Diane Davidson - The Grilling Season

“Well,” she demanded breathlessly, as if none of the sorry events of the last three days had ever transpired and we were still happy confidantes, “what have you found out?”

“About what?” I gently scraped a poppy seed-speckled pillow of the light, moist batter into a buttered and floured loaf pan.

“About John Richard, silly! Has he gotten himself into any more trouble?”

“Like what?” I really did not want to discuss this. Any info I gave Patricia would be all over Aspen Meadow in an hour, given her feud with the Jerk. At least she hadn’t heard the crazy story about him hitting me with a salmon.

“My neighbor’s son was driving by the park when the helicopter came down. I heard ReeAnn was burned over three-fourths of her body.” she continued. “Was she with John Richard? You don’t know what happened with that, do you?”

This was the woman who had complained so bitterly to me about our community’s obsession-with-disaster? Incredible. Some people just can’t see themselves as fostering the very problem they’re griping about.

“I can’t talk, Patricia,” I responded. “I need to finish making some bread.”

Bitterly, she said, “You’re not much help,” and hung up.

Not much help. Well, wasn’t that what everyone was saying about me these days? I slid the bread into the oven, then rebooted my computer and added According to the Jerk, Suz was reprimanded by ACHMO HQ honchos to my list of what I knew about her. A brief time later, I took the golden-brown bread out and placed it on a rack. It perfumed the kitchen with its rich, orangey scent. Macguire arrived home as I was feeding the dog and the cat. I assured him I was just fine and told him I’d be kneading cloverleaf rolls in no time. He looked skeptically at the slap marks on my face and the thick bandage I’d placed over my forearm. But unlike Patricia McCracken, he was too polite to say anything.

Tom arrived shortly after six, bearing vegetarian calzones and a deep-dish sausage pizza. He unloaded the food, gently examined my face and arm, and cursed John Richard. He carefully punched down the mass of pizza dough I’d already made, zipped it into a heavy-duty plastic bag, and popped it into the freezer. When he finished unwrapping the Italian feast, I felt tears prick hard.

“Please, Goldy, don’t, don’t,” he crooned as he gathered me up in his arms. “What you’ve been through… I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. I feel like I failed you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Oh, Tom. Arch has gone to live with the Druckmans until John Richard’s hearing.”

“He’ll be back,” he said confidently.

I let him hold me. “All this food,” I muttered finally, “it’s going to get cold.”

He held me out at arm’s length. His warm green eyes gave me a skeptical look. “That’s what I brought my convection oven into this house for, remember? You like pizza, don’t you? Even if it’s pizza made by somebody else?”

You like pizza? “Sure,” I said uncertainly, and sat down at the table while Tom preheated the oven and opened a bottle of Chianti. I shivered. Even if it’s pizza made by somebody else? Tom had gently asked.

My afternoon encounter with John Richard had brought another assault of memories I thought I’d repressed. One time, I had tried to serve pizza made by somebody else. Arch had been three months old and sick with a painful ear infection. Exhausted from being up with him all night and then all day, I’d ordered a pizza for dinner. John Richard had thrown a fit, of course. He’d torn the pizza into bits and dumped them in the garbage disposal. If he’d wanted takeout pizza, he’d shouted, he would have stayed single.

Without being asked, Macguire set the kitchen table. Not one of us mentioned my son. Arch must have told Macguire his plans to live with the Druckmans. Again, Macguire was too polite to mention it.

The strange thing about going through a difficult time is that eventually, you get hungry. The Italian sausage on the pizza Tom had brought home provided a sharp, juicy complement to the crunchy crust. The calzones were so stuffed with steaming tomatoes, onions, peppers, and cheese that it was hard to take a bite without making a mess. By the time we finished eating, my mood had lifted somewhat.

“Something I need to discuss with you all,” Tom said in the gentle voice he used whenever he needed to drop a bombshell.

I said, “Uh-oh.”

“The deputies couldn’t find John Richard,” he announced matter-of-factly. “He wasn’t at his house. There’s an APB out on him, but you need to know he’s at large.”

“That sucks,” Macguire said. “It’s probably just as well Arch is at the Druckmans’,” Tom continued. “Here at home, we need to keep the windows shut all the time. Turn on the attic fan if you need ventilation. But the security system stays armed. I mean it.”

I rubbed my temples and tried to give myself a silent pep talk. No uplifting thoughts came. When Macguire offered to do the dishes, Tom and I consented gratefully. Upstairs, the Chianti and relaxing meal finally took effect. No matter how bad the news is, not only do you have to eat, you eventually have to sleep. I hadn’t slept well since I’d discovered Suz Craig’s body. I yawned.

“Put on your pajamas,” Tom ordered with a loving smile, “and let me rub your back.”

“It’s not even eight o’clock.” “Miss G., let me take care of you. No fussing.” I winced as I pulled the pajama sleeve over my bruised arm, then remembered the arnica and antidepression herbs from Amy Bartholomew and slid the tablets and capsules onto the table next to the bed. Before I could take any, though, I had to ask my husband a few questions.

“Tom,” I said as I lay carefully on my stomach, “where could John Richard be?”

“Aw, he’s someplace he thinks is safe. With friends, probably. I don’t think he’d dare come after you. Not after today.”

“Beg to differ.” After a moment I said, “Arch doesn’t think I’m looking into the charges against his father. After all I’ve done, that almost hurts more than anything.”

Tom’s large hands pressed and massaged my aching body. “He’s a kid, Goldy. He just doesn’t understand. Cut him some slack.”

“I’ve cut him tons of slack. He just hasn’t cut any for me.”

Tom chose not to respond to this. Under his hands my weary muscles began to relax. I felt my eyes closing.

“I’ve got something else to ask you,” I said weakly.

“I wish you wouldn’t talk.”

“Has anybody at ACHMO told you Suz was about to be fired? Or why?”

He chuckled. “Korman sure claimed that in his interview. But he was the only one who mentioned it, and he can’t prove a thing. Everyone else swears her job was secure.”

“Ah,” I said. I downed the herb capsules and slipped the arnica under my tongue. A few minutes later, I did not resist when sleep claimed me.

I awoke at two A.M. in such a state of alertness that I felt sure Arch had come home, the security alarm had gone off, or either Scout or Jake was scratching to go out. None of these was the case. I looked out the window: the night was still. No breeze or rush of creekwater was audible, of course, as every single window in the house was locked up tight. I turned on the dresser light and saw a note from Tom. Miss G., Arch called before he went to bed. You were sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to wake you. He wanted to tell you good night and that he loved you. Also, Marla phoned. ReeAnn C. is banged up pretty good but they think she’s going to pull through. T.

Peachy. But it was not worries about Arch or even ReeAnn that had awakened me. It was something else.

If Suz Craig was about to be fired, or was even in danger of being fired, how could that relate to her being murdered? And why had Brandon Yuille, my buddy-in-Thai-food, refused to answer any of my calls? Was he still annoyed about our conversation at the Jerk’s office, despite my apologies? John Richard was on the loose, but I doubted he was watching our house. I slipped on jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt. During the day, Brandon could refuse to return my calls all he wanted. But at this hour, I knew exactly where to find him.