Killer Pancake Part 2

Killer Pancake Part 2

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 ap.r.o.n. 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 us 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, c.o.c.ked 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-b.u.mped the steamer and bowls I carried. "Do you care about animals or not?" he demanded.

My skin p.r.i.c.kled hot with rage. After all I'd seen today, I was in no mood for this.

"So do you care about animals or not, b.i.t.c.h?" he shrilled.

I announced loudly: "I'm going to pour forty pounds of vegetables on the a.s.s 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-b.u.mped 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 a.s.sault? I'm going to press charges!"

Tom handed me the steamer. His face was impa.s.sive. "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 h.e.l.l 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. .h.i.t 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 c.r.a.p in your life and now you don't take c.r.a.p 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."

Inside the club, rock music still throbbed against the black walls. People were gathering, expecting food. After what we'd just gone through, the shock of business as usual felt disorienting. In my absence, Julian had laid out the crudites and dips next to a stack of gla.s.s plates, and served up gla.s.s bowls of asparagus soup. The buffet line was progressing smoothly; it looked as if about half of the forty women had moved through and were seated. Julian was managing to keep the platters filled and neat as he served, smiled, and answered questions. The women giggled coyly at him, and I could guess at their whispered questions: Isn't he cute? How long do you suppose he's been doing this? As we entered, Julian's eyes darted toward us. I knew we weren't who he was looking for.

Tom took the bowl and steamer from my hands. "Just let's put the food down. Tell him to come outside," he murmured. "If these folks see me, they might know something's wrong. I don't want to start or to deal with a general frenzy."

I moved across to the bar. Julian's face creased in alarm when I asked him to come outside. As we moved toward the door, the women seemed to take no notice of us leaving.

Outside, Julian immediately demanded, "Where's Claire?"

For a moment, neither Tom nor I spoke. Then Tom sighed. He said bluntly, "There's been a hit-and-run accident. Claire was. .h.i.t. I'm sorry, Julian, but she's ... she's dead."

Julian clutched Tom's jacket. He cried, "What? What? What are you telling me? I don't get it. You're wrong. You must be wrong." I felt my throat tighten as I put my arms around him. His hands dropped from Tom's jacket and his muscled body started to shake. One hand slammed the wall. "Huh?" he cried. "What?" Sweat glistened over his pale skin. His eyes were wild. Shoppers from the mall stopped and stared.

"Oh, bad sign. He's going into shock," Tom told me. "He needs medical attention right away." As Tom barked into the walkie-talkie that we needed another ambulance, I fumbled to undo the top b.u.t.ton of Julian's shirt so he could breathe more easily. I'd graduated from Med Wives 101 and knew all about shock.

At that moment the service entrance to the nightclub opened and the woman in yellow poked her head out. Her blond hair looked oily under the fluorescent lights of the hallway, and her thick makeup seemed to add years to her age. Her jet-black eyebrows gave her a menacing aspect, like Tallulah Bankhead on a bad day.

"What the h.e.l.l is going on out here?" she demanded in a throaty falsetto. The mall shoppers turned their stare on her. "Where are the exploding bags? Where is Claire Satterfield?"

Tom Schulz ignored her barrage of questions. "Get back, please, ma'am. Leave us alone."

"Oh, gawd ... I suppose." With a huge sigh and bang of the door, she disappeared. Julian slumped against the wall.

"Takes all kinds," observed Tom as he lifted one of Julian's eyelids to check on his state of consciousness.

Thirty seconds later the door opened again, this time revealing Harriet Wells. We were a long way from our conversation about m.u.f.fins with okra and how much Mignon would pay for the banquet. Harriet looked with genuine alarm at Julian.

"Can I help?" she asked us. Her intelligent blue eyes were full of concern. She looked from Tom to me, trying to ascertain who was in charge. "Can you tell me what's going on? Will we be one server short for the banquet?"

Julian slumped forward and began to sob. "I'll be there to serve the food in just a minute," I snapped as I clutched him. Harriet Wells tilted her head at me skeptically. Clearly, my tear-streaked face and smeared ap.r.o.n did not inspire confidence. Tom once again talked into his radio. The smell of cooking hamburgers from a mall restaurant unexpectedly wafted over us. Julian, Julian, I prayed, pull yourself together. Please.

