Killer Pancake Part 15

FUDGE SOUFFLe.

cup unsweetened cocoa powder cup confectioners' sugar 1 cup skim milk cup semisweet chocolate chips 5 egg whites cup sugar teaspoon vanilla extract Lowfat whipped topping (optional) Whisk the cocoa powder, confectioners' sugar, and milk in the top of a double boiler over boiling water until smooth. Add the chocolate chips and stir until the chips are melted. Stir and lower the heat to simmer.

In a large bowl, beat the egg whites until soft peaks form. Gradually add sugar and beat until stiff peaks form. Fold the vanilla and cup of the chocolate mixture into the egg white mixture.

Bring the water in the bottom of the double boiler back to a boil. Stir the chocolate-egg white mixture into the chocolate mixture in the top of the double boiler. Using and electric beater or a whisk, beat this mixture for a minute or until it is well combined. Cover the double boiler and continue to cook over boiling water for 25 to 30 minutes or until the souffle is puffed and set. Serve with lowfat whipped toping, if desired.

Serves 4 "Don't act so surprised. What's Braithwaite going to name the rose? And did you do any research on Hotchkiss?"

His green eyes twinkled. "Charles Braithwaite was naming his blue rose the Claire Satterfield."

"Good Lord!"

Arch stuck his head into the kitchen, waved to Tom, and announced he was going up to bed early. I must have looked stunned. At the beginning of July, Arch was rarely willing to hit the sack earlier than he did during the school year.

"But-" I began.

Arch pulled his mouth into a tight scowl. "I just don't want Julian to think I've abandoned him."

"I'm sure he doesn't think you've-"

But he was gone. I didn't go after him because the phone rang. It was Tony Royce. While Tom savored the fettuccine and polished off the salad, Tony informed me that Hotchkiss Skin & Hair was a privately held company that didn't have to report its profits and losses to shareholders, so the information he'd been able to get for me was sketchy.

"That's okay," I told him. My pencil was poised. "Sketchy is better than zilch."

"Hotchkiss Skin & Hair needs a face-lift, Goldy. We're talking major surgery."

"Skip the puns, Tony-"

But he was on a roll. "I mean," he persisted, "we're talking a company that puts a new wrinkle on financing!" I know Tony and Marla had fun together, and that she thought he was brilliant with money. But the substance of their relationship, I had to admit, I just didn't understand.

"And their financial status is ...?" I prodded.

"Who are you talking to?" Tom suddenly wanted to know.

"Just a sec, Tony." I covered the phone. "Marla's boyfriend. He's an equities a.n.a.lyst, and he looked into Hotchkiss Skin & Hair for me."

Tom was incredulous. "Doing the financial check on the company is our job. What are you doing?"

I said defensively, "I just happened to run into Tony at the hospital. Ill tell you all about it."

"You'd better."

"Okay, Tony," I said back into the phone, ignoring the expression on Tom's face, "what's their financial status?"

Tony Royce snorted. "Terrible, terrible. Hotchkiss has been giving facials for years, when women thought they needed them and would line up out the door to get one. But from a business standpoint, facials aren't exactly a big growth industry these days. They're labor-intensive. Which means expensive, and you can't do a huge markup on them. And, unless you've got a steady demand from the carriage trade to sustain your business, you're out of luck." He paused to sigh, taking deep satisfaction from being the man in the know. "But baby-boomer women ... now, there's an interesting demographic group. The ones who have money mostly work outside the home, and they don't have time for facials. Or," he said with a chuckle, "no advertising genius has yet convinced these women that they need to have facials. So Mama Hotchkiss, sensing she needed to change with the times, decided to launch a new set of products designed for these very same baby-boomer women. It was called Renewal. Didja ever buy any Renewal, Goldy? I mean," he chuckled, "not that you need it or anything."

"Can't say that I made that purchase, Tony."

Another lugubrious sigh. "Neither did anybody else. Renewal flopped. Big-time. Mama Hotchkiss went to the bank for a loan. n.o.body was biting, even when she offered free facials. Bankers don't like facials, Goldy. They prefer to look intimidating and ugly inside their expensive suits so that customers will bow down, sc.r.a.pe, and lick the floor."

Speaking of licking and sc.r.a.ping, I checked on the souffle that I was trying to keep warm for Tom. It was still dark and puffed. I removed the double-boiler top from the heat. I'd found that working with food often helps when listening to arrogant people on the telephone.

"So," he persisted, "what do you think happened?"

"Renewal flopped, just as you said," I replied. "But the business didn't go under. So ... if a cake I'd staked my reputation on flopped, and I didn't lose the business, I'd develop a cookie. Or a torte. You have to sell something."

"Take you out of that ap.r.o.n and put you in a banker's suit, Goldy."

