Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

“Mr. Hotchkiss,” Harriet said with a tiny, wicked smile, “are you actually going to buy something today?”

“Buzz off, Harriet,” Reggie Hotchkiss said loudly. “Look.” He gestured in my direction. “You’ve got a customer. You can’t keep up those hefty sales numbers if you ignore a customer, now, can you?”

Harriet lifted her chin and walked past him to me. Like Dusty, her face sagged with fatigue, but she did not look quite as disheveled. “Ah, Goldy. The caterer. You heard, I suppose …?”

I nodded.

“So tragic. That girl had a future in cosmetics, she was a natural. We’re all going to miss—” Her voice broke, and she stopped to reassert control. Her large blue eyes appealed to me. “Is your boy all right? It must have been a terrible shock for him.”

My watch said 4:05. “Yes, thanks. Julian is my helper and he’s fine. But I have a friend in the hospital, and she’s quite ill. I’ll … see you tomorrow.”

“Then why are you—”

But I waved and hightailed it out of the store, past the demonstrators, through all the cars, and to my van. Revving my vehicle over to the hospital, I was obsessed with wondering who Reggie was and why he was going to get into trouble for being seen. Reggie Hotchkiss, Reggie Hotchkiss.

Oh yes, how could I forget? He did indeed live in Aspen Meadow. His family owned a prosperous Denver-based company: Hotchkiss Skin and Hair.

When the orderlies finally wheeled Marla back up from having her angiogram, she looked completely transformed. Her complexion was wan, and her usual animation had disintegrated into grogginess. I waited while the nurse hooked her back up to her monitors. By the time I came into the cubicle, Marla, a large, raucously funny person whom I always thought of as being in full bloom, appeared completely deflated.

She caught sight of me and groaned. “I feel gross. I look gross. My back’s killing me. You gotta get me out of here, Goldy.”

“I’m trying, believe me—”

Dr. Lyle Gordon walked into the cubicle and checked Marla’s IV. He was wearing a white lab coat over his scrubs. His gray fluff of hair stood up straight on his head. “Ah, the patient’s sister. Did she tell you?”

I said, “Tell me what?”

His eyebrows pinched inward. “We had an emergency operation this morning and had to delay her procedure. Your sister’s angiogram showed blockage at the mid-right coronary. So we’re going ahead with the atherectomy.” He turned to Marla. “But it’s too late today, unfortunately. We’ll need to wait until tomorrow.”

“Oh my God,” groaned Marla. She eyed her cardiologist with as much fierceness as she could muster. “You mean, I’m going to have to go all night with this … this thing sticking into my groin—”

“It’s called a catheter,” said Lyle Gordon patiently, patting the sheet. “Ms. Korman. We’re going to get through this—”

“Oh yeah?” Marla interrupted. “Who’s we , white man?”

“Ms. Korman—”

Marla snapped, “Shut up!”

Dr. Lyle Gordon clenched his teeth and straightened his shoulders. Then he addressed me, enunciating each phrase: “I need. A surgeon. On standby. Tomorrow. I can’t get a surgeon to be on standby until tomorrow. And we need the surgeon in case something goes wrong. Worst case, we’ll have a surgical suite ready if the catheter perforates the heart or tears the artery or she has another heart attack—”

“As God. Is my Witness.” Marla growled from her bed, “I am never giving this hospital another—”

“Help me out here, would you please?” Dr. Lyle Gordon begged me.

I said, “Sure,” and he abruptly left the cubicle. “Marla, look,” I said lightly, pointing to a potted coral begonia on her nightstand, “someone’s sent you flowers.”

She skewed her glance sideways at the perky blossoms, then turned away. “I don’t care.”

I opened the card and could not hide my astonishment. “They’re from the general. ‘Hoping for a speedy recovery.’ I thought your brother-in-law was in jail for possessing explosives.”

“He is in jail, but Bo has friends everywhere.” Marla closed her eyes.

I put my hand on her shoulder. “They’re going to kick me out of here any minute. Please tell me what I can do for you.”

“I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars to help me escape.”

“Marla—”

“You’d have to cater birdwatchers’ picnics for three years to make that kind of dough.”

“And your second choice is …”

She sighed such a deep, depressed sigh that I briefly considered trying to break her out. “Okay, Goldy.” She seemed suddenly tired, as if she’d given up. “Get somebody to bring me some lingerie and my mail. Some folks have been calling, and I guess Tony’s coming in tomorrow.” Tony was her on-again, off-again boyfriend. “I don’t know what the hell the hospital’s done with my stuff. The spare house key is in a key box under my dryer vent.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“My life is over. I’ll never eat another éclair. They’ll put me in a wheelchair to go around Aspen Meadow Lake….”

“Your life, sister, is just beginning. Buck up, now, I’m going to learn how to cook lowfat, and we’ll walk around the lake together—”

Before we could pursue this healthy vision further, Marla drifted off to sleep. I kept my hand on her shoulder until the ten minutes were over.

Then I zipped out to a pay phone, put a call in to Tom, and reached his voice mail. I told him about Reggie Hotchkiss, proprietor of what could be a rival company to Mignon, and about Reggie’s conversation with Dusty Routt. I told Tom that I missed him and hoped we’d see him tonight.

At home I fixed grilled cheese sandwiches for Arch and me, at his request. When he asked about Marla, I put my gooey sandwich down and decided against finishing it. I took a salad and bowl of soup upstairs, but Julian said through his door that he didn’t want anything, thanks. Finally, Arch and I sat in the backyard and watched rippled pink clouds slowly change color as the sun drifted toward the mountains.

“Did you talk to Tom on the phone, Mom? Has he found out anything yet?”

“Haven’t talked to him. He’ll be home late.”

“Seems as if he’s always working when, you most want to talk to him,” Arch observed. “During an investigation, I mean.”

“I know.” I’d been thinking the same thing myself.

A gentle breeze bowed the stems on the nearby columbines. Close by in the neighborhood, someone was cooking steak on a grill. The succulent smell filled the air and reminded me I had the food fair to start in the morning.

“Todd and I are going out tomorrow afternoon to look for 33 rpm records,” Arch announced. “Unless Julian needs me. Do you think he will?”

“Hard to tell.”

The doorbell rang. It was Todd, wanting to see if Arch could walk into town for ice cream. After I gave my permission, however, Arch hesitated. “Are you okay, Mom? You seem … sad. Is it because of Marla?” When I nodded, he said, “I know she’s your best friend.”

“Thanks for asking. As soon as she’s out of the hospital, I’ll feel a lot better.”

“How about if I bring you back a pint of mint chocolate chip?”

“You’re sweet, but no. I just want to work in the kitchen, get my mind off things.”

And work in the kitchen I did. The second batch of ribs needed to be precooked and cooled, then chilled overnight before being reheated at the fair the next morning. I lifted the thick, meaty slabs and arranged them on racks in the oven. Soon the rich scent of roasting pork wafted through the house, and I went upstairs and opened the windows for air. Poor little Colin Routt started wailing when a motorcycle roared by. Within moments, though, someone started playing the jazz saxophone, and the baby quieted. I wished we could all have our jangled nerves calmed so easily.