Killer Pancake

Frances’s voice became frustrated. “Mignon wanted to undermine John’s story, so they cast suspicion on his granddaughter. When that didn’t work, they killed Claire Satterfield, one of their top sales producers. And now they’ve killed the security guy. If John comes forward with his story, they’ll be able to say, ‘Ah-ha! This is the guy who’s been causing all our problems, a convict undermining our company using hired killers!’ Don’t you get it?”

I’m not long on conspiracy theories. The JFK assassination still has me stumped. Watergate had seemed beyond belief, and it had actually been true. But Frances, I could tell, was not going to be dissuaded. And I wasn’t going to argue with her. My kitchen was calling. I had cooking to do if the Braithwaites’ guests were going to eat. Tom and the cops could separate the myth from the reality. I had just one last question.

“Frances, why were you so insistent about having the receipt?”

“Because Dusty’s been in so much trouble—” John began.

“Because Dusty was convinced she was being framed,” Frances rasped. “Claire said Gentileschi had been watching Dusty since the last inventory.”

“Forgive me for being thick,” I interrupted. “Why since the inventory?”

John waved Frances’s objections away. He said, “It goes like this: A customer, say it’s you”—he gestured with an open hand—“makes a large cash purchase. Say you buy … a scarf. The employee makes a big show of putting your receipt in the bag, but instead he palms it.” He closed his hand. “Then the employee uses your receipt to do a cash refund to himself. If you discover you don’t have the receipt at the end of the day, you—the shopper—you say, oops, I musta lost it in all my shopping. And nobody’s the wiser until inventory time six months later, when they find out a scarf’s been shoplifted. Or at least, that’s what they think.”

“Oh, my,” I said. “And had Prince & Grogan suffered a lot of loss?”

“Prince & Grogan just did their big inventory in June,” Frances replied impatiently. “The store sharks were out to find out what had happened to thousands of dollars’ worth of shoes, costume jewelry, lipstick, and perfume. That’s probably why the security guy was so quick to come after you yesterday.” Her eyes narrowed to knowing slits.

“But why would Harriet not give me—” I began.

Frances said, “I think Mignon has told Harriet Wells that Dusty is a potential problem to the company. Mignon could have told Harriet that when a big cash sale is made, put in Dusty’s associate number. In other words, ring it up as if Dusty had made the sale. Then keep the receipt, and ring the return in as a cash refund, also to her associate number, so she looks guilty all the way around. And it’s all computerized, so it looks official. I’m telling you, they’re trying to frame her.”

“That’s quite a conspiracy, if you asked me.”

“Exactly. If you’ll pardon my saying so, it’s the cosmetics company, stupid.”

“Okey-doke,” I said, rising. This time I didn’t hold my hand out to John Routt, I just touched his forearm. “Thank you for telling me your whole story, Mr. Routt. Do you mind if I share it with my husband? He might want to come over and chat with you.”

John Routt’s voice caught in his throat. He seemed to sense I thought Frances’s theory was baloney. Perhaps he even suspected that I’d lost the receipt, which was what I suspected myself. After a moment he said, “Do you think we still have a chance? Will people care what happened in the past? Now that all these other crimes are happening? I don’t want Dusty to be hurt. She knows nothing of my dealings with Frances.”

“But it was through Dusty that you found out Claire had had other boyfriends? And Frances suspected one of them was a good-looking animal-rights activist?” I asked him.

He hung his head. No wonder Frances had seemed to have so much information so early. Right from the beginning, she’d developed speculations—bizarre guesses, as it turned out—to go with Claire’s being killed.

“Mrs. Schulz,” said John Routt, “do you think people will want to hear my story?”

“I hope so,” I said delicately. “Frances won’t give up,” I added truthfully. “You can count on her. Good luck.”

I excused myself and ran through the raindrops toward my house and my kitchen. Once I was safely ensconced in chopping a pile of mint leaves, I heard Frances’s Fiat roar away.

“Where’ve you been?” Julian asked as he toasted the kernels for the raisin rice.

“At the Routts’ place.”

“You were gone a long time.”

“I’m sorry. I’m working, I’m working.”

In my absence, Julian had finished the slaw. I swirled yogurt and the freshly chopped mint into the soup, and we continued to work together in silence. We had a quiet teamwork in the kitchen that I would sorely miss when he went off to school. I reached for the ingredients for fudge cookies and wondered how much round-trip plane tickets cost from Denver to Ithaca.

“Are you okay?” Julian asked as he poured stock over the golden brown rice and it let out a delicious, steamy hiss.