Killer Pancake Part 16

A loud knocking made the front-door frame reverberate; a female "Hoo-hoo?" echoed down the hall. John Richard stood with his hands on his hips, unmoving, staring at my collection of cookbooks as if fascinated by their arrangement on the shelf. Arch ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs. He knew he had to get his stuff, and quickly, to avoid a scene.

"Hoo-hoo, Goldy, it's your partner in bleach!" came the voice again.

Frances Markasian peered into the foyer. She had reverted to her normal attire: black T-shirt, frayed blue jeans, duct-taped sneakers, voluminous black raincoat, and equally voluminous black purse. She looked like a skinny bat. "There you are!" she said. "Sorry to be here so early, but I was just trying to catch you before you went to the fair. Is that okay? Can we talk? Can I come in? I won't smoke."

I came out onto the front porch and gestured in the direction of the porch swing. "Let's just stay out here. I thought I heard your Fiat, I just wasn't used to hearing it so early in the morning."

KILLER PANCAKES.

2 cups all-purpose flour 1 cup sugar 1 teaspoon baking soda teaspoon salt 2 egg whites 1 16-ounce can juice-packed fruit c.o.c.ktail, drained and juice reserved maple syrup or chopped fresh strawberries macerated with a little sugar Preheat the oven to 350. Spray 2 non-stick cookie sheets with vegetable oil and set aside.

Sift the dry ingredients together and set aside. Beat the egg whites until frothy. Beat in the juice. Gradually add the dry mixture, stirring until well blended. Fold in the fruit c.o.c.ktail.

Using an -cup (2-tablespoon) measure, scoop dollops of pancake batter onto the sprayed pans, leaving at least 2 inches between the pancakes. Bake for 10 to 15 minutes or until puffed and golden. Serve hot with maple syrup, fresh strawberries, peaches, or other fruit.

Serves 4 Frances backed toward the swing, her head tilted as she appraised me. "Goldy, are you all right?"

I attempted a smile. "Let's just say I had an unexpected visitor early this morning."

"Who?"

"Frances, what exactly is it you want me to do for you?"

She drew out a Marlboro, held it up for my inspection, and I nodded. Much as I hated cigarettes, I knew Frances would get down to business more quickly if she had nicotine. She fished around in her purse for a lighter, brought one out along with a Jolt cola, lit the cig, popped the can top, inhaled, exhaled, and took a big swig from the can, all in a quick series of practiced motions.

"Okay," she said presently, "I need more Mignon cosmetics and I don't want them to get suspicious. So I was hoping you could get the stuff for me-"

"Oh, Frances, for heaven's sake, I have so much to do today-"

"-and I've checked with my editor, and he wants you to cater a big shower, for his wife in two weeks, lots of guests, couples, a hundred people, name your price." She smiled broadly and took another drag.

I guess I could spare five or ten minutes. "Look, Frances. I can't spend a lot of time at that counter today. I have another appointment today, my friend is coming home from the hospital, and I have to cook for a big party tonight-"

"I know, I know, the Braithwaites'. But that's not until tonight, and I was really hoping you could get this stuff for me today." I sighed. When did she think caterers did their preparations? The cigarette dangled from the side of her mouth as she rooted around in her purse again and finally pulled out a list along with a plastic zip bag. She unzipped the bag and fanned out its contents: three hundred-dollar bills. Then she started reading the list: "Magic Pore-dosing Toner, thirteen ounce; Extra Rich Nighttime Replacement Moisturizer, ten ounce; Ultra Gentile Eye Cream Firmer, ten ounce..." She finished reading, inhaled, blew out a fat stream of smoke, then flicked her ashes over the side of the porch and handed me the money. She was probably the last person in the universe who would want to buy three hundred dollars' worth of cosmetics. "Okay? Bring me the change-if there is any-and the receipt in the bag. I mean, not that I don't trust you. But you know."

"Sure, sure, Frances, whatever you want," I replied, resigned. I'd long since found that it was easier just to give in to this most-persistent reporter.

Behind us, the screen door creaked open. A scowl darkened Frances's face. She flicked her cigarette in the direction of the sidewalk and began to root around again in her purse.