High praise indeed, considering the source. "Thanks. So Hotchkiss started to look for new products? But they needed more money for that, so they went to some pal of yours."

"Hey. I know everyone in the Denver financial community, and I've lived here for only a little over a year."

"You're marvelous. Forget the cookies, I'm going to have to pay you in brownies."

Tony made a long hmmm noise. "So they got a loan to develop new products. Their business plan was drawn up by none other than-"

"Reggie Hotchkiss!" I concluded triumphantly.

"If you knew all this, why'd you ask me?" He sounded peeved.

"I didn't know any of it, Tony. You did sketchy for me, I just filled in the holes. How long does Hotchkiss Skin & Hair have to prove themselves?"

"They report to my banker friend next month. But he's been getting glowing reports from Reg. They've got a new line, they're guaranteed success. Everyone makes piles of money."

Yes, I knew all about their new line, it was fresh from Mignon Cosmetics. But I decided not to mention that to Tony. I asked him how and when I could deliver the promised brownies to him. He said he'd be at the Braithwaites' party tomorrow night, and hadn't a little bird told him I was catering that party? You bet, I said, and hung up.

I told Tom what I'd learned. He even took out his trusty spiral notebook and jotted down a few notes. Then, while he watched in amus.e.m.e.nt, I flipped through the phone book, located Hotchkiss Skin & Hair, and put in a call. Lucky for me, the corporate number had a tape saying if I wanted a facial or any one of their products, leave my name and number. Someone would get back to me just as soon as one of their skin-care staff became available.

I summoned a frantic voice. My newly discovered acting ability was going to get me into deep trouble one of these days, but right now I had to admit I was rather enjoying it. "This is Goldy Schulz calling, and I need a facial at your earliest convenience! I ... I saw a brochure of your new product line and I want to buy everything. Everything. I need it! You have to understand, I'm desperate! I know you all are the ones who can help me!" I left my number and disconnected.

"Woman," Tom mused as he rinsed off his dish. "Sometimes I don't know what to think about you."

I ladled scoopfuls of hot fudge souffle into bowls and spooned on lowfat whipped topping. I handed one to Tom. "I've told you all I know. Now, what did you find out about Hotchkiss? And what about Shaman Krill? What he's up to?"

Tom shook his head and took a bite. "Oh, G.o.d."

Oh, G.o.d, was right. The fudge souffle was warm and rich, and melted on the tongue, just the way the thousand-calories-a-bite hot fudge sundaes did. Marla was going to love this. "Tom? What did you find out?"

He wrinkled his brow and dug into the souffle. "Hotchkiss is in trouble financially. Desperately needs to have success with his new line."

"If you knew all that, why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I have ways of investigating that don't involve sleazy characters like Tony Royce."

I sighed. "So you don't mind if I get a facial?"

"'Course not. Just don't-"

"Get into trouble, I know." I felt guilty not telling him about the bleach water and the threatening note, but I knew he would halt my sleuthing around immediately if I 'fessed up. "There's a ton of fudge souffle here," I warned him. "Both of the guys went to bed already, so I hope you'll eat more."

He gestured with his spoon. "Remember when you were living with the Farquhars, and you told me all about how chocolate was an aphrodisiac?" I nodded, and he picked up our bowls and put them in the sink. Then he pulled me up from my seat. It was so unexpected that I laughed. Maybe because he'd been gone so much lately, it felt as if we were going to be newlyweds forever. He kissed my cheek, then my other cheek, then my ear. "Isn't that what you told me? You're such a great caterer. To do all that research, I mean." He narrowed one eye and arched one of those bushy brows. "Tell you what, though, I've always thought of myself as a good cop."

"A great cop," I corrected him, and kissed him back.

"But I certainly," he said as he scooped me up easily into his arms, "never"-I squealed as he started to walk out of the kitchen-"ever," he said emphatically as he carried me up the stairs to our bedroom, "had this much fun doing police work in my entire life."

So much for second helpings.

Sat.u.r.day morning, July 4, brought a very early call for Tom. His subsequent departure accompanied a mumbled farewell to me that I thought included words about bail. But I was still half-asleep, and registered only the loss of his body heat from our bed.

At half past five I gave up on slumber. Daylight had invaded our bedroom, and the morning concert of birds was in full swing. I was exhausted. I'd crept downstairs at midnight when I heard Julian talking on the phone. His tone had been the one he used with friends-confiding, pleading. I can't stop thinking about her. When they take the body, it'll be like she's really dead. Why would someone do this? I'd felt guilty listening in and tiptoed back upstairs. Now, with another food fair day looming and no relief in sight for Julian's pain, I felt as if it was all too much.

