Killer Pancake Part 3

"Busy. Dusty, do you know Frances Markasian? Frances works in Aspen Meadow, at the Journal. Frances is a friend of mine," I said. I did not add sort of a friend. Not a friend I would ever call when I had to confide something. They nodded at each other.

"You work for Mignon, Dusty?" Frances asked in such an innocent voice that it was clear to me she already knew precisely what Dusty's job was.

"Don't say anything," I warned Dusty as I covered up the food trays. "Frances thinks she's the premier investigative reporter in our little burg."

The shorn quality of Dusty's Dreamsicle-colored hair made her look younger than eighteen. In fact, I always thought she resembled a plump Peter Pan. "Wow! I mean, you don't look like a reporter. You must be successful. I saw that St John's suit in Lord & Taylor. It looks great on you. Really! Great."

Frances shot me a spiteful look and announced she wanted a couple of brownies. Dusty said yes please, she wouldn't mind a couple herself. I doled the baked goods out, then asked if they could help me get my equipment into the boxes. Thankfully, the nightclub staff was responsible for cleaning the tables and washing the dishes. The cosmetics crowd thinned out. When they'd swiftly polished off their brownies, Frances, in her usual trying-unsuccessfully-to-be-delicate manner, pumped Dusty for information about Mignon's animal-testing practices as they helped me pack. Dusty shrugged. Frances reflected, frowning, as she rinsed and wrapped the steamer. Then she cleared her throat and asked how security was at Prince & Grogan. Dusty folded up the last box, said she didn't know much about security, and moved off.

Frances, disappointed, hoisted up a box and tottered on the sling-back shoes. "Did that girl flunk verbal skills, or what? Do saleswomen talk just about what they sell?" Now it was my turn to feign ignorance. She went on: "I really shouldn't help you, Goldy, but I need a cigarette. The anti-smoking cops in this mall will throw me in handcuffs if I light up anywhere but in the garage. You blew my cover. I can't walk in these d.a.m.n heels. And I'm going to wreck this frigging expensive dress if I carry this box anywhere. A couple of your brownies aren't worth the aggravation-"

"Sorry about that, Frances," I interrupted. "You are such a dear. Not only that, but you're the only person I know who uses the phrase 'blew my cover.' And anyway, I'll bet you got the paper to pay for your outfit and your lunch. What did you tell the Mignon cosmetics people, that you were from Cosmopolitan?"

"Vogue."

"Fabulous."

We lifted our boxes and walked out to the garage. The temperature had risen. Heat seemed to shimmer above the pavement. Three hours had pa.s.sed since the accident, and everything appeared back to normal. There was no sign of either the demonstrators or the police. In another attempt at nonchalance, Frances glanced furtively in all directions. If she thought I was going to tell her anything about the day's tragic events, she was very mistaken.

"How's married life treating you?" she asked mildly after she'd pushed her box into my van. I noticed someone had inexpertly applied bright red polish to her stubby, much-gnawed fingernails. Part of her cover, no doubt.

"Just great," I told her.

Frances nodded without interest and unceremoniously unzipped her dress from the collar to the chest and pulled a squashed pack of cigarettes out of her bra. She leaned against the van, lit up, and inhaled greedily, then grinned at me as she blew out smoke rings. I asked, "So how do you cover demonstrators outside a building from inside, when you're at a banquet? And why were you asking about security? The security guys were all out here."

"Oh, they were, were they?"

"Frances, don't jive me."

"And you, Goldy, are the only one I know who'd use the phrase 'don't jive me.'" She drew lavishly on the cigarette. "That department store has a lot of problems," she said with an arched eyebrow. She blew out smoke, stuck the cigarette back between her lips, and used both hands to rezip her dress. "Or haven't you heard?" When I shook my head, she shrugged. "I've heard some rumors. You know, got to follow everything up, check everything out. Let's just say I thought the cosmetics place was a good place to start."

I decided to ponder that in silence.