"Goldy," came John Richard's angry voice, "would you mind leaving the kaffeeklatsch until later and getting your b.u.t.t in here to look for ... what the h.e.l.l-"

His brow wrinkled and his dark eyes were fastened on Frances as if mesmerized. I followed his gaze back to Frances and saw she was pointing what looked like a hunting knife handle at John Richard's solar plexus.

"Oh, Frances," I snapped, "for heaven's sake, put that away. What kind of thing is that anyway-"

But she paid me no heed. "Get off of this porch," she said calmly to the Jerk. "This is a ballistic knife. The blade is projected from the handle by a spring-loaded device. John Richard Korman, I've just taken the safety off my ballistic knife. I am not in the mood for another baptism by bleach water-"

"b.i.t.c.h!" the Jerk spat out in furious bewilderment. "I don't know who you are or what your problem is-"

The muscles in Frances's unmade-up face were steely. "Funny, I know who you are. And I know about Eileen Robinson, lying in Southwest Hospital with two broken ribs and a pair of bruised arms to match. And I know what happened to me yesterday in the company of Goldy, your not-amicably-divorced-from-you ex-wife. I was unprepared before, but that's over." She waved the knife handle. "I am not even slightly intimidated by you." Sunlight glinted off the weapon. "Move."

Arch whacked the screen door open. "Okay, Dad, I found my sparklers-" He careened into his immobile father. "What's ..." Then he noticed Frances and her weapon. His eyes and mouth opened wide. His eyebrows rose. "Uh. Excuse me? Mom? Should I call 911?"

My ears were ringing with frustration. What if Frances released the knife and it hit Arch? "No, no, don't call. Just go with your dad. Frances, put that knife away. Please. Now."

Frances did not flinch.

John Richard's face was a study in fury. He stuck out his chin and curled his hands into fists. "I don't know who you are, lady, but you're confused. Not only that, but you are breaking the law." She stared right back at him. "Do you have a permit to carry that? I doubt it. I doubt it very, very much." He started in the direction of the porch steps. Down he went, with Frances's ballistic knife following each step he took. As if to attract the attention of neighbors, the Jerk yelled, "You are menacing me, you b.i.t.c.h! Whoever the h.e.l.l you are! Do you hear? I'm going to file a complaint."

Frances retorted calmly, equally loudly, "Be my guest!"

John Richard bounded into his Jeep, started it, and revved it deafeningly. Arch was still gaping at Frances, who had her eyes and weapon trained on the Jeep. "Does that knife have an explosive charge or a spring-loaded device?" he asked in a low whisper. Before Frances could answer, John Richard leaned on his horn. Arch scooped up his bag and sidled over to the porch steps. "Miss Markasian? I don't mean to be, like, judgmental, but I think maybe you should cut back on your caffeine. Don't hurt my dad, okay?" And with that, he sprinted to the Jeep.

Frances pressed her lips together, nudged the safety back in place, and dropped the big knife back in her bag. The Jeep roared away.

"Dammit, Frances, what in the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?"

She picked up her Jolt cola. "I told you. Knowing what I know about what happened to Eileen Robinson, and after that little incident on the roof, I swore I'd be ready the next time. That's it. So when you came out your door looking so upset, and then His Menacing Majesty appeared unexpectedly, there I was, a little girl scout, all prepared." She sighed. "You should get a weapon, Goldy. It really gives you a sense of power."

"No, thanks. When do you want to come back to pick up all these cosmetics I'm buying?"

"Later." And with that she hefted up her bag, for which I had a new and profound respect, hopped down the porch steps, and strode away. I looked up and down the curbs for her car. It wasn't parked on the street. And by the time I looked for Frances, she had disappeared.

Back in the house, I finished making the Killer Pancakes and set them aside to cool. Then I sloshed together a new bucket of bleach water for the fair, carefully covered it, and hauled it out to the van. After packing the Killer Pancakes between layers of waxed paper in a plastic container, I got the spare key to Marla's house from where Julian had left it for me, and started out. Clouds were just beginning to float in from the westernmost mountains. Perhaps it wouldn't be a bright and cloudless day after all. The events of the morning certainly hadn't been very sunny.

