Diane Davidson - The Grilling Season

“Great job,” I told him.

“Need any more help?” he asked energetically.

I surveyed all the work he had done. “Absolutely not. Thank you many times over.”

“Two more things,” he said secretively, then opened the walk-in. He retrieved a pan of grilled chicken. “I followed your recipe for marinating and grilling this chicken. Just a few minutes in the oven and it’ll be ready. I already tasted it. Juicy, succulent, tangy sauce, all that great stuff you always say. I’m a success! I can cook!”

“Macguire, I don’t know what to say – “

“Hold on, look at this.” He pulled out an enormous Bundt cake pan and held it out carefully for my inspection. Suspended sections of grapefruit glistened inside clear gelatin. “It’s from the Fanny Farmer Cookbook,” he said proudly. “Grapefruit molded salad. No mix. I made it myself.”

“You’re wonderful. And you really can cook.”

“Oh, and Arch called just when the Druckmans were getting ready to go to the museum. He was, like, whispering into the phone that the food’s not so good over at the Druckmans’ place. They should be back by now, so I’m taking him some of the burgers you made for the barbecue-that-isn’t-happening tonight. Is that okay?” When I nodded, he added, “Maybe Arch’ll come home sooner than you think.”

Grilled Chicken ŕ l’Orange

Marinade:

Zest of 1 medium orange

Juice of 1 medium orange (approximately 1/3 cup)

1 teaspoon dry mustard

Tiny pinch of cumin (optional)

2 tablespoons red wine vinegar

1/3 cup olive oil

4 boneless, skinless chicken breast halves

Sauce:

2 tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons flour

1 ˝ tablespoons sugar

ź teaspoon cinnamon

ź teaspoon dry mustard

2 tablespoons red wine vinegar

1 ˝ cups orange juice

In a 9-by 13-inch glass pan, make the marinade by combining the zest, juice, mustard, cumin, if using, and vinegar. Whisk in olive oil Spread out a sheet of plastic wrap approximately 2 feet long and place the chicken breasts on it. Spread another sheet of plastic wrap over the chicken breasts. Using the flat side of a mallet, pound the chicken breasts between the plastic to an even ˝ -inch thickness. Remove the plastic wrap and place the chicken breasts in the marinade. Cover and allow to marinate for 30 minutes to 1 hour.

When you are ready to cook the chicken, preheat the grill. Then prepare the sauce. In a wide skillet, melt the butter over low heat and stir in the flour. Cook this roux over low heat for a minute or two, until it bubbles. Add the sugar, cinnamon, mustard, and vinegar and stir until well combined.

Whisk in the orange juice, bring the heat up to medium, and stir until thickened. Lower the heat and cover the pan to keep the sauce hot while you grill the chicken.

Grill the chicken just until cooked through, 3 to 5 minutes per side. Do not overcook the chicken. When serving, place the grilled chicken on a heated platter, pour some of the sauce over it, and pass the rest of the sauce.

Serves 4

“Maybe.” Together, we packed the food for the doll people’s dinner into my van. When Macguire had left with the bag of burgers, I made sure the security system was armed. Then I hightailed it to Suz Craig’s house. I had half an hour before I needed to set up at the LakeCenter.

In the van I fumbled with the buttons on the Aspen Meadow Nursery shirt, then tied the apron around my waist and stuffed what I could of my curly hair under the cap. It was too bad the van said GOLDILOCKS’ CATERING on the side, but I hadn’t thought the Aspen Meadow Nursery cashier would want to loan me one of the nursery trucks.

I assumed a confident, businesslike expression, then hopped out of the van, carrying my shovel and spade. Walking quickly across the lawn, I rounded the house, which still had yellow police ribbons taped across each door. Lucky for me, I knew where the picket fence was. And just as Duke had indicated, next to the roses and musk mallow, gleaming white marble stepping-stones were set around three sides of the fence.

I dug under the first stone and upended it, then dug into the loosely packed soil underneath. Nothing. I set to work on the second and again encountered only dark, loamy dirt underneath the heavy stone. The third and fourth stones were the same.

Exhausted, I leaned back on my heels and wiped my brow. A cool mountain breeze ruffled the tree branches. Without warning, I saw a furtive movement by the next-door neighbor’s garage. I held stock-still and waited, but nothing appeared.

I gazed back at the mess I’d made of the path around Suz’s small picket fence enclosing her water tank. Two more stones to go. The fifth stone yielded nothing. Under the sixth and final stone I hit the real pay dirt. Under a loose inch of soil was a heavy-duty zippered bag. Inside were four audiocassettes.

27

Using my teeth, I wrenched off the work gloves. I shakily unzipped the bag and removed the tapes from their plastic boxes. To my surprise, they were labeled: Corey, Yuille, McCracken, Shelton. And every one was dated Monday, July 14. I shoved the tapes back into the plastic bag, folded the bag under my right arm, picked up the shovel and the spade, and scampered back to the van. I threw the bag of tapes onto the passenger seat, dumped the tools into the back, and jumped into the front seat.

As I was ripping off the nursery apron and shirt, I wondered how I was going to listen to the tapes. I wanted to hear them immediately, but I had to cook if I was going to get my job done. Sitting in my van attending to my tape player wouldn’t get the Babsie-doll people’s final meal prepared. Then I remembered what I’d first grabbed when I was looking for my tablecloth the night I encountered the vandals. I pawed wildly behind the driver’s seat and pulled out Macguire’s Walkman.

I shivered as I faced forward. I glanced in my rearview mirror. Why had I sensed another movement close by? Had someone sprinted across the street behind my vehicle? I set the earphones on my head, put in the McCracken tape, revved up the van, and accelerated down the street.

Voices crackled at a slight distance from the recording device. The first audible words were from Suz Craig. It was startling to hear her voice. “Minneapolis says we’re going to hove to settle, but I wasn’t ready to give in… . Chris? Didn’t she have on abortion a few years back? Anything we could do with that?”

Chris Corey’s rumbly voice was unmistakable: “Not an abortion. Her primary-core physician gave her a referral to a psychiatrist. Anxiety. Don’t know if we can use it. Or how.”

Suz snapped, “Put in a call to that Markasian woman, see if she can run something. God knows, I live in that town now, I have to read that local rag. Markasian’s gone on and on about McCracken’s damn suits. Now she can run an anonymous-source article about McCracken having emotional problems. That’ll balance things out. Make her do it, or we’ll pull our tastefull little ACHMO ad from that damn paper.”

The meeting was interrupted by a woman buzzing Suz to say that Ralph Shelton had arrived. The tape ended. A car behind me honked impatiently. I’d have to wait until I arrived at the LakeCenter before putting in another tape.

At the waterfall between the lake and Cottonwood Creek, the cormorants perched and preened and regally surveyed their domain. I would miss them when summer was over. Similarly, I would miss the red-winged blackbirds, noisy heralds of my arrival at precisely four o’clock at the side door of the LakeCenter. The guard, sitting in desultory fashion on a trash can, waved me over. I was willing to bet there was nothing about his guarding sojourn in Aspen Meadow that he would miss.