Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

With the power out, the usual artificial reminders of morning—ringing alarms, the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee—were absent. Luckily, Tom seems to possess an internal clock I dimly registered his departure when watery morning sunshine slanted through the bedroom windows. During a homicide investigation, he always leaves at sunup for the investigative team’s strategy meetings, and returns home late. He phoned after a few hours, when I was moving slowly through the end of my yoga routine. He wanted to make sure I was okay, and that I knew the electricity was off. Yes, he’d been able to back out of the driveway, he said when I asked about the pickup, but I should be careful to avoid the mud on Main Street. I caught sight of my own short-statured, disheveled-haired, stupid-happy reflection in the mirror when I hung up. Living with someone who tried to take care of me still brought unexpected pleasure.

Thursday, July 2, my kitchen calendar informed me, was a preparation day for the events ahead—the food fair and the Chamber of Commerce brunch on Friday, the Braithwaites’ party on Saturday. Thinking of the Braithwaites, I groaned. Babs had been as snooty at the Mignon banquet as she’d been after she’d rear-ended Julian in her Mercedes and claimed it was his fault. But her personality wasn’t about to stop me from making a splendid profit on the seated dinner she and her husband were giving for July Fourth. The two of them threw this celebrated annual party on their manicured five acres atop Aspen Knoll, the high point of the Aspen Meadow country club area. Supposedly the knoll had the best view of the fireworks over Aspen Meadow Lake. Perhaps if the guests plowed through their curry early enough, I’d even see part of the display. On second thought, with Julian’s participation now uncertain, I might have to clean up until dawn.

I checked my watch: eight-forty. Alicia should arrive with seafood, meats, and produce around nine. The power came back while I was wondering about the best time to visit Marla. With her angiogram scheduled for first thing, perhaps I could visit in the early afternoon … then stop at Prince & Grogan to get the second half of my check, final payment for the banquet … that is, if Tom didn’t object to my presence there….

The phone rang. It was Tom again. “Look, Goldy, I’m sorry about last night—”

“What about it? It got kind of fun around four A.M. Of course, I couldn’t see the time …”

“Well, I’ve just been thinking about it.” He paused. “Look, Goldy,” he said seriously, “you know I want you to … think about this case. It always helps to have your input.”

“Think about the case,” I repeated.

“You know I respect your intellect.”

“Uh-huh. My intellect. My charming personality. And my cooking, don’t forget that.”

“Be serious. Fabulous cooking, charming personality, and a great intellect.”

“Gee, Tom. I wish you’d been one of my professors. Great intellect. La-de-da.”

“All kidding aside—I just don’t want you to interfere, get yourself in a compromising position. Believe it or not, Miss G., there is a difference. For example, you should ignore a demonstrator. Not dump vegetables on him.”

I glanced into the walk-in for ingredients that would make a show-stopping bread for the food fair. “Okay, no more vegetable-dumping. Promise. How’d your meeting go? Speaking of the Spare the Hares people, have you found out anything? Did Shaman Krill complain about me?”

“The strategy meeting took two hours. And how can I find out about demonstrators when I’m making conciliatory phone calls to my wife?”

“Just answer the question, cop.”

“The guy didn’t make a formal complaint. And nobody from that mall is being overly helpful. Sometimes your prime suspect is always around, bending over backward to give you advice and guidance. That’s when you have to expect to be deceived.” He made a grumbling noise. I could imagine him considering his cup of bitter sheriff’s department coffee. “So are you and I okay?”

“Of course.”

He grunted. “Julian up yet?”

“I was about to check on him. Aren’t you always telling me how the first forty-eight hours of a homicide investigation are the most profitable? I’m making bread. We’re fine. Tom, please, I can’t bear not to know why someone would do that to Claire Satterfield. Go investigate.”

As I tiptoed up the stairs to the boys’ room, his words echoed in my ear. I’ve just been thinking about it … I’m sorry … don’t want your interference . The many, many wrinkles of two single lives, of separate ways of communicating, were taking a while to smooth out. Every aspect of our entwined experiences was under scrutiny. Even the way we referred to possessions was a challenge, I thought as I caught my reflection in one of the old-but-not-antique mirrors that Tom had collected over the years. He’d hung them just last week on the wall above the stairway. Tom’s pictures, my stairway. His stove, my refrigerator, his deck furniture, my bed, his car, my house. Now I was learning to say our, our, our . I sidestepped Scout the cat, curled into a furry ball on one of the steps, and gazed into a mirror. A short, slightly plump, thirty-two-year-old woman with curly blond hair and brown eyes looked back. Our mirrors. Our life . Goodness, even our cat.

I eased the boys’ bedroom door open. Arch’s slow, regular breathing from the top bunk indicated he was still asleep. There was no noise from Julian’s bed. In the morning, his muscular limbs usually sprawled from under the covers on the lower bunk. But at the moment the navy-blue bedspread covered his inert form from head to foot. I hoped he was asleep. Somehow, though, I doubted it.

I tiptoed back to the kitchen and contemplated the egg yolks I’d been accumulating in the refrigerator. They were left over from my preparation of lowfat recipes that invariably required egg whites . I’d have even more yolks to deal with when I got going on the vanilla-frosted fudge cookies. The yolks, though, what could I do with the yolks? I mentally tasted a cake or rolls enriched with yolks, then hit on the idea that the yolks could be the mainstay of a light, sweet, Sally Lunn-type bread for the fair. I hummed to myself as I made a yeast starter, chopped fresh pecans, and measured sun-dried cranberries. When a large chunk of butter was dissolving into golden globules in a pan of milk, I peeled thin curls of flavorful zest from juicy oranges, then spooned out flour from a copper canister Tom had brought from his cabin.

I had learned a great deal about Tom, I reflected as my mixer began its slow route through the warm liquids. For example, I’d discovered that he preferred saving money to spending it, except when he could lavish exorbitant sums on antiques. I didn’t understand the point of antiques—why would you pay more for something used and old? He’d proudly showed me his cherry sideboard and announced, “Hepplewhite, 1800 to 1850.” I’d almost passed out when I learned what he’d paid for that hunk of wood. He’d bought it before we were married, though, and had vowed to purchase no more “goodies,” as he called them, until we could figure out what to do with the stock-pile of possessions we were now trying to cram into one house.

WHAT-TO-DO-WITH-ALL-THE-EGG-YOLKS BREAD

2½ teaspoons (1¼-ounce envelope) active dry yeast

¼ cup sugar

¼ cup warm water

¾ cup skim milk

¼ cup butter, melted

½ cup canola oil

1 tablespoon chopped orange zest

1 teaspoon salt

4 egg yolks, lightly beaten