Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

“Hey, I was born making fudge cookies and curry at the same time. But I should warn you—Marla’s storm-trooper nurse may not let you see her.”

He turned on our Jenn-Air grill and brought out some chicken breasts he’d marinated separately. “I don’t really need to see her. I just want her to … start eating again. What is it you’re always telling me?”

“When All Else Fails, Send in Food.”

“Exactly.” He laid the chicken pieces on the grill; they sputtered invitingly. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a regular meal. A caterer’s life. I stirred more of the cream alternative into the curry, took a final taste, and started in on the fudge cookies.

Julian started to tremble. When I looked over at him, he ran out of the kitchen and I finished the grilling. When he returned, his face splotchy, his eyes red, he said he didn’t want to talk. If that was okay. I said it was fine, and helped him wrap up a dinner care package for Marla.

After he left, that angry inner voice nagged at me as I carefully sifted flour and cocoa powder. Claire Satterfield’s death remained a bizarre, inescapable event. I whipped egg whites and added the dry ingredients, then stirred the whole concoction together. Tom wanted me out of the case. Sorry, Tom. Not when I must help Julian.

Before the store inventory, someone had been stealing from Mignon Cosmetics. One shoplifting theory was that employees palmed the merchandise receipts instead of giving them to customers, and then used the receipts later to get cash refunds. Who were the people there most often? Harriet, Claire, Dusty: All three knew the workings of the camera. But would they have dared to steal right in front of it? And of course there was Shaman Krill, who might have been involved in the thievery as part of his nasty campaign to destroy the cosmetics company. How could he get the receipts, if that indeed was how the shoplifting was done? If he shoplifted directly, then he might have been seen—or photographed—by Gentileschi or Stan White. Of course, if Nick Gentileschi had been unsavory enough to take surreptitious photos of Babs Braithwaite, there was no telling what other activities he could have been involved in. And then there was John Routt. He couldn’t see to shoplift, so he was out, and Frances was up in the stratosphere with her conspiracy theories.

That left Reggie Hotchkiss. The man with the wig. He had spied on Mignon, and he’d shamelessly copied their promo campaign for fall products. Would he also have tried to sabotage them?

I dropped perfect rounds of shiny fudge batter onto a cookie sheet, set the cookie sheet into the oven, and stirred the curry. Maybe Reggie Hotchkiss would be at the Braithwaites’ house tonight. Babs wanted to impress people, and the Hotchkiss Heir Apparent would be a perfect name for her guest list. I wondered who was doing her makeup.

I set aside the curry and rice to cool before Julian packed them into the van. Within half an hour he returned with the good news that although Marla was still asleep, the nurse had gratefully taken the dinner he’d brought and said his aunt had told her he was a brilliant cook. And yes, the nurse had said, Julian could come over tomorrow when I visited, as long as we didn’t upset Marla.

“Who, us?” I said with a laugh as I started frosting the cooled fudge cookies.

Without being asked, Julian packed up the curry and rice, opened the door to the walk-in, and began hoisting boxes to go into the van. He said, “I’m the calmest person I know. Also the most depressed.”

“Oh, Julian, what can I—”

“Nothing. And don’t ask me again if I want to stay home, because the answer is no.”

Resigned, I again decorated the Vanilla-iced fudge cookies by lightly dusting them with cocoa powder. While I took a quick shower, Julian finished packing the van. As we drove in silence to the Aspen Meadow Country Club area, I sneaked a glance at Julian’s pale, exhausted face. I thought of all my friends who’d tried to fix me up with their single male neighbors, cousins, colleagues, coaches, and postal workers when I was divorced. Now, finally, I understood their impulse, because more than anything I wanted someone for Julian to find comfort from, as I had with Tom. But no friend can force that loving other person on you, I’d learned. If I hadn’t stumbled into Tom in the course of my catering business, I’d probably still be the woman with a chip on her shoulder who refused to be comforted by anyone.

