Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

Tom said, “The security for this house is airtight. And I have a forty-five, don’t forget.”

“You don’t believe me. I’ll bet you a thousand dollars Reggie has something to do with the murders at that department store.”

Tom reached over and began to unbutton the top of my blouse. “Guess what? I get to sleep in tomorrow. No strategy meeting first thing. And why don’t you bet something I really want?”

I shook my head. “You know what being newly married to you is like? It’s like walking a marathon instead of running it. I hardly ever get to see you, so we’re always in … what’s it called? The heady throes of romance . At the rate we’re going, we’ll be newlyweds for the next ten years.”

“So living with me is like stopping smoking and walking a marathon. What’s a heady throe of romance?”

“Plus I can see you’re just bowled over with my marvelous powers of deduction.”

He kept unbuttoning. “As always.”

“And I see catching a killer is the highest priority for you right now.”

He let go of my blouse and reached for the phone. “I’ll bet you a thousand dollars that I can put in a call to have Shaman Krill picked up faster than you can get those clothes off and meet me upstairs.”

I didn’t collect on his bet. I could have. When Tom reached the sheriff’s department, they—true to form—put him on hold. I even had time for a shower.

Later, much later, I murmured, “I love you, love you, love you,” into his ear and buried my nose in his short, sweet-smelling hair. For a night that had taken so many bizarre turns, this one was ending up pretty well. He pulled me in close. Pale moonlight filled our bedroom. I felt sleep fall as gently as the pink bursts of fireworks had scattered their lights over the lake.

When Sunday morning came, Tom was still sleeping soundly. I slipped out of bed with the idea that a hefty dose of caffeine was in order. But Scout the cat boldly rolled onto his back in front of the espresso machine and demanded attention. I rubbed his stomach as he writhed from side to side, demanding more! more! Eventually he decided he’d had enough affection and hopped off the counter, and I was able to load the machine with fresh beans and water. Soon dark strands of espresso hissed into the twin shot glasses and I poured them over milk and ice and stepped out onto the front porch.

The brilliant morning sky promised a return to hot weather. Geraniums and johnny-jump-ups in the porch pots moved in the breeze. A dog barked in the distance. Across the street, the Routts’ house was silent: no Colin crying, no jazz saxophone. The morning of the fifth of July always felt odd. It was as if time had slipped around midnight during the fight for independence, and left the whole country to suffer a summer hangover.

I sipped my icy latte and wondered how Charles Braithwaite was doing. Julian had just gone through shock. He’d managed to recover fairly quickly. But Charles was older. Age usually dictated a longer recuperation from trauma. And speaking of recovering from trauma, Marla was due to greet the world again this afternoon. I checked my watch: seven-twenty.

When I finished the coffee I felt heavy-hearted and tired. I toyed with the idea of going back to bed. But before I could do so, the phone rang. I bolted for it so the ringing wouldn’t wake up Tom. It was Officer Boyd from the sheriff’s department.

“He’s asleep,” I whispered. “Can it wait?”

“Just tell him we got Krill,” said Boyd. “Tom said it was your idea anyway, that the guy was a phony. Looks as if you were right, Goldy. Krill buckled when we asked him if his employer was Hotchkiss. He told us Hotchkiss hired him to be disruptive, even gave him a script. The lingo, the chants, the dead bunny—you name it.”

“But did Krill drive the truck that killed Claire? Did he … have some connection to Gentileschi?”

“Not that he’ll admit to. But don’t worry,” Boyd said in his laconic, confident manner. “He’ll crack. Give it time. Tell Schulz when he wakes up that we’ll have a confession in no time.”

I hung up. I remembered my promise to give an update on Marla to the St. Luke’s parishioners at the early service. Rather than wake Tom, I left him a note on the kitchen table that said Boyd was working on Krill and that he should call the department. As I quietly slid into a skirt and blouse, the key to Prince & Grogan storage caught my eye from where I’d left it on the bureau after removing it from my bra on Friday. I was, after all, going to church, I reflected guiltily, and there was that bit about thou shalt not steal. I slid the key into my pocket. I would return the key. Eventually.

The sparse congregation at St Luke’s all looked droopy-eyed. The interim pastor, who was serving while a parish committee searched for a new rector after the loss of our last one, forgot to turn on the altar lights, but no one minded. We moved slowly through the prayers. Thankfully, there weren’t any hymns. The choir, the organist, and our voices, were on vacation. When asked by the priest, I gave a very brief update on Marla’s condition. During the intercessions, when we made special requests for intervention and healing, I tried to allow my mind to become blank. The excitement of the past few days would eventually fade. The spirit would return to its old rhythms. Into the blankness I summoned Marla’s face. Then Charles Braithwaite’s, then old Mr. Routt’s. I prayed for Julian, for the repose of the souls of Claire and Nick.

Without warning, the parade of faces became muddled in my mind. The more I struggled to focus, the more curiosity insinuated itself, like Scout plopping between me and the espresso machine. You’re tired , I told myself. You’ve been through a lot . I leaned back in the pew.

All around me parishioners continued to offer their supplications. I opened my eyes, then shut them. It didn’t help. My mind was preoccupied with images, questions, memories that didn’t connect. I remembered Arch repeating his science teacher’s assertion that the memory was like a Rolodex. When you can’t remember something, it’s not that you don’t have the information. You just can’t access it. In my mind’s eye I saw a vehicle following mine down to the mall the morning of the Mignon banquet. Saw again someone watching outside our house at night. Heard Shaman Krill shout sixties-style derision, saw him swing a dead rabbit at me. Viewed the pain on Mr. Routt’s unseeing face. Felt the spray of glass as Nick Gentileschi’s body hit the Mignon counter.

My muscles trembled with fatigue. The gentle susurration of prayer rose from the pews all around, and scraps of remembered conversation surfaced in my mind. About Claire: That woman could sell cosmetics …. From Nick: We’re reviewing the films . From Frances Markasian: They’ve got a security problem . From Babs Braithwaite: There’s somebody back there .

But the police had their man: Shaman Krill. Krill, or somebody else that Reggie Hotchkiss had hired, or maybe even Reggie himself, could have done it all. Claire was a fabulous saleswoman, so Reggie certainly had motivation to get rid of one of the competitor’s best producers. Reggie further undermined Mignon’s sales with his bogus Spare the Hares campaign. Covering all the bases, he also copied their products in his own catalogue.

Had Reggie covered all the bases with Nick Gentileschi, though? That was what didn’t fit. Why would someone have to kill the security chief? Because of potentially embarrassing photographs? Because of something that had turned up on the films? What about the cash refund problem? Frances had said, It’s all computerized, so it looks official. But what was official? I had seen stacks of computer printouts in the department store office. Would they detail transactions, or would those be in the ledger?