When she'd finished her smoke we walked back to the nightclub, picked up the last batch of boxes, and took them to the van. We chatted about the heat and how we would never in a million years spend the money Mignon was asking for all that night cream, day cream, outside-and inside-and in-between cream. Once the boxes were stacked and secured, I hopped behind the steering wheel, turned on the motor, and thanked Frances again for helping me. As I drove away, I watched her oddly stylish silhouette in my rearview mirror. Just checking out rumors, my feijoada. A new dress, high-heeled shoes, nail polish, and no cigarette for two hours of banquet and presentation? Lucky for me, I knew when she was jiving me.

Sometimes I think my van returns to Aspen Meadow by rote. And it's a good thing too, since I was in no shape to be a.n.a.lytical about anything, least of all driving. I rolled down the windows and filled my lungs with hot air. It wasn't much of a relief after the putrid-smelling warmth of the mall garage. Heat shuddered off the windows and pressed down on the van's roof. My elbow burned the second I accidentally rested it on the fiery chrome. When I started out in the catering business, most of my jobs had been in Aspen Meadow. So of course I hadn't bothered to get air-conditioning in my vehicle. Occasionally, like today, I regretted making that small saving.

The van wheezed up westbound Interstate 70 and soon the sultry wind flooding the car cooled. Thirty minutes later I pulled over to take a few deep breaths under a pylon of what Aspen Meadow folks call the Ooh-Ah Bridge, nicknamed for its spectacular panoramic view of the Continental Divide. A small herd of buffalo grazed in a fenced meadow near the bridge. I stared dejectedly at them and felt a fresh surge of remorse. Why hadn't I accompanied Claire to her vehicle? Why hadn't I insisted Julian go with her? No, that wouldn't have been a good idea. In his lovestruck state of mind, Julian could have been hit as well. But a contingent of the sheriff's department had been stationed nearby. Why hadn't I insisted a policeman walk with Claire? Why?

Afternoon clouds billowed above the horizon like mutant cauliflower. Below them, the sweep of mountains were deeply shadowed in purple. My ears started to buzz. Tom would be calling. Three dark, stolid-looking buffalo eyed me, blinked, and then shuffled away. I had a sudden memory of Julian reeling out of control as his eyes fluttered shut. Julian was in shock. Next to the road, delicate bluebell blossoms bent in the mountain breeze. Claire, lovely violet-eyed Claire, was dead.

I drove home. I needed to be in my own place, needed a cold beverage, needed most of all to reconnect with my family and friends. When I came through the back door, the place felt empty and unusually stuffy. Irritation snaked up my spine. Because of the security system I'd been forced to install to keep my periodically violent ex-husband at bay, the windows stayed shut-and therefore wired-in my absence. I'd been tempted to disable the system once I was married to a formidable, gun-toting policeman. But Tom promptly vetoed that idea. You never know when he might turn up, he warned. I can't always be around. But it was okay now, I'd protested. The Jerk wouldn't dare bother me with a policeman in residence. Although he was ridiculously vain about being a doctor, my ex-husband was basically a coward. You haven't seen ex-husband jealousy the way I've seen it, Tom replied flatly. Believe me, you don't want to was the unspoken end of that warning.

Anyway, I'd given up trying to convince Tom to let me disable the system about two weeks after we were married this spring. Back then, during a typically frigid and snowy April in Aspen Meadow, I hadn't thought we'd have a summer with record-shattering heat. But now it was July, and June had been the hottest since the state started keeping weather statistics in the late 1800s. Coming into the old house when it had been clamped up tight in our absence, I felt like Gretel being forced into the oven by the witch.

I opened the windows downstairs, then threw the upstairs windows open and allowed the afternoon breeze off Aspen Meadow Lake, a half-mile away, to drift in. Combined with the lilting notes of jazz saxophone coming from down the street the fresh air felt heavenly. The music came from the Routts' place. Dusty's grandfather played the instrument to placate Dusty's little brother, Colin, who was born prematurely at the beginning of April, before the Habitat house had been finished. Dusty's mother hadn't done too well hanging on to men; I'd heard both Dusty's father and the father of the infant had taken hikes.

