Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

Frances retorted calmly, equally loudly, “Be my guest!”

John Richard bounded into his Jeep, started it, and revved it deafeningly. Arch was still gaping at Frances, who had her eyes and weapon trained on the Jeep. “Does that knife have an explosive charge or a spring-loaded device?” he asked in a low whisper. Before Frances could answer, John Richard leaned on his horn. Arch scooped up his bag and sidled over to the porch steps. “Miss Markasian? I don’t mean to be, like, judgmental, but I think maybe you should cut back on your caffeine. Don’t hurt my dad, okay?” And with that, he sprinted to the Jeep.

Frances pressed her lips together, nudged the safety back in place, and dropped the big knife back in her bag. The Jeep roared away.

“Dammit, Frances, what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

She picked up her Jolt cola. “I told you. Knowing what I know about what happened to Eileen Robinson, and after that little incident on the roof, I swore I’d be ready the next time. That’s it. So when you came out your door looking so upset, and then His Menacing Majesty appeared unexpectedly, there I was, a little girl scout, all prepared.” She sighed. “You should get a weapon, Goldy. It really gives you a sense of power.”

“No, thanks. When do you want to come back to pick up all these cosmetics I’m buying?”

“Later.” And with that she hefted up her bag, for which I had a new and profound respect, hopped down the porch steps, and strode away. I looked up and down the curbs for her car. It wasn’t parked on the street. And by the time I looked for Frances, she had disappeared.

Back in the house, I finished making the Killer Pancakes and set them aside to cool. Then I sloshed together a new bucket of bleach water for the fair, carefully covered it, and hauled it out to the van. After packing the Killer Pancakes between layers of waxed paper in a plastic container, I got the spare key to Marla’s house from where Julian had left it for me, and started out. Clouds were just beginning to float in from the westernmost mountains. Perhaps it wouldn’t be a bright and cloudless day after all. The events of the morning certainly hadn’t been very sunny.

By the time I’d let myself into Marla’s house, stored the food in the refrigerator, and written a note to the nurse, the westernmost sky was gray with fast-moving, towering thunderheads. Although the rain usually arrived in the mountain towns several hours before it traveled eastward to Denver, even the possibility of being drenched inside a roof tent was unappealing in the extreme. My spirits sank.

The early-bird shopping special had ended Friday. As a result, very few walkers and eaters were lined up outside the mall’s entrance. The Spare the Hares! people were nowhere in sight. I parked and hauled all my supplies up to the roof, where a small cluster of people was already beginning to gather. For the early morning musical entertainment today, the food fair organizers had hired a calliope player. The place sounded and felt like a half-empty merry-go-round.

I fired up the burners, set out the salad, bread, and cookies, and plopped the ribs on the grill, where they began to sizzle. That done, I survived the daily visit from the health inspector and started to serve the occasional guest. Pete, whose customers were equally sparse, brought me a triple-shot latte and my caterer’s uniform, which his wife had washed and pressed. I showed my gratitude by loading him down with ribs and cookies.

“This is probably the best brunch I’ll have this year,” he said appreciatively. I toasted him with the paper coffee cup. He frowned. When I looked confused, he said, “When you hold that cup up, turn the logo out, okay? I need all the advertising I can get.”

I obliged. After a very slow two hours, I packed up the leftovers, returned them to the van, and plucked Frances’s list and money from my purse. I had an hour to shop and make it to nearby Hotchkiss Skin & Hair. With any luck, the visit to the cosmetics counter would take less than ten minutes.

There were hardly any shoppers inside the department store either. Dusty Routt wasn’t at the Mignon counter. The only sales associate was Harriet Wells, and she was writing in the by-now-familiar large ledger.

“Hi-ho, remember me?” I called brightly as I approached.

Her look was glazed, then memories clicked into place and she said brightly, “The caterer!” She glanced from side to side and whispered, “Would you like another muffin? Tell me what you think is in this one. The store’s so dead today, no one will notice. You look starved.” Her laugh tinkled above all the crystal bottles of perfume and bright shelves of makeup.

I gratefully took a fragrant golden-brown muffin. I bit into it The orange flecks turned out to be carrot and the spice ginger. I truthfully told her the muffin was wonderful and asked for the recipe, always the most sincere form of thanks. While we were talking about the virtues of using sorghum versus honey for sweetener, the ceiling—or something nearby—cracked. Actually, there was a loud cracking sound . I glanced up at the security blind but could see nothing.

“What in the world …?” I demanded as Harriet offered me another muffin.

“Well, you know,” she said with a wise smile, “there is a fault line that runs right through Golden. We may be in for an earthquake yet!”

I finished the muffin, licked my fingertips, and brought out my list. As I started to tick off the items, Harriet’s eyes gleamed.

“Wait, wait,” she commanded me excitedly. “Let me get your client card. That’s the only way we’ll be able to keep track of all these products!”

I didn’t want to enlighten her that all this stuff was for someone else. If I did, we would have to start a client card for Frances, or at least amend the one she had, and on and on. As Harriet expertly assembled the lovely glass jars filled with creams and lotions, the ceiling, or wall, or whatever it was, made another ominous creak.

“Goodness!” she said, and looked up. “Maybe there’s a plumbing problem. Honestly!”

I handed over the money, feeling nervous, feeling that I wanted to get out of the store. But not quite yet. While she was making the change, I asked quickly, “So what do you think happened to Claire Satterfield?”

Harriet shook her head and sighed. “I think she was run down by a member of that horrible group. Those awful people saying”—she made a face—“spare the tares. They’ve bothered us before.”

“Really? How?”

“Oh! They come in here and yell at us. They say, ‘How can you sell cosmetics that are tested on poor, innocent animals?’ They make a scene and drive the customers away. It’s pathetic. Why don’t they just go out into the wild with the animals if they love them so much? Why bother us?” She showed me the receipt and made a perfunctory gesture to show the products and receipt to the camera. Then she ducked down and brought out my bag. I tucked it in the zip bag with the change and turned to leave.

Crea-eak! Craa-a-ack! went the wall of the security blind.

“For heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Harriet. We were standing not two feet away from each other. I felt another shiver of fear.

“You’d better call security,” I said.

Security came. It came in the form of Nick Gentileschi. Above the store entrance, the security blind floor broke open with a splintering crash. Gentileschi’s heavy body plummeted from overhead. Oh my God , I thought as his bulk in its dark polyester suit fell and fell. Oh my God, please, no … His body would have hit me if I hadn’t jumped out of the way. Instead, his weight landed hard on the glass-and-chrome Mignon counter. Metal shattered, glass crumpled, shards flew. At the last moment I thought to cover my eyes. Harriet Wells leapt back and screamed. She kept screaming like a woman possessed. When I uncovered my eyes, glass was everywhere. Gentileschi’s body had landed in an impossibly contorted position. I knew he was dead. In fact, from the stiffness of his body atop the shattered makeup counter, I guessed he’d been dead for several hours before his weight sent him tumbling out of the blind. A gaping hole above the store entrance was jagged with splintered wood. Inside the craggy hole was blackness. Harriet Wells screamed on.