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.
“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 r 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
z teaspoon cinnamon
z 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