By the time I'd let myself into Marla's house, stored the food in the refrigerator, and written a note to the nurse, the westernmost sky was gray with fast-moving, towering thunderheads. Although the rain usually arrived in the mountain towns several hours before it traveled eastward to Denver, even the possibility of being drenched inside a roof tent was unappealing in the extreme. My spirits sank.

The early-bird shopping special had ended Friday. As a result, very few walkers and eaters were lined up outside the mall's entrance. The Spare the Hares! people were nowhere in sight. I parked and hauled all my supplies up to the roof, where a small cl.u.s.ter of people was already beginning to gather. For the early morning musical entertainment today, the food fair organizers had hired a calliope player. The place sounded and felt like a half-empty merry-go-round.

I fired up the burners, set out the salad, bread, and cookies, and plopped the ribs on the grill, where they began to sizzle. That done, I survived the daily visit from the health inspector and started to serve the occasional guest. Pete, whose customers were equally spa.r.s.e, brought me a triple-shot latte and my caterer's uniform, which his wife had washed and pressed. I showed my grat.i.tude by loading him down with ribs and cookies.

"This is probably the best brunch I'll have this year," he said appreciatively. I toasted him with the paper coffee cup. He frowned. When I looked confused, he said, "When you hold that cup up, turn the logo out, okay? I need all the advertising I can get."

I obliged. After a very slow two hours, I packed up the leftovers, returned them to the van, and plucked Frances's list and money from my purse. I had an hour to shop and make it to nearby Hotchkiss Skin & Hair. With any luck, the visit to the cosmetics counter would take less than ten minutes.

There were hardly any shoppers inside the department store either. Dusty Routt wasn't at the Mignon counter. The only sales a.s.sociate was Harriet Wells, and she was writing in the by-now-familiar large ledger.

"Hi-ho, remember me?" I called brightly as I approached.

Her look was glazed, then memories clicked into place and she said brightly, "The caterer!" She glanced from side to side and whispered, "Would you like another m.u.f.fin? Tell me what you think is in this one. The store's so dead today, no one will notice. You look starved." Her laugh tinkled above all the crystal bottles of perfume and bright shelves of makeup.

I gratefully took a fragrant golden-brown m.u.f.fin. I bit into it The orange flecks turned out to be carrot and the spice ginger. I truthfully told her the m.u.f.fin was wonderful and asked for the recipe, always the most sincere form of thanks. While we were talking about the virtues of using sorghum versus honey for sweetener, the ceiling-or something nearby-cracked. Actually, there was a loud cracking sound. I glanced up at the security blind but could see nothing.

"What in the world ...?" I demanded as Harriet offered me another m.u.f.fin.

"Well, you know," she said with a wise smile, "there is a fault line that runs right through Golden. We may be in for an earthquake yet!"

I finished the m.u.f.fin, licked my fingertips, and brought out my list. As I started to tick off the items, Harriet's eyes gleamed.

"Wait, wait," she commanded me excitedly. "Let me get your client card. That's the only way we'll be able to keep track of all these products!"

I didn't want to enlighten her that all this stuff was for someone else. If I did, we would have to start a client card for Frances, or at least amend the one she had, and on and on. As Harriet expertly a.s.sembled the lovely gla.s.s jars filled with creams and lotions, the ceiling, or wall, or whatever it was, made another ominous creak.

"Goodness!" she said, and looked up. "Maybe there's a plumbing problem. Honestly!"

I handed over the money, feeling nervous, feeling that I wanted to get out of the store. But not quite yet. While she was making the change, I asked quickly, "So what do you think happened to Claire Satterfield?"

Harriet shook her head and sighed. "I think she was run down by a member of that horrible group. Those awful people saying"-she made a face-"spare the tares. They've bothered us before."

"Really? How?"

"Oh! They come in here and yell at us. They say, 'How can you sell cosmetics that are tested on poor, innocent animals?' They make a scene and drive the customers away. It's pathetic. Why don't they just go out into the wild with the animals if they love them so much? Why bother us?" She showed me the receipt and made a perfunctory gesture to show the products and receipt to the camera. Then she ducked down and brought out my bag. I tucked it in the zip bag with the change and turned to leave.

Crea-eak! Craa-a-ack! went the wall of the security blind.

