The Grilling Season (15 page)

I
begged the Almighty to help me rest up before church began the next morning. Finally I fell into a restless slumber at dawn. Tom woke me, bearing a cup of steaming espresso.

“If you want to make it to the late service,” he advised gently, “we need to get a move on.” As I struggled upright and promptly winced, Tom added with concern, “Sure you don’t want to just stay in bed this morning?”

I assured him I was just stiff. Plus I’d been up during the night cooking. He shook his head and began to massage my aching shoulders. My lower back was still in spasm, and my right ankle throbbed. After drinking the espresso, I checked the ankle. It was ominously blue-black. I limped into the bathroom to take a hot shower, dabbed bits of makeup over the scratches on my face, and finally felt ready to get spiritual succor. While Arch rummaged through the clean laundry for a pair of pants, I tiptoed into Macguire’s room. His forehead felt hot, but he moaned a refusal when I suggested his seeing a doctor. I begged him to take a couple more ibuprofen,
which he did. By the time I closed his door, he was asleep. Damn Gail Rodine for making Macguire fall into the lake over her damn silly dolls.

When Tom, Arch, and I arrived at the massive oak entryway to St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, the two men in my life held the doors ajar chivalrously. I hobbled through. When the sea of faces turned to appraise my entrance, I immediately realized we’d have done better asking for communion to be brought to the house. For the infirm, having the sacrament delivered was a common enough practice. But it wasn’t a very common practice for a caterer who’d been trampled by an inebriated hockey player the same day her ex-husband was arrested for murder. So I hadn’t thought of it.

Still, I should have known what kind of spectacle, and fuel for gossip, my bruised self would present. The ripple of whispers rose to a wave. Marla, wearing a lilac-print designer sundress, bolero jacket, matching purple earrings and high heels, immediately bustled over.

“I don’t think they’re staring because they want to book a buffet brunch,” she confided.

“Gosh, Marla. Thanks for the news flash.”

The choir shuffled into the vestibule. I took advantage of their arrival to whisper to Marla, “I told Arch I’d ask around about John Richard.”

Her taupe-and-lilac-shadowed eyes widened at my confession. “Bad move, Goldy Schulz.”

Tom guided us to a pew at the back and the four of us squeezed in. Marla hugged Arch and palmed him two Cadbury bars, which he stuffed into his pants pocket. If Marla’s cardiologist ever X-rayed her Louis Vuitton handbag and discovered the
bulges were chocolate bars and cream-filled cupcakes, he’d probably have cardiac arrest himself. She leaned close to me.

“Check out who’s visiting. I’m an Episcopalian, so I can’t point.”

It took me a few seconds of scanning the pews to locate Chris Corey, his sister, the cat-loving Tina, and Brandon Yuille, sitting together on the opposite side of the nave. Tina had already told me she was a parishioner. Brandon attended occasionally. I’d never seen Chris at St. Luke’s before.

“Probably here to plan Suz’s memorial after coffee hour,” Marla whispered. “Anyway. As long as you’re poking around, have you heard anything new? And what happened, did you lose a fight with your blender?”

I glanced quickly at Arch. My son always made a good, but not perfect, pretense of not listening to adult conversations.

“No and no,” I whispered back to her. She opened her mouth, probably to ask another question. Mercifully, the opening bars of the processional hymn rang out. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

As much as I tried to concentrate, my eyes wandered back across the nave where Tina and Chris sat with Brandon. As the Old Testament lesson was read, I tried to recall when I’d seen Tina attending church, if ever.

To my horror, I giggled.
Stress.
I gulped and caught a glimpse of Marla’s puzzled face, as well as the sudden confused looks from the two Coreys and Brandon Yuille. Well, great.

As we rose for the reading from Luke, I thought of what Marla had said about why two
ACHMO department heads would be in church this morning: all the other department heads were away in San Diego. Chris and Brandon were indeed probably here to make funeral arrangements for Suz Craig. Suz had no relatives to perform this task, and Arch had told me that Suz was a nominal Episcopalian. Arch had also reported that Suz had accompanied John Richard on his rare appearances at St. Luke’s. Of course, John Richard did not go to church so much to worship as he did to brag about or show off whatever new possession he had, be it car, condo, or concubine.

