Killer Pancake gbcm-5

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “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.

  At the service door we met Julian. He was laden down with Nonfat Chocolate Tortes.

  “Where do you two think you’re going?” he demanded as soon as he saw us approaching. “It’s a zoo out there. I couldn’t find one of those suits to help me—”

  “We’ll be fine,” Claire cooed as she kissed her index finger and planted it on his nose. She swept past him in a flurry of dark ringlets and black sheath. “Just going to pick up some bags. Back in a jif.” Mimicking her touch on the nose, I followed on her heels.

  The demonstrators had become a jeering, sign-waving horde. A few uniformed members of the Furman County Sheriff’s Department were attempting crowd control. I didn’t see Tom. Claire and I decided to pick up our respective bundles and meet at the column nearest the mall entrance. I made off for the van, fumbled with the keys, and rummaged around in the dark interior, looking for the steamer. At last I found it underneath the container of roasted vegetables. If I loaded myself up, this would be the last trip out to the van. Another roar went up from the angry demonstrators. I quickly surveyed all the remaining food and decided it was worth the hassle. Balancing the bowl of vegetables on top of the plastic container of greens, I picked up the steamer, then carefully made my way toward the appointed column. With the hubbub all around, I desperately wanted to look inconspicuous. Or as inconspicuous as a woman toting forty pounds of fish and vegetables can be.

  Over the rumble of the demonstrators, I heard a revving engine. It was closer to me than to the cops and the crowd, and getting closer by the moment. I craned my neck around. There was no car in sight. Neither the crowd nor the cops seemed to take any notice of me, so I continued to meander through vehicles on my way to the entrance, my attention on the triple deck of supplies I was balancing. There was another shout from the crowd and behind me, a squeal of tires.

  I heard the scream first, then a horrid, sickening thud. The scream echoed from the concrete walls all around. Then the engine roared again and the tires screeched. Far over at the entrance, two uniformed cops started running in the direction of the scream. I willed myself to start breathing again, and looked around for Claire. Where was she? Had she seen what happened? My skin prickled. After being momentarily stilled, the demonstrators started up again with their “hoo-ha!” shouts that sounded like an ominous pep rally.

  When Claire did not appear I whacked the steamer, the bowl, and the vegetables down on the hood of a nearby Jeep. Unencumbered, I started briskly off in the area where I thought Claire had parked her Peugeot.

  I saw the policemen first. One was talking into his radio. The other knelt on the pavement. A woman was lying at his feet. Had she passed out? As I came closer, I realized the body could not have landed in that contorted way from a faint.

  The kneeling policeman looked up and saw me. “Get back!” he yelled. “We need to clear this area!”

  But I took no heed. Blood pooled on the cement near the inert body. The woman on the pavement was Claire.

  I’m going to be ill. My mouth opened but no sound emerged. A car drove slowly by behind me. In one of its windows, children’s faces gawked at the policemen. I lurched forward through a shock wave of car exhaust. Had Claire been struck by a car? But of course, that was the only explanation. There has to be some way I can help. Where was that vehicle I’d heard screeching through the garage? What were the two cops doing? Why wasn’t someone else coming? I knew I would regret walking closer, but I kept moving forward anyway. My footsteps gritted loudly. Please let her be all right.

  “Go back,” said the policeman again, this time in my face. His wide shoulders and deeply lined face loomed in front of me. He was not someone I knew. I murmured Claire’s name and felt my knees buckle. Then the policeman seemed to change his mind. “Wait.” His powerful hand gripped my elbow. “Did you see what happened? Do you know this woman? Were you with her?”

  “No. I mean, yes.” It came out a croak. “I only …” What? My face was wet. Tears. When had I started to cry?

  The policeman’s gruff voice insisted: “The woman who was hit—you knew her or not?” So Claire had been hit. Of course. The policeman’s eyes bored into mine. Surely he didn’t think I was responsible? “Her name?” he demanded.

  My mouth fumbled around Claire’s name. I did not know her address. Julian would. Oh, God. Julian.

  Behind us people began to gather. The policeman sharply ordered them to stay back, then continued with curt questions: What exactly had I seen? Had I observed any vehicles before I heard the scream? Why was Claire in the garage? Not far away, the other uniformed cop continued to speak urgently into his radio. There was no movement from the twisted body on the pavement.

  The man questioning me took his fierce eyes off my face and looked over my shoulder. “Oh, good. Schulz,” he murmured. I turned to see my husband walking swiftly toward us between parked cars. Relief rushed through me. Over his street clothes, Tom wore a raid jacket, a gray wind-breaker with the Furman County Sheriff’s Department logo emblazoned on the left pocket. The jacket was what the plainclothes police put on when they needed to distinguish themselves from regular folks. But distinguishing Tom Schulz from regular folks was not now, nor had it ever been, difficult.

