Diane Davidson - The Grilling Season

He surveyed the street for my van. “Really.”

I held my breath. Please let the body not be visible from the house.

“Where is Arch?” asked John Richard, the man I had once loved. The man I now loathed beyond measure, the man I did my best to ignore, despite his constant bad behavior, which always demanded attention. “Where is your van? Look at me, dammit.” His blue eyes drilled into mine. His icy, threatening tone was all too familiar. “Why won’t you tell me why you’re here? No Arch? No van? This certainly smacks of the ex-wife spying on the ex-husband’s girlfriend.”

“I just – “

At that moment the familiar wheeze of my van sounded its way up Jacobean. Tom parked behind his own sedan and within three seconds was striding across Suz’s lawn from the acute angle of the neighbor’s yard. Smart man. Any visual diversion from the ditch would buy time. With one of his large, pawlike hands, Tom motioned for me to move away from John Richard. I inched backward until my feet bumped the edge of the porch. Tom’s green eyes never wavered from John Richard as he approached the porch where we stood.

“What the – ?” John Richard was furious. “Is this some kind of family incident? You’d better tell me what’s going on, Goldy,” he commanded.

Take a wild guess. But I was going to say nothing to that arrogant voice.

Bordering the expansive front step was a fat; clay pot brimming with vivid red geraniums and dusty-blue ageratum. I had backed up beside it and I now stared down at the tall red flowers, unable to meet John Richard’s enraged gaze. “I don’t really know very much,” I murmured.

“Hey there,” said Tom, as if we were all meeting on the golf course.

John Richard wasn’t fooled for a moment. “You want to tell me what the hell you’re doing here at seven o’clock in the morning, cop? Or why Goldy just happened to be passing by?”

Tom’s wide face stayed flat, passive, totally unreadable. He blinked and took a deep, measuring breath that pulled up his expansive chest: He regarded John Richard’s handsome face and athletic frame.

Finally Tom said, “We seem to have a situation here.”

“What?” cried John Richard, incredulous. Or acting incredulous, my skeptical inner voice immediately supplied. John Richard’s face tightened with fury – and something else. “What kind of situation?”

His voice was stone-hard, but there was a crack in that stone, something rarely heard when he spoke: fear. “What’s the matter with you two?” He turned his wrath on me. “What, did Suz call you early this morning, Goldy? Trying to get a little girlie sympathy? Strength in numbers, right? Just like you and Marla, a whimpering duo going for the gold medal in pettiness.” He swept his scathing glance over Tom and me. “So you just rushed right out early in the morning, then called your personal police squad to I back you up, right? What did Suz tell you, that we I mixed it up last night?”

“You mixed it up last night,” Tom quietly repeated.

John Richard flung the roses down. The paper made a crinkly sound as the bouquet landed on the grass, and a bloodred petal shook free. “Well, let me tell you, both of you, this is none of your damn business, do you understand me? Suz has lots of problems you don’t even know about. It really wasn’t as bad as – ”

He was silenced by the wail of a siren. The ambulance screamed from the club entryway. I knew from all Tom had told me that unless a victim’s body has mold on it, the paramedics feel duty-bound to try to revive that victim. Still, as the ambulance shrieked to a halt, I wanted them to do their damnedest. I prayed they would be able to bring Suz back while knowing in my heart that it was no longer within the realm of possibility.

Tom strode off the porch in the direction of the ambulance. When the paramedics were out of their vehicle, Tom pointed. The medics vaulted toward the ditch.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered John Richard as he shoved past me. Caught off balance by the power of his push, I fell backward onto the flowerpot. I tripped off the edge of the porch and landed facedown in the dirt. When I scraped the soil off my elbows, I thought I heard a forlorn meow. I looked around but only saw John Richard. He was a preppy vision in khaki pants and burgundy shirt as he swiftly approached the area where the emergency medical folks were establishing their territory. “Hey! I’m a doctor!” he called. “What’s going on?”

The medics were already working and paid him no heed. From beside the ditch Tom issued instructions. When John Richard arrived at the side of the ditch and yelped at the sight there, Tom shook his head grimly.

I pulled myself up, brushed the dirt off my clothes, and walked down the driveway. Neighbors were clustering on their porches. Three men walked purposefully toward the activity, as if they’d been appointed by the homeowners’ association to find out what was going on and therefore were above nosiness. Tom pointed to me, then swept his arm toward the approaching men. Keep those guys away. I picked up the pace.

“Okay, folks,” I said to the men, “just stay back. Please… That man’s my husband and this is a medical emergency.”

One of them, a bald, pinch-faced fellow whom, I recognized as a minor dignitary from the Bank of Aspen Meadow, narrowed his eyes at the ditch.

“That’s not your husband, that’s your ex – “

“The ex and the current,” I replied sharply. “The current’s a cop and he has asked me to keep you all – “

“What happened?” rasped another man. He was short and pudgy and sported a goatee that matched his gray sweatsuit. “Aren’t you… haven’t I seen you… aren’t you the town caterer?” He inhaled angrily. “I demand to know why that ambulance is here. Was there a breakin? I have children. Tell me what’s going on.” The third man, tan, white-mustached, wearing gardening clothes and a billed cap, nodded mutely.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” decibel higher than necessary.

From the ditch John Richard squawked. I couldn’t help it: I turned around. I couldn’t see Suz, but I saw the medics working to hook her up to some equipment. I knew the drill: Check for vital signs. In those horrible few moments they’d already sought her pulse. They’d looked into her eyes to see if the irises were fixed and dilated. The only problem I was having was in accepting the next step. A dull thump reverberated through the air. Dammit. They were trying to get her heart to beat. Once more the thump echoed through the morning stillness.

Even though my view was partially blocked, I knew the next stage was for the paramedics to send. telemetry down to a Denver hospital. An emergency-room doctor would make the declaration to stop trying to resuscitate.

John Richard shrieked: “What the hell is that thing doing there?” He torqued his head around and stared at Suz’s house.

One of the paramedics was holding something. The medic held it out to Tom, affording me a sideways view of it. He held a piece of jewelry, a thick, heavy gold bracelet.

I stared, uncomprehending, at the bracelet, then felt my eyes being drawn to the naked spot on John Richard’s left wrist. My worries about personal bankruptcy seemed a century old. The street felt as if it were moving under my feet. Steady, girl.

“I don’t believe this!” John Richard yelled. “This is entrapment! This is a setup! Why won’t you talk to me?”

The three bystanders I was trying to keep away from the ditch nudged urgently past me.

“Hey!” I yelped. “You can’t go – “

But by the time I caught up with them, they stood beside the ditch. Damn them. Tom could not stop the men from gaping at the medics and poor, wretched Suz; he was talking into his mobile phone. And what was I now hearing? No. Yes. Tom was reciting the Miranda rights to John Richard Korman.