Killer Pancake (8 page)

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"Ah-ha. 'Wife of homicide investigator asks newspaper about department store scandals. Declines comment on witnessing murder of store employee. Your husband the investigator is gonna love it."

"What do you mean, murder? So help me - "

"Do you know anything about those demonstrators?" she demanded.

"Of course I don't," I replied, struggling to sound calm. Frances had the annoying ability to make me feel constantly off balance.

"Did they get in the way of the catering? Were they near the area where the girl was hit? Or can't you talk about that either?"

"What makes you think that - " I waved my hand in I the empty kitchen, unable even to articulate the thought.

"What makes me think that Claire was run down?" she finished.

"Yes."

"Things I've heard."

"Gosh, Frances, more rumors? Maybe I should have Tom come over and talk to you."

"Great idea. We could have lunch and chat about the Bill of Rights. You could cook. That is, if you didn't throw vegetables around beforehand."

"Frances, don't."

"The way I heard it, the fellow you threw the red peppers on was an activist by the name of Shaman Krill."

"Why, did he talk to you? All he did was yell at me."

"That name, Shaman Krill," she said thoughtfully. "Think it's short for something? Maybe it's an alias. We're talking about a real short guy here? Dark curly hair pulled back in a ponytail? Gold earring? Sort of a cross between a leprechaun and a terrorist?

Think he was one of Claire's boyfriends? How long had Satterfield been going with this Julian guy?"

"How do you know Claire was involved with other men?" I countered. "Why did you say Julian was the latest in her batch of conquests?"

"First you tell me something, Goldy. Did you ever get something for nothing? Listen - I'll come visit you at the food fair, okay? Maybe then you'll be ready to have a real chat."

Before I could retort, she hung up. She wasn't going to share anything she knew with me until I gave her information. And if I did that, I could just imagine the wrath of Investigator Tom Schulz. Still, he'd be interested to hear about bullying activist

Shaman Krill, if he hadn't already. Maybe you had to have a weird name to get into Spare the Hares. I slowly swished the spoon through the pot of dark barbecue sauce. There were two things Frances had been digging for: Had I known Claire was involved with other men? And who was Shaman Krill? I wondered if the two questions were related.

But that was speculation. I returned to my culinary duties to chop, boil, and beat my frustration away. I gathered cocoa powder, flour, sugar, and egg whites, and got out the recipe for the fudge cookies. The dark, delicious cookies had been one of two great inventions in my search for a lowfat chocolate torte. The other had been a lowfat chocolate souffl� that had worked not in the oven but on top of the stove. I sifted the cocoa, flour, baking powder, and salt and beat egg whites, then stirred oil, sugar, and vanilla. After combining all the ingredients, I put the cookie batter away to chill. I had just retrieved the ingredients for icing when the doorbell rang. Oh good, I thought: Marla. Finally.

VANILLA FROSTED FUDGE COOKIES

_ cup all-purpose flour

� cup unsweetened cocoa powder

1 teaspoon baking powder

� teaspoon salt

� cup canola oil

1 cup sugar

1 � teaspoons vanilla extract

4 egg whites, unbeaten

2 cups confectioners' sugar

2-3 tablespoons skim milk, approximately additional unsweetened cocoa powder

Preheat the oven to 350. Spray a large nonstick cookie sheet with vegetable oil spray. Sift the flour, cocoa, baking powder, and salt together; set aside. Mix together the oil, sugar, 1 teaspoon of the vanilla, and the egg whites until well combined. Stir in the flour mixture.

Chill one hour. Using a �-tablespoon measure, scoop the dough onto the cookie sheet, leaving 2 inches between cookies. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes or until the cookies are puffed and cooked through. Do not overcook.

Transfer the cookies to a rack and cool completely. Mix together the confectioners' sugar, skim milk, and remaining � teaspoon vanilla until pasty. Add skim milk if necessary.

Spread a small amount of vanilla frosting on each cookie. Put the cookies back on the rack, dust lightly with cocoa powder, and allow the frosting to dry.

Makes 4 dozen cookies

I looked through the peephole prepared to see my big- bodied, big-hearted friend triumphantly holding up the bags of gourmet goodies she always brought to ease tense or troubling situations. But anticipatory delight quickly froze to dread. The

Jerk's distorted mug grinned broadly into the peephole's circular eye.

"Let me in, Goldy," he bellowed. "I have to talk to you!"

