Killer Pancake (6 page)

"Where are you going?" I called after them. "When will I hear if he's okay?"

Tom was at their heels. "Across the street, Southwest Hospital. Don't tell anybody what happened. I'll call you later." And he was gone.

The next two hours passed in a fog. I barely noticed the women I served. I found I could block out the days events by focusing, focusing, and focusing again on the food, on the job at hand.

Mercifully, the steamer had stayed closed when I'd heaved it at the angry demonstrator. The bowl of greens was also intact. Without the roast vegetables to garnish and dress the salad, I thinned out the carrot dip with olive oil and balsamic vinegar.

The resulting dressing was delicious. I had the ridiculous thought that I should have written down how I'd done it. It was such a trivial thing after what had happened to Claire. Hit-and-run. I wondered who would contact her parents in Australia.

I knew Tom was right, that he could not make a public announcement of Claire's death to her coworkers at Mignon. Since

Julian was the closest American to Claire, Tom was duty-bound to inform him. But Tom had to keep news of the death under wraps in the hope that Claire's family could be notified by the authorities rather than a journalist in search of a juicy story. The sheriffs department had a hierarchy of people to notify in the event of sudden death, and they stuck to it. The only folks who managed to screw this up were from the media. One of Arch's young friends had heard over the radio of his father's death in a plane crash. The poor child had immediately gone into shock.

Speaking of which, I couldn't bear recalling Julian's disbelieving face and his stricken What? What? I felt his absence by the extra amount of work I had to do: clearing dishes, refilling platters, wiping spills off the granite bar. Sometimes engaging in a load of work heals the heart. In this case, it didn't.

4

The lunch took an eternity. When it was almost over, a slender, elegant woman with long raven-black hair that contrasted with her sleek beige dress and pale orchid corsage got to her feet. Sending a twinkly smile in the direction of the guests, she announced breathlessly that Mignon was going to show slides of the new line of cosmetics for autumn, and then we would have dessert. The spotlights dimmed, and soon we were looking at the luminous, enlarged faces of stunning women. Then we saw the same lovely females with their fingers caressing suggestively shaped plastic bottles. The bottles were filled with stuff you were supposed to put on your face: Magic Pore-closing Toner with Mediterranean Sea Kelp. Extra-rich Alpine Nighttime Replacement Moisturizer with

Goat Placenta. Ultragentle Eye Cream Smoother with Swiss Herbs. It sounded like makeup by Heidi. Then we saw the same dramatically made-up women modeling colors of foundation, blush, lipstick, eyeshadow, and mascara. Strawberry Sundae lipstick.

Hot Date blush. Foreplay eyeshadow. S'More mascara. The models' eyes were half closed and their lips were pursed, as if they were trying to kiss the air, or at least seduce it. When it came time for the lipstick, out came the models' tongues, just touching the tops of their mouths.

The message wasn't exactly subliminal: Buy these cosmetics and you will get sex. When the slides were over and the lights came up, there was so much clapping, you would have thought they'd just announced the Nobel for Makeup.

I wondered how Julian was doing. I wondered what phase of the investigation the police were in now. Tom had said the state patrol handled traffic, which included hit-and-run. I wondered if the driver who had struck Claire had turned himself in. I tried to imagine where Tom was, what he was dealing with....

"Okay, girls," announced the black-haired woman, who had left her table and was standing in front of the slide screen,

"that was for you!" She put her hands on her hips and wiggled them provocatively. There was more uproarious clapping. She quieted the group with a restrained Queen Elizabeth-style wave. "We've got the best products and the hottest line," she continued authoritatively. "Everyone is going to be copying us - but we've got the jump on them because we've got the best sales associates and the best customers!" More thunderous applause. "And you're going to take us into the future!" From her jacket pocket she whipped out a pair of sunglasses and put them on. This was some kind of cue, because from her table, half a dozen other women quickly donned sunglasses. "So look out, everybody!" she cried. "The future of Mignon Cosmetics is so bright you're going to have to pull out those shades!" And then there was final, furious clapping from the audience as the black-haired woman strutted back to her seat. Wearing sunglasses, she had a hard time finding it, but someone finally took her hand and guided her back to her spot.

Out of place. That was what Tom always said he looked for, something out of place. And that was what appeared at exactly that moment: a person who didn't fit. Someone who was usually a slob. Someone who didn't wear lipstick or blush or face powder - ever. Someone who, as far as I knew, owned nothing but an ancient, too-large black trench coat and a ratty pair of sneakers held together with duct tape.

"Frances?" I asked tentatively as I doled out pieces of Nonfat Chocolate Torte to the women in line. "Frances Markasian?"

She smiled broadly at me and winked, then put her finger to her lips. But I was having none of it.

"Why are you here?" I demanded of Frances Markasian, a reporter from Aspen Meadow's small weekly newspaper, the

Mountain Journal. Had the Mountain Journal even run one article on fashion and makeup? The only piece I remembered seeing was on hunters wearing camouflage blackface when they went looking for elk.

Frances Markasian arched one freshly plucked eyebrow at the superbly groomed women who surrounded her, and grinned broadly. She patted her dark dreadlocked hair, now pinned into a thick, frizzy bun, then wiggled fingers at the women as they surveyed her. I itched to tell them that Frances Markasian wearing sling-back heels and a spangled St. John's knit dress was about as rare a sight as a red-tailed fox at a country club tea. But I kept mum.

As the women wandered back to their tables bearing their plates of Nonfat Chocolate Torte, I hissed, "How could you possibly have heard already?"

Frances picked at crumbs on the torte plate at the bar. "Heard what?"

Doggone it. When she finally raised her trying-to-look-innocent black eyes at me, I said evenly, "About the demonstrators.

One of them tried to block the door and I whacked him."

"You whacked him? With what? A knife or a chocolate torte pan?"

"A tray of vegetables."

The sleek black-haired woman had taken off her sun- glasses and was making a concluding announcement. The Mignon luncheon was finally breaking up. I tried to make my tone to Frances conciliatory. "Why don't you tell me why you're here? In fact, why don't you help me pack up my stuff while you're spilling your guts?"

"Do you have any real food? I'm still hungry."

I sighed. "Peach cobbler or brownies?"

Before Frances could reply, a short, slightly plump young woman with dyed orange-blond hair cut in a brushed-forward pixie style appeared at the bar. Dusty Routt, unlike journalist Frances Markasian, was not out of place at this perfumed, stylish lunch. Dusty lived just down the street from us in a house built by Aspen Meadow's branch of the charitable group Habitat for

Humanity. For a time she'd gone to prep school with Julian, but had been mysteriously expelled before graduation. She and Julian shared the bond of being scholarship students, and they'd started going out before Dusty was expelled. But a month ago Dusty had made the mistake of introducing Julian to her fellow sales associate in her new job. The fellow sales associate had been

Claire Satterfield. Now Dusty's usually cheery face was mournful and her cornflower-blue eyes pleading.

"Hi, Goldy," she said in her singsong voice. "Where's Julian?"

"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. I

Really! Great." I 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-unsuccessfulIy-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 damn 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 passed 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 analytical 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 loves- truck 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?