Killer Pancake Part 21

His face colored in great red and white splotches that dashed with the loud shirt. "What?" he bellowed. "What?"

"Excuse me, Reg," I said, furious myself now, "I think you know quite well what I'm talking about. I catered that banquet for Mignon. You were there too, spying in your cute blond wig. You got your list of what you figured would be money-making Mignon products and you just copied them into your fall catalogue. Anybody with half a brain could see the plagiarism."

His face contorted with rage. Maybe I'd gone too far, maybe it took a full brain to figure the theft he'd committed. But he'd made me so angry with his accusations, I couldn't help it. And besides, I hadn't told him the cute blond wig had fallen on my head when I was escaping Lane, the needle-wielding facialist.

"You are in some kind of trouble," Reggie warned in an ominous voice. This time the index finger trembled when he pointed. "You have just dug yourself into a hole so deep, you'll never get out, lady. You-"

"Hey, you stupid f.u.c.k!" yelled Julian from the deck door. He strode angrily out onto the deck and squared off against Reggie's patriotically clad paunch. "What'd I tell you about not threatening her?"

"I know who you are too," Reggie raged at Julian, still wagging his finger. "You're the low-cla.s.s creep that Claire Satterfield had finally decided was her one and only. Lucky you, boy. She went from robbing the grave to robbing the cradle!" The colors in his face were decidedly unhealthy.

"You better watch what you say," growled Julian, suddenly aware, as was I, that the rest of the guests had appeared on the other deck, their faces filled with curiosity about the disappearance of their fellow guest, their servers, and the resulting commotion.

Reggie held up his hands. "No compet.i.tion from me, guy. I didn't want to sleep with her, I just wanted to hire her. That woman could sell cosmetics just by standing still. How was she in bed?"

That did it. Julian lunged forward. Reggie began to whack indiscriminately. I tried to step between them and caught the brunt of Julian's forceful, angry body on one side and Reggie's chest on the other.

From the middle of the male sandwich, I choked out, "Go inside, Julian! Please!"

He obeyed by whirling around and striding angrily back into the kitchen. Reggie Hotchkiss fell against the deck rail. Absent male support, I tottered on the deck planks. I caught my balance just a moment before my trajectory would have landed me on the grill. The pain from Julian's body crashing into mine was concentrated in my head. I rubbed my temples and tried to clear my brain.

When I looked up at Reggie Hotchkiss, he had recovered. Standing stock-still, he hissed, "I have been mistreated and misjudged, and I am not going to forget it."

"Fine."

He brushed imaginary dust off the American-flag shirt and made his final p.r.o.nouncement in my direction. "In the cla.s.sless society," he said as he headed for the deck stairs, "there will be no need for servants. You will be obsolete." He trod heavily down the wooden steps and headed for his Bentley, presumably not the same one he had driven up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

Everyone was staring. I asked lightly, "In the cla.s.sless society, who does the cooking?"

Sensing that the excitement was over, the guests on the deck turned their attention back to Babs. Her perfectly made-up face was trembling with anger, but she managed to announce breathlessly that, goodness, time was marching on! Each guest was to carry a sparkler and a gla.s.s of sparkling wine down to the lower garden. Lawn chairs were set up there, she trilled on. Even as she spoke, the maid was moving across the yard lighting upright torches. The dark-haired woman Reggie Hotchkiss had come with volunteered to light the sparklers and pour the wine. Her high, laughing voice seemed to indicate that she minded not in the least that Reggie had deserted her.

But there was more abandonment going on. In the fading light, Charles Braithwaite skulked away from his guests, walking swiftly down the path toward his greenhouse. From the furtive, quick nature of his stride, it didn't look as if his purpose was to set up chairs, join in festivities, or have sparkling anything.

I took a deep breath of evening air and tried to remember what I still had to do. Babs was paying her maid to stay late and clean up, so all Julian and I faced was packing the pans and containers we had brought and schlepping them back down the deck stairs to the van. But cigarette smoke drifting upward from underneath the deck made me doubt Julian's commitment to the packing task.

"If a caterer is smoking next to the house," I announced downward into the deepening darkness, "that could get him into distinct trouble with the hostess, to the extent that a certain caterer and her capable a.s.sistant wouldn't get paid. We might not get paid anyway, after having a little squabble with a guest." I didn't tell him I needed help. If Julian wanted to unwind from his encounter with Reggie Hotchkiss, then that was fine by me, as long as he didn't get into any more arguments. Arch was in Keystone; Tom was working late; I had nothing to look forward to except an empty house and a rousing argument with Tom over switching my food. The later I got to it, the better.

