Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

Julian read my mind. “Stay put,” he ordered firmly. “I’m making another trip.”

“No, let me do it. I’m used to moving around with heavy containers of food.”

“No, no, I’m much faster than you,” he replied without apology. “If some demonstrator started yelling at you, you’d get into a big argument, the way you always do. You want the food in here fast? Let me get it.”

“Well,” I said reluctantly, “why don’t you see if you can get those security guys to help you?”

But Julian was already moving away. “If they’re not busy,” he replied over his shoulder. If he heard my call to be careful, he gave no sign.

I used the phone at the bar to call Arch’s friend, Todd Druckman. Todd’s mother told me the two of them were sitting in front of the television eating Cocoa Puffs and Pop-Tarts. Did I want to talk to Arch? I laughed and declined, then hung up and washed my hands in the bar sink, grateful that my concerns about my son were needless. And Arch loved eating at Todd’s; it meant he didn’t have to taste-test a single nonfat roll or experimental curry.

I poured the dips into the hollowed-out cabbages, then checked the trays. The rows of vegetables had become only slightly disheveled. I lifted the plastic wrap and reached in to straighten them.

“Oh my God, Harriet, they’re stunning!” exclaimed a low, fruity voice from the other side of the oblong granite bar. “Diamond-cluster earrings? That must have set Mignon back a pretty penny!” It was a voice I recognized. I looked up to see big-bodied, big-haired, big-moneyed Babs Braithwaite standing next to Harriet Wells.

“Top producer for May,” Harriet announced smugly.

“Wait a minute,” commanded Babs as she put a hand on Harriet’s forearm. Then she steered Harriet in my direction, and addressed me. “Goldy? You’re doing this banquet too? Are you ready for Charles’s and my party?” Without waiting for a reply, she rushed on. “Harriet, do you know Goldy of Goldilocks’ Catering in Aspen Meadow? Isn’t that a cute little name? She didn’t always do catering. She used to be married to a gorgeous doctor.”

Well, now, wasn’t this nice. I stared at Babs Meredith Braithwaite and tried to think of something to say. Babs was about fifty, although the heavy makeup she wore over pockmarked skin made her look older. Charles Braithwaite, her reclusive microbiologist husband, was younger than his wife and reportedly quite handsome, but he hadn’t inherited a fortune from the family butter company. With her bags of bucks, Babs spared no expense on decking herself out. Her large features were accented with masklike foundation and powder, dark smears of blush, black eyeliner, and long, false eyelashes. Her elaborately frosted hair was wildly poufed, and her expensive-looking dark silk dress was adorned with a fat corsage of pink roses and baby’s breath. She looked like the mother of a Barbie doll. I was again conscious of my plain apron and unstylishly curly hair, worn Shirley Temple-style.

“What was his name,” Babs continued, tapping her bottom lip with a plump finger. “Well, of course. Korman! Doctor Korman.”

“No,” said Harriet sadly. “I didn’t know.”

Incredible, really. Someone, it always seemed, was still dying to share the news now five years old. It had been that long since I divorced John Richard Korman, whose initials made up his oh-so-appropriate nickname, the Jerk. People could never understand why I’d let such a good-looking and wealthy guy get away. They just didn’t know about the violence. My descent into food service was observed with a pitying sneer. I was already working for Harriet’s company. I’d be doing Babs’s party in three days. Wasn’t that enough? Why bother with the history? Because people can’t resist being bitchy , Marla Korman, my best friend and the other ex-wife of Dr. Gorgeous, was fond of pointing out. Marla had recommended my business to Babs, so I kept mum and summoned a flat smile.

“Goldy has garnered quite a reputation in Aspen Meadow,” said Babs with a wide, explanatory sweep of her bejeweled hand, “for the success of her little business.”

“Yes.” Harriet’s saccharine tone was hard to decipher. Also around fifty, Harriet was as slender, petite, and understated as Babs was expansive. Her beehive of golden hair, impeccable makeup, and short, slender fingers with their manicured nails paired perfectly with her flared Chinese-style royal blue silk pants and matching sleeveless top. “Goldy and I have had many discussions about the lowfat food for our banquet. She was the one who pointed out that when people have fish for a main course, they always want chocolate for dessert! We’re lucky she was able to come all the way down here.”

“I come to Denver all the time,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “I’m doing the food fair too.”

“You’re doing the food fair? You shouldn’t,” Babs reprimanded. “You might just be overburdening yourself.”

Did I look as if I wanted advice from Babs Braithwaite? I scanned the room for Julian. Maybe if I appeared busy, these women would leave me alone.

“Of course,” Babs continued, “all the major food people in Denver will be here. The food fair is one of our benefits. Playhouse Southwest, do you know the group? We used to be called the Furman County Dramatic Auxiliary. We just did The Taming of the Shrew . Sound familiar? Didn’t I tell you about it?”

I nodded vapidly. Actually, I’d talked to Babs Braithwaite on the phone only about the Fourth. We’d seen each other briefly after her car hit Julian’s. I bit my lip. Don’t say anything, I reminded myself. At least not anything nasty. The Taming of the Shrew. Sound familiar? Actually, no. Knee-deep in nonfat ingredients, I hadn’t caught any plays lately. Then again, her little auxiliary might want to have a catered function sometime in the future. If I could do John Birch Beef, I could do Shakespeare shashlik. I gave Babs what I hoped was an ingratiating grin.

“Yes. Let’s see, Dr. John Richard Korman,” she mused throatily as she touched a sapphire necklace. “Up and Coming in Denver did an article on our most recent production. You must have seen that issue, there was also an article on Dr. John Richard Korman. So—”

“I’m sorry, Babs,” I interrupted. Anything to get off the subject of the Jerk. “What’s your connection to Mignon Cosmetics?”

“Ooh!” She chuckled and gave Harriet a flirtatious look. “I’m such a good customer, they invited me. Oh, there’s Tiffany Barnes …”

And off she sailed. Man, I couldn’t wait to ask Marla about that piece of work. I put Babs Braithwaite out of my mind and set about carefully unwrapping the lettuce leaves that would form the containers for the hoisin turkey.

Claire trotted over to me. Her comely brow was wrinkled with frustration. But before she could explain, something across the room caught her attention. I looked in that direction and saw only a group of beautifully groomed chattering women, all wearing corsages. “Oh my God,” Claire groaned.

“What?”

“Nothing … Look, Goldy, I’m in trouble,” she announced “I … forgot the damn decorations. They’re Mignon bags we stuff with colored tissue paper. We call them exploding bags. Y’know? I need to go to my car and get them. Come with me? I don’t want to go out there alone.” She looked desperate. Considering the swelling group of protesters I’d seen outside, I felt a pang of sympathy for her. I wasn’t too eager to face that indignant group alone either.

“Of course I’ll come with you,” I assured her. “I might as well bring in the sole and get the steamer going, anyway. We need to make it quick, though,” I added. I lifted the trays of vegetables and hid them on a shelf under the bar. I had the feeling we were being watched, so I grabbed a spare tablecloth, unfurled it, and placed it over the wrapped food while Claire tapped her foot. I ignored her impatience. I would be damned before I came back to picked-over trays.