"For heaven's sake!" exclaimed Harriet. We were standing not two feet away from each other. I felt another shiver of fear.

"You'd better call security," I said.

Security came. It came in the form of Nick Gentileschi. Above the store entrance, the security blind floor broke open with a splintering crash. Gentileschi's heavy body plummeted from overhead. Oh my G.o.d, I thought as his bulk in its dark polyester suit fell and fell. Oh my G.o.d, please, no ... His body would have hit me if I hadn't jumped out of the way. Instead, his weight landed hard on the gla.s.s-and-chrome Mignon counter. Metal shattered, gla.s.s crumpled, shards flew. At the last moment I thought to cover my eyes. Harriet Wells leapt back and screamed. She kept screaming like a woman possessed. When I uncovered my eyes, gla.s.s was everywhere. Gentileschi's body had landed in an impossibly contorted position. I knew he was dead. In fact, from the stiffness of his body atop the shattered makeup counter, I guessed he'd been dead for several hours before his weight sent him tumbling out of the blind. A gaping hole above the store entrance was jagged with splintered wood. Inside the craggy hole was blackness. Harriet Wells screamed on.

"Oh, no, please," I said as I backed up, away from the mess. "Please let this not be happening...."

Harriet's screams turned into a sirenlike screech for help. Curious customers sidled up to the scene, like filings to a magnet. I was about to turn away, when a flash of paper caught my eye. Something slipped out of Nick Gentileschi's pocket and rested next to the place where the linoleum met the plush gray carpeting.

The slip was actually two pieces of ... what? I looked more closely. Photographs.

I leaned in and stared incredulously at two photographs taken at very close range. A large woman was half-naked, caught by the camera in the act of undressing. A dark skirt hung from the woman's ample hips. A dark-and-light jacket was draped on a wall hook behind her. The top of her body was completely exposed; her b.r.e.a.s.t.s hung pendulously as the camera caught her action of slipping off her bra.

Even slightly out of focus, the woman was recognizable. It was Babs Braithwaite.

I backed away from the photographs, the shattered counter, and the sight of Nick Gentileschi contorted above fluorescent-lit displays. From the corner of my eye I could see Stan White hurtling down the escalator. Shoppers, surprised and morbidly curious, gathered on both ends of the aisle. My feet inched backward until I hit the table filled with zircons. The boxes tumbled. I fell on top of them. I realized that the gasping I heard was coming from me. I closed my mouth, rolled over, and saw Stan White display his badge to the onlookers.

"I'm from department store security!" he bellowed. "Please clear the store. Do not use this exit!" And with that, Stan White turned away from the hesitantly departing crowd and gazed dispa.s.sionately at Nick Gentileschi's body. He felt for a pulse, then stepped into the aisle and loomed over me. In the background, I could hear Harriet sobbing.

"Are you all right?" he demanded.

"Yes," I burbled from the floor, "I think so." My hair was in my face and my skirt was tangled around my hips. I was having a hard time breathing.

"Did you see what happened?" When I nodded, Stan stabbed a stubby finger at me and barked, "Don't leave." He gulped and added, "Please."

Leaving me sprawled amid the fake gems and their velvet boxes, he darted over to the remaining group of gaping spectators. Grimly, he herded them away from the area leading to the counter. Then he pulled displays into the aisles to isolate the area around the shattered gla.s.s, the destroyed merchandise, and Nick Gentileschi's twisted corpse. I watched as he made call after call on the phone behind the cosmetics counter. Harriet sat on a low shelf, her knees to her chest, her back pressed against the cabinet that held the Frosted Cherries Jubilee lipsticks. She was whimpering uncontrollably. Her lovely, perfectly made-up face and manicured hands were streaked with blood from splinters of gla.s.s. Her blond twist of hair had fallen apart and hung in clumps and strands, like remnants of insulation.

I maneuvered myself behind the counter, carefully avoiding the mess, and asked if I could help. Her whimpers immediately turned to wails: "Twenty-eight years! Twenty-eight years in this business! And nothing, nothing has ever happened. Not like this. Why is this ... why?" When I reached for some cotton b.a.l.l.s to dab away the blood on her face, she made batting motions to get me away. "No, no, no!" she screamed. "Leave me alone! Go away!"