The glowing b.u.t.t of Julian's cigarette moved past one of the torches. I watched him turn not toward the garden, but in the direction of the greenhouse. After I'd brought our platters in from outside and come back out to check that the grill was off and the deck clear, I couldn't see him anymore, as the guests holding their champagne and their twinkling sparklers moved in a slow, loud knot down to the chairs.

The maid bustled about helping me clean pans. I checked my watch when all the catering supplies were in boxes: Nine forty-five. Julian had not returned. The fireworks would be starting soon. There was no sign of Charles Braithwaite either, but that didn't surprise me. I decided to wait ten more minutes out on the deck. It was not like Julian to be inconsiderate. On the other hand, he'd been so upset that he probably lost track of time.

There was a flash of light followed by a loud peh-beh! sound and a puff of gray smoke beside the lake. A white shot of light rocketed upward, paused, and then a shower of white lights sprayed down from the sky over Aspen Meadow. The blossom of brilliance reflected gloriously in the smooth surface of the lake. The show had begun.

There was another boom and flash, and this time the shower of overhead glitter was emerald. In the few seconds of light, my eyes scanned the garden and the greenhouse. Julian's silhouette was briefly visible, along with the smoke from a cigarette. He was standing beside the rose-laden fence.

For heaven's sake, I wondered, what was he doing? An explosion-generated scream accompanied the next luminous fall of bits of light, and I felt a wave of unease. Impulsively, I headed toward the torchlit path. Maybe Julian was watching the fireworks and had forgotten about me completely. Maybe he was in one of his grieving-and-smoking spells and needed me to snap him out of it.

I made my way down the paved walk and learned to fix the path ahead by stopping at the torches, then waiting for the intermittent sprays of colored lights overhead. I knew I was getting close when the heady smell of roses and the laughter of Babs and her guests announced my proximity to the split-rail fence. I maneuvered around the fence and soon found myself at the edge of the greenhouse.

"Julian!" I whispered. "Where are you?"

"Over here!" came his called response after a moment. "Come on around to the front!"

I followed his voice and tried to figure out where the front was. In a flash of pink and blue sparkles that reflected in the near side of the greenhouse panes, I saw that I was on the shorter wall. The door was probably somewhere along the longer one. When I came around to the length side of the greenhouse rectangle, I could make Julian out. He was standing beside a slightly open door.

"Julian! For heaven's sake! What are you doing?"

"Sorry if you've been waiting for me," he said when I was by his side. "I was thinking about that awful Hotchkiss guy ... and smoking where Babs couldn't see me ... and then I ... well, I just got here. The door is open, and that worries me."

"You stayed down here in the dark, and left me to wonder what in the world had befallen you, and now you're worried about a door? So what about the d.a.m.n door!"

Julian's earnest, boyish face and blunt-cut blond hair was suddenly revealed by a glistening shower of red, white, and blue. "Don't be upset," he pleaded. "It's just that Dr. Braithwaite ... you don't understand, he would never leave this place open! Especially if he was going to be having guests who were strangers. The guy's a security nut about his experiments. I don't know where he is, but I think I should stay here and guard the place until he gets back. He's got a lot of stuff in there that's pretty dangerous."

I took a deep breath and tried to think. Really, Julian's loyalty to Charles Braithwaite was admirable. Misguided, but admirable.

"Okay look," I told him, "we can't stay here and wait for the host to show. Just close and lock the door. Please."

"No," said Julian stubbornly. "I owe it to Dr. Braithwaite at least to check if there's been any damage. Then we can call the police or something."

"Okay then," I said as amiably as possible. "Let's go inside and turn on the light, if there is one, and see if there's been any vandalism or whatever. Maybe there's a phone to call the main house or the police. Otherwise, we really need to go back up to the house."

"Okay, okay." Together, we moved up the concrete steps to the open door. "Actually," he added meekly, "I was kind of afraid to go in there alone."

Well, that was just peachy, I thought rather indignantly, as my hand felt along the inside of the Plexiglas. Did a lot of stuff that's pretty dangerous include woman-eating plants? I groped along the slick surface. My fingers brushed something cold and I instinctively recoiled. Then I realized it was a conduit leading to a light switch. Triumphantly, my fingers found the switch. I flipped on an overhead fluorescent fixture.

After the near darkness it took a moment to adjust to the light. Julian stepped forward and peered around the greenhouse, which really looked more like a lab than a place to raise flowers. Row upon row of tables was neatly piled with equipment that meant nothing to me. There were plants arranged on shelves too, a cornucopia of flora in all stages of development. But at least the place seemed orderly, and not as if someone had broken in and made a mess trying to steal, vandalize, or whatever it was Julian seemed so worried about.

