Killer Pancake (28 page)

"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 carne 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 shit 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 - "

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."

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-closing Toner, thirteen ounce; Extra Rich

Nighttime Replacement Moisturizer, ten ounce; Ultra Gentle 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 butt in here to look for... what the hell - "

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 - "

"Bitch!" 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 bitch! Whoever the hell 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 hell 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 cluster 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 sparse, brought me a triple-shot latte and my caterer's uniform, which his wife had washed and pressed. I showed my gratitude 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 associate 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 muffin? 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 muffin. I bit into it: The orange flecks turned out to be carrot and the spice ginger.

I truthfully told her the muffin 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 some- thing nearby - cracked. Actually, there was a loud cracking sound. 1 glanced up at the security blind but could see nothing.

"What in the world... ?" I demanded as Harriet offered me another muffin.

"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 muffin, 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 assembled the lovely glass 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?"