beckoned with its mouthwatering scent. The real surprise occurred, however, when Arch, Todd, Tom, and I were bustling around setting the table. We didn’t even notice Macguire entering the kitchen.

“Hey!” he said. “What smells so great?”

For a moment we were all speechless. Macguire, hungry? Then Tom winked at me. “What is it Cinderella’s godmother says? Sometimes miracles take some time?”

I looked at my watch. “Yeah. Six hours. That’s when we left the health-food store. Amazing.” Macguire still shuffled and his body was achingly thin. But healthy color infused his cheeks for the first time in a month, and he wanted something to eat! Both were momentous developments. I offered a silent prayer of thanks.

The potatoes were indeed out of this world: each flaky bite was robed in golden cheese sauce and melded stupendously with the tender broccoli and crunchy bacon. Macguire, to my amazement, slowly ate two potatoes slathered with toppings, then laughingly pronounced himself so full his stomach ached. Tom, Todd, and Arch cleaned every last bite from their plates. Our meal was full of companionship, good food, and laughter. I never once thought of the corpse I’d found in the ditch.

Arch broke the spell of family life. He said suddenly, “I wonder what they’re having at the jail tonight.”

“Hon,” I replied gently, “your dad’s out on bail. This morning we – “

“You found out this morning that he got out? And you didn’t call me at Todd’s?”

“I thought… if your dad wanted to call, he would –”

“And you probably wouldn’t let me talk to him!” He looked accusingly from me to Tom. “And I’ll bet you haven’t done anything today to help him, either!”

“Excuse me, young man, but I have too done something – “

But before I could finish my sentence, Arch threw down his fork and ran out of the room.

Tom shook his head. Todd looked bewildered. I silently put a half-dozen Babsie’s Tarts on a plate, handed Todd a six-pack of soft drinks, and told him to go on up and see what he could do. Todd took the plate along with the pop cans and gratefully excused himself.

“Maybe I should go, too,” Macguire announced in a guilty tone, and left. Minutes later I saw the light on the phone flash red, indicating that Arch was making an outgoing call from upstairs. The call did not last long. Probably Arch had called John Richard’s number and left a message on his machine. My mind immediately leaped to a fresh question: If the Jerk wasn’t home to answer his phone, where was he?

Tom said, “Let me do the dishes, Miss G.”

“You do everything,” I said, disconsolate. “Bring home takeout. Do the dishes. Put up with us. Put up with me.”

“You make a great dinner,” he countered as he started hot water running in the sink. “And you’re the one who tries to do everything. You can’t make everything go smoothly.”

“At least I’d be a better investigator than Donny Saunders.”

Tom chuckled. “Sorry, Miss G., but that’s not saying much.”

While he was doing the dishes, I asked him about the tapes from Suz Craig’s office. He said the department was listening to the tapes they had found and making an inventory of them. I told him about the discussions I’d had with Amy Bartholomew and ReeAnn Collins. He nodded and didn’t take notes, indicating he’d already heard similar information at his office. Then he punched buttons on the espresso machine. A few moments later he placed a demitasse of crema-laden espresso in front of me and sat down across the table.

I sighed. “If I drink this, I’m going to be up all night.”

“Aw, drink it. You’re going to be up all night anyway. You’re going to be up every night until this is over. And trust me, Goldy, these things always come to an end. One way or another.”

I closed my eyes and sipped the rich, satisfying espresso. When Tom placed the last dish in the dishwasher, I slid the golden-brown brioche loaves out of the oven and placed them on racks to cool. Their rich, homey scent bathed the kitchen.

Tom said, “Let’s take some cookies out on the deck: I want to talk to you about the autopsy, but I want to be somewhere the boys won’t hear us.”

“Chocolate, coffee, and death. Dark topics all.” We stretched out on one of my fancy deck-furniture couches that had been in disuse for so long. The night air was sweet, mellow, and filled with the buzz of unseen insects. Just above the mountains’ dark silhouette, Venus glowed like an ice crystal.

We savored the Chocolate Comfort Cookies in silence, curled together in each other’s arms. The! cookies were chock-full of fat chocolate chips and crunchy toasted hazelnuts. The sun-dried cranberries gave a delicious, tart chewiness to each bite.

I asked Tom if the cops had called Shelton’s veterinarian and he said yes. The scratches on Ralph Shelton’s face had been inflicted by his cat but were minor. Then Tom sighed. He asked, “Did you also know Suz Craig had a cat?”

“Yes, a shy calico one named Tippy. Saturday morning, right after you went to talk to the deputies, that cat jumped into my arms. I know Tippy was part of the crime scene, but I was afraid she’d get trampled if I abandoned her. I left her with Tina Corey. Why?”