Diane Davidson - The Grilling Season

All of this begged the question I’d never thought to ask in the first place: Why had the Minneapolis people been visiting in July? The people at the party had certainly made no mention of an annual review, audit, or meeting. In retrospect, that seemed strange. When I’d asked one visiting staff member what had brought him out to Denver, I’d received a noncommittal response along the lines of “Fighting fires.” Exactly what kind of fire? Suz’s guests had all been from Human Resources at ACHMO headquarters, that much I knew. I did have a foodie buddy in the Denver ACHMO HR office. But the last time I’d seen Brandon Yuille, at John Richard’s office, he had been upset with me for not telling him where the Jerk would hide something. Now I realized he’d probably been referring to the missing meeting tapes, as well as notes about the malpractice and negligence suits. I felt guilty all over again for snapping at him, and resolved to be reconciled before asking him more about Suz.

To keep my promise to Tom, I knew I couldn’t pay Brandon a visit at the ACHMO office itself. Not that they’d let the ex-wife of the man accused of murdering their vice-president through the doors. So instead I phoned Brandon’s office and again identified myself: Goldy Schulz, the caterer, the friend of Brandon’s. Once more Brandon’s secretary was either well-trained or just her usual wary self. She asked the nature of my call.

“I need to apologize to him for a misunderstanding we had. Also, I’d like to talk to him about a lunch I catered a while ago,” I replied. I avoided mentioning the name of Suz Craig. “We talked about Thai food and fudge, remind him of that. I have a couple of questions about the event itself.”

There was a pause. “Aah,” the secretary said finally, with mock regretfulness, “it looks as if Mr. Yuille will be in a meeting for the next three days.”

“Don’t they ever take breaks?” I asked good-naturedly. “This won’t take long.”

She didn’t respond immediately. I had the feeling she was looking straight at Brandon, who was vigorously shaking his head. At length she stiffly announced, “I can connect you with Mr. Yuille’s voice mail, if you’d like.”

I assented and briefly told the recorded voice that I was trying to help my son deal with his father being arrested by keeping him informed about the murder investigation. Could Brandon forgive me for being short with him at Korman’s office? And could he satisfy my curiosity, tell me why the Minneapolis HR team at Suz’s house had come to Denver in the first place? Finally, did he happen to know if anyone had it in for John Richard’s secretary, ReeAnn Collins, who’d just been badly injured in a barbecue incident?

Well, I thought as I hung up, that ought to either ruin our friendship or take it to a whole new level. I had the disconcerting feeling that I’d been too pushy. Moreover, whether any useful information would come out of my requests was, it seemed at this point, extremely questionable.

I wanted to cook. But my growling stomach announced I was too hungry to concentrate. I’d had nothing to eat in the last eight hours except a piece of toast, coffee, and a Mozartkügel. Looking around, I dove into the container of Chocolate Comfort Cookies like a madwoman. Although I’ve read accounts of how addicts heighten their drug experiences, in my opinion nothing beats a large mouthful of dark, velvety chocolate on an empty stomach. I closed my eyes, bit into the cookie, and waited for the rush. An ecstasy of shivers began in the small of my back. I sighed with chocoholic contentment Now I was ready to face whatever the rest of the day cared to deliver.

According to my catering calendar, the following morning – Wednesday – Gail Rodine’s doll-club board of directors wanted a fancy breakfast by the lake. I’d promised her baked scrambled eggs with cream cheese and shrimp, fruit kebabs, honey-cured ham, and an assortment of breads. My supplier had delivered the meat last Friday. I heaved the plump, bone-in ham onto the counter to check if it had been spiral-cut as I’d ordered. It was, and would only need heating in the morning. The eggs and shrimp I would assemble at the LakeCenter, but the breads needed to be organized today.

I had two large loaves of the brioche left over from the box lunches, plus several dozen dark pumpernickel rolls that I’d made and frozen particularly’ for this event. But one more bread was needed to round things out. Experimenting to put together a delectable new bread for an upscale breakfast? Please don’t throw me in the briar patch. Thomas Edison, here I come. I knew I could do it. I scanned the walk-in pensively.

In the use-up-stray-ingredients economy that good caterers invariably subscribe to, I noted egg whites left over from making the Babsie Tarts, a couple of oranges that I’d ordered along with the lemons, and several unopened jars of poppy seeds. I pounced on these ingredients. I’d assemble a cake-like orange poppy-seed bread. Or die in the attempt.

As always, cooking lifted me from the doldrums. While the egg whites were whipped into a froth, I measured the dry ingredients and then delighted in the fine spray of citrus oil that slicked my fingers when I scraped the zest from the oranges. I Outside, the sun shone brilliantly in a deep blue sky and a warm breeze swished through the aspens. I opened the window over the sink. The boys’ music reverberated along the street. Out back Jake howled an accompaniment. I smiled. If the music made the boys happy, I wasn’t going to say a thing.

I was folding the poppy seeds into the batter when John Richard Korman jumped in front of the window. I screamed and dropped the bowl in the sink. The bowl shattered. Jake howled. Locked out back, the dog couldn’t help me. I’d disarmed the security system. I hadn’t turned it back on. Oh, God.

Unthinking, I wheeled around wildly for the phone. But by then John Richard had pulled off the screen, reached through the window, and grabbed my wrist.

“Let go!” I cried as I wrenched my hand back. “Go away!” I screamed. He lurched up through the window, with my wrist still in a death grip. His free hand slapped my face. He smelled like whiskey.

“Shut up!” he growled. “I’m telling you, Goldy,” he said in a menacing voice as I opened my mouth to scream again, “shut the hell up. I want to talk to you. I want to talk to Arch. Let me in.”

Instead I pushed hard to try to get him out. Mercilessly, he twisted my wrist. I cried out in pain. Again he told me to shut the hell up. Then he yanked my hand over the window frame. Blood spurted from my forearm where the skin scraped against the metal. Poor Jake howled to no avail. My abdomen pressed painfully against the sink. My feet barely touched the floor.

“Who wrote that shit on my house?” He twisted harder on my wrist. “The neighbors say you know. Who was it?”

“Vandals.” I put my free hand on my face, trying to protect it from another slap. “Vandals. The sheriff’s department doesn’t know who they were. They can’t find them. This isn’t a good idea,” I warned him. “Just go away. I promise I won’t tell Tom.”

“Why didn’t you open your door when I knocked?”

“I didn’t hear you.”

“I said, ‘Why didn’t you open your door when I knocked?’ “

“I told you… agh …” Pain shot through my wrist again. “I didn’t hear you.”

“Bullshit. Listen. I didn’t kill her, Goldy.” With his other hand he seized my chin and forced me to look in his eyes. “I did not kill Suz Craig. She’d been reprimanded” – another tug on my arm made me squeal – “by the Minneapolis people and faced being fired We had a fight, but 1Ididn’t kill her. They killed her.” His fingers bit into my wrist so savagely that I whimpered.