Diane Davidson - The Grilling Season

Slice the asparagus spears into thirds. Slice the cored and seeded tomatoes into eighths. Drain the artichoke bottoms, trim them of any rough edges, and slice each artichoke bottom into sixths. Scrape most of the rind off the Camembert and slice each wheel into sixteenths. (You will have thirty-two pie-shaped pieces of cheese.) In a small bowl, thoroughly combine the mayonnaise, Parmesan, garlic, and herbs.

Preheat the oven to 350°. Butter a 9-by 13-inch glass pan. Assemble the pie by placing half of the shrimp in the bottom of the pan (three rows of 6 shrimp each), then evenly layer half of the asparagus, half of the tomatoes, half of the artichoke bottoms, and half of the Camembert over the shrimp. Using a small spoon, dab half of the mayonnaise mixture over the Camembert layer. Repeat the layers in the same order, ending with the last layer of shrimp. Carefully place the brioche dough over the top and cut several vents to allow steam to escape.

Bake for 45 minutes, or until dough is golden brown and filling is hot and bubbly. Allow to cool slightly before serving, about 5 or 10 mintues.

Serves 6 to 8

Tom shook his head, then measured out the shelled shrimp I needed for the breakfast dish: Doll Show Shrimp and Eggs. I stirred in the shrimp, then removed the pan from the heat. At the LakeCenter this morning I would add the cream cheese chunks to the eggs, vegetables, and shrimp, then bake the dish for a short time, just until the cheese melted and the ingredients had all melded into an irresistible mélange.

“Why don’t you just bake it now?” Tom, ever the efficient cook, wanted to know.

“You can’t put the dish in too early or it won’t come out right.”

“Ah. Well. If I leave now I’ll be exactly an hour late. Think you can handle the rest of the morning?”

“With you for a helpmate, my dear sir, I can handle anything.”

He sighed skeptically. “Just be careful, Miss G., please?”

“Yessir. Now, please, go serve and protect and don’t worry about me, okay? Stop crime. Make America safe for the consumption of apple pie. My apple pie.”

After he left, I brushed my fingers thoughtfully over the ugly bruise on my arm. Something I had seen and something I had said were working their way into my consciousness. It takes at least three hours for an injured area to turn black and blue, I knew that from Med Wives 101. As well, alas, from personal experience.

But black-and-blue marks didn’t form on a corpse, as Tom had pointed out. Suz had had a nasty blowout with John Richard, and she’d had the exact pattern of bruises he usually inflicted. He’d even admitted they’d had a fight. Yet he was equally adamant that he’d left her alive after their argument and gone home. And really, the way he’d acted at my window yesterday was more typical of him: He got frustrated and he blew up. Then he either beat you until you submitted, or until something else stopped him, like the hanging plant Marla had whacked him with once, or the ill-fated ham I’d cracked over his head yesterday.

And Suz hadn’t accidentally fallen into the ditch. She’d been beaten to death with a metal scratching post and then her body had been dumped into the ditch. It didn’t make sense.

Even if someone else had killed her and wanted to put the blame on John Richard, how could he or she even know Suz and the Jerk would be together that night? How could he or she know he’d lose his temper?

And even if the Jerk had beaten Suz up, a killer wanting to pin the murder on John Richard would have had to wait until the bruises formed so that it looked as if John Richard had not only beaten her but finished her off. Like the timing on the egg dish I was preparing, the killer’s timing would have to be perfect.

And then I remembered what I’d said to Tom: You can’t put the dish in too early or it won’t come out right. If John Richard had not murdered Suz Craig, then whoever had had taken great pains to plan it.

I glanced at my watch: seven-forty-five. I quickly packed up the ham, the eggs, and the breads for the breakfast, which was scheduled to start at nine. This last day of the doll show would begin at eleven. The doors would close at four so that the ballroom could be cleaned. Then the show would reopen at five and close at seven. The final dinner for the board and their guests was set for eight o’clock, to take full advantage of the magical evening light on the lake.

I slipped my cellular phone into my pocket, but not before I’d taken note of three numbers: Patricia McCracken, Frances Markasian, and Lutheran Hospital, in case ReeAnn Collins was well enough to talk. Regardless of the fact that I had catering to do today, I had a crime to try to solve. My heart ached. I wanted Arch home. I wanted to know, once and for all, what had happened in Saturday’s early-morning hours. And I was going to find out. For Arch, and for me.

Carefully, I scanned our garage and my van’s interior. No Jerk. Where could he be? Twice during the short drive to the LakeCenter I had the discomfiting feeling that someone was following me. But my rearview mirror yielded nothing unusual, and even when I pulled onto the shoulder of the lake’s frontage road, no one else stopped. I put it down to nerves.

At the LakeCenter the portly, disheveled security guard again looked and smelled like the “before” picture in an advertisement for Alcoholics Anonymous. His disheveled gray hair was a mass of greasy curls; his red-veined eyes resembled a back-roads map of Utah. In the trash can next to him three empty whiskey pint bottles looked incriminating. As before, I felt sorry for him. And like any kind-hearted caterer, I asked if he wanted some coffee and toast once I got the board’s breakfast underway.

“Wha … ? he slurrec. “Break … fast? Oh, yeah. Sure, coffee. Put some brandy in, you got any. ‘Kay?”

So much for good deeds. I sighed and asked if there was any way he could open the side door for me.

“Yeah, sure. Pull your van ‘round the far wall. It’s ‘kay. I can’t leave the front for more than a minute to help ya, though. Gotta protect the damn toys. I’ll open the door from inside, it’s ‘kay, I can trust ya. Right?” He burped and disappeared to open the side door.

While the oven was preheating for the eggs and ham, I sallied back and forth to put down an extension cord for the large coffee urn and set out the silverware and plates. The morning was quite cool, ld the warming promise of the large coffeepot gurgling on one of the picnic tables seemed especially welcome. The pussy willows beside the lake path shifted and whispered in the breeze. A redwing blackbird warned its compatriots of my presence by squawking and raising one wing. I smiled, sliced and ranged the bread, then poured the juice. When I’d given the guard a large mug of coffee and put the eggs and ham in the oven, I dialed Lutheran Hospital I and asked to be put through to ReeAnn Collins. If she was not well enough to talk, I would not press her.

A man, sounding too old and serious to be ReeAnn’s unreliable boyfriend, gruffly answered the lone. I identified myself and asked to speak to Ms. CoIlins. The phone was handed across.

“Helloo-oo!” a woman cooed merrily. “R-ReeAnn!” I stuttered. “It’s Goldy Schulz.

You sound so-good! I was sorry to hear about the accident.”

“Yes,” she said with unusual pleasantness, as if she were enjoying the attention. “Right now I’ve got bandages on my body from the burns. I can’t do much moving yet.”

“I’m so sorry this happened to you.”

“Well, you know, I got thrown into the creek by the explosion. The doctor told me it was a good thing, getting cold water on the burns right away. Anyway, I’m in excellent physical shape. Even though I was numb, I managed to paddle over to the creekbank. Everybody was pretty impressed. Plus now I’m on painkillers,” she added with a giggle. “Beats working, that’s for sure. Gotta roomful of flowers from my boyfriend. Plus, I’ve met a couple of cute interns, if the b.f. doesn’t work out.”