Killer Pancake

groomed chattering women, all wearing corsages. “Oh my God,” Claire groaned.

“What?”

“Nothing … Look, Goldy, I’m in trouble,” she announced “I … forgot the damn decorations. They’re Mignon bags we stuff with colored tissue paper. We call them exploding bags. Y’know? I need to go to my car and get them. Come with me? I don’t want to go out there alone.” She looked desperate. Considering the swelling group of protesters I’d seen outside, I felt a pang of sympathy for her. I wasn’t too eager to face that indignant group alone either.

“Of course I’ll come with you,” I assured her. “I might as well bring in the sole and get the steamer going, anyway. We need to make it quick, though,” I added. I lifted the trays of vegetables and hid them on a shelf under the bar. I had the feeling we were being watched, so I grabbed a spare tablecloth, unfurled it, and placed it over the wrapped food while Claire tapped her foot. I ignored her impatience. I would be damned before I came back to picked-over trays.

At the service door we met Julian. He was laden down with Nonfat Chocolate Tortes.

“Where do you two think you’re going?” he demanded as soon as he saw us approaching. “It’s a zoo out there. I couldn’t find one of those suits to help me—”

“We’ll be fine,” Claire cooed as she kissed her index finger and planted it on his nose. She swept past him in a flurry of dark ringlets and black sheath. “Just going to pick up some bags. Back in a jif.” Mimicking her touch on the nose, I followed on her heels.

The demonstrators had become a jeering, sign-waving horde. A few uniformed members of the Furman County Sheriff’s Department were attempting crowd control. I didn’t see Tom. Claire and I decided to pick up our respective bundles and meet at the column nearest the mall entrance. I made off for the van, fumbled with the keys, and rummaged around in the dark interior, looking for the steamer. At last I found it underneath the container of roasted vegetables. If I loaded myself up, this would be the last trip out to the van. Another roar went up from the angry demonstrators. I quickly surveyed all the remaining food and decided it was worth the hassle. Balancing the bowl of vegetables on top of the plastic container of greens, I picked up the steamer, then carefully made my way toward the appointed column. With the hubbub all around, I desperately wanted to look inconspicuous. Or as inconspicuous as a woman toting forty pounds of fish and vegetables can be.

Over the rumble of the demonstrators, I heard a revving engine. It was closer to me than to the cops and the crowd, and getting closer by the moment. I craned my neck around. There was no car in sight. Neither the crowd nor the cops seemed to take any notice of me, so I continued to meander through vehicles on my way to the entrance, my attention on the triple deck of supplies I was balancing. There was another shout from the crowd and behind me, a squeal of tires.

I heard the scream first, then a horrid, sickening thud. The scream echoed from the concrete walls all around. Then the engine roared again and the tires screeched. Far over at the entrance, two uniformed cops started running in the direction of the scream. I willed myself to start breathing again, and looked around for Claire. Where was she? Had she seen what happened? My skin prickled. After being momentarily stilled, the demonstrators started up again with their “hoo-ha!” shouts that sounded like an ominous pep rally.

When Claire did not appear I whacked the steamer, the bowl, and the vegetables down on the hood of a nearby Jeep. Unencumbered, I started briskly off in the area where I thought Claire had parked her Peugeot.

I saw the policemen first. One was talking into his radio. The other knelt on the pavement. A woman was lying at his feet. Had she passed out? As I came closer, I realized the body could not have landed in that contorted way from a faint.

The kneeling policeman looked up and saw me. “Get back!” he yelled. “We need to clear this area!”

But I took no heed. Blood pooled on the cement near the inert body. The woman on the pavement was Claire.

I’m going to be ill. My mouth opened but no sound emerged. A car drove slowly by behind me. In one of its windows, children’s faces gawked at the policemen. I lurched forward through a shock wave of car exhaust. Had Claire been struck by a car? But of course, that was the only explanation. There has to be some way I can help. Where was that vehicle I’d heard screeching through the garage? What were the two cops doing? Why wasn’t someone else coming? I knew I would regret walking closer, but I kept moving forward anyway. My footsteps gritted loudly. Please let her be all right.

“Go back,” said the policeman again, this time in my face. His wide shoulders and deeply lined face loomed in front of me. He was not someone I knew. I murmured Claire’s name and felt my knees buckle. Then the policeman seemed to change his mind. “Wait.” His powerful hand gripped my elbow. “Did you see what happened? Do you know this woman? Were you with her?”

“No. I mean, yes.” It came out a croak. “I only …” What? My face was wet. Tears. When had I started to cry?

The policeman’s gruff voice insisted: “The woman who was hit—you knew her or not?” So Claire had been hit. Of course. The policeman’s eyes bored into mine. Surely he didn’t think I was responsible? “Her name?” he demanded.

My mouth fumbled around Claire’s name. I did not know her address. Julian would. Oh, God. Julian.

Behind us people began to gather. The policeman sharply ordered them to stay back, then continued with curt questions: What exactly had I seen? Had I observed any vehicles before I heard the scream? Why was Claire in the garage? Not far away, the other uniformed cop continued to speak urgently into his radio. There was no movement from the twisted body on the pavement.

The man questioning me took his fierce eyes off my face and looked over my shoulder. “Oh, good. Schulz,” he murmured. I turned to see my husband walking swiftly toward us between parked cars. Relief rushed through me. Over his street clothes, Tom wore a raid jacket, a gray wind-breaker with the Furman County Sheriff’s Department logo emblazoned on the left pocket. The jacket was what the plainclothes police put on when they needed to distinguish themselves from regular folks. But distinguishing Tom Schulz from regular folks was not now, nor had it ever been, difficult.

He did not see me at first. I wiped my cheeks hard and watched him stride toward the uniformed officer with the radio, who was again kneeling on the garage floor. Tom wore his purposeful, commanding look, a look that I knew both comforted and cowed those who worked for him. It was also an expression that cut like a cleaver into a suspect’s babbling. Tom dropped to one knee to talk to the cop with the radio. The officer motioned in our direction. Tom glanced over, gave a brief, puzzled shake of the head when he saw me, then turned back to Claire.

I shivered, coughed again, and clasped my arms. I felt ridiculous in the double-breasted chef’s jacket and apron. The blood in my ears pounded as worries about Claire and Julian crowded my mind. Tom took the radio and talked into it. The policeman beside me seemed to sense there was no point in continuing his interrogation. Tom would join us momentarily and take over. An approaching siren wailed. Too soon, I thought. But of course—the new hospital was right across the street from the mall. Suddenly the red, white, and gold EMS truck careened around a cement column, then screeched to a halt and disgorged two paramedics. They ran over to Claire’s dreadfully inert body. Tom straightened and walked over to us. His face was grim.

“This is—” began the uniformed cop.

“Yeah, okay, I know who she is. Go help Rick with those demonstrators.”

The uniformed cop trotted away. Tom gave me the full benefit of his green eyes.

To my dismay, I began to cry again. “It’s Julian’s girlfriend … you know … Claire. Is she alive? Is she going to be okay?”

“No, she isn’t.” He put his arms around me. “I swear, Goldy, what are you doing out here in the garage?” When I didn’t answer, he held me closer and murmured, “She probably didn’t suffer much. Looks like she died on impact.” He released me and narrowed his eyes. They were filled with seriousness and pain. “Goldy, try to pull yourself together for a minute. Did you see it?”

I brushed the tears from my cheeks and took a shuddery breath. “No.”