Killer Pancake gbcm-5

by Diane Mott Davidson

  But I was in no mood for entanglements. I panted and bumbled along. How could I have walked this far? I touched my forehead. It was still bleeding. Someday, I thought, Marla and I would have a good laugh about my Hotchkiss makeover masquerade.

  By the time I slipped behind the wheel of my van, I thought I was going to have a heart attack myself. As I drove back to Aspen Meadow, I inhaled deep yoga-exercise breaths. Claire Satterfield had been dead for three days. Nick Gentileschi had tumbled out of the blind today. His body hadn’t even twitched when it landed.

  How long had he been dead? And then there was Reggie Hotchkiss, who had spied at the Mignon banquet, under cover of wig. In addition to all that, tonight I was catering a chi-chi dinner for a couple up to their wealthy ears in the imbroglio: Claire’s presumed lover, Dr. Charles Braithwaite, and Charlie’s wife, Babs, the woman Nick Gentileschi had been covertly photographing in the Prince & Grogan fitting rooms.

  How did I get myself into these situations?

  When my van chugged off the interstate at the Aspen Meadow exit, the rain clouds had cleared and left an immense bluer-than-blue sky. I passed the country club, where sunlight glinted off the roof of the Braithwaites’ greenhouse at its high point on Aspen Knoll. It was from there that the guests would finish munching their fudge cookies and watch the Fourth of July fireworks display over Aspen Meadow Lake. Which would give me some time to do some snooping around in the infamous greenhouse.

  I swung the van up to our house and saw that Julian had returned and left the Range Rover at a slight angle in the driveway. I parked in the one available spot on the street. When I hopped out, Sally Routt, Dusty’s mother, was outside, pulling weeds. Her son Colin was on her back, snuggled into one of those corduroy baby-holders. I didn’t see Dusty, which was probably just as well. I couldn’t take any questioning on how the Hotchkiss facial had gone. Besides, I needed to phone Tom. I called a greeting to them, but Colin seemed fascinated by the mass of long-stemmed purple fireweed. Colin was so thin and tiny, it was hard to believe he was three months old. As he reached for a monarch butterfly on a fireweed stem, his little hand was dwarfed by the butterfly’s dark, outstretched wings. Deprived of his target, his head of gleaming strawberry-blond hair bobbed in my direction. Poor, sweet child, born too early, to a family that could scarcely manage to take care of him. I felt my heart squeeze inside my chest.

  When I came through the security system, I smelled simmering onions, cooked potatoes, and … cigarette smoke. The latter seemed to be drifting down from the second story. At least it’s not hashish, I thought grimly as I took the stairs two at a time. In the spare bedroom at the front of the house, I found Julian sitting hunched over in the maple rocking chair I had used to rock Arch when he was an infant. Smoke curled from an unfiltered cigarette in his hands. His foot tapped the floor as he pushed back and forth. A small pile of ashes lay at his feet. He had not noticed me.

  I said, “I’m back. What’s going on?”

  He didn’t look around. His voice was morose, resigned. “Not much. I read your note and marinated the fruit. I cooked the potatoes and onions for the cucumber soup too.” His face twisted. “Did you find out any—?”

  “Not yet. Actually, there’s some more bad news.” I sat down in the old love seat that now belonged to Scout the cat. “Want to hear it?”

  “I guess.”

  “Nick Gentileschi died at the store. He had an accident.”

  Julian’s eyes opened in terror and disbelief. “What? The security guy? What happened? Does Tom know? What kind of accident?”

  “Oh, Julian …” I sighed. “He fell out of one of those blinds. I don’t know more than that. I was just about to go call Tom. Want to come down?”

  He seemed suddenly aware of the cigarette he held and tapped ashes into his palm, “I’ll be down in a little bit. Listen, Goldy, I’m sorry—”

  “About what? I’m trying to help you—”

  “It’s just that I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I’m not going to get hurt. Now, I know you probably don’t want to talk about this, but do you think you’re going to be up to helping me with the Braithwaites’ party?”