"Can you tell me what is going on out here?" Harriet asked.

My throat closed in panic. I coughed and began to say, "You see, there's been-"

Tom put away his radio and interrupted. "We have a crisis. Thanks for your patience. Your caterer will be there momentarily."

"I certainly hope so," was Harriet Wells's parting comment as she quietly closed the nightclub door.

Julian's face was distorted, as if he'd swallowed something and then choked on it. He pulled himself away from me, gasping for breath.

"Where should we take him?" I asked Tom. "Couldn't you even tell that woman what happened to Claire?"

Unexpectedly, Julian reeled in Tom's direction. Tom snagged him as the group of spectators shrieked.

"Lower him to the floor," Tom ordered tersely. "Slowly, very slowly. Don't hurt yourself."

Together, we grasped Julian and helped him down. Before we had him stretched out on the floor, a s.h.a.ggy-haired policeman rushed up to tell Tom a second ambulance had arrived from the hospital across the street.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," gagged a still-shivering Julian. "I want to get up. Don't make me stay down here."

Tom ordered the cop to get a stretcher in. Two more paramedics appeared and lifted Julian, moaning, to a stretcher. As they moved off, I felt suddenly bereft.

"Where are you going?" I called after them. "When will I hear if he's okay?"

Tom was at their heels. "Across the street, Southwest Hospital. Don't tell anybody what happened. I'll call you later." And he was gone.

The next two hours pa.s.sed in a fog. I barely noticed the women I served. I found I could block out the day's events by focusing, focusing, and focusing again on the food, on the job at hand.

Mercifully, the steamer had stayed closed when I'd heaved it at the angry demonstrator. The bowl of greens was also intact. Without the roast vegetables to garnish and dress the salad, I thinned out the carrot dip with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. The resulting dressing was delicious. I had the ridiculous thought that I should have written down how I'd done it. It was such a trivial thing after what had happened to Claire. Hit-and-run. I wondered who would contact her parents in Australia.

I knew Tom was right, that he could not make a public announcement of Claire's death to her coworkers at Mignon. Since Julian was the closest American to Claire, Tom was duty-bound to inform him. But Tom had to keep news of the death under wraps in the hope that Claire's family could be notified by the authorities rather than a journalist in search of a juicy story. The sheriff's department had a hierarchy of people to notify in the event of sudden death, and they stuck to it. The only folks who managed to screw this up were from the media. One of Arch's young friends had heard over the radio of his father's death in a plane crash. The poor child had immediately gone into shock.

Speaking of which, I couldn't bear recalling Julian's disbelieving face and his stricken What? What? I felt his absence by the extra amount of work I had to do: clearing dishes, refilling platters, wiping spills off the granite bar. Sometimes engaging in a load of work heals the heart. In this case, it didn't.

The lunch took an eternity. When it was almost over, a slender, elegant woman with long raven-black hair that contrasted with her sleek beige dress and pale orchid corsage got to her feet. Sending a twinkly smile in the direction of the guests, she announced breathlessly that Mignon was going to show slides of the new line of cosmetics for autumn, and then we would have dessert. The spotlights dimmed, and soon we were looking at the luminous, enlarged faces of stunning women. Then we saw the same lovely females with their fingers caressing suggestively shaped plastic bottles. The bottles were filled with stuff you were supposed to put on your face: Magic Pore-closing Toner with Mediterranean Sea Kelp. Extra-rich Alpine Nighttime Replacement Moisturizer with Goat Placenta. Ultragentle Eye Cream Smoother with Swiss Herbs. It sounded like makeup by Heidi. Then we saw the same dramatically made-up women modeling colors of foundation, blush, lipstick, eyeshadow, and mascara. Strawberry Sundae lipstick. Hot Date blush. Foreplay eyeshadow. S'More mascara. The models' eyes were half closed and their lips were pursed, as if they were trying to kiss the air, or at least seduce it. When it came time for the lipstick, out came the models' tongues, just touching the tops of their mouths. The message wasn't exactly subliminal: Buy these cosmetics and you will get s.e.x. When the slides were over and the lights came up, there was so much clapping, you would have thought they'd just announced the n.o.bel for Makeup.

