Diane Davidson - The Grilling Season

“ReeAnn,” I whispered with relief.

“Plus,” she continued gaily, “there’s a cop at the door and one here to answer the phone, ‘cuz the sheriff’s department figured out there was explosive in the grill.”

“What.?”

“Oh, I forget what kind it was. The boyfriend feels guilty.” She sighed. “Somebody supposedly from his bike shop called and said ‘Forget the sandwiches.’ Then whoever it was set up our lunch for twelve-thirty. I was going to get there at noon, dump charcoal on the grill, get it started. I got to the park, dumped on the charcoal, and the grill went ka-boom. Total bummer. So,” she said in a hungry-for-news voice, “how’s John Richard? Have you gotten any money? Think he’s going to be able to give me my last paycheck?”

I swallowed. “You haven’t heard from him?”

“Are you kidding?” she scoffed. “The only people I’ve heard from are my boyfriend, my mother, and the damn ACHMO people. They still seem to think I’ve hidden some tapes of theirs. I told them what I’ve always told them: Go to hell. Now the sheriff’s department screens my calls. So have you gotten your money or not?”

“No, I haven’t gotten it.” I thought again about my speculation concerning timing. What had John Richard and Suz been arguing about Friday night at the club? “Ah, ReeAnn, if it’s not too much trouble, do you remember if there was something that happened on Friday, some negative thing that could have set off a fight between John Richard and Suz Craig?”

How could I forget? It was the last day I worked with him. That Friday, a FedEx came. When I opened it, I thought, Uh-oh, the doc’s going to be ticked off now! First the condo in Keystone, now he’s gonna lose the one in Hawaii!”

“And the FedEx was…” .. A letter from Suz Craig’s office at ACHMO. Saying no bonus this year. He went ballistic.”

No kidding. But this was interesting, since I was thinking about timing. The no-bonus notice hadn’t come by postal service – too unpredictable as to arrival time. Nor had the denial of bonus come as a phone call-too easily argued with. Whoever had sent the letter had sent it FedEx, so he or she could be absolutely certain the message would arrive on a certain day, and virtually guarantee a conflict.

“What did the letter say?”

She sighed impatiently. “Something about how we hadn’t done the billing properly or consistently or within their guidelines or something. And he wasn’t going to get his bonus. That’s it. At the bottom, it said, ‘signed for and on behalf of Suz Craig.’ I told him it was because she was afraid to sign it!”

“Who signed it for her?”

“Didn’t say. I couldn’t tell, anyway, because John Richard snatched that letter away and started to have one of his fits.”

I gritted my teeth. I checked the timer for the eggs: one minute to go. The doll collectors had gathered outside and were drinking their juice and pulling large cups of coffee for themselves from the silver urn. “ReeAnn, look, I just have one more question for you, and it has to do with Suz Craig.” She groaned. “I’m just trying to figure out about that night, Friday. Was there any reason they were going out? Did they have a standing date for Friday night?”

“Oh, now that I do remember, because Ms. Crank was always wanting them to celebrate their little anniversaries. First month of going out, they exchange balloons; second month, they buy each other workout clothes; on and on until they’ve been going together six whole months, then she gets a fur coat and he gets an ID bracelet, for God’s sake. Pull-leeze.”

“And Friday night was…”

“August first? The Month Seven anniversary, where have you been? I think she wanted tickets to Bermuda, but instead she got herself killed. What can I say? She should have given him the bonus. Oh, man, listen to me. I need another painkiller.” Chortling, ReeAnn hung up.

The timer beeped. I took out the casserole and had a taste with a small plastic spoon. The silken texture of the eggs, combined with the tomatoes, leeks, hot, barely melted chunks of cream cheese, and seasoned poached shrimp, was divine. I carried the pan out and placed it next to the warm ham and baskets of bread. The doll board members included Tina Corey dressed as Sea Queen Babsie and Gail Rodine in a formidable wide-brimmed hat covered with netting. They all piled up their plates with food and talked excitedly about what a smash their opening day had been. I was surprised to see Frances Markasian, her wild black hair and ratty trench coat at odds with the perfect coiffures, stylish clothes, and occasional doll costumes of the board members, at the end of one of the picnic tables. She whispered to me that she was covering the show for the paper.

“I’m telling you, Goldy,” Frances said as she shoveled up a heaping forkful of eggs, “I’m going to have to do a bikers’ convention next, to recover from this.”

“I need to talk to you,” I whispered back. “I’m just about done serving here, and I was going to call you today, anyway. I have some information and some… lingering questions about Suz Craig’s murder.”

She brightened. “You promised you’d share stuff with me and you’re actually going to do it? Wonders never cease. These eggs are yummy.”

“Thanks. I’ll give you the recipe. Want to talk?” I asked conspiratorially.

She dropped her fork, eased off the picnic bench, and shouldered her huge purse. “I need to take notes while we talk. Let me meet you in the kitchen, before I die of ecstasy.”

25

I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately, Goldy,” Frances announced when she’d heaved herself up on one of the counters, armed with her notebook, a newly popped Jolt cola, and a cigarette strictly for-bidden by the signs posted everywhere in the LakeCenter. She blew the smoke in a rolling stream out the kitchen’s open window. “With all that John Richard’s up to, it’s almost as if you’re being punished, too. I heard he beat you up and then skipped. Any idea where he is?”

“No. And if those women catch you smoking around their precious dolls, you’ll be punished so badly you’ll never be able to say the words ‘Bail-Jumping Babsie’ again.”

She shrugged. “Aw, you’re breaking my heart.” The cigarette dangled from her thin lips. “Spill it. Tell me everything you’ve got. I’ve got a police band radio, remember. How badly did John Richard hurt you yesterday?”

“I’m okay,” I said briefly. “You remember who Ralph Shelton is?”

“Course I remember. I may have been cover Monday morning, July 14. The missing day in Suz’s secret tapes. On that Monday morning, what had Ralph Shelton talked to Suz about? Had Ralph received some of Suz’s wrath that day, too? I had no idea. Could the Jerk have Suz’s tapes from July 14? Had whoever tried to blow up ReeAnn thought the Jerk had given ReeAnn those tapes? Didn’t know that either, and I certainly wasn’t going to start speculating with Frances. We were friends, but there are some things you just don’t share with a journalist.

“I still think Korman did it.” Frances stopped scribbling but held her pen poised. “I’m just looking at ACHMO for my other story. But you’re really into this.”

I slumped against the counter. “It’s awful.”

Frances energetically stubbed out her cigarette in the sink, then slapped her notebook closed. “Two things, Goldy. You seem very stressed. It’s your involvement in this case.”

“Oh, gee, Frances, how would you like it if your violent ex-husband was accused of murder? How would it feel if he came over and tried to beat you up before escaping to God-knows-where? Relaxing? Besides, I’m asking questions to soothe Arch, I told you.”