Mesmerized by the music, I crossed to the windows looking out on the street and gazed at the Routts' place. To build the dwelling, the local Habitat for Humanity had relied on funds and workers from our parish, St. Luke's Episcopal Church. The house was a simple two-story affair with inexpensive wood paneling, a tiny deck, and a room with jalousie windows off the right side. Church workers had repeatedly graded the driveway during Aspen Meadow's muddy spring. The yard was covered with freshly excavated dirt. Red clay over the septic tank was as raw as a wound. Along the sidewalk, a stand of purple fireweed had somehow survived the construction. Unlike several of our neighbors, I'd welcomed the Routts, even if they were poor. I'd enjoyed being the church person a.s.signed with coordinating two weeks of dinners sent in during the move and unpacking. Although I'd never met the grandfather, Dusty and her mother, Sally, had been profoundly thankful. I liked them. And at the moment I was even jealous of them: The saxophone music was coming out of open windows, something I could have only when I was home.

Maybe Tom would agree to keeping the upper-story windows ajar, at least for the summer. Even if I regretted marrying the Jerk, shouldn't I be able at least to get a summer breeze? My ex was a wimpy, jealous, temper-tantrum thrower who had given me black eyes more times than I cared to remember. But of one thing I was sure-John Richard Korman would never scale an exterior wall to get in a window.

Downstairs, the saxophone music was louder. I flopped into a wingchair and listened to the music, taking care not to look at the couch where Julian and Claire had embraced only a few hours before. Where was Arch? I checked the kitchen, where a note in his handwriting was taped on my computer screen: Todd and I came back & now we're doing tie-dying back at his house, just like they did in the sixties. Back around 5. Have fun today, Mom.

Arch, the most serious thirteen-year-old on the planet, always hoped I had fun. It was good he wasn't here. I didn't want him asking forty-five questions about Julian or Claire before I had any information. Besides, with his new activity, Arch was well occupied. At his age, my son developed enthusiasms on a biannual basis, and I had learned to go with whatever was the current wave. This had not always been the case. When he'd become involved in role-playing games two years ago, I was convinced one of us was going to end up inst.i.tutionalized. When he finally abandoned constructing paper dungeons and fictional dragons, he and his friend Todd Druckman had switched to elaborate trivia quizzes. For months, Guinness books of records had spilled off every available shelf. Although Arch's ability to spout interesting facts still had not positively affected his school performance, the trivia obsession had eventually lost its lure when Todd had refused to answer one more question about Evel Knievel. Then Arch had renewed his interest in magic. He'd been intensely serious about magic all last summer. But the magic phase had been quickly followed by a C. S. Lewis phase, complete with a handmade model of the Dawn Treader.

Now Arch was fascinated by the sixties. Posters of Eugene McCarthy and Malcolm X decorated his bedroom. The walls reverberated with the sound of the Beatles and Rolling Stones. My general att.i.tude toward these hobby-pa.s.sions was that as long as they were neither extravagantly expensive nor physically dangerous, they were okay. At least he wasn't into gangs.

Still, I sighed. I suddenly missed him intensely, and Tom, and Julian. And I didn't even mind solitude as much as I minded a lack of information. Why didn't somebody call to tell me how Julian was? I took a deep breath to steady myself.

Loneliness frequently brought my ex-husband to mind. I remembered the many nights I'd waited for him. Most of the time, instead of being in the delivery room with a mother-to-be, he'd been with a waitress, or a nurse, or someone he'd just met.... Marla, who'd stayed married to John Richard Korman six years less than I, told me she'd timed the trip home from the hospital to thirty-eight minutes. Anything over that, and she knew she might as well go to bed.

Speaking of Marla, she should be showing up any moment. I filled the espresso machine with coffee and water. Because Marla was plugged into every gossip network in Furman County, she heard news at the speed of sound. If it was bad news, she heard it at the speed of light. What had happened to Claire was extra-bad news, though. Incredibly, my doorbell and telephone remained resolutely silent. I poured the dark espresso over ice cubes and milk, then dialed Marla's number. No answer.

I downed the iced latte and told myself I had plenty to do; I could call her later. After an hour of schlepping food and dirty pans into the house, washing and putting equipment away, I called the hospital to check on Julian. Who was I, the operator wanted to know, next of kin, wife, what? A guardian? I said hopefully. A legal guardian? she asked. Well, no. Then no information could be released. Thanks loads.