Fear opened a hollow in my stomach. In the years since the divorce, my ex-husband had rarely demanded to talk to me.

Looking for Arch, he either barged in angrily - pre-security system - or waited sullenly for our son on the doorstep. But this afternoon Arch was doing tie-dying with Todd. I looked out at John Richard, trying to decide what to do. He drew back in a dramatic gesture from the door and held his arms out. He was wearing Bermuda shorts, Polo shirt, Top-Siders without socks - the very portrait of a rich guy.

"I've got news," he shouted, pressing his face in again at the peephole. "Bad news! You want to hear it or not?" He added snidely, "It concerns somebody you care about a lot!"

I really did not want to see him. The day had been awful enough. And yet here he was, doing a typical power- trip, teasing with the possibility of bad news. I hesitated. The security system was disarmed. I could go out on the porch to talk to him. All I had to do was unlock the dead bolt and walk out the door. But when I started to fumble with the bolt, the phone rang in the kitchen.

Darn it all, anyway. I dashed for the kitchen.

"Goldilocks' Catering - ".I began breathlessly. The Jerk was banging on the front door. There was a smart thwack of wood against metal. I heard the Jerk curse loudly. "Goldilocks' Catering," I repeated, "Where Everything - "

"It's me," Tom interrupted. "I'm at the hospital."

"Boo!" said John Richard Korman as he walked up behind me. His breath smelled of whiskey. I shrieked and dropped the phone.

"Who's that?" said Tom. Coming from the dropped phone, his voice was distant but clearly alarmed. "Goldy? Are you there?"

I stared furiously at my ex-husband, who gave me a wide-eyed mocking leer in return. Involuntarily, I glanced around for my wooden knifeblock. John Richard followed my gaze and wagged one finger at me. He moved in the direction of the knifeblock, scooped it up, and cradled it and its protruding black handles as he moved into the dining room. Goose bumps pimpled my arms.

By the time John Richard walked empty-handed back into the kitchen, I'd managed to pick up the dangling receiver. "It's... John

Richard, and Arch isn't home, but John Richard says that there's bad - "

"For crying out loud, Goldy, what the hell is he doing there?" Tom hollered. "Get him out! Now!"

I closed my eyes so I wouldn't see the Jerk's furious expression. "Tell me how Julian is," I said firmly into the receiver.

"Then I will."

"I'm not calling about Julian - " Tom began.

"Hey, Gol-dy-y!" the Jerk said calmly. Nastily. "He's not calling about Juli-a-n. He's at the hospital and he's calling about somebody else."

"This is bad news - " Tom began again. John Richard grabbed the receiver out of my hand and slammed it down in its cradle. I closed my fists and glared at him.

"Listen to me, goddammit!" Dr. John Richard Korman shouted in my face. "Marla's had a heart attack!"

5

A what?"

"Are you deaf?" He lowered his voice, sat down at the kitchen table, and assumed his all-knowing tone. The mood-switch was both predictable and frightening. "She was trying to jog her lard-assed self around the lake. She got home, didn't feel well, and called her g.p. He hadn't seen her in five years, of course, so when she described her symptoms, he sent in some paramedics, and they called for the Flight-for-Life copter." The phone on the counter rang again. The muscles in John Richard's face locked in anger. I knew the look. Now he was just a time bomb. He sat at the kitchen table and said too calmly, "I would like to talk to you without interruption."

My throat constricted with the old fear. My palms itched to answer the insistent rings. But I knew better than to defy the

Jerk. As the phone continued to ring, John Richard made no move to answer it. He crossed his legs. Ever smooth, ever urbane.

But I was watching. He said, "You won't get in to see her without me."

"That's not true," I said, trying to sound unruffled. "Look, you've been drinking." It didn't take much to set John Richard off.

Two ounces of scotch was enough to ignite him for at least four hours. "Why don't you just - "

"Are you interested in Marla or not?" His eyes blazed and he tightened the formidable muscles in his arms. "I mean, I thought she was your best friend."

The phone rang and rang. I didn't take my eyes off John Richard. "Have you seen her?"

"No, no, I was waiting to take you down," he said with mock sweetness. John Richard leaned forward. A hard pain knotted in my chest. "Whether you like it or not, Miss Piss, as an ex-husband, I am a relative." The phone shrilled. Tears pricked my eyes.

