Killer Pancake

she’d timed the trip home from the hospital to thirty-eight minutes. Anything over that, and she knew she might as well go to bed.

Speaking of Marla, she should be showing up any moment. I filled the espresso machine with coffee and water. Because Marla was plugged into every gossip network in Furman County, she heard news at the speed of sound. If it was bad news, she heard it at the speed of light. What had happened to Claire was extra-bad news, though. Incredibly, my doorbell and telephone remained resolutely silent. I poured the dark espresso over ice cubes and milk, then dialed Marla’s number. No answer.

I downed the iced latte and told myself I had plenty to do; I could call her later. After an hour of schlepping food and dirty pans into the house, washing and putting equipment away, I called the hospital to check on Julian. Who was I, the operator wanted to know, next of kin, wife, what? A guardian? I said hopefully. A legal guardian? she asked. Well, no. Then no information could be released. Thanks loads.

I dialed Julian’s adoptive parents in Utah, told them briefly what had happened, and promised to keep them posted. Was Julian going to be all right? they wanted to know. Yes, I assured them. I told them Southwest Hospital had refused to give me any information about Julian’s condition and that they’d be better off phoning the hospital directly. Was he serious about this girl? his mother asked. My voice broke when I answered that he had seemed to be very serious about Claire. Next I called Tom at his desk and got his voice mail. I tried Marla again. Nothing.

Cook, my inner voice said. Get ahead on assignments. I consulted my calendar. Oh yes, the damn mall food fair. At the moment, I never wanted to see the mall again. But work was work. A Taste of Furman County was part of a big Fourth of July celebration the new mall owners had put together to lure people to shop over the long weekend rather than follow the more traditional pursuits of baseball and picnics. The benefit for Playhouse Southwest, at forty dollars a pop, looked as if it was going to make outrageous money. The fair would occupy the open-air top level of the mall garage. I’d taken the health department’s required course on the subject of serving food away from one’s established place of business, which was all I ever did anyway. Now all I had to do was prepare all the food.

I checked my watch: Wednesday, July 1, just before four in the afternoon. Claire’s death would surely be on the local news tonight and in the papers tomorrow. And speaking of journalism, nothing in this world would convince me that Frances Markasian was at the Mignon Cosmetics banquet for her health. Or for her beauty, for that matter. So what had she been looking for? I resolved to get going on the food. Then I’d give Tom another buzz.

I looked over the menu I’d planned for the opening day of the fair: baby back ribs with homemade barbecue sauce, steamed sugar snap peas with fresh strawberries vinaigrette, homemade bread, and vanilla-frosted fudge cookies. The barbecue sauce needed to simmer for hours before being slathered over the ribs. People can’t resist spare ribs, I reflected as thin, fragrant slices of onion fell from my knife. Ribs smelled great when they were cooking, and, like potato chips, one was never enough. When I added the onion to the simmering vinegar, tomato, and lemon of the sauce, a delectable scent perfumed my kitchen, and I began to relax. Needless to say, my newfound peace was interrupted by a jangling phone.

“You never tell me a damn thing,” Frances Markasian barked into the receiver. “I don’t know why you think we’re friends. I especially can’t understand why I helped you with those damned heavy boxes! Women can get hernias, you know.” I heard the striking of a match in the background, then a noisy inhalation. “You knew what went down at the mall this morning. And I had to wait to hear from the sheriff’s department’s public information office! The hell with you!” I could imagine Frances sitting at the edge of her ragged canvas-covered swivel chair next to her paper-strewn desk, chugging Jolt cola and working her way through the second of her three daily packs of cigarettes. Frances believed if she acted enough like a hotshot journalist, maybe she’d become one.

“The hell with me? That’s what you’re calling to tell me? You’re always saying,” I said as I stirred the aromatic sauce, “that you’re the journalist and I’m the cook. What did you want me to tell you?”

“Let’s start with what you know about Claire Satterfield. Were you in the garage when she was hit?”

I cradled the phone against my shoulder and slid the heavy, meaty slabs of pork into the oven. “C’mon, Frances, I’m already married to a cop. The last thing I need is for you to start acting like one,”

She took a drag and blew into the phone. “Uh-huh. And did you know your boarder-assistant guy, Julian Teller, was only the latest in Ms. Satterfield’s list of male conquests?”

“No, I didn’t.” And I certainly hoped Julian didn’t either. On an ordinary day I would have enjoyed sparring with Frances. Sometimes she was as good a source of information as Marla. But today was not ordinary, and I found her questions and insinuations annoying in the extreme. “Who told you Claire had other male conquests?”

“May I please speak to Julian?” Frances inquired sweetly.

“He’s in the hospital. He went into shock when he heard about Claire. Some people,” I added harshly, “have normal human emotions in response to death.”

“Oh, damn!” she exclaimed. “I’m going to have to clean up my desk, because it looks as if my heart just bled all over it. So what’s Investigator Schulz saying about the”—she cleared her throat—“accident? Anything quotable?”

“Why don’t you call the sheriff’s department and find out? Then maybe you can tell Investigator Schulz why you were down at the Mignon banquet today. Incognito. All dressed up. Exactly what rumors have you heard about the department store?”

“Cut the tripe, caterer. I’m on assignment, which should be obvious to you, even though it’s been a lot of years since you did that major in psychology. You think it was easy zipping myself into that dress? And the so-called banquet was like some kind of punishment. Diet food makes me gag. I have to eat too much of it, and that makes me feel like a bear foraging for winter. How many tomatoes can one individual consume? But the brownies were terrific.” She chuckled. Like we were such good pals. Like she had told me everything she knew and now I was supposed to do the same for her.

I took a deep breath. “You know, Frances, you did ask me if I knew about the department store’s problems. Since I assume you mean Prince & Grogan, and since I was working for their Mignon people today, I’d like to know what kind of problems would bring you down to the mall all the way from Aspen Meadow. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh. Miss Nosy Caterer. A sales associate at Prince & Grogan gets splattered all over the parking lot and you ask me what kind of problems the department store is having.”

“Don’t talk like that about Claire. It’s disgusting.”

“Oh-ho! So it’s Claire now. You did know her. In fact, you were there in the garage when someone smacked into her. Yes? Spill all, Goldy.”

“Tell me why you were at the banquet in disguise. What’s the problem with the department store?”

Frances took another drag and seemed to consider. “Let me get my pen.”

Doggone it. “No, Frances, don’t act as if we can trade information, for heaven’s sake,” I said to empty air. If anything got into the newspaper, Tom was going to be a tad upset.

Frances came back to the phone and rustled her materials about. “You knew the dead girl,” she prompted.

“You already know she was Julian Teller’s girlfriend,” I replied impatiently. “And you also know I can’t talk to you until Tom—”

VANILLA-FROSTED

FUDGE COOKIES

? cup all-purpose flour

? cup unsweetened cocoa powder

1 teaspoon baking powder

? teaspoon salt

? cup canola oil