Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

“Reggie Hotchkiss!” I concluded triumphantly.

“If you knew all this, why’d you ask me?” He sounded peeved.

“I didn’t know any of it, Tony. You did sketchy for me, I just filled in the holes. How long does Hotchkiss Skin & Hair have to prove themselves?”

“They report to my banker friend next month. But he’s been getting glowing reports from Reg. They’ve got a new line, they’re guaranteed success. Everyone makes piles of money.”

Yes, I knew all about their new line, it was fresh from Mignon Cosmetics. But I decided not to mention that to Tony. I asked him how and when I could deliver the promised brownies to him. He said he’d be at the Braithwaites’ party tomorrow night, and hadn’t a little bird told him I was catering that party? You bet, I said, and hung up.

I told Tom what I’d learned. He even took out his trusty spiral notebook and jotted down a few notes. Then, while he watched in amusement, I flipped through the phone book, located Hotchkiss Skin & Hair, and put in a call. Lucky for me, the corporate number had a tape saying if I wanted a facial or any one of their products, leave my name and number. Someone would get back to me just as soon as one of their skin-care staff became available.

I summoned a frantic voice. My newly discovered acting ability was going to get me into deep trouble one of these days, but right now I had to admit I was rather enjoying it. “This is Goldy Schulz calling, and I need a facial at your earliest convenience! I … I saw a brochure of your new product line and I want to buy everything. Everything . I need it! You have to understand, I’m desperate! I know you all are the ones who can help me!” I left my number and disconnected.

“Woman,” Tom mused as he rinsed off his dish. “Sometimes I don’t know what to think about you.”

I ladled scoopfuls of hot fudge soufflé into bowls and spooned on lowfat whipped topping. I handed one to Tom. “I’ve told you all I know. Now, what did you find out about Hotchkiss? And what about Shaman Krill? What he’s up to?”

Tom shook his head and took a bite. “Oh, God.”

Oh, God, was right. The fudge soufflé was warm and rich, and melted on the tongue, just the way the thousand-calories-a-bite hot fudge sundaes did. Marla was going to love this. “Tom? What did you find out?”

He wrinkled his brow and dug into the soufflé. “Hotchkiss is in trouble financially. Desperately needs to have success with his new line.”

“If you knew all that, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I have ways of investigating that don’t involve sleazy characters like Tony Royce.”

I sighed. “So you don’t mind if I get a facial?”

“’Course not. Just don’t—”

“Get into trouble, I know.” I felt guilty not telling him about the bleach water and the threatening note, but I knew he would halt my sleuthing around immediately if I ’fessed up. “There’s a ton of fudge soufflé here,” I warned him. “Both of the guys went to bed already, so I hope you’ll eat more.”

He gestured with his spoon. “Remember when you were living with the Farquhars, and you told me all about how chocolate was an aphrodisiac?” I nodded, and he picked up our bowls and put them in the sink. Then he pulled me up from my seat. It was so unexpected that I laughed. Maybe because he’d been gone so much lately, it felt as if we were going to be newlyweds forever. He kissed my cheek, then my other cheek, then my ear. “Isn’t that what you told me? You’re such a great caterer. To do all that research, I mean.” He narrowed one eye and arched one of those bushy brows. “Tell you what, though, I’ve always thought of myself as a good cop.”

“A great cop,” I corrected him, and kissed him back.

“But I certainly,” he said as he scooped me up easily into his arms, “never”—I squealed as he started to walk out of the kitchen—“ever,” he said emphatically as he carried me up the stairs to our bedroom, “had this much fun doing police work in my entire life.”

So much for second helpings.

Saturday morning, July 4, brought a very early call for Tom. His subsequent departure accompanied a mumbled farewell to me that I thought included words about bail. But I was still half-asleep, and registered only the loss of his body heat from our bed.

At half past five I gave up on slumber. Daylight had invaded our bedroom, and the morning concert of birds was in full swing. I was exhausted. I’d crept downstairs at midnight when I heard Julian talking on the phone. His tone had been the one he used with friends—confiding, pleading. I can’t stop thinking about her. When they take the body, it’ll be like she’s really dead. Why would someone do this? I’d felt guilty listening in and tiptoed back upstairs. Now, with another food fair day looming and no relief in sight for Julian’s pain, I felt as if it was all too much.

I pushed the window open, took a deep breath of cool, sweet air, and gazed at the bowl of ultra-blue Colorado sky. Stretching up to the horizon, vast expanses of pines covered the closest mountains like thick waves of forest-green needlepoint. Brilliant chartreuse groves of aspens in full leaf patched the deep green undulating over the hills. The air was extremely still. Aspen Meadow Lake offered a plate-glass reflection of the spruces and ponderosa pines lining its shore. With any luck, this weather would hold through the food fair and the fireworks at Aspen Meadow Lake.

I went through a slow yoga routine, fixed myself a cappuccino, and moved efficiently around the kitchen to assemble more ribs, salad, bread, and cookies. I caught sight of the bag that had held Marla’s hand cream and realized it was finally Saturday. The day Marla was due home. Also the day Claire’s parents were arriving from Australia to claim her body.

I sat at the kitchen table and tried to remember if Julian had told me what he was doing today. Had I failed him in not being around during this painful time? At least during the night he’d been seeking companionship by talking to someone on the phone. I sipped the last of the cold coffee, rinsed my cup, and caught sight of a note Julian had left under a refrigerator magnet. He had arranged to get together with some school buddies. Would I please, he wanted to know, leave him instructions for preparing the Braithwaites’ Fourth of July party tonight? I’ll be home by ten AM., and I want to learn how to do that turkey curry , he wrote in his small, cramped script, so don’t just give me the easy stuff! And then— Did you find out anything about Claire? J.

Grief tightened my throat. In two months Julian would be at Cornell. A year ago, he’d needed a place to live for his high school senior year, a salary for his work with the catering business, and a short course in food service before he began his official college studies in food science. But the tight family unit we’d developed since had come as a bonus, a surprise, a slice of what the theologians call grace . Now his departure loomed like a black hole. I punched buttons on my kitchen computer to bring up the menu for the Braithwaites. My mind mulled Julian’s last plea: Did you find out anything about Claire? No, Julian. Nothing helpful. Nothing to answer your questions or to ease your pain. Nothing to explain why I—and by extension, my family—was being threatened. Yet.

Through an effort of pure will, I pushed the sadness aside. I wanted to help Julian patch his shattered young life back together. That would be my farewell present.