Killer Pancake

shattered and tan-colored stuff began to spill down the shelves. What in the …?

“Move away from that book, Dusty,” said Harriet’s voice.

Holding me tight either to protect herself or me, Dusty let out a small shriek. Together, we stumbled backward. I couldn’t see Reggie Hotchkiss.

Harriet was holding a small gun. She shot at my hand that had pulled the ledger down off the counter. I dropped the book and dived into the aisle.

“What the hell, Harriet!” Dusty crawled over to my side and glared at the other saleswoman. “What the hell is the matter with you? Put that down! We weren’t doing anything. Go away!” she yelled at Reggie, who was advancing down the aisle. “Reggie, help! We’ve got a gun here!”

Reggie shouted something unintelligible and ran toward the exit. I started to crab-walk sideways toward the entrance of the shoe department.

“You just had to know,” said Harriet acidly as she came steadily toward me. “Questioning Nick. Sucking up to Dusty. Going after Reggie. You said he was the one who knew too much. That’s why I told him to come here this morning. But it’s you. And now you’re getting into the printouts. Did you view the films, too?”

“Put the gun away, Harriet!” Dusty yelled. “Look out, Goldy!”

Harriet pivoted and strode toward Dusty. Again the little gun went pop.

“You bitch!” shouted Dusty. Crimson blossomed on the sleeve of her Mignon smock. “You shot my arm! God-damn you!” Holding her arm, Dusty scrabbled toward Shoes.

I tried to move my legs, to get them underneath me. Harriet turned back and walked carefully in my direction. Why couldn’t I move? Why did my hands and feet tingle? I knew foods … I knew poisons … Something grown right near here.

“Hemlock,” I said as loudly as I could as she neared me once again. “You put hemlock in the muffins. You made them and were waiting to give them to Reggie after he blabbed about all he’d learned about Mignon. Only, he didn’t know anything.”

“Right,” said Harriet, and fired again.

I thanked God she was a lousy shot when the bullet ripped through the upholstery of one of the seats in the shoe department A deafening clang split the air. Someone—Dusty?—had tripped the fire alarm. Startled, Harriet whipped around, momentarily distracted, and I grunted ferociously and mustered every bit of strength to bring my legs underneath me. I was only five steps away from the escalator. With the few people left in the store now heading for the exits, I floundered toward the moving steps. Where was I going? My body was going numb. Was it the hemlock? Or had Harriet actually shot me? Where the hell was Security? It felt as if I were being taken over by Novocain. I’d figure out what to do if I could just get to the second floor. The steps moved. I tried to duck.

Harriet was whirling around, confused. Looking for me. I went lower on the steps, under the escalator’s metal railing. Had she seen me? Hard to tell. I felt my heart beating as I thought hard. The sales figures: Harriet had been the leading sales associate, but Claire had been closing in fast on her, according to what Dusty had shown me in the ledger. Claire had reported her client cards had been stolen. I knew who had committed the theft. And maybe it was the theft of the client cards that Nick Gentileschi had seen on the tapes. Or perhaps he’d seen, on closeup, who it was that was carefully palming cash receipts and giving herself the stolen refunds, while charging the returns to other associates’ numbers.

Half prone, I scrambled up the cold metal steps of the escalator, which seemed to be moving with preternatural slowness toward the second floor. Yes, Harriet knew the ins and outs of this business. She knew what Nick Gentileschi was up to behind the mirrors in the women’s fitting room. She’d probably offered to trade her knowledge of his illegal activities for his silence and the photos of Babs. It wouldn’t have been too hard for Harriet to convince Mr. Kinky Gentileschi that she was willing to have some kind of interesting encounter up in the blind. Hell, she’d probably offered to bribe him in the way he enjoyed best. Then she’d put the incriminating photos in his pocket, I wagered, to implicate the Braithwaites in his death.

“Goldy!” Harriet shouted. “I just want to talk to you!”

Yeah, sure. Like when she followed us down to the mall to see where Claire parked so that she could order her out to get something from her car. Like when she threw bleach water on me when I’d started snooping around. Or when she’d watched outside my house, so she could see if I headed down for the mall and the telltale printout sometime, maybe early in the morning, when she wasn’t personally working at the cosmetics counter.

Finally I was at the top of the moving stairs. Not yet sure of how much muscular control I still had, I rolled wildly onto the floor and hit a china display. The whole thing toppled over with an ear-splitting crash. I cursed and hauled myself to my feet. I had an absurd vision of Socrates: How much time did hemlock take to kill someone? But I knew something the doomed philosopher hadn’t. Thank God for Pete the espresso man’s advertising. I’d learned the antidote for hemlock from his pamphlet. It was one of my favorite substances: coffee. And I’d had enough of it this morning—a four-shot latte and a big, strong cup after church—that the poison wasn’t having the swift, lethal effect Harriet envisioned. I just needed more caffeine, and quick.

I could hear her heels rap-tap-tapping up the escalator. I tottered recklessly through the bathing suit department. Harriet would be up here any moment with her little gun. I didn’t have time to get to the exit. She’d see me and catch up. Damn, damn, damn. Then I noticed the dressing room. Hope bloomed. Could I still have the stolen key in my pocket? I certainly hoped so.

Moving seemed a little easier at this point, and I had the absurd thought that perhaps hemlock was like heroin. If you kept propelling yourself around during an overdose, things might not end up so badly. I groped in my pocket, found the key, and fumbled to unlock the door to the storage room. I turned the handle and prayed. It opened. I careened into the darkness.

“Goldy!” came Harriet’s voice again over the blare of the fire alarm. “Come out now!”

I wasn’t in the mood to provide her with a better target. With renewed determination I wobbled in the direction that I hoped would lead to that other door, the one on the left that I now realized led to Nick Gentileschi’s office. The space was not pitch-black. Light seeped downward from a distant skylight. I banged into the wall painfully, fell to my knees, and began to grope. I came to the moulding and then the door handle. I heard Harriet come into the darkness behind me. I turned the handle.

The door was locked.

“Goldy! Quit running! You just don’t understand—I had to do what I did.”

I felt the wall, wondering if Harriet had reloaded. My hand touched metal. Metal steps. I was confused. A metal staircase to what?

“I’m going to find a light!” Harriet warned, close, too close. “I’m going to turn it on!”

I scrambled up the steps. There had to be some exit up there at the top. And then I remembered Frances Markasian sitting on something—a raised box or platform that was just there, on top of the roof. Had it been the Prince & Grogan roof? Oh, please let that be it, I thought desperately. Some exit that they used for repairs. Please, anything. Up, up I climbed.

Thin fluorescent lights blinked once, then came on just as I reached the top step. Oh, Lord. The raised box was fastened with a schoolhouse lock. I glanced down. Harriet had the pistol pointed up at me.

She shouted, “Goldy, come down now!” Then she fired again.

The bullet ricocheted deafeningly off metal. I twisted the lock and pushed vertically with all my strength. The heavy door groaned. I was on the roof, I was out. The fair organizers were in the throes of breaking down the tents. Nearly everyone was gone. But I thanked the powers that be that Pete’s Espresso Bar was the last tent standing. The King of Advertising wasn’t going to be the first to leave, especially when volunteer crew members might want to buy coffee.

I ran awkwardly across the concrete and fell at Pete’s ankles.

“Espresso—straight—at least six shots—quick,” I panted.

Pete switched on the machine and looked down. Today’s T-shirt said I’M LEAN, MEAN, AND FULL OF CAFFEINE. “I swear, Goldy,” he said. “I wish every customer was like you.”

And then we heard a pistol shot.

It was over.