"Looks pretty innocent," I commented as I moved toward one of the tables. "Maybe he just forgot to lock the door ..."

"No, no, no, don't touch anything," Julian warned. He gestured at the s.p.a.ce. "You're looking at a lab set up for molecular biology," he said with genuine awe. He pointed to two metal boxes on a near table. "Those are gel boxes for electroph.o.r.esis. That's the process for a.n.a.lyzing DNA. When our cla.s.s visited, Mr. Braithwaite told us he was looking for an enzyme in plants that produces blue color. You know, because scientists hadn't had any luck at, like, splicing it into roses because the color receptors just weren't there."

I looked at the boxes, fascinated. So this was where he'd created the blue rose. In spite of the uneasy feeling that Julian and I didn't belong there, I found it astonishing that someone could put together this kind of complicated scientific setup in our little burg of Aspen Meadow. Of course, with enough money, you could probably a.n.a.lyze sunscreens in Antarctica.

"You just put the plant into the gel and look at it through the microscope?"

Julian shook his head. "No, no, first you have to grind it up." He pointed to a cylindrical tank that was three feet high and about three feet in diameter. "You have to put the flower petals into liquid nitrogen, which is what's in that vat. You grind the petals in there till they're like a fine powder, then you have to add a buffer-"

"Liquid nitrogen?" I interrupted. "Isn't that pretty cold stuff?"

He grinned. It was the first time I'd seen him amused since Claire's death. "Try minus one hundred ninety-six degrees. That cold enough for you? You wear latex gloves, Goldy." He pointed to some gloves tidily placed by a mortar and pestle next to the tank. "If you put your hands in there unprotected, they'd break off. Put your head in, and you'd be the headless horseman. Not to mention that the fumes would suffocate you."

I decided I'd had enough science lesson. "Okay Julian, thanks. Let's go back up to the house."

"But I haven't told you about the sequencing gel apparatus and the laminer air-flow hood! Not to mention the gene gun. That's really cool."

Cooler than minus 196 I couldn't imagine. "Gene gun? Can you shoot anybody with it?"

"Very funny." He moved to a table and picked up what looked like an elongated pistol. "You introduce your bit of DNA into the axillary buds of the flower you're experimenting with, and you pray like mad that you end up with your blue daffodil, or whatever it is-" He fell silent as his eyes rested on a cl.u.s.ter of flowering plants that I could just dimly see. They were grouped next to the vat of liquid nitrogen. "What the h.e.l.l?" Julian peered in closely at the flowers. "He had these covered up last time ... oh my G.o.d, it's a frigging blue rose!" He picked up a small pot and held it up to the light. I felt my heart stumble in my chest. I wanted to get out of there so badly. "Judas priest!" cried Julian. "Look at this, Goldy! I can't believe it! Do you know what this means?"

A whimper came from behind a shelf of books at the far end of the lab. Julian and I gaped at each other.

"Go away!" sobbed the voice. "Just leave!"

Julian carefully put the pot down with the others. "It's him," he stage-whispered to me.

The sobs grew louder. "Just go away! Leave me in peace!"

"Dr. Braithwaite," Julian said as he moved toward the shelves, "we were just worried about you, when the door was open-"

The entire shelf of books erupted at that moment as a growling Charles Braithwaite heaved them forward and emerged with his arms outstretched. Julian jumped back from the cascade of volumes. Sobbing, his arms raised, Charles Braithwaite had the aspect of a skinny, white-haired ogre. He growled at us, then screeched, "Go a-way! Leave!"

"Julian!" I yelled. "Let's get out of here!"

Julian didn't move.

"Why ... won't ... you ... leave?" Charles Braithwaite bellowed. He stood with his thin legs apart, his long arms outstretched. "Nothing ... means ... anything." Then, defeated, he stumbled through the fallen books and sank against one of the tables. In a much lower, more subdued voice, he murmured, "If you will just please go away, I won't turn you in for smoking as a minor."

The guy was losing it, that much was dear. First he was howling like a crazy person, then he was making calm p.r.o.nouncements. I was sorely tempted to exit as bidden, but Julian stepped with determination over the piles of disheveled books.

"Dr. Braithwaite," he said calmly, "you're upset." Smart kid, I thought. Just keep your tone low. Smarter yet, I thought ruefully, get the heck out. Julian held out his hand. "Why don't you just come up with us-"

"No!" Charles Braithwaite roared, his white hair shaking wildly. "Leave me alone!"

