Diane Davidson - The Grilling Season

“How did you – ?”

“Are you kidding? All you do is worry about me. I heard the helicopter a minute ago and called Marla to make sure she wasn’t having another heart attack. She’d already found out what was going on. Somebody was in an explosion. A grill at the park blew up. They think some mountain moths built a nest in the vent. Then when the person lit the propane, the grill exploded, just like Frances Markasian wrote about in the paper. Oh, wait, there’s the other line. Maybe it’s Marla again.”

I watched the slow sweep of the second hand on my watch while I waited for Arch to come back on the line. As usual, I tried to reconstruct where Tom was –

“Oh, Mom,” Arch said, his voice subdued. “Marla says that, you know, she survived the explosion, but she’s burned and bloody – “

“Who survived, Arch?” I was frantic. “Marla?”

“Oh, no, Mom. The person trying to light the grill… the person who got hurt… . It was ReeAnn.”

21

I asked Arch how Macguire was doing. He was asleep. I asked if Arch had heard from his father. He said no. I told him to make sure that all the windows were closed and that the security system was armed. And stay inside, I said. It wasn’t a logical order, it was an emotional one, a fact my son hotly pointed out. I told him I’d be home in less than an hour. Then I disconnected and called Tom.

He wasn’t at his office. I checked my watch: two o’clock. Rather than leave a message, I redialed the department and asked to speak with Sergeant Beiner. When she answered, I identified myself and told her what had happened.

“Hold on,” she said. In the background she rustled paper. “This ReeAnn? Korman’s secretary, right?” I insisted that this accident involving ReeAnn had to be related somehow to Suz Craig’s murder.

Calmly, Sergeant Beiner said, “How?”

I bit the inside of my cheek and watched the cormorants land back on the lake. A hummingbird soared and then dipped to sip the nectar from a nearby poppy. “How,” I repeated not so patiently to Sergeant Beiner, “could an accident involving ReeAnn Collins relate to Suz Craig? John Richard might have thought she killed Suz and decided to punish her. Aah … maybe somebody thinks ReeAnn has possession of something incriminating.”

“Hmm,” said Sergeant Beiner, clearly unconvinced.

I told her I knew about Suz secretly taping meetings. I added that Donny Saunders and Chris Corey had reported that some tapes were missing. Maybe somebody thought ReeAnn had them. Maybe Patricia McCracken or Ralph Shelton or somebody was so desperate for the missing tapes that they had tried to blow ReeAnn up. Sergeant Beiner said that these people had all known ReeAnn for some time, why do something to her now?

“I don’t know,” I replied persistently. “Maybe because of the tapes. But there is a connection, I’m certain of it.”

“Goldy,” advised Sergeant Beiner, “take a breather.”

“Please help me,” I begged her. “I know you usually keep the families of those affected apprised of the progress of an investigation… Can’t you please help us, just so we’ll stay informed and my son won’t have so much anxiety?”

For a moment she was silent. Then she said tersely, “Patricia McCracken I don’t know about. She called this morning to get an update on the criminal investigation so she can decide what to do about her civil suits. I just called her back an hour ago. Now” – there was a rustle of pages and I knew she was consulting her notes – ” Amy Bartholomew was interviewed by Donny Saunders this morning. Ms. Bartholomew told him she was leaving to go camping alone for a few days in the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve, and that you were the one who told her to get away for a while. Maybe she didn’t go, but I don’t think that she had any grudge against ReeAnn Collins that was life-threatening. Do you?”

“I guess not.” “As for Dr. Korman, he’s out on bail, as you no doubt are aware. You might want to put your efforts into recalling that judge in the next election.” She paused. “I don’t know about Ralph Shelton. We’ll have somebody go up and talk to him. But I have to tell you, it’s going to be a while.”

“Okay.” I felt defeated, not because I wanted Amy or Patricia or Ralph or somebody at ACHMO or even John Richard to have hurt ReeAnn, but because I was completely confused. I mumbled an apology to Sergeant Beiner for bothering her and hung up.

I raced back to the LakeCenter and finished cleaning up the box lunches. Occasionally, I reflected as I stooped to pick up the last of the trash the visitors had left, I have a great culinary idea that fails. But before I know things aren’t going to work out, the inspiration stokes my energy and makes my brain fire on all cylinders. Blue cheese pizza was the product of such thinking. Coffeecake swirled with frozen pitted Bing cherries was another, as was sausages baked with apples and hominy. They were all failures. I’d gagged on the too-salty pizza. The coffeecake turned first inky, then mushy, then inedible. And when Arch had had two bites of the sausage concoction, he’d asked if we could go to Burger King for breakfast.

Most of my food ideas and experiments succeed. But it’s hard to bear that in mind when the failures occur. And instead of responding to these setbacks with an optimistic, Thomas Edison-style, now-l-know-what-doesn’t-work attitude, I usually feel frustrated and angry that I spent time and money on ingredients yielding such disasters. Worse, the anguish accompanying the failures always plunges me into a psychological well of uncertitude. Questions like Are you really in the right line of work? and Who do you think you are, anyway? taunt me. Eventually, of course, I always pull myself together, toss the messes in the garbage, and go on to the next concoction.

It was that pulling-together time that I now longed for. Poor ReeAnn.

When I pressed the buttons on our security system and entered our home, the warmth inside brought a small lift in my spirits. It’s not so bad, I told myself. ReeAnn was alive, if injured. I was upholding my promise to Arch. I was trying to find out what really had happened to Suz Craig. I didn’t want to clear the Jerk, I didn’t even care if anything ever exonerated him. But I did want to know what had happened, and why, so that when they hauled John Richard off for an extended prison stay, I could tell Arch with a clear conscience that I had done my darnedest.

I called Lutheran Hospital and asked to check on the condition of ReeAnn Collins. Since I was not family, I was told, the information could not be divulged. Upstairs, Arch and Macguire were listening to what could advisedly be called music. Macguire showed me a huge box of imported chocolates that Marla had brought over. She’d told the boys she was going down to Lutheran Hospital to check on ReeAnn personally, and she’d call me later. I knew she’d get the info. When Marla told people she was a family member, they rarely argued.

The boys offered me a wrapped Mozartkügel and I took it. It was somewhat ironic that the only way these two would acknowledge the classical masters of music was through candy. Within moments I more chocolate bulged in their cheeks and noise blared down our street. I thought again of Schoenberg’s mother and retreated hastily to my kitchen.

I booted up my computer and went through the file I’d opened on the circumstances surrounding Suz Craig’s death. What significance could ReeAnn have to the murder of Suz Craig? What was the link? I couldn’t see any, apart from the fact that ReeAnn had known all about the Jerk’s affairs, and probably a great deal about Suz’s as well.

I scrolled back through my computer file and reread an early entry, where I summarized the catering job I’d done at Suz’s house in July. It had been a clear, sunlit day, with clouds piling up over the mountains to the west and birds flitting among the blue campanula and columbine. Suz had been nervous about the appearance of her yard with its unfinished landscaping. She’d fretted about the weather, since she hadn’t wanted the ACHMO honchos to be soaked by an unexpected mountain shower. She’d shown little interest in the food preparation and presentation. To me this said: Career woman whose postcollege path did not detour through the kitchen. Which was just fine. That kind of client uncritically appreciates my work, even thinks of it as a kind of magic. Suz had appeared cheerful, but she had not really enjoyed the food. And when Chris Corey had fallen down the steps, she’d been distraught.