Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

It was one of those cryptic messages we used to send in school, where the words and letters are cut out of magazines or newspapers. This note said: GOLDILOCKS GO HOME. AND STAY THERE.

Well, I better, ah … I need to be going,” said Charles Braithwaite in a meek voice. He had somehow tugged free of Frances and was backing away. His wild, pale hair shone like a corona in the sunlight. “Glad to have been able to help. I have to meet somebody,” he babbled as Frances made a step to follow him.

“I want to thank you again in person,” I called after him. “Maybe tomorrow, at your place! Your Fourth of July party, you know? Remember?” He didn’t respond, not even to wave, as he slunk swiftly away. I turned back to Julian, who was puzzling over the note. “Okay, kiddo,” I said, “did you go with Dusty on some field trip to his place?”

“Oh, yeah. Don’t you remember? It’s awesome. But he’s got a real hangup about security. He got all our names printed out on a list before we came in. Then he wanted to check our driver’s licenses to make sure we were who we said we were, only not everybody had a license. And even though I think he believed we were who we said we were, Dr. Braithwaite still had covered some of his current experiments with tarpaulin before we came trooping through. It was a kick. Real secretive. You know, like he was the CIA or something.”

“Did you see any roses? Experimental roses?”

“Oh, Goldy, he was doing all kinds of experiments. We just saw his equipment.”

I said, “Hmm.” Tom could take care of Charles Braithwaite and his experiments. I didn’t know what to do about the note. My clothes were damp. My heart was still beating hard. If the mall security force was as distasteful as Prince & Grogan’s, they wouldn’t be much help. Call Tom asap , my inner voice warned. If you don’t let him know you’ve been attacked, he’s going to be mightily upset . “Listen, Julian, could you put the flaps down anti let me go into the tent and change? I still need to see Marla today.”

He obeyed in silence. Frances, hands on the hips of her wet dress, squinted thoughtfully at the departing Charles Braithwaite. Then she gathered up the clothes Pete had given her and slipped into the tent next to me. The flap thumped down into place.

“What do you suppose is going on?” she hissed as I removed my sticky chef’s jacket.

“I have no idea.” I peeled off my skirt and decided to keep my underwear on. It was only slightly damp. But my skirt surely resembled one of Arch’s tie-dying projects. My fingers grasped the dressing-room storage key, I slipped it into my splotched bra. I didn’t even want to picture what bleach would do to my hair. My thoughts were on Charles Braithwaite. Why had he been up on the roof? Maybe there’d been a breach in his security. Had the blue rose been stolen from him? Why? And what possible connection could it—and Braithwaite—have with Claire’s murder? I struggled into the clothes from Pete and rubbed my arms.

“I’ll call you later,” Frances said abruptly, “I need to go talk to our helper.” She quickly gathered up her wet belongings and ducked out of the tent. I felt a surge of pity for Charles Braithwaite. But I envied Frances, too, as I was also desperate to know more about what the reclusive scientist was up to.

When I emerged from the tent wearing my new duds and shaking my damp hair, Julian was sitting on the concrete, looking depleted. Fairgoers gave him occasional curious glances. But most rushed around and past him, like stream water flowing around a rock.

“What is it?” I asked him. “Feeling sick?”

He didn’t respond right away. Finally he looked at me. His face was patchy and covered with the familiar sheen of sweat produced by the exertion of cooking and serving. His eyes glittered with a wetness he wasn’t about to acknowledge. “God, I don’t know. I’m just so tired.”

“I told you not to do that damn chamber brunch.” I helped him up. “How’d it go, anyway?”

His voice was weary. “Fine. And that’s not it.” He brushed himself off and rubbed his knuckles, raw from too much washing, on his white caterer’s shirt. “I called Tom, the way you said. He said that when they get here, Claire’s parents are taking her body back to Australia. They’re not even going to have a memorial service in Colorado.”

“Julian, I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter.” His toneless voice wrenched my heart. “Something else. After the chamber brunch, Marla’s nurse at the hospital called. She said they’re moving Marla into a private room, and she was asking for her nightgowns and her mail, and would someone from her sister’s family go get her stuff?” I cursed at myself for forgetting. “Anyway,” Julian went on, “I said I was the nephew and I would. Marla told the nurse where the spare key was and so now everything is in my car. I thought I should bring it down. Since I was planning to come anyway.”

Bless Julian. We picked up Marla’s belongings from the Rover and I drove us to the hospital in the van. I checked the lobby’s pay phones to call Tom. They were both in use. After some confusion at the reception desk, we found the right elevator and made our way to Marla’s new private room. I clutched the jar of hand cream I’d bought at Prince & Grogan. Julian, his mouth pressed in a tight line, held a grocery sack full of bedclothes and mail. When we were on the right floor, I asked at the nurses’ station when Marla was expected to be discharged. The on-duty nurse smiled and said probably tomorrow, and they certainly were going to miss her! I grinned back. Sure.

“Oh, I swear, finally!” Marla said when we entered the room. She was lying in bed, looking even more uncomfortable and depressed than the day before. Tony Royce, a thick-mustached equities analyst who was Marla’s current boyfriend, sat on a ventilation unit next to a window. In a corner of the room sat a nurse, one I recognized from the Coronary Care Unit.

The nurse announced softly: “Two visitors, Miss Korman.”

Marla said, “Tony, I need to see my family. Okay?”

Tony Royce appraised Julian and me the way you would cattle, then snorted. “They’re not your family!” But he propelled himself off the ventilation unit anyway and sauntered toward the door. Because my income did not allow me to invest heavily in equities, Tony viewed me as being from a lower rung on the evolutionary ladder. I didn’t much like him, either, but I kept that to myself. Usually, like now, I ignored him.

“How are you? “I asked Marla gently. “Did the atherectomy go okay?”

Marla raised a warning finger and whispered, “I guess so. It’s over, that’s the best part. Notice the private room and nurse?” I nodded. For the first time in three days, I saw a tiny, brief smile cross Marla’s face. I guessed she’d finally convinced someone to look up her record of contributions to the hospital. I smiled too, but then noticed Tony Royce standing by the door. Since Tony had not been to the hospital since Marla had her attack, he was probably feeling as bereft as I had the first day. On the other hand, his relationship with Marla rested largely on the fact that she was one of his best clients. Maybe he was just being difficult.

“I’m sorry,” the nurse said with more insistence, “the patient can’t have more than two visitors.”

I glanced at Julian. His eyes pleaded with mine. I relented. “Okay,” I said. “Stay here and I’ll walk out with Tony.”

“Oh, thanks a lot,” Tony said jokingly as I took him by the arm and propelled him out the door and into the hall.