Killer Pancake

Hotchkiss?”

His green eyes twinkled. “Charles Braithwaite was naming his blue rose the Claire Satterfield.”

“Good Lord!”

Arch stuck his head into the kitchen, waved to Tom, and announced he was going up to bed early. I must have looked stunned. At the beginning of July, Arch was rarely willing to hit the sack earlier than he did during the school year.

“But—” I began.

Arch pulled his mouth into a tight scowl. “I just don’t want Julian to think I’ve abandoned him.”

“I’m sure he doesn’t think you’ve—”

But he was gone. I didn’t go after him because the phone rang. It was Tony Royce. While Tom savored the fettuccine and polished off the salad, Tony informed me that Hotchkiss Skin & Hair was a privately held company that didn’t have to report its profits and losses to shareholders, so the information he’d been able to get for me was sketchy.

“That’s okay,” I told him. My pencil was poised. “Sketchy is better than zilch.”

“Hotchkiss Skin & Hair needs a face-lift, Goldy. We’re talking major surgery.”

“Skip the puns, Tony—”

But he was on a roll. “I mean,” he persisted, “we’re talking a company that puts a new wrinkle on financing!” I know Tony and Marla had fun together, and that she thought he was brilliant with money. But the substance of their relationship, I had to admit, I just didn’t understand.

“And their financial status is …?” I prodded.

“Who are you talking to?” Tom suddenly wanted to know.

“Just a sec, Tony.” I covered the phone. “Marla’s boyfriend. He’s an equities analyst, and he looked into Hotchkiss Skin & Hair for me.”

Tom was incredulous. “Doing the financial check on the company is our job. What are you doing?”

I said defensively, “I just happened to run into Tony at the hospital. Ill tell you all about it.”

“You’d better.”

“Okay, Tony,” I said back into the phone, ignoring the expression on Tom’s face, “what’s their financial status?”

Tony Royce snorted. “Terrible, terrible. Hotchkiss has been giving facials for years, when women thought they needed them and would line up out the door to get one. But from a business standpoint, facials aren’t exactly a big growth industry these days. They’re labor-intensive. Which means expensive, and you can’t do a huge markup on them. And, unless you’ve got a steady demand from the carriage trade to sustain your business, you’re out of luck.” He paused to sigh, taking deep satisfaction from being the man in the know. “But baby-boomer women … now, there’s an interesting demographic group. The ones who have money mostly work outside the home, and they don’t have time for facials. Or,” he said with a chuckle, “no advertising genius has yet convinced these women that they need to have facials. So Mama Hotchkiss, sensing she needed to change with the times, decided to launch a new set of products designed for these very same baby-boomer women. It was called Renewal. Didja ever buy any Renewal, Goldy? I mean,” he chuckled, “not that you need it or anything.”

“Can’t say that I made that purchase, Tony.”

Another lugubrious sigh. “Neither did anybody else. Renewal flopped. Big-time. Mama Hotchkiss went to the bank for a loan. Nobody was biting, even when she offered free facials. Bankers don’t like facials, Goldy. They prefer to look intimidating and ugly inside their expensive suits so that customers will bow down, scrape, and lick the floor.”

Speaking of licking and scraping, I checked on the souffle that I was trying to keep warm for Tom. It was still dark and puffed. I removed the double-boiler top from the heat. I’d found that working with food often helps when listening to arrogant people on the telephone.

“So,” he persisted, “what do you think happened?”

“Renewal flopped, just as you said,” I replied. “But the business didn’t go under. So … if a cake I’d staked my reputation on flopped, and I didn’t lose the business, I’d develop a cookie. Or a torte. You have to sell something.”

“Take you out of that apron and put you in a banker’s suit, Goldy.”

High praise indeed, considering the source. “Thanks. So Hotchkiss started to look for new products? But they needed more money for that, so they went to some pal of yours.”

“Hey. I know everyone in the Denver financial community, and I’ve lived here for only a little over a year.”

“You’re marvelous. Forget the cookies, I’m going to have to pay you in brownies.”

Tony made a long hmmm noise. “So they got a loan to develop new products. Their business plan was drawn up by none other than—”

“Reggie Hotchkiss!” I concluded triumphantly.

“If you knew all this, why’d you ask me?” He sounded peeved.

“I didn’t know any of it, Tony. You did sketchy for me, I just filled in the holes. How long does Hotchkiss Skin & Hair have to prove themselves?”

“They report to my banker friend next month. But he’s been getting glowing reports from Reg. They’ve got a new line, they’re guaranteed success. Everyone makes piles of money.”

Yes, I knew all about their new line, it was fresh from Mignon Cosmetics. But I decided not to mention that to Tony. I asked him how and when I could deliver the promised brownies to him. He said he’d be at the Braithwaites’ party tomorrow night, and hadn’t a little bird told him I was catering that party? You bet, I said, and hung up.

I told Tom what I’d learned. He even took out his trusty spiral notebook and jotted down a few notes. Then, while he watched in amusement, I flipped through the phone book, located Hotchkiss Skin & Hair, and put in a call. Lucky for me, the corporate number had a tape saying if I wanted a facial or any one of their products, leave my name and number. Someone would get back to me just as soon as one of their skin-care staff became available.

I summoned a frantic voice. My newly discovered acting ability was going to get me into deep trouble one of these days, but right now I had to admit I was rather enjoying it. “This is Goldy Schulz calling, and I need a facial at your earliest convenience! I … I saw a brochure of your new product line and I want to buy everything. Everything. I need it! You have to understand, I’m desperate! I know you all are the ones who can help me!” I left my number and disconnected.

“Woman,” Tom mused as he rinsed off his dish. “Sometimes I don’t know what to think about you.”

I ladled scoopfuls of hot fudge souffle into bowls and spooned on lowfat whipped topping. I handed one to Tom. “I’ve told you all I know. Now, what did you find out about Hotchkiss? And what about Shaman Krill? What he’s up to?”

Tom shook his head and took a bite. “Oh, God.”

Oh, God, was right. The fudge souffle was warm and rich, and melted on the tongue, just the way the thousand-calories-a-bite hot fudge sundaes did. Marla was going to love this. “Tom? What did you find out?”

He wrinkled his brow and dug into the souffle. “Hotchkiss is in trouble financially. Desperately needs to have success with his new line.”

“If you knew all that, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I have ways of investigating that don’t involve sleazy characters like Tony Royce.”

I sighed. “So you don’t mind if I get a facial?”

“’Course not. Just don’t—”

“Get into trouble, I know.” I felt guilty not telling him about the bleach water and the threatening note, but I knew he would halt my sleuthing around immediately if I ’fessed up. “There’s a ton of fudge souffle here,” I warned him. “Both of the guys went to bed already, so I hope you’ll eat more.”

He gestured with his spoon. “Remember when you were living with the Farquhars, and you told me all about how chocolate was an aphrodisiac?” I nodded, and he picked up our bowls and put them in the sink. Then he pulled