Fine, I thought, fine. Wait for the police, paramedics, whatever you want.

"Okay, please move back," said Stan White once he was off the phone. "Please move away from the counter." He scowled in my direction, apparently recognizing me for the first time. "You? What are you doing here again?"

"Nothing." I squeezed past the mess again, in no mood for explanations.

He made an awkward move in my direction, then looked confused. When he caught shoplifters in the store, he knew what to do. When he had a corpse to deal with, however, he was less sure. "Don't leave," he ordered me again. "The police are coming. They want to know if anyone saw ... if there were any witnesses."

"I'm not going." I stood, shaking, on the lush carpet I couldn't bear to look at Nick Gentileschi's corpse sprawled on the shattered Mignon counter. Nor could I listen to another moment of Harriet's abject weeping. Dizziness swept over me. An empty seat in the shoe department beckoned. I sat down uneasily, making sure that I faced away from Nick Gentileschi's body. The store's overhead speakers crackled and the gentle background music stopped mid-bar. A female voice announced that owing to an emergency, Prince & Grogan was now closed. Apparently Stan White had called the office with the intercom. All shoppers should depart in an orderly fashion, the calm voice went on soothingly, either through the exit that went into the parking lot or via the elevator located next to Lingerie. This would take them down to the parking lot exit.

I glanced at the wall display of pumps, espadrilles, and walking shoes, and thought vaguely that the police wouldn't want everyone dismissed. But the store had a reputation to uphold, and that reputation said the only excitement was in shopping. The dramatic loss of their security chief didn't qualify as a good retail experience.

It wasn't long before the Furman County Sheriff's Department arrived in force. Tom must have been tied up with another investigation, because the stern-looking team strode in without him. A victim advocate accompanied them. I stayed only long enough to give my name and phone number and the very spa.r.s.e details of what I'd heard and seen. Cracking noises. A body falling. No one suspicious around. Yes, I'd known the deceased, but only in pa.s.sing. When the investigating officers asked if I knew whether he had any enemies, I said they might want to look at the photos that had fallen out of his pocket. Why? The cops wanted to know. I told them the woman in the pictures had claimed someone was behind the mirror when she was trying on a bathing suit yesterday. The investigating team took their pictures, brushed fingerprint powder over every surface in sight, and sealed up the photos from Nick Gentileschi's pocket in evidence bags. They also strung up yellow police ribbons, a.s.signed a smaller team to start on a search of the store in general and the security office in particular. The victim advocate asked if I needed help. I said I did not, but that I was fairly sure Harriet Wells needed quite a bit of it. A policeman stationed himself at each door. The store was now officially closed.

I looked at my watch: one-thirty. I should go home, I thought. Go home and cook. Forget this event, these people, this place. These people and their products are the farthest thing imaginable from what they say they offer And what did they say they offered? Beauty. Freedom from stress. Longevity. What a joke.

I walked out the exit by the parking lot. Rain pelted down. I slumped onto the curb and again fought dizziness.

Frances Markasian should have come herself to buy her cosmetics. If she had, she would have been the one to see Gentileschi tumble out of the blind and crash onto the gla.s.s. Thinking of Frances made my stomach turn over. She wouldn't be sitting on a curb feeling ill. She'd be back there asking questions and making a pest out of herself.

I was crying. When I tried to wipe my face, I realized that somehow, through the horror and confusion, I was still clutching the bag with Frances's Mignon purchases. The paper, damp and limp from the rain, rustled softly when I looked inside. Yes, there were her jars of stuff and a plastic bag of bills and loose change.

I started walking. I wasn't ready to go back to the van. I needed to move, to clear my head. All around, people trotted through the rain to their cars or to the heavy main doors to the mall. I looked into a Prince & Grogan plate-gla.s.s window. I didn't see the leggy mannequins clad in short black suits, but instead gaped at my bedraggled reflection. Standing there, watching my elongated, pained face, I thought about the body as it came falling down, down, down. What had Nick Gentileschi been doing up in the blind? Especially when department store security supposedly didn't use them anymore? Why were the pictures of Babs in his pocket? Did this have anything to do with Claire's murder?

