Killer Pancake (32 page)

"Not to worry, Babs. We'll be there. Around six." Before she could start interrogating me again, I politely signed off and wished Arch could experience what it really meant to deal with someone hysterical.

I checked my watch: three o'clock. It was time to cook. Like many wealthy clients, Babs Braithwaite wanted to host an extravagant catered dinner but did not want to pay much for it. "Can't you make it look and taste sumptuous without using all those expensive ingredients?" she had demanded. "Can't you cook without larding all the dishes with butter and cream? You know, the way caterers do?" As if she knew so much. Lowfat ingredients were usually more expensive and labor-intensive than traditional foods. In any event, after a lengthy discussion we had decided on a turkey curry served with raisin rice. Then Babs had loftily dismissed me with the announcement that since it was the Fourth, she would wear a red, white, and blue sari to go with the food.

Everyone else was supposed to be decked out in red, white, and blue, she'd maintained in a resigned tone. I didn't protest. I had long ago quit trying to figure out wealthy clients' idiosyncrasies. At least she hadn't told me to wear a sari. Or demanded only red, white, and blue food.

I saut�ed the turkey, drained it, then moved on to chop fragrant piles of onion and apple. When these were sizzling in a wide frying pan, I started the sauce. As the pungent scent of curry filled the kitchen, I began to feel the tension in my shoulders loosen. My hands stopped shaking as I drizzled in skim milk fortified once again with powdered nonfat milk. This silky concoction did indeed provide the rich, thick consistency of whipping cream without fat. I smiled and tasted the curry sauce. It was divine.

Working with food is always healing. The ingredients, the smells, the flavors - the delight in experimenting and putting a meal together - all these bring joy, no matter what the circumstances. I had another spoonful of the hot, creamy curry sauce. Doggone, but it was good. I was going to have to try it out on Arch and Julian.

When I was halfway through grating the vegetables for the slaw, there was a loud banging on the front door. Again I looked at my watch: three-fifteen. It couldn't be either Tom or Arch. Alicia, my supplier, had made her visit and had all the ingredients I needed. I turned off the blender and trudged to the door to peer through the peephole.

"No smoking," I warned Frances Markasian when I opened the door. "And no ballistic knives."

"Okay, okay!" She held up her large black purse as if for inspection. I waved it away. "Don't be so paranoid, Goldy, I just want - "

But I was already walking away from her. "I'm working, so you'll have to talk to me out in the kitchen."

She followed dutifully and took a seat in one of the oak chairs while I peered at my recipe for vegetable slaw. Swathed in her usual black trench coat, she waited until I'd finished grating the carrots, radishes, jicama, and cucumbers before asking,

"Where's my stuff?"

I took out plump, gorgeous scallions and began to slice them. "What stuff? I don't have any of your stuff!"

She rummaged through her bag for her pack of cigarettes, belatedly remembered she couldn't smoke, and impatiently rapped the cigarette package on the table. "Excuse me, Goldy, but I seem to remember giving you three crisp hundred-dollar bills and a list of cosmetics to buy? Did you get them or not?"

Patience, I ordered myself as I turned away from the mountains of slaw ingredients. I had cooking to do, and this journalist could make herself into a worse pest than the infamous mountain pine beetle. I dug through my sorry purse and found the still- damp bag full of the cosmetics Frances had ordered. When I handed it to her, she took it greedily and dumped the jars, bottles, and her change - bills and coins - out on my kitchen table.

I said loudly, "Gee, Goldy! Thanks so much for going out of your way to buy these cosmetics! Of course, I already know they aren't going to change my appearance one bit."

Frances ignored me, pawed through the items on the tabletop, then swept a handful of frizzed black hair out of her eyes and shot me a quizzical look. "Where's the receipt?"

"What?"

"Where's the receipt? Entiendes ingl�s? Did you get a receipt for what you spent my money on or not?"

"Excuse me, Frances, but your change is all there. Give me a break! What do you need your receipt for?"

"Give me a break!"

Her face was furious. "You're a businesswoman, you know the importance of a receipt! Without a receipt, this junk comes out of my pocket! Can't you do anything right?" Then, to my astonishment, she scooped up the cosmetics and money, stuffed them into the bag, and stomped angrily out of the room. My front door slammed resoundingly behind her.

