Killer Pancake

me up from my seat. It was so unexpected that I laughed. Maybe because he’d been gone so much lately, it felt as if we were going to be newlyweds forever. He kissed my cheek, then my other cheek, then my ear. “Isn’t that what you told me? You’re such a great caterer. To do all that research, I mean.” He narrowed one eye and arched one of those bushy brows. “Tell you what, though, I’ve always thought of myself as a good cop.”

“A great cop,” I corrected him, and kissed him back.

“But I certainly,” he said as he scooped me up easily into his arms, “never”—I squealed as he started to walk out of the kitchen—“ever,” he said emphatically as he carried me up the stairs to our bedroom, “had this much fun doing police work in my entire life.”

So much for second helpings.

Saturday morning, July 4, brought a very early call for Tom. His subsequent departure accompanied a mumbled farewell to me that I thought included words about bail. But I was still half-asleep, and registered only the loss of his body heat from our bed.

At half past five I gave up on slumber. Daylight had invaded our bedroom, and the morning concert of birds was in full swing. I was exhausted. I’d crept downstairs at midnight when I heard Julian talking on the phone. His tone had been the one he used with friends—confiding, pleading. I can’t stop thinking about her. When they take the body, it’ll be like she’s really dead. Why would someone do this? I’d felt guilty listening in and tiptoed back upstairs. Now, with another food fair day looming and no relief in sight for Julian’s pain, I felt as if it was all too much.

I pushed the window open, took a deep breath of cool, sweet air, and gazed at the bowl of ultra-blue Colorado sky. Stretching up to the horizon, vast expanses of pines covered the closest mountains like thick waves of forest-green needlepoint. Brilliant chartreuse groves of aspens in full leaf patched the deep green undulating over the hills. The air was extremely still. Aspen Meadow Lake offered a plate-glass reflection of the spruces and ponderosa pines lining its shore. With any luck, this weather would hold through the food fair and the fireworks at Aspen Meadow Lake.

I went through a slow yoga routine, fixed myself a cappuccino, and moved efficiently around the kitchen to assemble more ribs, salad, bread, and cookies. I caught sight of the bag that had held Marla’s hand cream and realized it was finally Saturday. The day Marla was due home. Also the day Claire’s parents were arriving from Australia to claim her body.

I sat at the kitchen table and tried to remember if Julian had told me what he was doing today. Had I failed him in not being around during this painful time? At least during the night he’d been seeking companionship by talking to someone on the phone. I sipped the last of the cold coffee, rinsed my cup, and caught sight of a note Julian had left under a refrigerator magnet. He had arranged to get together with some school buddies. Would I please, he wanted to know, leave him instructions for preparing the Braithwaites’ Fourth of July party tonight? I’ll be home by ten AM., and I want to learn how to do that turkey curry, he wrote in his small, cramped script, so don’t just give me the easy stuff! And then—Did you find out anything about Claire? J.

Grief tightened my throat. In two months Julian would be at Cornell. A year ago, he’d needed a place to live for his high school senior year, a salary for his work with the catering business, and a short course in food service before he began his official college studies in food science. But the tight family unit we’d developed since had come as a bonus, a surprise, a slice of what the theologians call grace. Now his departure loomed like a black hole. I punched buttons on my kitchen computer to bring up the menu for the Braithwaites. My mind mulled Julian’s last plea: Did you find out anything about Claire? No, Julian. Nothing helpful. Nothing to answer your questions or to ease your pain. Nothing to explain why I—and by extension, my family—was being threatened. Yet.

Through an effort of pure will, I pushed the sadness aside. I wanted to help Julian patch his shattered young life back together. That would be my farewell present.

In the interim, it was time to work. My screen held the lowfat menu Babs Braithwaite had ordered: Cucumber-Mint Soup, Barbecued Fruit Skewers, Turkey Curry with Raisin Rice and Condiments, Vegetable Slaw, Homemade Rolls, Frosted Fudge Cookies. Honestly, lowfat food was beginning to dominate my life. The printer spat out the menu while I checked that we had all the ingredients for the curry and the cookies. I removed ground turkey from the freezer to thaw, then chopped onions and apples for the sauce. I scrawled a note to Julian that he could start by chopping the fruit for the barbecue skewers.

The phone rang and I gave my usual greeting: “Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right!”

“Ah, may I speak with Miss Shulley?” The voice was high and extremely snooty. I figured it was a wrong number, but the caller plowed on to explain: “This is Hotchkiss Skin & Hair. Is Miss Shula available? She requested an urgent appointment for skin treatment and asked to order all the products from our catalogue. I was wondering how she planned to pay for her order.”

My blood ran cold. I’d never even had a facial, and here I was, a not-well-to-do caterer ordering all kinds of hideously expensive products and making an appointment for a treatment—which the woman pronounced with the same kind of awe usually reserved for electroshock therapy—under false pretenses. The caller was bound to ask all kinds of questions I was not prepared to answer—What is your skin type, or do you even know? Is this your first visit? How many years of neglect are we talking about? I pressed my lips together and wondered how much of a drain it was going to be—from time, money, and emotional reserves—to find out exactly what Reggie Hotchkiss was up to.

“This is Mrs. Schulz. I made the call. And I have a coupon for the facial.”

The voice became instantly ingratiating. “Oh, Mrs…. Zult, we can take you at your earliest convenience. There’s no problem with scheduling a skin treatment. And of course we’ll also provide you with all the products you requested. How soon can you make it in today, and do you plan to pay by check or credit card?”

Why did she need to know this? Did they have people stiff them for soap and moisturizer? “Ah … well, I live up in Aspen Meadow—”

“In the country club area? Or in Flicker Ridge?”

Needless to say, the answer to that question was neither of the above, although I catered in million-dollar homes in those areas quite often. I imagined my interrogator with a pen poised over the same kind of client card that Dusty had filled out for me at Mignon. I said, “How much … er … time should I allow?”

“Well, Mrs…. Shoop, that depends on what you would like us to do for you. What problems are you having with your skin?”

“Aah …” What problems, exactly? “My … er … face is in a state of crisis. I … don’t feel as if I’m as attractive as I could be.”

“Mrs. Chute,” purred the smug voice, “that’s why we’re here! You’d best allow two hours for a facial and makeup application. That’s not very long to undo several decades of abuse.”

Decades of abuse sounded a bit extreme, but I said only, “Two hours? I can be there by one. How do I get there from Westside Mall?”

She explained where in the Aqua Bella neighborhood Hotchkiss Skin & Hair was located. I could drive or I could walk.

“And with the coupon,” I said uneasily, “just how much more will it cost to undo several decades of … complexion problems?”

She told me. I said I’d put the whole thing on my credit card, hung up, then grabbed the counter to keep from fainting.

“Gosh, Mom.” Arch entered the kitchen from the direction of the TV room. He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Now what?” Today’s tie-dyed T-shirt was a symphony of bilious colors.

“Remember … when your soles separated from your sneakers and I couldn’t afford to buy you a new pair?”