The Grilling Season by Diane Mott Davidson Read Free Book Online Page A

that’s what he always said. He probably hadn’t meant to kill her, either.
    “Do you think he beat her up so badly she died?” Marla asked.
    “Yes, I do. Suz had a black right eye. And bruises on her arms—” I choked.
    “Mother of God.”
    “I don’t know what to do.”
    “Drink your coffee,” Marla ordered sharply. “We can talk about all this later. If you don’t look better in five minutes, I’m calling an ambulance for you and taking Arch home myself.”
    The air inside the van, despite the open windows, felt stifling. Marla slid toward me smelling of floral soap and powder. She’d obviously just jumped out of the shower when Tom called her, and I felt a fleeting sense of regret to have caused her trouble. Then the weight of the morning’s events smacked me like one of those Jersey-shore waves you’re not expecting, and I didn’t know whether I wanted the espresso or enough tranquilizers to put me out for a few days.
    “Okay, Goldy, look at me,” Marla commanded sharply. “Keep drinking that coffee.” I took another sip and stared into her large, liquid brown eyes. “Still feeling light-headed?”
    “I’m doing a little better,” I replied in a voice that didn’t even convince me.
    “Your first problem is Arch. Think what—”
    The sob that nearly choked me turned into another and then a whole barrage that wouldn’t quit. Marla hugged me and spoke soft words of no import. Still crying, I glanced up. Gail Rodine was staring out her front window. She probably wasn’t expecting to see two women, one with a Mercedes and one with a beat-up van, hugging each other while one sobbed effusively, out in front of her elaborate Victoriancottage. On second thought, Gail Rodine probably was about to call the vice squad.
    “I have to get my act together,” I croaked.
    “Yeah, you do,” Marla replied hopefully. “What you need is some medication. Chill you out a little.” She thrust the brown bag into my hand and I peered tentatively at bottles of Librium and Valium, foil-encased capsule samples of God-only-knew-what, even a hypodermic. I carefully pulled out the needle, which was labeled Versed. From Med Wives 101, I knew this was a high-potency tranquilizer.
    “Where on earth did you get all this?”
    “Goldy, with the legion of doctors who are either treating me or going out with me, and an ex-husband who’s a doctor, you wonder that? Which one do you want?”
    “None. I need to parent, cook, cater, and drive this van without benefit of altered states of consciousness. I won’t be able to perform any of those tasks if I’m floating inside a drug-induced cloud somewhere in the stratosphere.” And just as uncontrollably as the sobs had begun, they ended, and I giggled. Marla shrugged philosophically, dropped the needle back into the bag, and shoved the bag into my glove compartment. Then she started to laugh herself.
    “Look, Goldy, I promised Tom I’d help and that’s what I’m going to do. Okay, here’s what you tell Arch. You say there’s been an incident and his father might be in trouble. Dear old Dad’s gone down to the sheriff’s department to talk to the folks there. Dear old Dad will be talking to his lawyer over the weekend. With school out, with no town paper until Wednesday, and with the Denver TVstations covering their own murders, Arch won’t hear about the arrest except from the Jerk himself, maybe tomorrow.” Marla exhaled triumphantly.
    “It’s going to be awful….”
    “Yep,” she agreed matter-of-factly. Again she ran her bejeweled fingers through her tangled, damp hair. “But let me clue you in to something, kiddo. You are not responsible for the Jerk’s problems. He is. A hard lesson that took both of us a lot of years to learn, but there it is. Right?”
    I stared out the window in sullen silence. Hard lesson, indeed.
    “Okay now. Next step,” Marla breezed on, “who’s at home? Somebody to screen your calls? Be with Arch?”
    “Macguire