Killer Pancake (4 page)

But Julian was already moving away. "If they're not busy," he replied over his shoulder. If he heard my call to be careful, he gave no sign.

I used the phone at the bar to call Arch's friend, Todd Druckman. Todd's mother told me the two of them were sitting in front of the television eating Cocoa Puffs and Pop-Tarts. Did I want to talk to Arch? I laughed and declined, then hung up and washed my hands in the bar sink, grateful that my concerns about my son were needless. And Arch loved eating at Todd's; it meant he didn't have to taste-test a single nonfat roll or experimental curry.

I poured the dips into the hollowed-out cabbages, then checked the trays. The rows of vegetables had become only slightly disheveled. I lifted the plastic wrap and reached in to straighten them.

"Oh my God, Harriet, they're stunning!" exclaimed a low, fruity voice from the other side of the oblong granite bar.

"Diamond-cluster earrings? That must have set Mignon back a pretty penny!" It was a voice I recognized. I looked up to see big- bodied, big-haired, big-moneyed Babs Braithwaite standing next to Harriet Wells.

"Top producer for May," Harriet announced smugly. "Wait a minute," commanded Babs as she put a hand on Harriet's forearm. Then she steered Harriet in my direction, and addressed me. "Goldy? You're doing this banquet too? Are you ready for

Charles's and my party?" Without waiting for a reply, she rushed on. "Harriet, do you know Goldy of Goldilocks' Catering in Aspen

Meadow? Isn't that a cute little name? She didn't always do catering. She used to be married to a gorgeous doctor."

Well, now, wasn't this nice. I stared at Babs Meredith Braithwaite and tried to think of something to say. Babs was about fifty, although the heavy makeup she wore over pockmarked skin made her look older. Charles Braithwaite, her reclusive microbiologist husband, was younger than his wife and reportedly quite handsome, but he hadn't inherited a fortune from the family butter company. With her bags of bucks, Babs spared no expense on decking herself out. Her large features were accented with masklike foundation and powder, dark smears of blush, black eyeliner, and long, false eyelashes. Her elaborately frosted hair was wildly poufed, and her expensive-looking dark silk dress was adorned with a fat corsage of pink roses and baby's breath. She looked like the mother of a Barbie doll. I was again conscious of my plain apron and unstylishly curly hair, worn Shirley Temple- style.

"What was his name," Babs continued, tapping her bottom lip with a plump finger. "Well, of course. Korman! Doctor

Korman."

"No," said Harriet sadly.

"I didn't know." Incredible, really. Someone, it always seemed, was still dying to share the news now five years old. It had been that long since I divorced John Richard Korman, whose initials made up his oh-so-appropriate nickname, the Jerk. People could never understand why I'd let such a good-looking and wealthy guy get away. They just didn't know about the violence. My descent into food service was observed with a pitying sneer. I was already working for Harriet's company. I'd be doing Babs's party in three days. Wasn't that enough? Why bother with the history? Because people can't resist being bitchy, Marla Korman, my best friend and the other ex-wife of Dr. Gorgeous, was fond of pointing out. Marla had recommended my business to Babs, so

I kept mum and summoned a flat smile.

"Goldy has garnered quite a reputation in Aspen Meadow," said Babs with a wide, explanatory sweep of her bejeweled hand, "for the success of her little business."

"Yes." Harriet's saccharine tone was hard to decipher. Also around fifty, Harriet was as slender, petite, and understated as

Babs was expansive. Her beehive of golden hair, impeccable makeup, and short, slender fingers with their manicured nails paired perfectly with her flared Chinese-style royal blue silk pants and matching sleeveless top. "Goldy and I have had many discussions about the lowfat food for our banquet. She was the one who pointed out that when people have fish for a main course, they always want chocolate for dessert! We're lucky she was able to come all the way down here."

"I come to Denver all the time," I said, trying not to sound defensive. "I'm doing the food fair too."

"You're doing the food fair? You shouldn't," Babs reprimanded. "You might just be overburdening yourself."

Did I look as if I wanted advice from Babs Braithwaite? I scanned the room for Julian. Maybe if I appeared busy, these women would leave me alone.

"Of course," Babs continued, "all the major food people in Denver will be here. The food fair is one of our benefits.

