Killer Pancake

When the light turned, I gritted my teeth and urged the van forward. I decided to concentrate on the morning ahead. But I had never done a food fair before, and the idea filled me with unhappy anticipation.

Booths at A Taste of Furman County were much sought after, although it was hard to figure out why. Great publicity, I guessed. The big beneficiary of the event was Playhouse Southwest. For the hundreds of servings the playhouse auxiliary told the food folks to provide each day, none of us was compensated. Visitors to the fair, though, paid forty bucks a pop to obtain the official bracelets that allowed them into the tent-festooned roof of the mall garage. The open air was necessary for ventilation, and the roof provided views of Denver’s suburban sprawl to the east and the Front Range of the Rockies to the west Once inside the roped-off area, tasters were promised that horror of horrors, all you can eat, which to food people translates as until we run out. There had been so much demand for booths from local restaurateurs, chef’s, and caterers who wanted to offer their wares, the organizers had even split up the serving times into two-hour shifts. I did not know whether potential clients would be likely to shop or eat during my daily slot from ten to noon. I certainly hoped that they’d stop by my booth, be enthralled and enchanted, and whip out their calendars—and checkbooks— to sign me up for all kinds of profitable new bookings. Otherwise, I was going to be very upset. Not to mention out about a thousand bucks’ worth of supplies.

My van sputtered and slowed behind a line of traffic crawling toward the mall garage entrance. After a moment I saw what was once again causing the slowdown. At the side of the parking lot, by the elegant marble entrance to Prince & Grogan, a crowd of animal rights’ demonstrators waved placards that read MIGNON COSMETICS BRING DEATH—DEATH TO MIGNON COSMETICS! Shaman Krill, arms outstretched, hair wild, was leading the crowd in a chant that I couldn’t quite make out. The row of cars stopped. I reached across and gingerly rolled down the passenger-side window.

“Death on your hands! Death on your face!”

A uniformed officer was directing traffic. The van crept forward. As I neared the shouting demonstrators, my hands became clammy on the steering wheel. Three parked sheriff’s department vehicles seemed to indicate that the police weren’t just there to head cars up the ramps.

“Death isn’t pretty! Death’s pretty gritty!”

Maybe there were other cops I couldn’t see who were keeping an eye on the activists. Or perhaps the officers were there as part of the continuing investigation into Claire’s murder. From the small crowd of people pushing through the nearby door to Foley’s department store, it looked as if shoppers were avoiding the protest. This, undoubtedly, was the deterrent the demonstrators wanted, since Mignon was carried exclusively by Prince & Grogan.

“Food fair or shopping?” the policeman asked when my van was finally first in line.

“Food fair.”

He pointed to the far right side of the ramp, where a food service truck was lumbering up to the top level. When I slowly accelerated away from the cop, there was a thud on the side of the van, and then another. Frantically scanning the mirrors, I thought I must have been hit by a car backing up, when Shaman Krill’s face leered at the partly open passenger-side window.

“Hey! Caterer! Going to throw any more food around today? What’re you serving, slaughtered cow?”

I leaned on the horn with one hand and rolled down the driver-side window with the other.

“Help!” I yelled. “Help, help!”

The policeman hustled over. By the time I could tell him one of the demonstrators had harassed me, Shaman Krill had disappeared. Even when I stopped the van and hopped out to look where he’d gone, I couldn’t see the activist’s dark, bobbing head in the crowd. The policeman asked if I wanted to file a report. I said no. I quickly told him that Investigator Tom Schulz was my husband, and that I’d tell him all about it, but that at the moment I was late to set up for the food fair. The officer reluctantly let me go, with the admonition to be careful.

I climbed back in the driver’s seat and pressed firmly on the accelerator. The van whizzed up the ramp of the parking garage. Yellow police ribbons around the place where Claire died came into view. I averted my eyes.

