Diane Davidson - The Grilling Season

Duke raised his bushy blond eyebrows, then tilted the tequila bottle toward his glass. “Oh, sure, she lied. You think everything’s fine, when all the time she’s getting ready to axe ya. But plain and simple? The woman was a bitch. Too damn smart. Never had to learn how to deal with regular people.

Tolerance, you know? She didn’t have none. Patience neither.” He quaffed another double shot. “For example. She trips on her in-grade steps made outa four-by-fours, the ones she ordered, and all of a sudden she wants new steps. Only she wants flagstone this time.”

“Flagstone,” I repeated. “Like the patios?”

“Yah. So we order more flagstones and put ‘em in the garage with the stuff we’ve hidden from the vandals. We build the steps. She doesn’t like the way they look. Fifteen thousand dollars and two weeks’ work time from my crew, and she says, Take out the flagstone, I want granite. Where’m I supposed to get granite steps? I say, Ya want an escalator? I know a guy.”

“Someone did fall down the steps and sprain his ankle,” I pointed out.

The tequila bottle was rapidly emptying. “Oh, I know, believe me. Big fat guy, shoulda watched where he was going. But it isn’t just them steps. She wants white tea roses alternating with pink musk mallow. This is a harsh, dry climate, I keep telling her. Ya want tea roses, ya need Florida. Even if ya put in rugosas, ya need irrigation. Fine, she says, just do it. So we put in a water tank and a drip system. But then she doesn’t want to see the water tank, right? So we have to wait to put in the rugosas and mallow until a picket fence goes up. And then she says, Ooh, ooh, I need stepping-stones around the picket fence. I say, How ‘bout marble? And she gets all huffy.”

Our chili arrived. One bite of the fiery concoction almost sent me running for the creek with my flame-spewing mouth wide open. Instead, I drank deeply of the Mountain Dew, right out of the decanter.

“Damn,” said Duke admiringly.

I ripped into several packages of saltines, dumped them over the chili, and ate cracker crumbs as I unabashedly wiped tears from my eyes. When I could finally clear my throat, I asked, “So what finally happened?”

He stopped shoveling chili into his mouth, chewed, and considered. “After all her complainin’ and moanin’ and us tryin’ to accommodate her? One day we show up as usual, though I’m thinkin’ I’m going to have to give my crew a year’s worth of free beer to keep ‘em on this job, and she comes out and says we’re fired. The fat guy’s fallen down the steps and she doesn’t want to get sued. I say, Fine, lady, we just need our tools, and she says, Make it snappy.”

He ate more chili. I filled his two double-shot glasses. He drank, then sighed. If the chili was scorching his throat, he gave no sign of it.

“Down by the picket fence there are thc rugosas and musk mallow that we just planted. But doggone if she hasn’t put in a friggin’ half-dozer marble stepping-stones, next to the plants, around the fence. Did she do it herself or hire somebody else? I say, Hey lady, who did this? I was only kid ding about the marble, I say, and she says for us to get out pronto and send her a bill.” His face turned morose. “So the nursery, you know, it takes then about a month to itemize the bill. She hasn’t even gotten our bill and she’s dead.” He ate more chili without a wince, then slugged down another double shot.

“What a mess,” I said comfortingly. Duke shrugged. His eyes had taken on a wet, bleary look. “I asked the cops… I said, Could we at least have our plants back? Because I figure we earned them.” He drained another shot glass. “They said… You know what they said to me?”

“Probate.”

“Yah, they said I’d have to wait until probate was over. Until the investigation was done. I said the plants would be dead by then. We never put a pump in the irrigation system.” He scraped the last spoonful of chili from the bowl, poured another double shot of tequila, and downed it. How many had he had? I’d lost count at ten. “Some night when I’m trashed? I’m going to go back over there. Dig up those plants we put in. Nobody’ll miss them. Pee on her patios, too, while I’m at it. Matter of fact, I should go right now.” He regarded me sadly. “Wanna come?”

I said no thanks and paid the bill. By the time I’d deposited Duke at his apartment-he lived in the same complex as Frances-I’d come up with some more questions. But Duke was no help. He stumbled to his door and declared he was ready to dive into bed. At least he didn’t ask if I wanted to join him for that, too.

It wasn’t too surprising, I thought as I turned the van in the direction of home, that Suz had been so demanding about the landscaping. In the case of the catered lunch I’d done for her, I realized in retrospect, she’d been eager to make nice and accommodate the ACHMO people from headquarters. She’d wanted to seem calm and flexible in front of her own department heads. But landscaping was something you had to live with and look at every day, sort of like your bathroom or bedroom. Still, why fire the nursery just because Chris had fallen down? Had Suz found somebody else to do the work for her? Somebody she liked better?

I pulled over on Main Street. It was only one-fifteen; Duke had gotten drunk a lot more quickly than I’d hoped. Cooking could come later. At that moment Macguire was right: I couldn’t quite face going through our door knowing my son wasn’t there. I called Tom on the cellular phone, fully expecting to get his machine.

“Schulz,” he answered gruffly.

“Hi. Remember Suz Craig’s tiff with the landscape people? Did she hire somebody else after that?”

“Well, hey, Miss G., how’s it going? Did you hear we found C-Four in that grill? We put two uniforms on guard at ReeAnn Collins’s room.” I said I knew, but that my urgent question at the moment was about Suz’s landscaping. Tom repeated, “The landscape people. Aspen Meadow Nursery?”

“Somebody new.”

“Not that we know of. I mean, nobody’s come forward saying they need to be paid except for Aspen Meadow Nursery.”

“No bills at all? No mail from, say, a construction company, an independent builder? Somebody in the marble business?”

He laughed. “What in the world are you up to?”

“Nothing. Just trying to fill the time between catered events.” After I hung up, I sat in my van and brooded. Suz Craig had squabbled endlessly and bitterly with Duke and his crew. Then she’d fired them, but only after Chris Corey had fallen. Why? Why hadn’t she fired them when the first problems erupted? And then Suz had put in some marble stepping-stones that Duke had suggested in jest? Why?

Oh, Lord. Why, indeed. Why would Ms. “I don’t do, I delegate” Craig fire her landscapers and put in some stones herself? Because she’d needed to. I made a careful V-turn on Main Street and headed back to Aspen Meadow Nursery.

When I got there, I knew exactly what I wanted. Did they have a cap, a workshirt, work gloves, and a gardening apron emblazoned with the words ASPEN MEADOW NURSERY and their plant logo? The cashier gave me another one of her quizzical looks but said the owner had always told her that if customers wanted something, even if it was the funny-looking rock bordering the parking lot, sell it to them.

“The shirt might not be clean,” she said apologetically.

“The dirtier the better. And I’d like a shovel and a spade, too.”

I put it all on my credit card and raced home. In the kitchen Macguire stood back triumphantly from the mountain range of neatly chopped tomatoes, artichoke hearts, and steamed asparagus. Platters were heaped with sliced Camembert and grated Parmesan. I thanked him. Again I was aware of how much better he looked: healthy skin color, shiny-clean red hair, straight posture, a frame that looked as if it had gained at least five pounds in the last two days, bright eyes, and, best of all, a huge, happy smile. No question about it, I was an herb-treatment convert.