  His “Sure” was anything but. I walked pensively down to the kitchen. Before I could call Tom, the phone rang. It was Arch. He rarely called from the Keystone condo because the Jerk, who lavished money on himself, complained about any extra dollar Arch cost him. The only exception to this rule was on those rare occasions when John Richard had done something—failing to show up was one of his favorites—that made him feel guilty. When John Richard was hit by a rare attack of conscience, Arch would get loaded down with gifts he would never use. In fact, when my son came home from one of these weekends toting a new mountain bike, skis, or Rollerblades, I knew there’d been trouble.

  I gripped the phone and tried not to sound panicked. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s not about Dad, don’t worry. He’s asleep in the other room,” he said in a low voice. “I think he had too much to drink at lunch. He’s having a nap.”

  “Too much to—” I let out an exasperated breath. “Arch, do you need me to come and get you?”

  “No, Mom, I’m cool. Please, don’t get hysterical. We’re going to walk to the fireworks up here.”

  “I am not hysterical,” I said through clenched teeth.

  “Listen, Mom. I’m just calling to see how Julian’s doing.”

  I sighed and thought of the slumped figure in the upstairs bedroom. “Not too great.”

  “Did you find out anything about Claire? Has Marla gotten out of the hospital?”

  “Arch, I just got home myself. I’ll call you as soon as Tom figures out what’s going on. And I was just about to call Marla.”

  “You know, I really do think Tom is great,” Arch assured me. Except I didn’t need to be reassured.

  “Arch, why are you telling me this? You sound as if you’re in some kind of trouble. Did Dad hurt you? Please tell me.”

  “Oh, Mom. You take everything so seriously. It’s just that I didn’t want Tom to think that I thought he was a pig or anything. I would never call him that.”

  “He knows.”

  “And I didn’t get to say good-bye to him because he left so early, and then Frances Markasian was waving that knife around later, and well, you know.”

  “So everything is okay?”

  “Yes, Mom! I was just sitting here thinking about Tom and Julian, and Marla, that’s all.”

  “You’re feeling lonely.”

  “Mom.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  He said he couldn’t wait to see us Sunday afternoon. And no, he was not looking forward to the fireworks because Dad had met a new friend and they were taking her along. She was afraid of loud noises, though, so they might have to leave early. He sighed in disappointment and said, “Peace, Mom.”

  I hung up and banged my fist on the counter. If the new girlfriend didn’t like loud noises, she’d better find herself a new guy to date.

  I put in a call to Marla’s house. The nurse said she was sleeping, but yes, she’d seen the lowfat pancakes. How was her frame of mind? I asked. Depressed, the nurse replied without elaboration. When could I come over, I wanted to know. Tomorrow. Marla was resting today after the trip home from the hospital; no visitors, no excursions. So much for Tony’s push to get her to the Braithwaites’ party. I even had the feeling the nurse had dealt with Tony in very short order. I said I’d be over tomorrow. You’ll have to make it in the afternoon, she announced before hanging up. I wished I could send that nurse out to deal with the Jerk.

  I braced myself and punched the phone buttons again. If Tom wasn’t there, what would I say to his voice mail? But he snagged it after less than one ring.

  “Schulz.”

  “It’s me. I was at Prince & Grogan when Gentileschi—”

  “I heard. He was strangled in the box up there. They call it a blind, where the security guys used to sit.”

  �
�I know. Do they know who—”

  “Negative. I’m going to be here late tonight working on this.”

  “I saw the photos in his pocket, Tom. They’re of Babs Braithwaite.”

  He sighed. “Goldy, you didn’t touch them, did you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Did anybody besides you see them?”

  I tried to remember: Who else was around? Stan White, the security man, had come down the escalator; Harriet Wells had been whimpering behind the counter. I’d been the only customer within close range. “I don’t think so, maybe the other security guy saw them. I was there buying some stuff for Frances and … what was the deal with Gentileschi anyway? Did he always do that kind of thing? Spy on customers?”

  Tom replied in a flat tone, “You should see the pictures we found at his house. Had a thing for large women. Not that they would like to hear what he was doing back there behind the mirrors.”