Stop.
In any event, our priest, now delivering his homily, liked to think of St. Luke’s as a happy, if not always harmonious, family. Supposedly only family members could use the church building, even if they were dead. You couldn’t be baptized, married, or dispensed to the Hereafter unless both you and the people making the arrangements were churchmembers. So it looked as if Suz belonged to St. Luke’s, albeit posthumously.

Man, what was the matter with me? I squeezed my eyes shut and focused on the intercessions. A woman prayed for the repose of the soul of her neighbor, Suz. By the time I opened my eyes, the woman’s prayer had ended. I had not seen who it was. Brandon quietly echoed the supplication for Suz, then offered a plea for his father, who spent many hours alone. My mind took off again. Brandon had been at the bakery with his father from midnight to five? Sounded like a weird explanation of your whereabouts, even if your father
was
a lonely widower. The idea of
spending many hours alone
made me think of John Richard, who, I was willing to bet,
was not attending chapel this morning in the Furman County Jail.

During the offertory, two visiting bagpipe players sounded the mournful notes of “Amazing Grace.” While one of the choir sopranos sang the lyrics, my brain reverted to Ralph Shelton. Why had I had the strong feeling Ralph was hiding something when I went to his house? He’d been so hesitant, as if he wanted to talk to me but was afraid to. At the words, “I once was lost, but now am found,” I glanced over at Arch. Tears slipped out of his eyes. My heart twisted in my chest.

Forget hugging him. Forget asking what was wrong. I knew better than to treat a fourteen-year-old boy in a way that would embarrass him. Still, it had been years since I’d seen Arch weep openly. I rummaged through my handbag, found a paper napkin, and wordlessly handed it to him. Without acknowledging me, he snatched the napkin. Tom patted my shoulder. Marla shook her head.

During the final hymn, Arch decamped to the men’s room. As soon as he left the pew, Marla leaned over. “We should skedaddle before the horde descends on us during the coffee hour. Let’s see if Brandon Yuille or the Coreys will talk to us. As ex-wives of the accused, we can say we have the right to know why he might have killed their boss.”

“I don’t want to leave Arch….”

Marla said, “Arch’ll be better off with Tom than with you right now. Think about it. Tom should take him down to the jail for visiting hours.” She addressed Tom: “Can the Jerk see Arch today?”

Tom ignored the perplexed glances we were receiving from the people in the pew in front of us
and nodded. “Let me take him down to see his father, Miss G. It’ll be okay,” he reassured me.

My sore shoulders slumped in defeat. Arch returned. The four of us bowed as the cross went by. Then we waited endlessly for the choir, bagpipe players, and priest to process out. When I finally told Arch that Tom would take him to see his dad while Marla and I ran a few errands, he brightened. I was surprised. I’d have thought he’d have responded with apprehension. It seemed I was past knowing what my son needed.

Marla pinched me and I scooted out of the pew, ignoring my aching body. I was feeling every hour of my age today. Once we were outside, she used her sixth sense—the one that fed on gossip—to locate Brandon Yuille and Chris and Tina Corey, who were standing by a pine tree at the edge of the parking lot.

“Yoohoo!” Marla called. “Need to chat for a sec!”

Brandon waved unenthusiastically while Chris, his ankle still in a cast, shifted the weight of his cumbersome body and forced a smile. Brandon, ever sharp, wore khaki pants and a military-style khaki shirt. Tall and heavy, Chris Corey had an enormous potbelly and pale hair and beard. He looked like a young blond Buddha, or rather a young blond Buddha who wore a white dress shirt and gray slacks, and limped. What I’d liked best about Chris when I first met him was that he didn’t insist anyone call him doctor. His rumbly baritone had reminded me of a physician from our family’s distant past. But when I’d asked him if he’d ever treated us—a pediatrician who’d treated Arch, maybe?—he’d said no. Maybe
Chris reminded me less of Buddha than of Santa Claus. When he smiled, his blue eyes crinkled. Apparently, Tina, a female version of her portly brother, hadn’t been able to find a Babsie-goes-to-church outfit. She wore a severe black cotton suit, and her hair was twisted back in a tight bun.

“I know you two probably don’t want to talk right now,” Marla gasped to the men, out of breath from her brief but determined trek across the gravel-covered lot. “Actually, we don’t either.” She feigned a sadness as fake as squirt butter. “It’s just that we
have
to….”

“It’s okay,” Chris replied amiably, tugging on his blond beard. “It’s a tough situation. But we can’t visit for long. We’re here to plan the funeral.”

