Diane Davidson - The Grilling Season

23

The Aspen Meadow Pastry Shop had undergone a sea change since Mickey Yuille, my old master baker friend, had bought it, refurbished it, and hired an energetic cleaning service. Lacy, pristinely white European-style curtains now hung in the windows. The glass display cases, formerly messy with weeks of fingerprints, gleamed spotlessly in the dimmed light of the cozy dining room. The former owner had offered a hodgepodge of almost-stale cookies and partially baked pastry shells. These had been replaced by appetizing rows of truffles, chocolate-dipped macaroons, and French cream cookies so buttery, they gave new meaning to melt-in-your-mouth.

Since it was a quarter past two in the morning, I stopped lusting over the offerings in the dark shop-front and looked for movement in the kitchen. An oblong of yellow light illuminated Mickey hustling back and forth. As I sidled across the front window to get a better view, I caught sight of Brandon. He sat at a long table, gesturing as he spoke earnestly to his father. The back door had been left partially open, probably to bring cool night air into the oven-heated space.

I nipped past the comics shop, the insurance agent’s office, and the Christian Science Reading Room. I rounded the back of the building and came noiselessly up to the back entrance with its open door. Mickey had suggested I come by for some fresh, hot cinnamon rolls. Now the unmistakable scent of that most prized of spices, Indonesian cinnamon, came wafting out into the darkness. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

“Howdy all,” I said brightly, as if I customarily popped into closed bakeries at two A.M. “I had insomnia, so I just thought I’d drop in.”

Mickey, balding, shrunken, but with a smile so endearing he always reminded me of a stuffed troll, looked up from the thick layer of golden dough he was rolling out. “Goldy! So glad to see you!” He set aside his marble rolling pin and bustled forward to embrace me. He smelled marvelous, sweat mixed with spice and flour. His long white apron dusted my outfit. I grinned and returned his hug, then looked over at Brandon. His handsome face was no longer set in its usual impish expression. He looked as if a monsoon had arrived at his doorstep.

“Morning, Brandon,” I said pleasantly. “So glad I could run into you here. I’ve been trying to call you to apologize for our misunderstanding at my ex-husband’s office.”

His shiny dark hair fell in his face and he immediately brushed it back. “Sure, okay, no hard feelings,” he mumbled without visible enthusiasm. “Glad to see you.”

“Coffee, coffee, let’s have some fresh,” said Mickey, obviously glad of my company, even if his son was not.

“Why didn’t you answer my calls?” I asked Brandon as I sat in one of the chairs at his father’s worktable. Out of earshot, Mickey ran water and measured out ground coffee.

“I can’t call you back,” Brandon rejoined. “They are watching me every second. I’m afraid every call of mine is monitored. .

. .”

“Who’s ‘they’? Who would monitor your calls?” Brandon’s handsome face screwed up in dismay. “The same guys who were here before, from the headquarters office of Human Resources. They’ve come back in from Minneapolis until the preliminary hearing with your ex is over. I’m telling you, Goldy, it’s a bad scene.”

“You think that’s a bad scene? My fourteen. year-old son has moved out until the preliminary hearing. That’s how ticked off with me he is over this case. I want to find out what the hell is going on with my son’s father a whole lot more than your corporate bigwigs do.” He said nothing. “Please, Brandon. Please help us.”

Brandon exhaled unhappily. “Whatever I tell you, you’ve got to say you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Brandon, for heaven’s sake! You didn’t participate in any illegal activity, did you?”

His smile was a younger, less wrinkled version of his father’s. “Of course not. No illegal activity. I didn’t even kill Suz Craig, as is believed in some circles.”

“What circles?”

His face turned pink. “Oh, you know. The gossip mill.”

“Was she about to be fired by ACHMO when she was killed?”

His father reappeared with the coffee. It was marvelous, dark and hearty. We took grateful sips and showered praise and thanks on Mickey.

“You all go ahead and visit,” Mickey told us. He eyed the rectangle of dough. “I gotta work.”

“Can’t we help you?” I offered. Cloth towels shrouded the domed top of another enormous bowl of risen dough.

“Naw, naw,” Mickey replied, waving a floured paw. “The priest is doing grief work with me. Says I gotta work. Stay busy. Best antidote. I like having you here, though.”

I looked back at Brandon, who shrugged. He murmured, “Just let him. He knows what he needs. I’m here for company. When I help him, it’s usually on the weekends.”

“Was Suz about to be fired?” I asked Brandon again. “Or had she been submitted to some kind of disciplinary action?”

Brandon sipped his coffee and was silent. For a moment I feared he’d decided not to answer. “Not exactly reprimanded. She was… being observed. In her dealings with people.” I waited for him to go on. He shifted in the wooden chair. “Headquarters had had a lot of complaints.” He seemed to go into a trance as he watched his father spread butter on the rolled dough.

“Complaints from whom?” I prompted. Brandon blinked and shrugged. “Everybody who’d ever had to work with Suz Craig.”

When he seemed in danger of going into another trance, I said, “Amy Bartholomew said the same thing. She said Suz set a trap for her. Amy wanted to control her own destiny, as she put it, and Suz had other ideas. Suz accused Amy of compulsively feeding the slots up at Central City. Then Suz tried to make it impossible for Amy to buy the health-food store.”

Brandon’s eyes were on his father as he sprinkled dark cinnamon sugar over the golden dough. “Yeah, I know. I’m the very young, very unsuccessful head of Human Resources, remember?”

“Amy said Suz criticized you for spending too much time here with your father and for coming into the office too tired to do good work. She criticized Chris Corey, too.”

“Oh, boy, don’t remind me.” He looked at the ceiling. “Chris was putting together a new Provider Relations Manual. He’s very thorough, and Suz kept changing the language of certain guidelines. It was her fault he missed the deadline. But she threw a fit anyway, in front of everybody.”

“Did she criticize Ralph Shelton?”

“Of course,” he said simply “She told us she was putting together a file of patient complaints, plus a critical letter from her, into a packet to go to MeritMed.”

“Why would she do that? He already told me that was why he was fired.”

“Who knows? Plus, Goldy, I’m not convinced she should have fired him. Every doctor gets unhappy patients. Last year, the state board of medical examiners received over seven hundred and fifty complaints. Eighty-five percent were dismissed.” He sighed. “And then Shelton was so pathetic, calling each of us after she fired him, to see if we could stop her from sending the packet of complaints on. We all suspected Shelton was trying to renew his old friendship with Korman to get him to prevent her from sending the packet to Shelton’s new employers at MeritMed. But apparently Korman repeatedly gave Shelton the brush-off through that cute secretary of his.”

“Sort of the way you gave me the brush-off today.”

“Sorry. I really was in a meeting.”

“Did Suz criticize and threaten John Richard, too?”

Brandon’s large brown eyes and narrow face suddenly seemed overcome with sadness. “She could be the warmest, most loving person you could ever imagine.” He paused and looked away. “She could also be vicious. Every day when I drove into that parking lot, my stomach would clench. What kind of mood was she going to be in today? What would she try to do to me? How could I fend her off?”