  “Did you ever get the message I left you, that Babs Braithwaite was certain she’d heard something back behind the dressing room mirror? It was when the security guy nabbed me for eavesdropping.”

  “Yeah, Miss G., I got your message. We’ve got one team investigating at the store now, and another questioning Mrs. Braithwaite and her husband. Dr. Braithwaite spent quite a bit of time and money in that department store, the assistant security guy tells us.”

  “Tom, do you remember that I’m catering at their place tonight?”

  “Uh, Miss Goldy? I don’t think so. Get somebody else. The Braithwaites are suspects in a homicide. Maybe two homicides. I don’t want you going in there and starting to snoop around. Let us do our work. Please. Also, and this is official now, you’re off the case. Thanks for your help, but it’s too dicey for you to do any more digging in this thing. It’s gotten too dangerous.”

  “Oh come on, Tom. The Braithwaites are big wheels in the community. If I cancel, I’m sunk in my own hometown. Look, if either of the Braithwaites comes after me, I’ll put a vat of cucumber-mint soup between us.”

  Tom muttered something unintelligible, but said nothing further. I remembered guiltily that I hadn’t even told him about the bleach water and the threatening note. Tom said he had two other calls coming in at the same time, general counsel for Prince & Grogan was having a stroke on line one, and his team at the Braithwaites’ house was clamoring to talk to him on line two. He’d get back to me.

  With the police team crawling all over the Braithwaites’ place, I wondered if Babs still would even want to hold her annual party. I put in a phone call to her. A policeman I knew answered, and after some delay, Babs came on the line.

  “Yes?” She was obviously unhappy to be interrupted.

  “I apologize for calling,” I began, then stopped. What was I supposed to say? But I was just wondering if the cops would be done before the party? And by the way, I didn’t think those pictures did you justice? “Er, I was just wondering what the schedule was for tonight. When you needed us to set up, you know.”

  Her voice became stiff with impatience. “Your contract says set up for food service, then food service, followed by packing up from nine or so until you’re done. The guests will start arriving at seven. How long do you need to set up for twelve people?”

  “No more than an hour—”

  “I won’t be able to supervise you. I’m having my hair and makeup done from five to six forty-five.”

  “Not to worry, we do a great job supervising ourselves.”

  She paused. “Will that boy be with you?” she asked curiously.

  “My son? Or the nineteen-year-old fellow who helps me?”

  “The teenager. The one who did all that damage to my car.”

  I felt as if I were suddenly under the interrogation light, like the NFL coach who gets grilled on how many injured players will be in the starting lineup. I assumed an indifferent tone. “Julian will be with me.”

  “How’s he holding up?”

  I was very interested to know why she cared. But I merely replied, “He’s doing okay. Oh, Babs, by the way. My friend Marla says she didn’t recommend my business to you. I mean, since you said that she did, I was just wondering who in fact did the recommending. Just out of curiosity. You know? I want to thank whoever it was.”

  Her voice rose irritably. “For heaven’s sake, I can’t remember who referred you to me!” She paused, then continued in an even higher tone: “Why, you’re not having second thoughts about coming tonight, are you? Don’t tell me you’re not ready. I don’t know who I’d get on such short notice!”

  “Not to worry, Babs. We’ll be there. Around six.” Before she could start interrogating me again, I politely signed off and wished Arch could experience what it really meant to deal with someone hysterical.

  I checked my watch: three o’clock. It was time to cook.

  Like many wealthy clients, Babs Braithwaite wanted to host an extravagant catered dinner but did not want to pay much for it. “Can’t you make it look and taste sumptuous without using all those expensive ingredients?” she had demanded. “Can’t you cook without larding all the dishes with butter and cream? You know, the way caterers do?” As if she knew so much. Lowfat ingredients were usually more expensive and labor-intensive than traditional foods. In any event, after a lengthy discussion we had decided on a turkey curry served with raisin rice. Then Babs had loftily dismissed me with the announcement that since it was the Fourth, she would wear a red, white, and blue sari to go with the food. Everyone else was supposed to be decked out in red, white, and blue, she’d maintained in a resigned tone. I didn’t protest. I had long ago quit trying to figure out wealthy clients’ idiosyncrasies. At least she hadn’t told me to wear a sari. Or demanded only red, white, and blue food.