I dialed Julian's adoptive parents in Utah, told them briefly what had happened, and promised to keep them posted. Was Julian going to be all right? they wanted to know. Yes, I a.s.sured them. I told them Southwest Hospital had refused to give me any information about Julian's condition and that they'd be better off phoning the hospital directly. Was he serious about this girl? his mother asked. My voice broke when I answered that he had seemed to be very serious about Claire. Next I called Tom at his desk and got his voice mail. I tried Marla again. Nothing.

Cook, my inner voice said. Get ahead on a.s.signments. I consulted my calendar. Oh yes, the d.a.m.n mall food fair. At the moment, I never wanted to see the mall again. But work was work. A Taste of Furman County was part of a big Fourth of July celebration the new mall owners had put together to lure people to shop over the long weekend rather than follow the more traditional pursuits of baseball and picnics. The benefit for Playhouse Southwest, at forty dollars a pop, looked as if it was going to make outrageous money. The fair would occupy the open-air top level of the mall garage. I'd taken the health department's required course on the subject of serving food away from one's established place of business, which was all I ever did anyway. Now all I had to do was prepare all the food.

I checked my watch: Wednesday, July 1, just before four in the afternoon. Claire's death would surely be on the local news tonight and in the papers tomorrow. And speaking of journalism, nothing in this world would convince me that Frances Markasian was at the Mignon Cosmetics banquet for her health. Or for her beauty, for that matter. So what had she been looking for? I resolved to get going on the food. Then I'd give Tom another buzz.

I looked over the menu I'd planned for the opening day of the fair: baby back ribs with homemade barbecue sauce, steamed sugar snap peas with fresh strawberries vinaigrette, homemade bread, and vanilla-frosted fudge cookies. The barbecue sauce needed to simmer for hours before being slathered over the ribs. People can't resist spare ribs, I reflected as thin, fragrant slices of onion fell from my knife. Ribs smelled great when they were cooking, and, like potato chips, one was never enough. When I added the onion to the simmering vinegar, tomato, and lemon of the sauce, a delectable scent perfumed my kitchen, and I began to relax. Needless to say, my newfound peace was interrupted by a jangling phone.

"You never tell me a d.a.m.n thing," Frances Markasian barked into the receiver. "I don't know why you think we're friends. I especially can't understand why I helped you with those d.a.m.ned heavy boxes! Women can get hernias, you know." I heard the striking of a match in the background, then a noisy inhalation. "You knew what went down at the mall this morning. And I had to wait to hear from the sheriff's department's public information office! The h.e.l.l with you!" I could imagine Frances sitting at the edge of her ragged canvas-covered swivel chair next to her paper-strewn desk, chugging Jolt cola and working her way through the second of her three daily packs of cigarettes. Frances believed if she acted enough like a hotshot journalist, maybe she'd become one.

"The h.e.l.l with me? That's what you're calling to tell me? You're always saying," I said as I stirred the aromatic sauce, "that you're the journalist and I'm the cook. What did you want me to tell you?"

"Let's start with what you know about Claire Satterfield. Were you in the garage when she was. .h.i.t?"

I cradled the phone against my shoulder and slid the heavy, meaty slabs of pork into the oven. "C'mon, Frances, I'm already married to a cop. The last thing I need is for you to start acting like one,"

She took a drag and blew into the phone. "Uh-huh. And did you know your boarder-a.s.sistant guy, Julian Teller, was only the latest in Ms. Satterfield's list of male conquests?"

"No, I didn't." And I certainly hoped Julian didn't either. On an ordinary day I would have enjoyed sparring with Frances. Sometimes she was as good a source of information as Marla. But today was not ordinary, and I found her questions and insinuations annoying in the extreme. "Who told you Claire had other male conquests?"

"May I please speak to Julian?" Frances inquired sweetly.

"He's in the hospital. He went into shock when he heard about Claire. Some people," I added harshly, "have normal human emotions in response to death."

"Oh, d.a.m.n!" she exclaimed. "I'm going to have to clean up my desk, because it looks as if my heart just bled all over it. So what's Investigator Schulz saying about the"-she cleared her throat-"accident? Anything quotable?"

"Why don't you call the sheriff's department and find out? Then maybe you can tell Investigator Schulz why you were down at the Mignon banquet today. Incognito. All dressed up. Exactly what rumors have you heard about the department store?"