I hated to be so paralyzed with fear. Marla. Forty-five years old. A heart attack. The Jerk, unheeding, talked. "You, as the friend who fed her all the cholesterol-filled crap that blocked her arteries, are not a relative. Friends might not be able to get into the

Coronary Care Unit whenever they want. Relatives can. Are you with me so far? So if you want to see Marla at the hospital, I'm going to have to go in with you. Am I getting through to you?"

Any moment, I thought. Any moment and this man who worked out with the fanaticism of an Olympic athlete could take hold of one of my wrists and shatter it against the table with such force that I wouldn't be able to knead bread for a year. I kept my eyes on his maniacally composed face and picked up the receiver. "I'm okay," I said without my customary greeting. On the other end, Tom noisily let out air, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. "Thanks for calling back, Tom. He's just leaving."

"Just leaving?" Tom yelled. "You mean he's still there? I'm staying on this phone until he's out of that house and that door is locked and bolted. Turn that security system back on. If you can't do that, get out. Understand? Goldy? You listening? I can get the 911 operator to call your neighbor. Have a department car there in ten minutes."

I turned to my ex-husband. "Please go," I said firmly. "Now. He's going to send in the authorities. They'll be here in ten minutes."

Dr. John Richard Korman leapt to his feet, grabbed the box of cocoa I'd used for the cookies and flung it against the wall. I screamed as brown powder exploded everywhere. John Richard dusted his hands and gave me a look: Now why did you make that necessary?

"Get out," I said evenly. "Leave. Nine and a half minutes, and you're in a lot of trouble." He'd thrown something because he was thwarted. I wouldn't go to the hospital with him, and I had paid.

The Jerk assumed an attitude of nonchalance and shrugged. Then, without another word, he withdrew from the kitchen and sauntered his Bermuda-shorted self through the front door. I followed, pressed the bolt into place and armed the system, then ran back to the phone.

"Miss G:?" I broke out in a sweat from the relief of hearing Tom's old term of endearment. "Will you please talk to me?"

"He's gone," I said breathlessly. "Can you tell me where, I mean, how long ago did she... how is she?" I remembered all too vividly Marla's sad history, that her father had died from a. heart attack when she was very young.

"She's okay. In the Coronary Care Unit at Southwest Hospital. She had a mild heart attack this morning either before or after jogging around Aspen Meadow Lake. Since when is she a jogger?"

"Since never," I replied angrily, "and she's on some weird lemon-and-rice diet - "

"Not anymore, she isn't. You coming down here or what? I probably won't be able to stay. The investigation of the death over in the mall garage is getting under way."

I replied that I was on my way and that he shouldn't wait for me. I scribbled a note to Arch: Back by dinner. How was I going to tell Arch what had happened to Julian or Marla? He adored them both. Stepping out the back door, I glanced around to make sure the Jerk wasn't lurking in the bushes. That would have been typical of him. I also checked the van's rear area. It was empty. I locked the doors, gunned the engine, and let the speedometer needle quiver past seventy as I raced back to Denver. I wished I didn't know as much as I did about the statistics of heart disease running in families.

My best-friendship with Marla had blossomed out of the bitterness of being divorced from the same horrid man. I shook my head and thought of the cloud of brown cocoa powder erupting as it hit the wall. To get emotional control over his cruelty,

Marla and I alternately reviled and ridiculed John Richard. But through the years, the relationship between Marla and me had deepened beyond our mutual crisis. We'd formed a discussion group called Amour Anonymous, for women addicted to their relationships. I zipped past Westside Mall and headed for the parking lot at Southwest Hospital.

Our Amour Anonymous meetings had been alternately heartfelt and hilarious. And when the group petered out, as those kinds of groups tend to do, Marla and I remained steadfast to each other with daily phone calls and long talks over shared meals.

Moreover, Marla's generosity with her considerable wealth meant not only that she was one of my best clients, but that she also referred me to all her rich friends. The people in Marla's address book had provided an endless stream of assignments for

Goldilocks' Catering, including Babs Braithwaite of the upcoming Independence Day party.

My hands clutched the steering wheel. If the Jerk was right and they wouldn't admit me to the CCU, I was going to have to come up with some way to talk my way in. Just thinking of John Richard made my flesh crawl. How dare he break into my house and blame my cooking for what had happened to Marla? Of course, that kind of behavior was nothing new for him. John Richard