Playhouse Southwest, do you know the group? We used to be called the Furman County Dramatic Auxiliary. We just did The

Taming of the Shrew. Sound familiar? Didn't I tell you about it?"

I nodded vapidly. Actually, I'd talked to Babs Braithwaite on the phone only about the Fourth. We'd seen each other briefly after her car hit Julian's. I bit my lip. Don't say anything, I reminded myself. At least not anything nasty. The Taming of the Shrew.

Sound familiar? Actually, no. Knee-deep in nonfat ingredients, I hadn't caught any plays lately. Then again, her little auxiliary might want to have a catered function sometime in the future. If I could do John Birch Beef, I could do Shakespeare shashlik. I gave Babs what I hoped was an ingratiating grin.

"Yes. Let's see, Dr. John Richard Korman," she mused throatily as she touched a sapphire necklace. "Up and Coming in

Denver did an article on our most recent production. You must have seen that issue, there was also an article on Dr. John Richard

Korman. So - "

"I'm sorry, Babs," I interrupted. Anything to get off the subject of the Jerk. "What's your connection to Mignon Cosmetics?"

"Ooh!" She chuckled and gave Harriet a flirtatious look. "I'm such a good customer, they invited me. Oh, there's Tiffany

Barnes..."

And off she sailed. Man, I couldn't wait to ask Marla about that piece of work. I put Babs Braithwaite out of my mind and set about carefully unwrapping the lettuce leaves that would form the containers for the hoisin turkey.

Claire trotted over to me. Her comely brow was wrinkled with frustration. But before she could explain, something across the room caught her attention. I looked in that direction and saw only a group of beautifully groomed chattering women, all wearing corsages. "Oh my God," Claire groaned.

"What?"

"Nothing... Look, Goldy, I'm in trouble," she announced. "I... forgot the damn decorations. They're Mignon bags we stuff with colored tissue paper. We call them exploding bags. y'know? I need to go to my car and get them. Come with me? I don't want to go out there alone." She looked desperate. Considering the swelling group of protesters I'd seen outside, I felt a pang of sympathy for her. I wasn't too eager to face that indignant group alone either.

"Of course I'll come with you," I assured her. "I might as well bring in the sole and get the steamer going, anyway. We need to make it quick, though," I added. I lifted the trays of vegetables and hid them on a shelf under the bar. I had the feeling we were being watched, so I grabbed a spare tablecloth, unfurled it, and placed it over the wrapped food while Claire tapped her foot.

I ignored her impatience. I would be damned before I came back to picked-over trays.

At the service door we met Julian. He was laden down with Nonfat Chocolate Tortes.

"Where do you two think you're going?" he demanded as soon as he saw us approaching. "It's a zoo out there. I couldn't find one of those suits to help me - "

"We'll be fine," Claire cooed as she kissed her index finger and planted it on his nose. She swept past him in a flurry of dark ringlets and black sheath. "Just going to pick up some bags. Back in a jif." Mimicking her touch on the nose, I followed on her heels.

The demonstrators had become a jeering, sign-waving; horde. A few uniformed members of the Furman County Sheriff's

Department were attempting crowd control. I didn't see Tom. Claire and I decided to pick up our respective bundles and meet at the column nearest the mall entrance. I made off for the van, fumbled with the keys, and rummaged around in the dark interior, looking for the steamer. At last I found it underneath the container of roasted vegetables. If I loaded myself up, this would be the last trip out to the van. Another roar went up from the angry demonstrators. I quickly surveyed all the remaining food and decided it was worth the hassle. Balancing the bowl of vegetables on top of the plastic container of greens, I picked up the steamer, then carefully made my way toward the appointed column. With the hubbub all around, I desperately wanted to look inconspicuous. Or as inconspicuous as a woman toting forty pounds of fish and vegetables can be.

Over the rumble of the demonstrators, I heard a revving engine. It was closer to me than to the cops and the crowd, and getting closer by the moment. I craned my neck around. There was no car in sight. Neither the crowd nor the cops seemed to take any notice of me, so I continued to meander through vehicles on my way to the entrance, my attention on the triple deck of supplies I was balancing. There was another shout from the crowd and behind me, a squeal of tires.