I wondered how Julian was doing. I wondered what phase of the investigation the police were in now. Tom had said the state patrol handled traffic, which included hit-and-run. I wondered if the driver who had struck Claire had turned himself in. I tried to imagine where Tom was, what he was dealing with....

"Okay, girls," announced the black-haired woman, who had left her table and was standing in front of the slide screen, "that was for you!" She put her hands on her hips and wiggled them provocatively. There was more uproarious clapping. She quieted the group with a restrained Queen Elizabeth-style wave. "We've got the best products and the hottest line," she continued authoritatively. "Everyone is going to be copying us-but we've got the jump on them because we've got the best sales a.s.sociates and the best customers!" More thunderous applause. "And you're going to take us into the future!" From her jacket pocket she whipped out a pair of sungla.s.ses and put them on. This was some kind of cue, because from her table, half a dozen other women quickly donned sungla.s.ses. "So look out, everybody!" she cried. "The future of Mignon Cosmetics is so bright you're going to have to pull out those shades!" And then there was final, furious clapping from the audience as the black-haired woman strutted back to her seat. Wearing sungla.s.ses, she had a hard time finding it, but someone finally took her hand and guided her back to her spot.

Out of place. That was what Tom always said he looked for, something out of place. And that was what appeared at exactly that moment: a person who didn't fit. Someone who was usually a slob. Someone who didn't wear lipstick or blush or face powder-ever. Someone who, as far as I knew, owned nothing but an ancient, too-large black trench coat and a ratty pair of sneakers held together with duct tape.

"Frances?" I asked tentatively as I doled out pieces of Nonfat Chocolate Torte to the women in line. "Frances Markasian?"

She smiled broadly at me and winked, then put her finger to her lips. But I was having none of it "Why are you here?" I demanded of Frances Markasian, a reporter from Aspen Meadow's small weekly newspaper, the Mountain Journal. Had the Mountain Journal even run one article on fashion and makeup? The only piece I remembered seeing was on hunters wearing camouflage blackface when they went looking for elk.

Frances Markasian arched one freshly plucked eyebrow at the superbly groomed women who surrounded her, and grinned broadly. She patted her dark dreadlocked hair, now pinned into a thick, frizzy bun, then wiggled fingers at the women as they surveyed her. I itched to tell them that Frances Markasian wearing sling-back heels and a spangled St. John's knit dress was about as rare a sight as a red-tailed fox at a country club tea. But I kept mum.

As the women wandered back to their tables bearing their plates of Nonfat Chocolate Torte, I hissed, "How could you possibly have heard already?"

Frances picked at crumbs on the torte plate at the bar. "Heard what?"

Doggone it. When she finally raised her trying-to-look-innocent black eyes at me, I said evenly, "About the demonstrators. One of them tried to block the door and I whacked him."

"You whacked him? With what? A knife or a chocolate torte pan?"

"A tray of vegetables."

The sleek black-haired woman had taken off her sungla.s.ses and was making a concluding announcement. The Mignon luncheon was finally breaking up. I tried to make my tone to Frances conciliatory. "Why don't you tell me why you're here? In fact, why don't you help me pack up my stuff while you're spilling your guts?"

"Do you have any real food? I'm still hungry."

I sighed. "Peach cobbler or brownies?"

Before Frances could reply, a short, slightly plump young woman with dyed orange-blond hair cut in a brushed-forward pixie style appeared at the bar. Dusty Routt, unlike journalist Frances Markasian, was not out of place at this perfumed, stylish lunch. Dusty lived just down the street from us in a house built by Aspen Meadow's branch of the charitable group Habitat for Humanity. For a time she'd gone to prep school with Julian, but had been mysteriously expelled before graduation. She and Julian shared the bond of being scholarship students, and they'd started going out before Dusty was expelled. But a month ago Dusty had made the mistake of introducing Julian to her fellow sales a.s.sociate in her new job. The fellow sales a.s.sociate had been Claire Satterfield. Now Dusty's usually cheery face was mournful and her cornflower-blue eyes pleading.

"Hi, Goldy," she said in her singsong voice. "Where's Julian?"