I felt my mouth fall open in bewilderment. What was going on here? I looked at the chopped vegetables, the unfinished cucumber soup, and the pans of marinating fruit. My sane inner voice quietly urged me to forget about Frances and her tantrums and get on with the work of the day. After all, she had that spring-loaded knife in her purse.

But another, angrier inner voice demanded to know how Frances had known I was home. In fact, this was the second time

I'd suspected she was spying on me. The first had been when she'd shown up just as the Jerk was leaving this morning. How had she known then that I hadn't left yet? How had she known this afternoon that I'd just returned home from the mall?

I rushed outside and looked up and down the street: no dark Fiat, no Frances. I saw motion across the street. Frances's black coat was just visible moving beyond the stand of fireweed at the Routts' place. I darted after her. If it was Frances, what was she doing with the Routts? Was Dusty feeding Frances information? Given all that Dusty had told me, that didn't ring true. I had introduced them to each other at the Mignon banquet, for heaven's sake. Whatever Frances was involved in preceded that introduction, unless they were both lying. What was it Tom had told me? In this business, expect to be deceived.

As I came up the graded driveway, I saw the black- coated figure duck through a door at the side of the house. From the outside it looked like an old-fashioned porch with jalousie windows instead of screens. I'd always assumed the saxophone music ad been wafting out of this room, because the slatted windows were the only ones on the Routts' house that faced the street. With some trepidation I started up the steps to this separate entrance. What would I say? Uh, excuse me, just trying to be neighborly, but by - the way, what's going on?

The porch door was open. Frances stood next to a stout man whose white hair was brushed back in thin streaks. She was talking rapidly and intensely. Their backs were to me, and they were both oblivious of my presence. From the doorway I could see the porch room was simply furnished with a futon piled with unfashionably striped pillows, two mismatched chairs, and a table. On the table was an old rotary-dial telephone and a sax.

My attention was drawn to the older man listening intently to Frances. This, I assumed, was the grandfather I'd never seen. I tapped on the aluminum doorframe. Frances turned abruptly and fell silent.

"Excuse me?" I said politely. "May I come in?" Without waiting for a reply, I edged into the room. Through the jalousie windows on the other side of the small room, the roof of Frances's Fiat was just visible. So this was where she'd been parking. But who had told her when I was home? Maybe the grandfather was the one who'd been spying on my house. Uneasily, I asked, "Is

Dusty home?" The man turned slightly in my direction, but not fully. "Are you Dusty's grandfather?" I asked politely. "I'm your neighbor, Goldy Schulz. Frances was just over at my house...." I offered my hand. He ignored it.

Mr. Routt's face looked like a pie crust that had spilled over its edges. I looked at Frances for guidance, but her face had tightened in quiet fury at my appearance.

I said, "Mr. Routt?" He turned large, watery blue eyes to me. There was no way this man had been spying on my house.

He was blind.

TURKEY CURRY WITH RAISIN RICE

1 pound ground turkey

1 cup chopped unpeeled apple

1 cup chopped onion

1 � tablespoons olive oil

2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

1 tablespoon curry powder

1 tablespoon beef bouillon granules

� cup nonfat dry milk

2 cups skim milk

In a large saut� pan, saut� the turkey over medium-high heat, stirring frequently, until browned evenly. Drain the turkey on paper towels and set aside.

Spray a wide nonstick skillet with vegetable oil spray. Over medium heat, saut� the apple and onion, stirring frequently, until the onion is translucent.

Set aside. In another large skillet, heat the olive oil over low heat just until it is warm. Stir in the flour and curry powder. Heat and stir over medium-low heat until the flour begins to bubble. Combine the bouillon granules, dry milk, and skim milk; whisk until combined.

(The bouillon granules will dissolve when they are heated in the sauce.) Gradually add the milk mixture to the curry mixture, continuing to stir over medium-low heat until the mixture thickens. When the mixture is thick, add the turkey and the apple-on- ion mixture. Stir well and heat through. Serve over Raisin Rice.

Serves 4

Raisin Rice: In a large nonstick skillet, toast 1 cup of raw white rice over medium heat, stirring frequently, until most of the rice is brown. (Appearance may be mottled; this is desirable.) Add � cup raisins and 2 � cups lowfat chicken stock (see pages 264-65), bring the mixture to a boil, reduce the heat to low, cover the pan, and cook for 25 minutes or until the liquid is absorbed.

