Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

Our odd trio darted through the guests meandering up to the house. We turned deaf ears to “Oh my goodness, what’s the matter with Charlie!” and “The fireworks must have really upset him!” and laughing exclamations of that ilk. In the kitchen I called 911 and told them who I was, where we were, and what was going on.

“Liquid nitrogen?” was the deputy’s incredulous response. “Liquid nitrogen? Are you sure that’s all it was? Were there any other chemicals? We’re going to have to get the toxic waste team up there. Was this part of some wacko Fourth of July party?”

“No, no,” I said. “Any chance you could put me through to Tom Schulz?”

The deputy stalled and kept asking me questions until I assured him I wasn’t going to hang up, I just wanted to talk to Tom instead of him. He said he’d transfer me. Then he put me on hold.

I tapped my fingers on the kitchen counter and watched as Julian ministered to Charles Braithwaite. Using a low, quiet voice, Julian admonished Charles to lie relaxed on the spotless kitchen floor, and to breathe normally. Was he hurt, Julian wanted to know. When Charles shook his head, Julian asked him who he was and what was going on. Tears ran down Charles’s thin face as he gave halting responses to Julian’s steady questions. Then Julian patted his shoulders and checked his pulse and told him in a voice that rippled out like custard that everything was going to be all right.

Julian amazed me, really. He had proven himself to be singlemindedly ambitious in the schoolroom and the kitchen. He loved and hated with a ferocity that was frightening and occasionally explosive. But there were times like these when I was reminded he’d spent most of his life among the Navajo in Bluff, Utah. He had an uncanny ability to act the wise healer when it was heeded. I watched him calmly checking Charles Braithwaite for shock. What had he said to Charles in the greenhouse? You’re too young to die . Claire Satterfield had been much too young to die too. What was still unclear to me was whether Julian would be able to heal from that terrible loss. He was too young to have the loving part of himself die.

The deputy’s voice crackled in my ear. ‘Tom Schulz isn’t here.’ At that moment, the first wave of law-enforcement and fire vehicles pulled up, so I signed off.

Hours later, when the fireworks had ended and the moon had risen and the guests—including an angry Tony Royce, without his promised brownies—had finally left, when Babs Braithwaite had exploded in a fit of hysterics and Charles had been taken to the hospital for observation, when the toxic-waste team had realized only nitrogen—a fertilizer—had spilled, and Julian had decided to spend the night at a friend’s, I drove the van home. The fireworks spectators had all departed, but in the moonlight I could see the enormous mess of trash they’d left on the golf course by the lake.

I came through the door just before two A.M. Tom, amazingly enough, was in the kitchen making chocolate ice cream. Waiting for me, and undoubtedly too wired from the investigation to sleep, he’d decided to concoct a Neapolitan ice cream torte, with a chocolate-cookie-crumb base and layers of homemade vanilla, fresh strawberry, and finally dark chocolate ice cream. Allowing thirty minutes per batch of ice cream, I figured he’d been at this for quite some time. The kitchen was a mess of cream containers, beaters, and bowls.

“It’s not exactly the colors of the flag,” he said ruefully when I peered into the bowl and raised my eyebrows. “But it’s gonna be great. I can’t wait for you to try it. Where’ve you been anyway? I guess my little ruse didn’t work.”

“Little ruse? Little ruse? Is that what you call it?” I glared at him. He grinned widely. After a few seconds of trying to keep up my withering stare, I couldn’t help myself. I burst out laughing. “And when did you have time to do all that menu planning, Mr. Investigator? I am never, never going to forgive you.”

He grabbed me by the waist and swung me perilously close to the clutter of ice creams. “Oh, sure you’re going to forgive me,” he reassured me as I giggled wildly. “And I didn’t have time to do the cooking. I faxed your recipes down to a chef from a restaurant near the sheriff’s department, and paid him to get the ingredients together and make the cookies and the soup and the bread dough. It took me less than five minutes. Anyway, knowing you, the risotto didn’t stop you, it just slowed you down. The fireworks were over a couple of hours ago. Was the party okay?”

He sat me down on a chair and I told him all about it. I assured him that Julian had been a champ and that Dr. Charles Braithwaite would survive, especially if he could get some intensive psychiatric help. I confessed to having a fight with Reggie Hotchkiss, and that Julian had been involved. Tom seemed worried—did I think Hotchkiss had thrown the bleach water and left the note? I said I had no idea. He asked if Reggie could know where Julian was tonight, and I told him Reggie had left long before Julian had decided to go his friend’s house.

“Think you’ll ever cater for the Braithwaites again?” he asked.

“No. And I don’t care either. I am kind of disappointed that they may be innocent in all this. I still don’t trust either of them.”

When I finished talking, Tom wordlessly cut me a wide wedge of the triple-layered torte. The chocolate ice cream was still soft over the more solid layers of strawberry and vanilla. Biting into the three delicious flavors and through the crunchy chocolate-cookie crust, I was reminded of childhood birthday parties in New Jersey, where Neapolitan ice cream and chocolate cake were the order of the day.

I told Tom, “This is the most delicious thing I have ever tasted in my entire life. But you know we shouldn’t have it. We don’t want to get into the kind of situation … like Marla.”

Tom put his arms around me. “Everything in moderation, Miss G. Besides, you’re too young to have a heart attack.”

“Excuse me,” I blubbered, “but I am not.” Too young. It seemed that phrase was cropping up a lot lately. I even remembered using it with Arch, when I’d told him he was too young to be using sixties language….

I sat up straight. Wait a cotton-picking minute.

“Ah-ha!” said Tom. “She’s changing her mind. She’s going to have some Neapolitan ice cream after all—”

“Tom,” I said urgently, “who did Shaman Krill say he worked for?”

“He didn’t. I’ve been laboring on that guy day and night. He won’t tell us jack.”

“But he wasn’t with the animal rights people, you know that. And he’s an actor. How old would you say he was?”

“About as old as this Neapolitan ice cream is going to be by the time you eat it.”

“Tom!”

“I forget. Twenty-seven, maybe.”

“So he wasn’t old enough to know any of that sixties lingo he was using with us like ‘fascist pig’ and ‘capitalist imperialist’ and all that.”

“There are movies,” Tom said dubiously. “Documentaries.”

“And scripts,” I said. To humor him, I had a bit of ice cream. He’d put fresh strawberries into the pink layer. It was like chilled, succulent essence of fruit. “You know who uses that kind of language? For whom it’s second nature, don’t you?”

He cocked his head and lifted his eyebrows. “Nope. But I just know you’re going to tell me.”

“Reggie Hotchkiss. He knows the lingo. He paid for the demonstration, I’ll bet, to disrupt Mignon. Shaman Krill is a Reggie Hotchkiss plant. Maybe Reggie ran Claire down himself. Oh, Lord, and I had a fight with him tonight….”