I pushed the window open, took a deep breath of cool, sweet air, and gazed at the bowl of ultra-blue Colorado sky. Stretching up to the horizon, vast expanses of pines covered the closest mountains like thick waves of forest-green needlepoint. Brilliant chartreuse groves of aspens in full leaf patched the deep green undulating over the hills. The air was extremely still. Aspen Meadow Lake offered a plate-gla.s.s reflection of the spruces and ponderosa pines lining its sh.o.r.e. With any luck, this weather would hold through the food fair and the fireworks at Aspen Meadow Lake.

I went through a slow yoga routine, fixed myself a cappuccino, and moved efficiently around the kitchen to a.s.semble more ribs, salad, bread, and cookies. I caught sight of the bag that had held Marla's hand cream and realized it was finally Sat.u.r.day. The day Marla was due home. Also the day Claire's parents were arriving from Australia to claim her body.

I sat at the kitchen table and tried to remember if Julian had told me what he was doing today. Had I failed him in not being around during this painful time? At least during the night he'd been seeking companionship by talking to someone on the phone. I sipped the last of the cold coffee, rinsed my cup, and caught sight of a note Julian had left under a refrigerator magnet. He had arranged to get together with some school buddies. Would I please, he wanted to know, leave him instructions for preparing the Braithwaites' Fourth of July party tonight? I'll be home by ten AM., and I want to learn how to do that turkey curry, he wrote in his small, cramped script, so don't just give me the easy stuff! And then-Did you find out anything about Claire? J.

Grief tightened my throat. In two months Julian would be at Cornell. A year ago, he'd needed a place to live for his high school senior year, a salary for his work with the catering business, and a short course in food service before he began his official college studies in food science. But the tight family unit we'd developed since had come as a bonus, a surprise, a slice of what the theologians call grace. Now his departure loomed like a black hole. I punched b.u.t.tons on my kitchen computer to bring up the menu for the Braithwaites. My mind mulled Julian's last plea: Did you find out anything about Claire? No, Julian. Nothing helpful. Nothing to answer your questions or to ease your pain. Nothing to explain why I-and by extension, my family-was being threatened. Yet.

Through an effort of pure will, I pushed the sadness aside. I wanted to help Julian patch his shattered young life back together. That would be my farewell present.

In the interim, it was time to work. My screen held the lowfat menu Babs Braithwaite had ordered: Cuc.u.mber-Mint Soup, Barbecued Fruit Skewers, Turkey Curry with Raisin Rice and Condiments, Vegetable Slaw, Homemade Rolls, Frosted Fudge Cookies. Honestly, lowfat food was beginning to dominate my life. The printer spat out the menu while I checked that we had all the ingredients for the curry and the cookies. I removed ground turkey from the freezer to thaw, then chopped onions and apples for the sauce. I scrawled a note to Julian that he could start by chopping the fruit for the barbecue skewers.

The phone rang and I gave my usual greeting: "Goldilocks' Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right!"

"Ah, may I speak with Miss Shulley?" The voice was high and extremely snooty. I figured it was a wrong number, but the caller plowed on to explain: "This is Hotchkiss Skin & Hair. Is Miss Shula available? She requested an urgent appointment for skin treatment and asked to order all the products from our catalogue. I was wondering how she planned to pay for her order."

My blood ran cold. I'd never even had a facial, and here I was, a not-well-to-do caterer ordering all kinds of hideously expensive products and making an appointment for a treatment-which the woman p.r.o.nounced with the same kind of awe usually reserved for electroshock therapy-under false pretenses. The caller was bound to ask all kinds of questions I was not prepared to answer-What is your skin type, or do you even know? Is this your first visit? How many years of neglect are we talking about? I pressed my lips together and wondered how much of a drain it was going to be-from time, money, and emotional reserves-to find out exactly what Reggie Hotchkiss was up to.

"This is Mrs. Schulz. I made the call. And I have a coupon for the facial."

The voice became instantly ingratiating. "Oh, Mrs.... Zult, we can take you at your earliest convenience. There's no problem with scheduling a skin treatment. And of course we'll also provide you with all the products you requested. How soon can you make it in today, and do you plan to pay by check or credit card?"

Why did she need to know this? Did they have people stiff them for soap and moisturizer? "Ah ... well, I live up in Aspen Meadow-"

"In the country club area? Or in Flicker Ridge?"

Needless to say, the answer to that question was neither of the above, although I catered in million-dollar homes in those areas quite often. I imagined my interrogator with a pen poised over the same kind of client card that Dusty had filled out for me at Mignon. I said, "How much ... er ... time should I allow?"

"Well, Mrs.... Shoop, that depends on what you would like us to do for you. What problems are you having with your skin?"

"Aah ..." What problems, exactly? "My ... er ... face is in a state of crisis. I ... don't feel as if I'm as attractive as I could be."

"Mrs. Chute," purred the smug voice, "that's why we're here! You'd best allow two hours for a facial and makeup application. That's not very long to undo several decades of abuse."