  He did not see me at first. I wiped my cheeks hard and watched him stride toward the uniformed officer with the radio, who was again kneeling on the garage floor. Tom wore his purposeful, commanding look, a look that I knew both comforted and cowed those who worked for him. It was also an expression that cut like a cleaver into a suspect’s babbling. Tom dropped to one knee to talk to the cop with the radio. The officer motioned in our direction. Tom glanced over, gave a brief, puzzled shake of the head when he saw me, then turned back to Claire.

  I shivered, coughed again, and clasped my arms. I felt ridiculous in the double-breasted chef’s jacket and apron. The blood in my ears pounded as worries about Claire and Julian crowded my mind. Tom took the radio and talked into it. The policeman beside me seemed to sense there was no point in continuing his interrogation. Tom would join u
s momentarily and take over. An approaching siren wailed. Too soon, I thought. But of course—the new hospital was right across the street from the mall. Suddenly the red, white, and gold EMS truck careened around a cement column, then screeched to a halt and disgorged two paramedics. They ran over to Claire’s dreadfully inert body. Tom straightened and walked over to us. His face was grim.

  “This is—” began the uniformed cop.

  “Yeah, okay, I know who she is. Go help Rick with those demonstrators.”

  The uniformed cop trotted away. Tom gave me the full benefit of his green eyes.

  To my dismay, I began to cry again. “It’s Julian’s girlfriend … you know … Claire. Is she alive? Is she going to be okay?”

  “No, she isn’t.” He put his arms around me. “I swear, Goldy, what are you doing out here in the garage?” When I didn’t answer, he held me closer and murmured, “She probably didn’t suffer much. Looks like she died on impact.” He released me and narrowed his eyes. They were filled with seriousness and pain. “Goldy, try to pull yourself together for a minute. Did you see it?”

  I brushed the tears from my cheeks and took a shuddery breath. “No.”

  “Where’s Julian?”

  “Inside that nightclub. Hot Tin … you know, where they’re having … he was catering with me.” I tried to think. “What should we do, tell him? Or wait? Did the person who hit her not stop?”

  “Hit-and-run. State patrol will handle it. You know, they do traffic And yes, you and I should go find Julian. Let’s not tell anybody else, though, we don’t want a general panic. Plus we need to follow procedure here, find the next of kin…. How long have you been here? You said you didn’t see this accident. What did you hear, anything?”

  Haltingly, I told Tom that Claire and I had come out to get supplies from our vehicles about ten minutes before. I had not seen Claire after I got to the van. I’d loaded up and only moments later heard the growl of an engine, squealing, and the horrible thump as metal hit flesh. I pointed in the direction of the van, then remembered slapping down the fish and vegetables on the hood of a nearby car. “I guess I better go get my stuff,” I said lamely.

  “Hold on.” He brought his bushy eyebrows down into a V. “The car you heard, did it honk? This squealing, was it like tires or brakes? Was it the sound of a car going around a corner?”

  I chewed the inside of my cheek, trying to clear what felt like cotton in my head. “No horn. The sound was like someone going around a corner. I guess.”

  Two light beige Colorado state trooper patrol cars pulled up. Tom held up a hand for them to wait. Then he pointed at the shoe-store entrance. “Get your stuff and meet me over there, would you?”

  “Get my stuff?” I was incredulous. “You mean you think I still should do this stupid banquet when one of the company employees has just been killed?”

  “Please. Goldy, we can’t tell her employers or coworkers yet. We’re going to have to take care of Julian. If you don’t do the banquet, the word will get out and then the journalists will make a mess—”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “We’ll go in to see Julian together. Avoid the demonstrators.” Then he strode off to deal with the troopers while I struggled to get my bearings. After a few shaky breaths, I turned to backtrack toward the Jeep, then turned back. Tom and the two troopers were crouched near the garage floor. Beyond them, the paramedics had hooked Claire’s body up to their telemetric equipment. Tom and the troopers were pointing at something on the asphalt.

  I surveyed the garage and shivered. Could Claire really be dead? I had just talked to her, been with her, less than half an hour ago, I started to walk, then suddenly felt dizzy and reached out for one of the cement columns. How am I ever going to break this to Julian? What could I have done differently? What? Get a grip, I ordered myself. I stepped on something and stared down at the asphalt. Under my foot was the stem of a rose. At first I thought the fluorescent light of the garage must be playing tricks on me, or maybe stress arising from what I’d just witnessed clouded my vision. The rose seemed to be blue. Its closed petals were blue as a robin’s egg, blue as the color of the Colorado sky in the early days of autumn.

  Without thinking I reached down for the blossom I’d crushed beneath my heel. Immediately I was rewarded with a thorn in my right index finger. Well, Tom the garden man would be interested in seeing it anyway, I thought absurdly. I held the flower up to my eyes, still unable to determine how its unique color had been applied. I turned back to see what Tom was doing. He was deep in conversation with the troopers. Twenty feet away, the ambulance, its sirens off, moved slowly out of the garage.