"Come on, Julian," I implored from the entrance to the greenhouse. "Let's just-"

"I'm not doing it," Julian said in my direction, his voice sharp but still low. "We're not leaving without him. Look, Dr. Braithwaite, you don't have to-"

The white-haired man raised a mournful face to Julian. He raised his index finger, calm again in his bizarre way. He acted as if he were instructing Julian in an important point of molecular biology. "Claire Satterfield brought something into my life that I'd never had. So there's just one thing I want you to know before I die." Oh h.e.l.l, I thought. "And that is," he continued, "that you did not cause the accident with my ... wife." He spat out the word. "No. Babs was following you and Claire because she thought you were bringing Claire to me for ... an a.s.signation. You didn't fail to signal, my wife was following too ... closely. So there you are." He crossed his arms, QED.

"Claire?" asked Julian. "You ... and ..." He shook his head and seemed to make a decision. "It's okay, Dr. Braithwaite, it's ... over." Julian looked around the lab, trying to a.s.sess, I thought, how Charles Braithwaite could fulfill what seemed to be his desire to do himself in. He picked up the pot he'd placed on the near table. "Come on, look! You've created a blue rose! You've got a lot to live for-"

"I wanted to give it to her," Charles said wistfully. Overhead, the finale firework showered red, white, and blue sparkles that absurdly lit the greenhouse with twinkling light, illuminating the tears on his stricken face. "To Claire. That's why I was in the mall garage that day. I wanted to give it to her as my parting gift. The flower named after her, because it was so beautiful. So rare." He looked at Julian and shrugged. "And then I-can you blame me? I heard that terrible sound, and I knew. You want to know the truth? I thought my wife had done it. Maybe she did! Maybe she hired somebody to do the hit-and-run." He stretched his arms to their full length. "And it was all Babs's fault I met Claire in the first place! She sent me in to pick up her d.a.m.n stuff. And there was Claire, acting as if I were ... as if I were the most wonderful ..." He dropped his arms and shook his head vigorously, as if he'd just come to the realization of whatever it was he'd been concentrating on before he'd digressed. "Listen," he said abruptly, "I've thought this all through. Just leave me in peace, please. Now, all right?"

"Let's go talk about it up at the house!" Julian said brightly. "I mean really, Dr. Braithwaite, you're too young to die. You need to give it some more thought."

"No!" wailed Charles Braithwaite. "Go away!" He stepped agilely over the books, and to my shock, put both arms around the vat of liquid nitrogen. This was how he was going to kill himself. Using liquid nitrogen. We had to get out. Charles began to rock the tank. "Can't you hear?" he roared. "This is the end! Get out of the way!"

"Julian!" I shrieked.

But Julian ignored me. He stepped briskly over the pile of books and grabbed Charles Braithwaite's arm. The vat of liquid nitrogen continued to rock. Yanking hard, Julian pulled Charles away just as the top came off the tank.

"Get out!" Julian shouted to me as he dragged a flailing Charles in my direction. "Go!"

I banged open the door. When I looked back, the tank teetered as the freezing chemical splashed over one side, emitting clouds of white smoke. Julian scrambled toward the exit, his arms firmly encircling Charles Braithwaite's chest. Charles, his white hair wild, kicked halfheartedly. But he was no match for young Julian's strength. The three of us bounded out of the greenhouse just as the vat crashed downward. I couldn't help it-I looked back again, just in time to see the liquid nitrogen spilling over and destroying the blue rose plants.

Our odd trio darted through the guests meandering up to the house. We turned deaf ears to "Oh my goodness, what's the matter with Charlie!" and "The fireworks must have really upset him!" and laughing exclamations of that ilk. In the kitchen I called 911 and told them who I was, where we were, and what was going on.

"Liquid nitrogen?" was the deputy's incredulous response. "Liquid nitrogen? Are you sure that's all it was? Were there any other chemicals? We're going to have to get the toxic waste team up there. Was this part of some wacko Fourth of July party?"

"No, no," I said. "Any chance you could put me through to Tom Schulz?"

The deputy stalled and kept asking me questions until I a.s.sured him I wasn't going to hang up, I just wanted to talk to Tom instead of him. He said he'd transfer me. Then he put me on hold.

I tapped my fingers on the kitchen counter and watched as Julian ministered to Charles Braithwaite. Using a low, quiet voice, Julian admonished Charles to lie relaxed on the spotless kitchen floor, and to breathe normally. Was he hurt, Julian wanted to know. When Charles shook his head, Julian asked him who he was and what was going on. Tears ran down Charles's thin face as he gave halting responses to Julian's steady questions. Then Julian patted his shoulders and checked his pulse and told him in a voice that rippled out like custard that everything was going to be all right.