LOWFAT CHICKEN STOCK

12 1/3 cups canned chicken broth (2 49 � ounce cans)

1 large onion, chopped

1 carrot, chopped

3 to 3 � pounds chicken legs and thighs, skinned and all visible fat removed

12 1/3 cups water (2 cans of water)

1 celery stalk with leaves

2 bay leaves

1 teaspoon dried thyme

Discard fat from the top of the cans of chicken broth. Heat a very large stock- pot. (If you do not have a very large stockpot, you can divide the ingredients and make the stock in two stock- pots.) Remove from the heat and spray twice with vegetable oil spray. Toss in the onion and carrot, lower the heat, and cover the pot. Cook, stirring frequently, over medium-high, add the chicken, and cook until the chicken flesh is browned on both sides, about 5 minutes. Pour in the chicken broth and water, add the celery and bay leaves, and bring to a boil. Boil for 5 minutes. As foam accumulates, skim it off and discard. Lower the heat to simmer and add the thyme. Simmer, covered, for 2 hours. Add water as necessary to keep the chicken covered with liquid.

Remove the pot from the heat. Remove the chicken and allow to cool, then pick the meat from the bones and reserve for another use. Strain the stock and discard the vegetables and bay leaves. Cool to room temperature. Cover and refrigerate overnight. Lift any congealed fat from the stock and discard. Store for 2 or 3 days in the refrigerator or freeze for longer storage.

Makes 20 to 24 cups

16

"I'm sorry," I stammered. "Please forgive the intrusion," I added bitterly. I gave Frances the most withering glance I could muster.

She assumed an indifferent demeanor and shrugged, as if to say, You got yourself into this.

"It's not her fault," said the old man. His voice cracked wheezed, as if it were rusted from lack of use. "She was doing something for me. Please, Mrs. Schulz, don't be upset with Frances."

The three of us stood in the spare, dismal room for a moment without speaking. The man shifted from one foot to the other, as if he were trying to decide what to tell me. "I'm John Routt, Mrs. Schulz," he said at last. His rumpled white shirt hung in soft folds, as if it had been washed and dried but not ironed. The shirt was slack over Routt's chest, but a button strained to stay clasped his copious stomach. His gray pants were as wrinkled the shirt. I had the painful feeling that he did his own laundry.

"Forgive me," I said again, "I was just trying to find why Frances here" - I glared at her - "always seems to turning up only when she's certain I'm home." Then I remembered the truck outside my window during the storm. I added, "Or spying on me at night."

"I am not now, nor have I ever, been engaged in spying on you," Frances countered defensively. "I've got better things to do with my time.

"Mr. Routt," I said, "I don't know what's going on here or how you're involved." To Frances, I said acidly, "Do you want to come back to my house, Ms. Journalism? Tell me the real reason you went in disguise to Prince & Grogan? Or is department store intelligence not on the same level with spying on a caterer?"

Frances drew a cigarette out of her purse. She lit it and said, "Goldy, chill out. I'm working on a story. That's all you've ever needed to know." She blew smoke in my direction.

"Oh, really? Are you going to do a story on how the Prince & Grogan head of security was found dead this afternoon?"

This had the desired effect. Frances's body jerked. The cigarette dropped from her fingers.

"Nicholas Gentileschi?" John Routt said. "Dead?"

"Yes. Did you know him?"

John Routt was shaking his head. "No. No, I did not." I said, "Well, then - "

His shoulders slumped. There was an uncomfortable silence. "You see, Mrs. Schulz," he said finally. "I was doing something for Frances and she was doing something for me."

"And what was that? I'm sorry, but this does affect our family... you see, my helper, Julian Teller, lost a dear friend - "

"I know," said John Routt. He absentmindedly patted his wrinkled pants. "Oh, Mrs. Schulz, the reason I hired Frances is that Nicholas Gentileschi suspected my granddaughter of theft. I'm sorry to hear he died, but I'm not surprised, with the people we're dealing with. Frances and I were trying to clear Dusty. That's why we needed the receipt. That's why Frances was asking you for it. Does that make sense? Dusty was being accused of not giving receipts, but our suspicion was that the whole place has a receipt problem."