Killer Pancake

I looked back inside the box. There was no curry. There was no raisin rice. There was no vegetable slaw. There were neatly packed boxes of arborio rice, lowfat chicken broth, even several large bags of slightly thawed shrimp. And a note to me, in Tom Schulz’s unmistakable scrawl. I opened it with trembling hands.Dear Miss Goldy,Sorry about this, but I really don’t want you snooping at the Braithwaites’ place tonight, and knowing you, that’s precisely what you have in mind. You didn’t tell me someone hit you with bleach water and wrote you a threatening note, Julian told me. You are in danger, dear wife. The only way to prevent you from getting into more trouble is to switch food on you so that you have to spend all your time cooking instead of sneaking around getting you—and me—into trouble. So: attached is my recipe for Shrimp Risotto. I had a Denver chef prepare all the ingredients for your menu. It perfectly meets Babs Braithwaite’s requirement of being lowfat. And you can tell her it’s even low-cost, since the shrimp is being donated by your local homicide investigator. She should be pleased as punch to be getting large shrimp for the price of ground turkey. And we’ll all be pleased to eat turkey curry every day next week.Don’t be mad at Julian. I asked him to pick up the boxes and told him it was a nice surprise for you. I know you won’t be pleased, because risotto is time-consuming and demands that the cook be there every second to attend to it. But that’s what I want, Goldy. You doing your job and me doing mine. Don’t be too mad at me. I’m just trying to think of both of us.—Tom

“Brauuugh!” I hollered. Don’t be too angry with him? I was going to kill him with my bare hands. “Julian!” I roared. “How the hell could you do this to me? How could you let him do this to me?”

“Let him do what?” Julian bounded over and picked up the note. As he was reading it, the maid appeared in the kitchen.

“The mistress would like to see the two of you when you have a minute,” she announced.

Well, that was just great. I looked at all the food—the new food—that had to be prepared.

The maid cleared her throat. “The mistress—”

“Right now?” I demanded. “Does she have to see me this very minute?” I didn’t have a speech ready yet.

“Yes,” replied the maid. “First bedroom at the top of the stairs.”

My stomach made an unexpected growl, no doubt caused by hunger, apprehension at seeing “the mistress,” and worry about preparing the accursed risotto. Julian, reading my mind, told me to go ahead. He’d read the recipe and start setting us up. No wonder he’d given me that guilty look at the house, and packed all the boxes so efficiently into the van while I was taking a shower.