"Cut the tripe, caterer. I'm on a.s.signment, which should be obvious to you, even though it's been a lot of years since you did that major in psychology. You think it was easy zipping myself into that dress? And the so-called banquet was like some kind of punishment. Diet food makes me gag. I have to eat too much of it, and that makes me feel like a bear foraging for winter. How many tomatoes can one individual consume? But the brownies were terrific." She chuckled. Like we were such good pals. Like she had told me everything she knew and now I was supposed to do the same for her.

I took a deep breath. "You know, Frances, you did ask me if I knew about the department store's problems. Since I a.s.sume you mean Prince & Grogan, and since I was working for their Mignon people today, I'd like to know what kind of problems would bring you down to the mall all the way from Aspen Meadow. That's all."

"Uh-huh. Miss Nosy Caterer. A sales a.s.sociate at Prince & Grogan gets splattered all over the parking lot and you ask me what kind of problems the department store is having."

"Don't talk like that about Claire. It's disgusting."

"Oh-ho! So it's Claire now. You did know her. In fact, you were there in the garage when someone smacked into her. Yes? Spill all, Goldy."

"Tell me why you were at the banquet in disguise. What's the problem with the department store?"

Frances took another drag and seemed to consider. "Let me get my pen."

Doggone it. "No, Frances, don't act as if we can trade information, for heaven's sake," I said to empty air. If anything got into the newspaper, Tom was going to be a tad upset.

Frances came back to the phone and rustled her materials about. "You knew the dead girl," she prompted.

"You already know she was Julian Teller's girlfriend," I replied impatiently. "And you also know I can't talk to you until Tom-"

VANILLA-FROSTED.

FUDGE COOKIES.

cup all-purpose flour cup unsweetened cocoa powder 1 teaspoon baking powder teaspoon salt cup canola oil 1 cup sugar 1 teaspoons vanilla extract 4 egg whites, unbeaten 2 cups confectioners' sugar 23 tablespoons skim milk, approximately additional unsweetened cocoa powder Preheat the oven to 350. Spray a large nonstick cookie sheet with vegetable oil spray.

Sift the flour, cocoa, baking powder, and salt together; set aside. Mix together the oil, sugar, 1 teaspoon of the vanilla, and the egg whites until well combined. Stir in the flour mixture. Chill one hour. Using a -tablespoon measure, scoop the dough onto the cookie sheet, leaving 2 inches between cookies. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes or until the cookies are puffed and cooked through. Do not overcook.

Transfer the cookies to a rack and; cool completely. Mix together the confectioners' sugar, skim milk, and remaining teaspoon vanilla until pasty. Add skim milk if necessary. Spread a small amount of vanilla frosting on each cookie. Put the cookies back on the rack, dust lightly with cocoa powder, and allow the frosting to dry.

Makes 4 dozen cookies "Ah-ha. 'Wife of homicide investigator asks newspaper about department store scandals. Declines comment on witnessing murder of store employee.' Your husband the investigator is gonna love it."

"What do you mean, murder? So help me-"

"Do you know anything about those demonstrators?" she demanded.

"Of course I don't," I replied, struggling to sound calm. Frances had the annoying ability to make me feel constantly off balance.

"Did they get in the way of the catering? Were they near the area where the girl was. .h.i.t? Or can't you talk about that either?"

"What makes you think that-" I waved my hand in the empty kitchen, unable even to articulate the thought.

"What makes me think that Claire was run down?" she finished.

"Yes."

"Things I've heard."

"Gosh, Frances, more rumors? Maybe I should have Tom come over and talk to you."

"Great idea. We could have lunch and chat about the Bill of Rights. You could cook. That is, if you didn't throw vegetables around beforehand."

"Frances, don't."

"The way I heard it, the fellow you threw the red peppers on was an activist by the name of Shaman Krill."

"Why, did he talk to you? All he did was yell at me."

"That name, Shaman Krill," she said thoughtfully. "Think it's short for something? Maybe it's an alias. We're talking about a real short guy here? Dark curly hair pulled back in a ponytail? Gold earring? Sort of a cross between a leprechaun and a terrorist? Think he was one of Claire's boyfriends? How long had Satterfield been going with this Julian guy?"

"How do you know Claire was involved with other men?" I countered. "Why did you say Julian was the latest in her batch of conquests?"