  I walked holding the rose by its stem until my steamer and bowls were in front of me, on the Jeep hood. I put the rose on top of the salad greens, picked up the food, and started walking toward Stephen’s Shoes. Where had Tom said to meet him? Oh yes, by the entrance. Well, he’d have to come find me. He was remarkably good at that.

  As I lugged the food toward the shoe store, a voice screeched.

  “Hey! You! You’re one of them! You’re serving the animal-killer fascists!”

  The man who accosted me was short, with a thin face framed by tightly curled black hair tucked into a small ponytail, and a wiry beard. A gold earring adorned one ear. He put his hands on his waist, cocked one hip, and glared. I made him out to be in his late twenties. He was very attractive in addition to being diminutive, but neither quality quite went with the fury emanating in my direction. Crossing his arms, he yelled, “You’re either for us or against us, you know!” His black eyes blazed. “Do you care if innocent albino rabbits are tortured for makeup? Do you? Do you think you could see if you’d had a Draize test?” He folded his arms and pushed his body forward. Taking another step, he chest-bumped the steamer and bowls I carried. “Do you care about animals or not?” he demanded.

  My skin prickled hot with rage. After all I’d seen today, I was in no mood for this.

  “So do you care about animals or not, bitch?” he shrilled.

  I announced loudly: “I’m going to pour forty pounds of vegetables on the ass in front of me if he doesn’t move.”

  The demonstrator’s mouth dropped open. Unfortunately, he quickly recovered. “You don’t know about the rabbit body-count, then? Is that why you’re serving the fascists?”

  I began, “You don’t know what I’ve just seen—”

  “Hey, lady! Do you think I care—”

  “Excuse me,” said a familiar voice behind me.

  The demonstrator’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he fell silent and looked Tom over. His glance stopped on Tom’s jacket logo. “What’s this? The storm troopers protecting capitalists?” He turned his glare back to me. “You got a vested interest in being a fascist? You think eyeshadow’s going to help your looks, Ms. Plump? Take the attention away from your blond afro?” He rolled his shoulders in a muscular, he-man sort of way. Then he reared back and once again chest-bumped the food in my hands. “Guess what?” he yelled. “I’m not going to let you go in there!”

  I hauled back and thrust the full weight of myself, the vegetables, and the steamed fish into him. Too late, Tom realized what I was doing and launched himself at us. Tom’s wide hands managed to catch the steamer, a heavy metal rectangle with a rigid plastic top. The covered bowl of salad greens skittered across the garage floor. No such luck with the container of vegetables. My ponytailed irritant lay at my feet decorated with roasted red peppers, thick slices of grilled mushroom, chunks of charred onion, and blobs of cooked tomato.

  “Man, lady, what is your problem?” he shrieked from the floor. “Did you see that, Officer? Wasn’t that assault? I’m going to press charges!”

  Tom handed me the steamer. His face was impassive. “Do not let go of this,” he ordered in that voice of his. “Get up, you,” he commanded the demonstrator. “Go on over there with your anti-fascist friends. Don’t let me see your face by this door again. Hear?”

  “You pig,” the demonstrator
screamed as he scrambled to his feet and brushed off vegetables. I noticed with satisfaction that the tomatoes had left long red smears on his SPARE THE HARES T-shirt. “I’ll show my face by any door I want!”

  Tom Schulz loomed over him. “You want to go to jail, Jack? Try blocking public entrances again.”

  “What the hell do I pay taxes for?” the demonstrator barked over his shoulder as he scurried back to his buddies.

  Tom Schulz retrieved the covered bowl of greens from the garage floor and shot me a look. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” he asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Where’d this come from?” He was staring at the rose that had miraculously stayed with the bowl of greens on its bounce across the asphalt.

  “From the floor near where Claire”—I gestured—“over by that column. It’s probably been sprayed—”

  “What column?”

  I pointed.

  “You found this fifteen, twenty feet from the body? And you picked it up?” he said, trying to clarify.

  “I’m sorry. She was hit by … a vehicle, and I just saw the flower there on the floor—”

  “Okay, wait a minute, let me go put it in an evidence bag.”

  He strode away holding the flower delicately by its stem. When he returned, he said, “Goldy—no more violent encounters with the demonstrators, okay?”

  “Look, I hit that guy with the food only because he was threatening me and he wouldn’t get out of my way. That’s justified, isn’t it? Oh, Lord.” I teetered backward. What did I care about some demonstrator?

  Tom took hold of my shoulders, steadied me, and shook his head. “Goldy, I know you’ve taken a lot of crap in your life and now you don’t take crap anymore. Good for you. But don’t make more work for me than I already have. Next time hit the guy with your pepper spray, not an entire meal. Please? We’ve got big problems here, and we need to go take care of Julian. Let me get the door.”