Decades of abuse sounded a bit extreme, but I said only, "Two hours? I can be there by one. How do I get there from Westside Mall?"

She explained where in the Aqua Bella neighborhood Hotchkiss Skin & Hair was located. I could drive or I could walk.

"And with the coupon," I said uneasily, "just how much more will it cost to undo several decades of ... complexion problems?"

She told me. I said I'd put the whole thing on my credit card, hung up, then grabbed the counter to keep from fainting.

"Gosh, Mom." Arch entered the kitchen from the direction of the TV room. He pushed his gla.s.ses up his nose. "Now what?" Today's tie-dyed T-shirt was a symphony of bilious colors.

"Remember ... when your soles separated from your sneakers and I couldn't afford to buy you a new pair?"

"Only dorks call them sneakers these days, Mom. But okay, sure. That was in November of sixth grade. You got me some new athletic shoes at Christmas. So?"

"I'm about to spend the cash equivalent of ten pairs of athletic shoes."

Arch, being a literal fellow, looked at my feet. "Why'd you do that?"

"'Cuz my face needs it."

He slowly raised his large brown eyes behind their tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses from the floor to my face. "Am I missing something here?"

"Oh, Arch. I'm sorry. You went to bed early, and now you're up early. What you're missing is a nice breakfast. How about some?"

Unlike the previous day, he brightened. You never could tell with kids, when they would be hungry. But breakfast, unlike the world of beauty, was something we both understood. Since Marla was coming home in the late morning, I resolved to prepare a dish that I could take over and leave for the private nurse to heat up in Marla's kitchen. Something healthful that wasn't oatmeal. If I worked quickly, I'd still be able to set up for the food fair with time to spare. Watched by my ravenous son, I began to measure flour and whip yet more egg whites. Something beautiful and appealing to the eye and to the tongue. Something breakfast-y that would satisfy Marla's sweet tooth. Something that could be frozen and reheated without catastrophe.

Within moments I was dropping dollops of batter speckled with fruit c.o.c.ktail on a nonstick cookie sheet, and feeling pretty smug. Arch transported the food for the fair out to the van, and by the time he was finished, a delicious pancake aroma swirled through the kitchen.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," he said as he mixed Dutch cocoa powder with sugar to make hot chocolate. "Julian's gone to visit some friends. He left early. And Tom left early too. Tom said to tell you Krill is an actor. I thought krill lived in the ocean."

I said I wasn't exactly sure, but I thought Krill was just some weird guy who was very convincing acting like a weird guy. I brought out the cookie sheet with the fruit-c.o.c.ktail pancakes. Arch oohed approvingly at the golden, puffed rounds. He heated maple syrup-a mail-order gift from his grandparents, who doted on him-while I put together a fresh strawberry sauce for Marla.

When his mouth was full, Arch said, "You m'berd's c'ming early f' me today?" When I glared, he swallowed and repeated: "You remember Dad's coming early for me today? We're going over to his condo for the Fourth. I think Keystone puts on some fireworks. Now do you remember? Not as good as Aspen Meadow Lake, probably," he added, no doubt to console me.

"No," I said lightly, "I didn't remember, thanks for reminding me. Are you packed?"

"Sort of. I still have to find my sparklers. Hey, Mom! These pancakes are awesome ... I mean, cool! You should call them Killer Pancakes!" He shoveled in a few more mouthfuls. I looked out my kitchen window and found myself wishing for some of that soothing saxophone music. But at this hour, the only sound was the morning rush of traffic down Aspen Meadow's Main Street, topped by a louder, closer sputter of a foreign car coming down our road. The sound was familiar, and I knew it the way I knew the sound of the mailman's old grinding Subaru. But I couldn't place it. Then I did hear a familiar roar-the Jerk's Jeep. I sighed and headed for the front door to let him in before he staged some sort of stunt. He'd never touched me when Arch was present. On the other hand, when it came to my ex-husband, there was always a first time for most things bad.

I opened the door and he strode in angrily. He bellowed for Arch. He seemed loaded for bear, although I judged him to be sober. Of course, I'd been wrong about that before too.

"In the kitchen!" was Arch's fearful response.

"Don't mind me," I said as I started to close the front door, then thought better of it and left it ajar.

John Richard bent over Arch's plate which held only a half-pancake in a puddle of syrup. Then he slowly moved his eyes to stare into the half-full cup of hot chocolate. Arch, who had stopped eating, gave me a confused glance.

John Richard rasped, "Why do you eat that s.h.i.t your mother gives you? You want to grow up fat and sick and have a heart attack like Marla?"

I said, "Get. Out." Why was he doing this? Did he secretly feel guilty himself about Marla having the heart attack? Unlikely.

"Gee, Dad," Arch interjected, "it's okay-"