  I sautéed the turkey, drained it, then moved on to chop fragrant piles of onion and apple. When these were sizzling in a wide frying pan, I started the sauce. As the pungent scent of curry filled the kitchen, I began to feel the tension in my shoulders loosen. My hands stopped shaking as I drizzled in skim milk fortified once again with powdered nonfat milk. This silky concoction did indeed provide the rich, thick consistency of whipping cream without fat. I smiled and tasted the curry sauce. It was divine. Working with food is always healing. The ingredients, the smells, the flavors—the delight in experimenting and putting a meal together—all these bring joy, no matter what the circumstances. I had another spoonful of the hot, creamy curry sauce. Doggone, but it was good. I was going to have to try it out on Arch and Julian.

  When I was halfway through grating the vegetables for the slaw, there was a loud banging on the front door. Again I looked at my watch: three-fifteen. It couldn’t be either Tom or Arch. Alicia, my supplier, had made her visit and I had all the ingredients I needed. I turned off the blender and trudged to the door to peer through the peephole.

  “No smoking,” I warned Frances Markasian when I opened the door. “And no ballistic knives.”

  “Okay, okay!” She held up her large black purse as if for inspection. I waved it away. “Don’t be so paranoid, Goldy, I just want—”

  But I was already walking away from her. “I’m working, so you’ll have to talk to me out in the kitchen.”

  She followed dutifully and took a seat in one of the oak chairs while I peered at my recipe for vegetable slaw. Swathed in her usual black trench coat, she waited until I’d finished grating the carrots, radishes, jicama, and cucumbers before asking, “Where’s my stuff?”

  I took out plump, gorgeous scallions and began to slice them. “What stuff? I don’t have any of your stuff!”

  She rummaged through her bag for her pack of cigarettes, belatedly remembered she couldn’t smoke, and impatiently rapped the cigarette package on the table. “Excuse me, Goldy, but I seem to remember giving you three crisp hundred-dollar bills and a list of cosmetics to buy? Did you get them or not?”

  Patience, I ordered myself as I turned away from the mountains of slaw ingredients. I had cooking to do, and this j
ournalist could make herself into a worse pest than the infamous mountain pine beetle. I dug through my sorry purse and found the still-damp bag full of the cosmetics Frances had ordered. When I handed it to her, she took it greedily and dumped the jars, bottles, and her change—bills and coins—out on my kitchen table.

  I said loudly, “Gee, Goldy! Thanks so much for going out of your way to buy these cosmetics! Of course, I already know they aren’t going to change my appearance one bit.”

  Frances ignored me, pawed through the items on the tabletop, then swept a handful of frizzed black hair out of her eyes and shot me a quizzical look. “Where’s the receipt?”

  “What?”

  “Where’s the receipt? ¿Entiendes inglés? Did you get a receipt for what you spent my money on or not?”

  “Excuse me, Frances, but your change is all there. Give me a break! What do you need your receipt for?”

  “Give me a break!” Her face was furious. “You’re a businesswoman, you know the importance of a receipt! Without a receipt, this junk comes out of my pocket! Can’t you do anything right?” Then, to my astonishment, she scooped up the cosmetics and money, stuffed them into the bag, and stomped angrily out of the room. My front door slammed resoundingly behind her.

  I felt my mouth fall open in bewilderment. What was going on here? I looked at the chopped vegetables, the unfinished cucumber soup, and the pans of marinating fruit. My sane inner voice quietly urged me to forget about Frances and her tantrums and get on with the work of the day. After all, she had that spring-loaded knife in her purse.

  But another, angrier inner voice demanded to know how Frances had known I was home. In fact, this was the second time I’d suspected she was spying on me. The first had been when she’d shown up just as the Jerk was leaving this morning. How had she known then that I hadn’t left yet? How had she known this afternoon that I’d just returned home from the mall?