Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

“Hey! Caterer! Going to throw any more food around today? What’re you serving, slaughtered cow?”

I leaned on the horn with one hand and rolled down the driver-side window with the other.

“Help!” I yelled. “Help, help!”

The policeman hustled over. By the time I could tell him one of the demonstrators had harassed me, Shaman Krill had disappeared. Even when I stopped the van and hopped out to look where he’d gone, I couldn’t see the activist’s dark, bobbing head in the crowd. The policeman asked if I wanted to file a report. I said no. I quickly told him that Investigator Tom Schulz was my husband, and that I’d tell him all about it, but that at the moment I was late to set up for the food fair. The officer reluctantly let me go, with the admonition to be careful.

I climbed back in the driver’s seat and pressed firmly on the accelerator. The van whizzed up the ramp of the parking garage. Yellow police ribbons around the place where Claire died came into view. I averted my eyes.

I pulled into a parking space, pinned on my official Food-Fair Server badge, and glanced at my watch. Eight-thirty. A little over an hour remained to get everything set up on the roof before the inspector showed up with his trusty little thermometer to see if my hot food was hot enough and my cold food sufficiently chilly. The diagram of food fair booths showed my booth was next to the stairway up from the second-floor garage entrance to Prince & Grogan. A stream of weight-wielding walkers impeded my schlepping the first load of boxes to the elevator, but I finally made it. Within thirty minutes I had wheeled, carted, and hauled my stuff into place. I put out my ads with sample menus and price lists, fired up the butane burner, and waited for the grills to heat. And then, oh, then, I thanked the patron saints of cappuccino that right across from the spot allocated to Goldilocks’ Catering was a booth with the sign PETE’S ESPRESSO BAR.

I slapped the first batch of ribs on the grill and dashed across the makeshift aisle to the deliciously appetizing smell. With more success than I would have thought possible, Pete had been running a coffee place at Westside Mall since the shopping center had been refurbished. He’d taken it upon himself to run a wonderfully inventive promotional campaign, including taking nighttime orders for hot coffee drinks delivered first thing in the morning to nearby businesses. He called it Federal Espresso. Today, Pete, a thirtyish, dark-haired fellow who had managed both to transport and get a power source for an enormous steam-driven Rancilio machine, was wearing a T-shirt that said NEED COFFEE DELIVERED? USE ESPRESSO MALE. He instantly recognized the symptoms of latte-deprivation and fixed me a tall one with three shots. I sipped it gratefully while looking eastward off the garage roof. A beautiful old neighborhood called Aqua Bella was not half a mile away, and the rooftops of the large, older homes were just visible—the turrets of a pale Victorian, the chimneys of an Edwardian. It wasn’t as good as looking at the lake and the mountains with my morning coffee, but it was okay.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” said a dreamy voice. “Wouldn’t you just love to live over there?” Dusty Routt sighed gustily. “Someday. When I get out of this place,” she added bitterly.

“I like Aspen Meadow, actually,” I replied. Dusty looked better than the day before—calmer, more in control. For which I was grateful. “Denver’s too crowded,” I added. “How are you doing? Better?”

“Well, I … how’s Julian?”

“Not so hot.”

She sighed again. “I guess I’m doing better. I’m just getting some coffee before I go work,” she said apologetically, and turned to Pete. She shook the food fair bracelet past the cuff of her dark green Mignon uniform to show him. “I’ll take two chocolate-dipped biscotti to go with the latte.” She picked up one of the pamphlets Pete was offering, The History and Science of Coffee . “Better make that three biscotti,” she said. She wrinkled her nose and gave me the pamphlet when Pete handed across her drink and pile of cookies. While Pete tried to sell her some Sumatra Blend, I read that according to legend, coffee provided mental alertness, a cure for catarrh, an antidote for hemlock, and a lessening of the symptoms of narcolepsy. I could have used some narcolepsy last night. I tossed the pamphlet into a trash can. Dusty politely refused Pete’s offer for a discount on the Sumatra, picked up her breakfast, and said in a confidential tone, “You know, Goldy, I really shouldn’t be doing this food fair. I mean, forty bucks, and the mall workers don’t even get a discount! But the bracelet’s good all day … maybe I’ll have something nutritious during my break. I just need to get a little sugar in my system before I go out there and sell, sell, sell.”

I sipped Pete’s marvelous latte and glanced at the ribs. They were now sending up savory swirls of smoke. “That’s okay. Julian already told me about what cosmetics folks eat.”

A look of worry crossed Dusty’s pretty, chubby face. “But … did he come with you? Is he okay? They called all the reps last night to tell us about the police investigation….” She faltered. This morning, Dusty’s short, orange-blond hair was coiffed in a spill of stiff waves framing her cherub-cheeked face. Although I knew she was only eighteen, her heavy matte makeup, dark-lined eyes, too-rosy streaks of blush, and prominent blue eyeshadow made her look much older. Lack of sleep and worry lines didn’t help. Not to mention dealing with the news that one of your colleagues had been killed.

“What did they say to the reps?” I asked.

“I have to get back,” she said abruptly. “Come with me? I’d like to talk to you, since we didn’t really have a chance yesterday. And it seems as if we never get to when we’re in the neighborhood. You’re always cooking or going off somewhere, and I have Colin to take care of, since Mom never feels very well….”

I glanced at my watch again: nine-twenty. There was still no sign of the goateed health inspector, and I did want to get the second half of my banquet payment from Mignon before things got too busy…. Nodding to Dusty, I quickly removed the juicy ribs from the grill and drafted a food fair volunteer to guard my supplies for twenty minutes. Then I picked up my coffee and walked with Dusty to Prince & Grogan.

“How is your mother, Dusty? I haven’t seen her for a while.”

Dusty snorted. “Heartbroken.”

“Heartbroken?” I repeated. “Why?”

“Well,” said Dusty as she finished her first cookie. “First she fell in love with my dad, had me, and then he left. They never got married, and of course I never knew him. So good old Mom worked hard as a secretary to raise me, and then, not too long ago, she got a chance to have a house, finally, through Habitat for Humanity. And what did she do? Fell in love with the plumber. The plumber working on the Habitat house! She was thirty-eight, he was twenty-five, but never mind! That woman, my dear mother, is gorgeous, she’s passionate, she has no idea of the meaning of birth control. So the plumber got her pregnant with Colin, and it’s bye-bye Aspen Meadow Plumbing Service! I heard from somebody that he drove his little pipe-filled pickup truck to the Western Slope, where he could start all over, donating his services to charity.” Through a bite of biscotti, she mumbled, “At a discount.”

“I’m sorry.” Actually, I knew the details of this particular story from Marla. Strikingly stunning Sally Routt, Dusty’s mother, a single mother with an aging father and a teenage daughter, had become involved with the young, plain-looking town plumber. Had Sally hoped he would marry her when she became pregnant? Who knew? I never saw Sally Routt when she was expecting, because she’d gone into seclusion, and then reportedly suffered through a difficult, premature childbirth. The plumber, with his sad round face and round eyes behind glass-rimmed spectacles, had departed Aspen Meadow at night, leaving behind accounts receivable and one emotional debt unpaid.