"First you tell me something, Goldy. Did you ever get something for nothing? Listen-I'll come visit you at the food fair, okay? Maybe then you'll be ready to have a real chat."

Before I could retort, she hung up. She wasn't going to share anything she knew with me until I gave her information. And if I did that, I could just imagine the wrath of Investigator Tom Schulz. Still, he'd be interested to hear about bullying activist Shaman Krill, if he hadn't already. Maybe you had to have a weird name to get into Spare the Hares. I slowly swished the spoon through the pot of dark barbecue sauce. There were two things Frances had been digging for: Had I known Claire was involved with other men? And who was Shaman Krill? I wondered if the two questions were related.

But that was speculation. I returned to my culinary duties to chop, boil, and beat my frustration away. I gathered cocoa powder, flour, sugar, and egg whites, and got out the recipe for the fudge cookies. The dark, delicious cookies had been one of two great inventions in my search for a lowfat chocolate torte. The other had been a lowfat chocolate souffle that had worked not in the oven but on top of the stove. I sifted the cocoa, flour, baking powder, and salt and beat egg whites, then stirred oil, sugar, and vanilla. After combining all the ingredients, I put the cookie batter away to chill. I had just retrieved the ingredients for icing when the doorbell rang. Oh good, I thought: Marla. Finally.

I looked through the peephole prepared to see my big-bodied, big-hearted friend triumphantly holding up the bags of gourmet goodies she always brought to ease tense or troubling situations. But antic.i.p.atory delight quickly froze to dread. The Jerk's distorted mug grinned broadly into the peephole's circular eye.

"Let me in, Goldy," he bellowed. "I have to talk to you!"

Fear opened a hollow in my stomach. In the years since the divorce, my ex-husband had rarely demanded to talk to me. Looking for Arch, he either barged in angrily-pre-security system-or waited sullenly for our son on the doorstep. But this afternoon Arch was doing tie-dying with Todd. I looked out at John Richard, trying to decide what to do. He drew back in a dramatic gesture from the door and held his arms out. He was wearing Bermuda shorts, Polo shirt, Top-Siders without socks-the very portrait of a rich guy.

"I've got news," he shouted, pressing his face in again at the peephole. "Bad news! You want to hear it or not?" He added snidely, "It concerns somebody you care about a lot!"

I really did not want to see him. The day had been awful enough. And yet here he was, doing a typical power-trip, teasing with the possibility of bad news. I hesitated. The security system was disarmed. I could go out on the porch to talk to him. All I had to do was unlock the dead bolt and walk out the door. But when I started to fumble with the bolt, the phone rang in the kitchen. Darn it all, anyway. I dashed for the kitchen.

"Goldilocks' Catering-" I began breathlessly. The Jerk was banging on the front door. There was a smart thwack of wood against metal. I heard the Jerk curse loudly. "Goldilocks' Catering," I repeated, "Where Everything-"

"It's me," Tom interrupted. "I'm at the hospital."

"Boo!" said John Richard Korman as he walked up behind me. His breath smelled of whiskey. I shrieked and dropped the phone.

"Who's that?" said Tom. Coming from the dropped phone, his voice was distant but clearly alarmed. "Goldy? Are you there?"

I stared furiously at my ex-husband, who gave me a wide-eyed mocking leer in return. Involuntarily, I glanced around for my wooden knifeblock. John Richard followed my gaze and wagged one finger at me. He moved in the direction of the knifeblock, scooped it up, and cradled it and its protruding black handles as he moved into the dining room. Goose b.u.mps pimpled my arms. By the time John Richard walked empty-handed back into the kitchen, I'd managed to pick up the dangling receiver. "It's ... John Richard, and Arch isn't home, but John Richard says that there's bad-"

"For crying out loud, Goldy, what the h.e.l.l is he doing there?" Tom hollered. "Get him out! Now!"

I closed my eyes so I wouldn't see the Jerk's furious expression. "Tell me how Julian is," I said firmly into the receiver. "Then I will."

"I'm not calling about Julian-" Tom began.

"Hey, Gol-dy-y!" the Jerk said calmly. Nastily. "He's not calling about Juli-a-n. He's at the hospital and he's calling about somebody else."

"This is bad news-" Tom began again.