I pulled into a parking space, pinned on my official Food-Fair Server badge, and glanced at my watch. Eight- thirty. A little over an hour remained to get everything set up on the roof before the inspector showed up with his trusty little thermometer to see if my hot food was hot enough and my cold food sufficiently chilly. The diagram of food fair booths showed my booth was next to the stairway up from the second-floor garage entrance to Prince & Grogan. A stream of weight-wielding walkers impeded my schlepping the first load of boxes to the elevator, but I finally made it. Within thirty minutes I had wheeled, carted, and hauled my stuff into place. I put out my ads with sample menus and price lists, fired up the butane burner, and waited for the grills to heat. And then, oh, then, I thanked the patron saints of cappuccino that right across from the spot allocated to Goldilocks’ Catering was a booth with the sign PETE’S ESPRESSO BAR.

I slapped the first batch of ribs on the grill and dashed across the makeshift aisle to the deliciously appetizing smell. With more success than I would have thought possible, Pete had been running a coffee place at Westside Mall since the shopping center had been refurbished. He’d taken it upon himself to run a wonderfully inventive promotional campaign, including taking nighttime orders for hot coffee drinks delivered first thing in the morning to nearby businesses. He called it Federal Espresso. Today, Pete, a thirtyish, dark-haired fellow who had managed both to transport and get a power source for an enormous steam-driven Rancilio machine, was wearing a T-shirt that said NEED COFFEE DELIVERED? USE ESPRESSO MALE. He instantly recognized the symptoms of latte- deprivation and fixed me a tall one with three shots. I sipped it gratefully while looking eastward off the garage roof. A beautiful old neighborhood called Aqua Bella was not half a mile away, and the rooftops of the large, older homes were just visible—the turrets of a pale Victorian, the chimneys of an Edwardian. It wasn’t as good as looking at the lake and the mountains with my morning coffee, but it was okay.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” said a dreamy voice. “Wouldn’t you just love to live over there?” Dusty Routt sighed gustily. “Someday. When I get out of this place,” she added bitterly.

“I like Aspen Meadow, actually,” I replied. Dusty looked better than the day before—calmer, more in control. For which I was grateful. “Denver’s too crowded,” I added. “How are you doing? Better?”

“Well, I … how’s Julian?”

“Not so hot.”

She sighed again. “I guess I’m doing better. I’m just getting some coffee before I go work,” she said apologetically, and turned to Pete. She shook the food fair bracelet past the cuff of her dark green Mignon uniform to show him. “I’ll take two chocolate-dipped biscotti to go with the latte.” She picked up one of the pamphlets Pete was offering, The History and Science of Coffee. “Better make that three biscotti,” she said. She wrinkled her nose and gave me the pamphlet when Pete handed across her drink and pile of cookies. While Pete tried to sell her some Sumatra Blend, I read that according to legend, coffee provided mental alertness, a cure for catarrh, an antidote for hemlock, and a lessening of the symptoms of narcolepsy. I could have used some narcolepsy last night. I tossed the pamphlet into a trash can. Dusty politely refused Pete’s offer for a discount on the Sumatra, picked up her breakfast, and said in a confidential tone, “You know, Goldy, I really shouldn’t be doing this food fair. I mean, forty bucks, and the mall workers don’t even get a discount! But the bracelet’s good all day … maybe I’ll have something nutritious during my break. I just need to get a little sugar in my system before I go out there and sell, sell, sell.”

I sipped Pete’s marvelous latte and glanced at the ribs. They were now sending up savory swirls of smoke. “That’s okay. Julian already told me about what cosmetics folks eat.”

A look of worry crossed Dusty’s pretty, chubby face. “But … did he come with you? Is he okay? They called all the reps last night to tell us about the police investigation….” She faltered. This morning, Dusty’s short, orange- blond hair was coiffed in a spill of stiff waves framing her cherub-cheeked face. Although I knew she was only eighteen, her heavy matte makeup, dark-lined eyes, too-rosy streaks of blush, and prominent blue eyeshadow made her look much older. Lack of sleep and worry lines didn’t help. Not to mention dealing with the news that one of your colleagues had been killed.

“What did they say to the reps?” I asked.

“I have to get back,” she said abruptly. “Come with me? I’d like to talk to you, since we didn’t really have a chance yesterday. And it seems as if we never get to when we’re in the neighborhood. You’re always cooking or going off somewhere, and I have Colin to take care of, since Mom never feels very well….”