The stone entryway to the country club area had been draped with swathes of red, white, and blue fabric. I swung the van past an exuberant group of kids with sparklers and up toward Aspen Knoll.

“What was it exactly that Babs’s parents did to earn their fortune?” Julian asked as we passed hillocks of elegant, showy landscaping that featured lush sprays of pampas grass, miniature aspens, iris of every conceivable hue, and masses and masses of pink and yellow perennials.

“Butter,” I said.

“And here I thought all the money in this part of the country was tied up with oil.”

I was still laughing when we pulled around to the back entrance of the colossal contemporary-style house. Neither Charles nor Babs was in sight. We didn’t have any luck at the garage door, so we tried the front. A maid directed us to deck stairs that led to the side door to the kitchen. After we’d trekked up and down those stairs eleven times to unload our supplies, I began to wonder how much the Braithwaites had to pay someone to bring in the groceries. I also wondered about my boxes: They all said “Fourth of July party at the Braithwaites.” I hadn’t labeled the cartons, nor had I noticed that Julian had labeled them earlier. Well, he had to have taken them out of the refrigerator, so I knew they had to be right.

We were running slightly behind schedule, so the first order of business was to scope the place. The living room, where Julian and I would serve the soup and skewers as hors d’oeuvre, had a bar at the ready. It was an enormous room decorated in an Oriental style, which meant lots of heavy mahogany tables, silk screens, and low-slung silk-covered couches and chairs. Bowls of white and red peonies graced the mantelpiece and bar. The maid had already set the dining room table for twelve. A lovely floral arrangement of red roses, white lilies, and blue gladiolas carried out the July Fourth theme for the evening. Each place also boasted a miniature American flag with the name of the guest engraved on its flagpole. We circled the table under the maid’s watchful eye. I saw what I was hoping for. Mr. Reginald Hotchkiss was indeed one of the invited guests.

I sighed and tried to think of a strategy for asking him a few questions. Or for doing any sleuthing around this immense estate. When I was back in the kitchen, I looked out the window at Charles Braithwaite’s greenhouse. With little actual cooking ahead, I’d surely have time to sneak down there while it was still light outside and look for a blue rose or two. The curry was done, all it needed was reheating. Ditto the rice. I knelt and opened the first carton, then stared at the contents. My eyes aren’t working , I thought. Something’s wrong . I leaned back on my heels, suddenly dizzy. What were the symptoms of heart attack? Indigestion, cold sweat, feeling light-headed. This isn’t happening , I thought. Maybe I’m going into cardiac arrest .

I looked back inside the box. There was no curry. There was no raisin rice. There was no vegetable slaw. There were neatly packed boxes of arborio rice, lowfat chicken broth, even several large bags of slightly thawed shrimp. And a note to me, in Tom Schulz’s unmistakable scrawl. I opened it with trembling hands. Dear Miss Goldy , Sorry about this, but I really don’t want you snooping at the Braithwaites’ place tonight, and knowing you, that’s precisely what you have in mind. You didn’t tell me someone hit you with bleach water and wrote you a threatening note, Julian told me. You are in danger, dear wife. The only way to prevent you from getting into more trouble is to switch food on you so that you have to spend all your time cooking instead of sneaking around getting you—and me—into trouble. So: attached is my recipe for Shrimp Risotto. I had a Denver chef prepare all the ingredients for your menu. It perfectly meets Babs Braithwaite’s requirement of being lowfat. And you can tell her it’s even low-cost, since the shrimp is being donated by your local homicide investigator. She should be pleased as punch to be getting large shrimp for the price of ground turkey. And we’ll all be pleased to eat turkey curry every day next week . Don’t be mad at Julian. I asked him to pick up the boxes and told him it was a nice surprise for you. I know you won’t be pleased, because risotto is time-consuming and demands that the cook be there every second to attend to it. But that’s what I want, Goldy. You doing your job and me doing mine. Don’t be too mad at me. I’m just trying to think of both of us . —Tom