“We can’t talk very much at all,” Brandon added, his voice tight. He flipped his long, dark bangs out of his eyes. “The priest just has to finish talking to the coffee-drinkers.”

I nodded. The coffee hour was always the time when our pastor had to field questions that fell under the general rubric of pastoral theology. In actuality, coffee-hour questions rivaled anything Ann Landers had ever had to face.
Is God punishing my neighbor with cancer? My son baptized his anole lizard and then the lizard died. Can you give it a Christian burial?
For our spiritual leader, discussing Suz’s memorial service might prove to be something of a relief.

Marla plunged right in. “If our ex-husband goes down for murdering his boss, it’s going to be bad for us, you know. Much as we don’t mind the Jerk suffering, we’d like to know why he killed Suz Craig.”

Chris, Brandon, and Tina stared at Marla, open-mouthed.

“That’s not …” Chris began. “You can’t expect us to discuss—”

“Oh, yes, we can,” Marla continued brazenly. “You guys are department heads with a big corporation. You need to be responsive to the public, or at least to the ex-wives of the guy who’s been charged with murdering your boss. So what we’ve heard is … there were problems with firing at that HMO. Were there problems in the Human Resources department, Brandon? Did everybody hate her?” When he gaped blankly at her, she turned to Chris. “Can you answer our questions? Please?”

I was embarrassed. This wasn’t asking a few questions. This was grilling, with no hot dogs in sight.

“Ah.” I leaned in for a few confidential, light-hearted words with Tina Corey. “That doesn’t look like a Babsie outfit that I recognize. Let’s see … could it be … Babsie-as-a-Choir-Director?”

Tina’s face became rigid. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Goldy, please,” interjected Chris, “could you not—”

“Babsie-as-Altar-Guild-Director?” I attempted, undeterred.

“Be
quiet
,” said Tina.

Startled by her harsh tone, I pulled back. Apparently, Babsie wasn’t a churchgoer. “Sorry,” I muttered. “Er, how’s the cat?”

Tina’s face remained stonelike. She said nothing. Maybe the cat had run away, and she blamed me. I wished I’d kept my mouth shut. Some people
just can’t shoot the breeze when they’re about to plan a funeral. I shot Marla a pleading can-we-leave glance.

Chris squinted over Marla’s shoulder and waved to the priest, who was heading our way with a worried look on his face.

“We don’t want to cause a ruckus,” Chris said soothingly.

“Then answer my questions,” Marla insisted.

“Yes,” Chris said softly. “There were problems at ACHMO. It was not a happy place to work.”

“You all look so solemn. People are wondering what the five of you are discussing out here,” our priest said, joining us.

“Nothing,” Marla said gaily. She always sought gossip but rarely shared it when there was no hope of reciprocal dirt. She tugged me away and I muttered good-byes to the two men and Tina. Marla pulled open the door to her Mercedes. I got in on the passenger side. After the van, sitting in the low-slung four-wheel-drive Mercedes always made me feel like an astronaut en route to Uranus.

“I can ask Brandon Yuille and Chris Corey a few questions if I want,” Marla said defiantly as she slammed her door and prepared to blast off.

“Yeah, right. You can see how well it went.”

“Tough tacks.” She revved the car and zoomed out of the lot, then slowed behind a van crammed with tourists from Kansas. “So who should we be talking to if you’re going to help Arch? And what are we supposed to say? Or haven’t you figured that out yet? ‘Hi, we’re the two ex-wives of the doctor who’s been busted for murder! Can we come in for tea and a little interrogation?’ “

I sighed. “Let’s go talk to Frances Markasian. You said she came to visit you, why didn’t she come to visit me? I think she lives in the Spruce apartments.”

Marla pressed the accelerator. “Now
there’s
an upscale address.”

The Spruce apartment building was a four-story stucco edifice that had probably been constructed when Aspen Meadow was rapidly expanding in the sixties.
Spruce up
was just what the building owners had not done, unfortunately. The seventies had seen the apartment house, which sat perched on a hill overlooking Main Street, painted a blinding yellow. I was willing to wager there’d been no repainting since. Warped and rotted cedar-shake shingles curled on the roof or lay helter-skelter between the crab-grass and the drooping lodgepole pines that flanked the building. Marla pulled the Mercedes next to a wall of yellow cinder blocks that marked off the front parking area. I didn’t see Frances’s Subaru, but knew there was another cracked-asphalt blacktop behind the building where the residents kept overflow cars.