The cars whooshed behind me on the wet thoroughfare. Oh, Claire, I found myself whispering, I am so sorry. I am so sorry I can't figure this out for you. I am so sorry, Julian. It's just getting worse, instead of resolved.

Like my van returning to Aspen Meadow by rote, I walked as if I had someplace to go. Where was I supposed to go? I couldn't remember. My shoes sloshed through puddles. Cold droplets continued to beat down all around. Kids pedaled past me on bikes. One yelled something like Get inside, lady! But I didn't acknowledge him. Forks of lightning flared in the distance. Thunder rumbled overhead. I walked on. I didn't care about the wet, didn't care that my caterer's outfit was getting soaked. If I got pneumonia, I thought absurdly, I could go to Marla's house and her nurse would take care of both of us. I walked down one street, then another. I saw Nick Gentileschi's body tumble from a great height. Again I heard the sickening crack as his weight hit the gla.s.s counter.

Finally, I stopped. Where was the store, exactly? Where was the hospital? The mall?

Where was I, exactly?

The houses, street, sidewalk, shrubs, and fences swam slowly into focus. I had arrived in the older neighborhood of Aqua Bella that Dusty had pointed out so enviously when we were sipping our lattes on the mall's garage roof. Of course, "older" in Denver usually means "from the 1950s." Along the sidewalk where I stood, drenched and disoriented, a Frank Lloyd Wright-style redstone-and-brick ranch was flanked by a white Georgian two-story with pristine black shutters and a turreted blue and pink neo-Victorian mini-mansion. The Victorian was like a large feminine presence. No one had controlled the zoning along this street, unfortunately, and none of these lovely buildings was an actual domicile. A small sign at the end of the sidewalk to the ranch home indicated it was now the office for a trio of dentists. The Georgian was devoted to accounting.

A blue and pink picket fence primly separated the sidewalk from the lush green lawn in front of the Victorian. White wicker furniture br.i.m.m.i.n.g with blue and pink cushions dotted a s.p.a.cious front porch. An elaborately lettered sign on the picket fence announced that the business was Hotchkiss Skin & Hair.

Behind a gla.s.s door intricately patterned with white metal, the blue front door to Hotchkiss opened. Behind the fence, the rain, and the gla.s.s, a silhouette appeared in the lighted doorway. The visage regarded me, then beckoned. It was the young, cheerful face of Dusty Routt.

I moved toward the Victorian house. Perhaps I had intended unconsciously to come here all along, since I had received the directions over the phone. But Dusty worked at Mignon, not at Hotchkiss. Hotchkiss was Mignon's compet.i.tor. Dusty held the gla.s.s door open as I stumbled inside.

"Goldy! Jeez, come in ... you're, like, totally ... Look at you! You're a wreck! I mean ... I saw in the appointment book that you were coming, but ... you're so late! What were you doing out in the rain? Where's your van? Why didn't you wear a raincoat?"

I found myself in a foyer decorated with pale pink carpeting, matte pink walls, small gold and crystal chandeliers, white leather and gilt wood French provincial chairs, and a long gla.s.s counter arrayed with cosmetic products. The place was so at odds with my drenched, wraithlike appearance that I let out a crazy cackle. Dusty stared. I couldn't tell her what I was thinking-that Hotchkiss Skin & Hair looked like an upscale wh.o.r.ehouse.

A pretty woman stood behind the reception desk. Her wide, pale face boasted dark streaks of brownish-pink blush. Her voice was as soft as her swirled nimbus of cocoa-colored hair and pink mohair sweater. She asked, "Are you ready for your appointment?"

I looked at Dusty. Out of her Mignon uniform and wearing a white shirt and green culottes, she looked younger-more her age. I said, "Nick Gentileschi..."

Dusty tilted her head. "What about Nick? Did he come with you? Is he here?" She glanced back toward the rainswept sidewalk. "He wouldn't come here," she said, confused, "because he works at-"

I cleared my throat. "Nick's dead. There's been an accident at the store."

Dusty's carefully plucked eyebrows shot up. "Oh my G.o.d! Dead? Nick? It's not true. Is it?" When I nodded, she said, "I've gotta go. Oh ... this is unbelievable-"