Diane Davidson - The Grilling Season

“Let me fix you some toast,” I offered. “And some eggs, maybe?” “Sounds great.” While the frying eggs sizzled in the pan, Macguire dutifully washed down his ten herb capsules with water turned a science-fiction green by the chlorophyll. “Todd and Arch are still asleep,” he announced. “I’ll wake them up at ten. They listened to music until three A.M. I’ll fix ‘em breakfast, too. Toast, probably.” His grin warmed my heart.

I thanked him for tending to Arch and Todd, declined his offer to help load my supplies, and hauled the first cardboard box out to my van. When I came back into the kitchen, my phone was ringing. “Goldy, my God, I’m so glad I got you.” Ralph Shelton’s voice sounded exhausted and strained. “Look, I’m terribly sorry about running into you at the McCrackens’ party. I just got out of control on those blades. Are you all right?”

“Sure, Ralph.” No use troubling him with a litany of my lingering aches. “Thanks for calling.”

He hesitated. “I just need to talk to you for a minute. Remember when you were over here asking how to get to the McCrackens’ place?”

“Yes. What’s the matter?”

“Well. I was supposed to drive to Omaha this morning, but they got word that… Oh, God, I need to know if you know anything about these tapes that Suz Craig was making. Please tell me, Goldy, I’m leveling with you. As an old friend.”

I took a deep breath. “Why do you care about them?”

His voice wavered, as if he were about to cry. “Because I went in to see her last month, on the fourteenth to be exact, and… I just can’t let anyone know what we talked about. Please, Goldy, help me. Suz was trying to destroy me. Do you have the tapes? Does John Richard? Are they at his office? Or his house? I’ve already driven past Suz’s house and there’s that damn yellow tape all around it – “

“Ralph, calm down. First tell me – exactly why were you fired from ACHMO?”

For a moment I thought he wouldn’t answer. But then he sighed. “Patient complaints. No sexual misconduct or anything like that. It’s just that I have a terrible bedside manner. I always have. You can imagine how that can kill you in ob-gyn. So. I was offered an administrative job with MeritMed. I took it.”

I recalled Suz’s secretary, whom Suz had kept in line with threats. “Was Suz threatening you in any way?”

He hesitated. “You’ve learned a lot, haven’t you? She did threaten people. Yes, I was one of them. But it was all … exaggeration. I left before she could ruin me,” he concluded darkly. “But if someone gets hold of those tapes… Oh, God,” he moaned.

“Did you… were you… did you do something to Suz Craig?”

“Of course not, what the hell do you think I am?”

Well, that was what we didn’t know, wasn’t it? “I honestly don’t know where the tapes are, Ralph. And John Richard’s out on bail. You could give him or his office a call. But his secretary is frantic with the mess, and there’s no telling what kind of emotional state John Richard is in. If I were you, I’d stay away from both of them.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not me.”

At the LakeCenter the Babsie-doll show was in full swing. The security guard, even more hung over today than before, grunted a question about whether my assistant would be helping me, because he had strict orders not to let “that young fellow” near the dolls. I kept my patience and told him my assistant would not be accompanying me today. The armed guard escorted me past the display tables, where shiny arrays of statuesque, ultraslender, elaborately coiffed Babsies in lacy, sequined gowns elicited choruses of oohs and aahs from the crush of excited visitors. Even I was impressed, especially when I saw the price tags.

At the appointed time, I passed out box lunches on the patio to women clutching blue lunch tickets. While they ate, I indulged in a more detailed tour of the show. One table was dedicated solely to Holiday Babsies from 1990 to the present. All the dolls belonged to Gail Rodine. All were marked “Not for Sale.” The costumes were festive and fantastic: tiny rhinestones glistened above shimmery red and green taffeta gowns; white furs set off dark velvet evening dresses. Another table featured Babsie as astronaut, Babsie as veterinarian, Babsie as a prima ballerina, Babsie horseback riding, Babsie walking her poodle on the Champs-Elysees, even Babsie as President. All that was missing was Babsie as Elvis. A long aisle was devoted to Babsie accessories. I looked with awe at teensy-weensy toreador pants; high heels; sequined leotards; compartmentalized Babsie suitcases; flip-curled wigs in blond, black, brunette, and red hair; and sexy lingerie that befit the Babsie Massage Parlor. As Donny Saunders would say, Whoo-ie!

The few attendees not indulging in box lunches were cooing over a table on the far side of the ballroom. When I joined them, I realized their drooling wasn’t from craving my cucumber-brioche sandwiches. Their eyes were greedily fixed on a display of a single Babsie. I stared at the display: Babsie in a “Japanese exclusive” gown. I didn’t know if that meant the gown was made or sold in Japan or both. No matter. I was transfixed by the miniature image of a fashion plate.

Babsie’s blue eyes, rosy cheeks, and bow-shaped mouth were demure, and her long, perfect blond coif did not reveal a single flyaway strand. The bodice and skirt of the tiny full-length gown were made of snowy white satin, and the toes of itsy-bitsy pink high heels peeked out at the hem. A hot-pink embroidered chiffon overskirt pouffed and swirled above the white satin. A miniature stole of the same pink fabric hugged the doll’s shoulders, while a choker of minuscule pink pearls decorated her neck. Very nice, I thought appreciatively, the sort of thing you’d wear to an inaugural ball or a royal wedding. Then I looked at this Babsie’s price tag: three thousand dollars. When the woman next to me asked if I didn’t think it was just unbelievable, I said, “Yes, incredible beyond words.” Never let it be said that I was a caterer who couldn’t appreciate her clients’ hobbies.

The first woman said, “The dealer said to me, ‘How can you refuse this adorable doll?’ Now I feel as if this poor doll is a refugee who will starve if I don’t buy her!” A tear slid down one of her cheeks.

A second woman whispered, “I’ve got a spy in France. You should see my phone bills. But when the French Babsies come out – you know, the ones we can’t get? – I have my spy get it. She airmails it in a plain brown wrapper. For security. It costs me, but it’s worth it.”

John le Carre, eat your heart out. I tore myself away from the dolls and returned to the patio. In a large plastic garbage bag I collected dirty cups, wrappers, used plastic spoons, and empty miniature wine bottles. Suddenly the cormorants near the shore rose in a frenzied flutter, and I was dimly aware of a distant wap wap wap wap wap.

I sat on one of the patio benches and squinted at the sky. Wap wap wap, louder and louder. In the summer, this was the most dreaded sound in Aspen Meadow. It was the Flight-for-Life helicopter. Usually the only time you heard it was when someone, frequently a child, had drowned, fallen while rock climbing, or been lost for hours after straying from a wilderness hike.

I trotted to the Dumpster near the lake and lofted in the trash bag. The helicopter circled near Main Street. That was odd. The copter appeared to be hovering over Cottonwood Creek, not too far from our house. I reached into my apron pocket for the portable cellular phone I took to events and shakily punched in our number, reminding myself that not all disasters in Aspen Meadow had to involve me.

One second, two seconds, three… then the phone connected and Arch answered on the first ring. “I’m okay, Mom.”