Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

When I came through the security system, I smelled simmering onions, cooked potatoes, and … cigarette smoke. The latter seemed to be drifting down from the second story. At least it’s not hashish, I thought grimly as I took the stairs two at a time. In the spare bedroom at the front of the house, I found Julian sitting hunched over in the maple rocking chair I had used to rock Arch when he was an infant. Smoke curled from an unfiltered cigarette in his hands. His foot tapped the floor as he pushed back and forth. A small pile of ashes lay at his feet. He had not noticed me.

I said, “I’m back. What’s going on?”

He didn’t look around. His voice was morose, resigned. “Not much. I read your note and marinated the fruit. I cooked the potatoes and onions for the cucumber soup too.” His face twisted. “Did you find out any—?”

“Not yet. Actually, there’s some more bad news.” I sat down in the old love seat that now belonged to Scout the cat. “Want to hear it?”

“I guess.”

“Nick Gentileschi died at the store. He had an accident.”

Julian’s eyes opened in terror and disbelief. “What? The security guy? What happened? Does Tom know? What kind of accident?”

“Oh, Julian …” I sighed. “He fell out of one of those blinds. I don’t know more than that. I was just about to go call Tom. Want to come down?”

He seemed suddenly aware of the cigarette he held and tapped ashes into his palm, “I’ll be down in a little bit. Listen, Goldy, I’m sorry—”

“About what? I’m trying to help you—”

“It’s just that I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’m not going to get hurt. Now, I know you probably don’t want to talk about this, but do you think you’re going to be up to helping me with the Braithwaites’ party?”

His “Sure” was anything but. I walked pensively down to the kitchen. Before I could call Tom, the phone rang. It was Arch. He rarely called from the Keystone condo because the Jerk, who lavished money on himself, complained about any extra dollar Arch cost him. The only exception to this rule was on those rare occasions when John Richard had done something—failing to show up was one of his favorites—that made him feel guilty. When John Richard was hit by a rare attack of conscience, Arch would get loaded down with gifts he would never use. In fact, when my son came home from one of these weekends toting a new mountain bike, skis, or Rollerblades, I knew there’d been trouble.

I gripped the phone and tried not to sound panicked. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s not about Dad, don’t worry. He’s asleep in the other room,” he said in a low voice. “I think he had too much to drink at lunch. He’s having a nap.”

“Too much to—” I let out an exasperated breath. “Arch, do you need me to come and get you?”

“No, Mom, I’m cool. Please, don’t get hysterical. We’re going to walk to the fireworks up here.”

“I am not hysterical,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Listen, Mom. I’m just calling to see how Julian’s doing.”

I sighed and thought of the slumped figure in the upstairs bedroom. “Not too great.”

“Did you find out anything about Claire? Has Marla gotten out of the hospital?”

“Arch, I just got home myself. I’ll call you as soon as Tom figures out what’s going on. And I was just about to call Marla.”

“You know, I really do think Tom is great,” Arch assured me. Except I didn’t need to be reassured.

“Arch, why are you telling me this? You sound as if you’re in some kind of trouble. Did Dad hurt you? Please tell me.”

“Oh, Mom . You take everything so seriously. It’s just that I didn’t want Tom to think that I thought he was a pig or anything. I would never call him that.”

“He knows.”

“And I didn’t get to say good-bye to him because he left so early, and then Frances Markasian was waving that knife around later, and well, you know.”

“So everything is okay?”

“Yes, Mom! I was just sitting here thinking about Tom and Julian, and Marla, that’s all.”

“You’re feeling lonely.”

“Mom.”

“Okay, okay.”

He said he couldn’t wait to see us Sunday afternoon. And no, he was not looking forward to the fireworks because Dad had met a new friend and they were taking her along. She was afraid of loud noises, though, so they might have to leave early. He sighed in disappointment and said, “Peace, Mom.”

I hung up and banged my fist on the counter. If the new girlfriend didn’t like loud noises, she’d better find herself a new guy to date.

I put in a call to Marla’s house. The nurse said she was sleeping, but yes, she’d seen the lowfat pancakes. How was her frame of mind? I asked. Depressed, the nurse replied without elaboration. When could I come over, I wanted to know. Tomorrow. Marla was resting today after the trip home from the hospital; no visitors, no excursions. So much for Tony’s push to get her to the Braithwaites’ party. I even had the feeling the nurse had dealt with Tony in very short order. I said I’d be over tomorrow. You’ll have to make it in the afternoon, she announced before hanging up. I wished I could send that nurse out to deal with the Jerk.

I braced myself and punched the phone buttons again. If Tom wasn’t there, what would I say to his voice mail? But he snagged it after less than one ring.

“Schulz.”

“It’s me. I was at Prince & Grogan when Gentileschi—”

“I heard. He was strangled in the box up there. They call it a blind, where the security guys used to sit.”

“I know. Do they know who—”

“Negative. I’m going to be here late tonight working on this.”

“I saw the photos in his pocket, Tom. They’re of Babs Braithwaite.”

He sighed. “Goldy, you didn’t touch them, did you?”

“No, of course not.”

“Did anybody besides you see them?”

I tried to remember: Who else was around? Stan White, the security man, had come down the escalator; Harriet Wells had been whimpering behind the counter. I’d been the only customer within close range. “I don’t think so, maybe the other security guy saw them. I was there buying some stuff for Frances and … what was the deal with Gentileschi anyway? Did he always do that kind of thing? Spy on customers?”

Tom replied in a flat tone, “You should see the pictures we found at his house. Had a thing for large women. Not that they would like to hear what he was doing back there behind the mirrors.”

“Did you ever get the message I left you, that Babs Braithwaite was certain she’d heard something back behind the dressing room mirror? It was when the security guy nabbed me for eavesdropping.”

“Yeah, Miss G., I got your message. We’ve got one team investigating at the store now, and another questioning Mrs. Braithwaite and her husband. Dr. Braithwaite spent quite a bit of time and money in that department store, the assistant security guy tells us.”

“Tom, do you remember that I’m catering at their place tonight?”

“Uh, Miss Goldy? I don’t think so. Get somebody else. The Braithwaites are suspects in a homicide. Maybe two homicides. I don’t want you going in there and starting to snoop around. Let us do our work. Please . Also, and this is official now, you’re off the case. Thanks for your help, but it’s too dicey for you to do any more digging in this thing. It’s gotten too dangerous.”

“Oh come on, Tom. The Braithwaites are big wheels in the community. If I cancel, I’m sunk in my own hometown. Look, if either of the Braithwaites comes after me, I’ll put a vat of cucumber-mint soup between us.”

Tom muttered something unintelligible, but said nothing further. I remembered guiltily that I hadn’t even told him about the bleach water and the threatening note. Tom said he had two other calls coming in at the same time, general counsel for Prince & Grogan was having a stroke on line one, and his team at the Braithwaites’ house was clamoring to talk to him on line two. He’d get back to me.