Killer Pancake

“You better watch what you say,” growled Julian, suddenly aware, as was I, that the rest of the guests had appeared on the other deck, their faces filled with curiosity about the disappearance of their fellow guest, their servers, and the resulting commotion.

Reggie held up his hands. “No competition from me, guy. I didn’t want to sleep with her, I just wanted to hire her. That woman could sell cosmetics just by standing still. How was she in bed?”

That did it. Julian lunged forward. Reggie began to whack indiscriminately. I tried to step between them and caught the brunt of Julian’s forceful, angry body on one side and Reggie’s chest on the other.

From the middle of the male sandwich, I choked out, “Go inside, Julian! Please!”

He obeyed by whirling around and striding angrily back into the kitchen. Reggie Hotchkiss fell against the deck rail. Absent male support, I tottered on the deck planks. I caught my balance just a moment before my trajectory would have landed me on the grill. The pain from Julian’s body crashing into mine was concentrated in my head. I rubbed my temples and tried to clear my brain.

When I looked up at Reggie Hotchkiss, he had recovered. Standing stock-still, he hissed, “I have been mistreated and misjudged, and I am not going to forget it.”

“Fine.”

He brushed imaginary dust off the American-flag shirt and made his final pronouncement in my direction. “In the classless society,” he said as he headed for the deck stairs, “there will be no need for servants. You will be obsolete.” He trod heavily down the wooden steps and headed for his Bentley, presumably not the same one he had driven up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial.

Everyone was staring. I asked lightly, “In the classless society, who does the cooking?”

Sensing that the excitement was over, the guests on the deck turned their attention back to Babs. Her perfectly made-up face was trembling with anger, but she managed to announce breathlessly that, goodness, time was marching on! Each guest was to carry a sparkler and a glass of sparkling wine down to the lower garden. Lawn chairs were set up there, she trilled on. Even as she spoke, the maid was moving across the yard lighting upright torches. The dark-haired woman Reggie Hotchkiss had come with volunteered to light the sparklers and pour the wine. Her high, laughing voice seemed to indicate that she minded not in the least that Reggie had deserted her.

But there was more abandonment going on. In the fading light, Charles Braithwaite skulked away from his guests, walking swiftly down the path toward his greenhouse. From the furtive, quick nature of his stride, it didn’t look as if his purpose was to set up chairs, join in festivities, or have sparkling anything.

I took a deep breath of evening air and tried to remember what I still had to do. Babs was paying her maid to stay late and clean up, so all Julian and I faced was packing the pans and containers we had brought and schlepping them back down the deck stairs to the van. But cigarette smoke drifting upward from underneath the deck made me doubt Julian’s commitment to the packing task.

“If a caterer is smoking next to the house,” I announced downward into the deepening darkness, “that could get him into distinct trouble with the hostess, to the extent that a certain caterer and her capable assistant wouldn’t get paid. We might not get paid anyway, after having a little squabble with a guest.” I didn’t tell him I needed help. If Julian wanted to unwind from his encounter with Reggie Hotchkiss, then that was fine by me, as long as he didn’t get into any more arguments. Arch was in Keystone; Tom was working late; I had nothing to look forward to except an empty house and a rousing argument with Tom over switching my food. The later I got to it, the better.

The glowing butt of Julian’s cigarette moved past one of the torches. I watched him turn not toward the garden, but in the direction of the greenhouse. After I’d brought our platters in from outside and come back out to check that the grill was off and the deck clear, I couldn’t see him anymore, as the guests holding their champagne and their twinkling sparklers moved in a slow, loud knot down to the chairs.

The maid bustled about helping me clean pans. I checked my watch when all the catering supplies were in boxes: Nine forty-five. Julian had not returned. The fireworks would be starting soon. There was no sign of Charles Braithwaite either, but that didn’t surprise me. I decided to wait ten more minutes out on the deck. It was not like Julian to be inconsiderate. On the other hand, he’d been so upset that he probably lost track of time.

There was a flash of light followed by a loud peh-beh! sound and a puff of gray smoke beside the lake. A white shot of light rocketed upward, paused, and then a shower of white lights sprayed down from the sky over Aspen Meadow. The blossom of brilliance reflected gloriously in the smooth surface of the lake. The show had begun.