I heard the scream first, then a horrid, sickening thud. The scream echoed from the concrete walls all around. Then the engine roared again and the tires screeched. Far over at the entrance, two uniformed cops started running in the direction of the scream. I willed myself to start breathing again, and looked around for Claire. Where was she? Had she seen what happened? My skin prickled. After being momentarily stilled, the demonstrators started up again with their "hoo-ha!" shouts that sounded like an ominous pep rally.

When Claire did not appear I whacked the steamer, the bowl, and the vegetables down on the hood of a nearby Jeep.

Unencumbered, I started briskly off in the area where I thought Claire had parked her Peugeot.

I saw the policemen first. One was talking into his radio. The other knelt on the pavement. A woman was lying at his feet.

Had she passed out? As I came closer, I realized the body could not have landed in that contorted way from a faint.

The kneeling policeman looked up and saw me. "Get back!" he yelled. "We need to clear this area!"

But I took no heed. Blood pooled on the cement near the inert body. The woman on the pavement was Claire.

3

I'm going to be ill. My mouth opened but no sound emerged. A car drove slowly by behind me. In one of its windows, children's faces gawked at the policemen. I lurched forward through a shock wave of car exhaust. Had Claire been struck by a car? But of course, that was the only explanation. There has to be some way I can help. Where was that vehicle I'd heard screeching through the garage? What were the two cops doing? Why wasn't someone else coming? I knew I would regret walking closer, but I kept moving forward anyway. My footsteps gritted loudly. Please let her be all right.

"Go back," said the policeman again, this time in my face. His wide shoulders and deeply lined face loomed in front of me.

He was not someone I knew. I murmured Claire's name and felt my knees buckle. Then the policeman seemed to change his mind. "Wait." His powerful hand gripped my elbow. "Did you see what happened? Do you know this woman? Were you with her?"

"No. I mean, yes." It came out a croak. "I only..." What? My face was wet. Tears. When had I started to cry?

The policeman's gruff voice insisted: "The woman who was hit-you knew her or not?" So Claire had been hit. Of course.

The policeman's eyes bored into mine. Surely he didn't think I was responsible? "Her name?" he demanded.

My mouth fumbled around Claire's name. I did not know her address. Julian would. Oh, God. Julian.

Behind us people began to gather. The policeman sharply ordered them to stay back, then continued with curt questions:

What exactly had I seen? Had I observed any vehicles before I heard the scream? Why was Claire in the garage? Not far away, the other uniformed cop continued to speak urgently into his radio. There was no movement from the twisted body on the pavement.

The man questioning me took his fierce eyes off my face and looked over my shoulder. "Oh, good. Schulz," he murmured.

I turned to see my husband walking swiftly toward us between parked cars. Relief rushed through me. Over his street clothes,

Tom wore a raid jacket, a gray windbreaker with the Furman County Sheriff's Department logo emblazoned on the left pocket. The jacket was what the plainclothes police put on when they needed to distinguish themselves from regular folks. But distinguishing

Tom Schulz from regular folks was not now, nor had it ever been, difficult.

He did not see me at first. I wiped my cheeks hard and watched him stride toward the uniformed officer with the radio, who was again kneeling on the garage floor. Tom wore his purposeful, commanding look, a look that I knew both comforted and cowed those who worked for him. It was also an expression that cut like a cleaver into a suspect's babbling. Tom dropped to one knee to talk to the cop with the radio. The officer motioned in our direction. Tom glanced over, gave a brief, puzzled shake of the head when he saw me, then turned back to Claire.

I shivered, coughed again, and clasped my arms. I felt ridiculous in the double-breasted chefs jacket and apron. The blood in my ears pounded as worries about Claire and Julian crowded my mind. Tom took the radio and talked into it. The policeman beside me seemed to sense there was no point in continuing his interrogation. Tom would join us momentarily and take over. An approaching siren wailed. Too soon, I thought. But of course - the new hospital was right across the street from the mall.

Suddenly the red, white, and gold EMS truck careened around a cement column, then screeched to a halt and disgorged two paramedics. They ran over to Claire's dreadfully inert body. Tom straightened and walked over to us. His face was grim.

"This is - " began the uniformed cop.

"Yeah, okay, I know who she is. Go help Rick with those demonstrators."

The uniformed cop trotted away. Tom gave me the full benefit of his green eyes.