Julian amazed me, really. He had proven himself to be singlemindedly ambitious in the schoolroom and the kitchen. He loved and hated with a ferocity that was frightening and occasionally explosive. But there were times like these when I was reminded he'd spent most of his life among the Navajo in Bluff, Utah. He had an uncanny ability to act the wise healer when it was heeded. I watched him calmly checking Charles Braithwaite for shock. What had he said to Charles in the greenhouse? You're too young to die. Claire Satterfield had been much too young to die too. What was still unclear to me was whether Julian would be able to heal from that terrible loss. He was too young to have the loving part of himself die.

The deputy's voice crackled in my ear. 'Tom Schulz isn't here.' At that moment, the first wave of law-enforcement and fire vehicles pulled up, so I signed off.

Hours later, when the fireworks had ended and the moon had risen and the guests-including an angry Tony Royce, without his promised brownies-had finally left, when Babs Braithwaite had exploded in a fit of hysterics and Charles had been taken to the hospital for observation, when the toxic-waste team had realized only nitrogen-a fertilizer-had spilled, and Julian had decided to spend the night at a friend's, I drove the van home. The fireworks spectators had all departed, but in the moonlight I could see the enormous mess of trash they'd left on the golf course by the lake.

I came through the door just before two A.M. Tom, amazingly enough, was in the kitchen making chocolate ice cream. Waiting for me, and undoubtedly too wired from the investigation to sleep, he'd decided to concoct a Neapolitan ice cream torte, with a chocolate-cookie-crumb base and layers of homemade vanilla, fresh strawberry, and finally dark chocolate ice cream. Allowing thirty minutes per batch of ice cream, I figured he'd been at this for quite some time. The kitchen was a mess of cream containers, beaters, and bowls.

"It's not exactly the colors of the flag," he said ruefully when I peered into the bowl and raised my eyebrows. "But it's gonna be great. I can't wait for you to try it. Where've you been anyway? I guess my little ruse didn't work."

"Little ruse? Little ruse? Is that what you call it?" I glared at him. He grinned widely. After a few seconds of trying to keep up my withering stare, I couldn't help myself. I burst out laughing. "And when did you have time to do all that menu planning, Mr. Investigator? I am never, never going to forgive you."

He grabbed me by the waist and swung me perilously close to the clutter of ice creams. "Oh, sure you're going to forgive me," he rea.s.sured me as I giggled wildly. "And I didn't have time to do the cooking. I faxed your recipes down to a chef from a restaurant near the sheriff's department, and paid him to get the ingredients together and make the cookies and the soup and the bread dough. It took me less than five minutes. Anyway, knowing you, the risotto didn't stop you, it just slowed you down. The fireworks were over a couple of hours ago. Was the party okay?"

He sat me down on a chair and I told him all about it. I a.s.sured him that Julian had been a champ and that Dr. Charles Braithwaite would survive, especially if he could get some intensive psychiatric help. I confessed to having a fight with Reggie Hotchkiss, and that Julian had been involved. Tom seemed worried-did I think Hotchkiss had thrown the bleach water and left the note? I said I had no idea. He asked if Reggie could know where Julian was tonight, and I told him Reggie had left long before Julian had decided to go his friend's house.

"Think you'll ever cater for the Braithwaites again?" he asked.

"No. And I don't care either. I am kind of disappointed that they may be innocent in all this. I still don't trust either of them."

When I finished talking, Tom wordlessly cut me a wide wedge of the triple-layered torte. The chocolate ice cream was still soft over the more solid layers of strawberry and vanilla. Biting into the three delicious flavors and through the crunchy chocolate-cookie crust, I was reminded of childhood birthday parties in New Jersey, where Neapolitan ice cream and chocolate cake were the order of the day.

I told Tom, "This is the most delicious thing I have ever tasted in my entire life. But you know we shouldn't have it. We don't want to get into the kind of situation ... like Marla."

Tom put his arms around me. "Everything in moderation, Miss G. Besides, you're too young to have a heart attack."

"Excuse me," I blubbered, "but I am not." Too young. It seemed that phrase was cropping up a lot lately. I even remembered using it with Arch, when I'd told him he was too young to be using sixties language....

I sat up straight. Wait a cotton-picking minute.

"Ah-ha!" said Tom. "She's changing her mind. She's going to have some Neapolitan ice cream after all-"

"Tom," I said urgently, "who did Shaman Krill say he worked for?"

"He didn't. I've been laboring on that guy day and night. He won't tell us jack."

"But he wasn't with the animal rights people, you know that. And he's an actor. How old would you say he was?"

"About as old as this Neapolitan ice cream is going to be by the time you eat it."

"Tom!"

"I forget. Twenty-seven, maybe."