Killer Pancake

The white-haired man raised a mournful face to Julian. He raised his index finger, calm again in his bizarre way. He acted as if he were instructing Julian in an important point of molecular biology. “Claire Satterfield brought something into my life that I’d never had. So there’s just one thing I want you to know before I die.” Oh hell, I thought. “And that is,” he continued, “that you did not cause the accident with my … wife.” He spat out the word. “No. Babs was following you and Claire because she thought you were bringing Claire to me for … an assignation. You didn’t fail to signal, my wife was following too … closely. So there you are.” He crossed his arms, QED.

“Claire?” asked Julian. “You … and …” He shook his head and seemed to make a decision. “It’s okay, Dr. Braithwaite, it’s … over.” Julian looked around the lab, trying to assess, I thought, how Charles Braithwaite could fulfill what seemed to be his desire to do himself in. He picked up the pot he’d placed on the near table. “Come on, look! You’ve created a blue rose! You’ve got a lot to live for—”

“I wanted to give it to her,” Charles said wistfully. Overhead, the finale firework showered red, white, and blue sparkles that absurdly lit the greenhouse with twinkling light, illuminating the tears on his stricken face. “To Claire. That’s why I was in the mall garage that day. I wanted to give it to her as my parting gift. The flower named after her, because it was so beautiful. So rare.” He looked at Julian and shrugged. “And then I—can you blame me? I heard that terrible sound, and I knew. You want to know the truth? I thought my wife had done it. Maybe she did! Maybe she hired somebody to do the hit-and-run.” He stretched his arms to their full length. “And it was all Babs’s fault I met Claire in the first place! She sent me in to pick up her damn stuff. And there was Claire, acting as if I were … as if I were the most wonderful …” He dropped his arms and shook his head vigorously, as if he’d just come to the realization of whatever it was he’d been concentrating on before he’d digressed. “Listen,” he said abruptly, “I’ve thought this all through. Just leave me in peace, please. Now, all right?”

“Let’s go talk about it up at the house!” Julian said brightly. “I mean really, Dr. Braithwaite, you’re too young to die. You need to give it some more thought.”

“No!” wailed Charles Braithwaite. “Go away!” He stepped agilely over the books, and to my shock, put both arms around the vat of liquid nitrogen. This was how he was going to kill himself. Using liquid nitrogen. We had to get out. Charles began to rock the tank. “Can’t you hear?” he roared. “This is the end! Get out of the way!”

“Julian!” I shrieked.

But Julian ignored me. He stepped briskly over the pile of books and grabbed Charles Braithwaite’s arm. The vat of liquid nitrogen continued to rock. Yanking hard, Julian pulled Charles away just as the top came off the tank.

“Get out!” Julian shouted to me as he dragged a flailing Charles in my direction. “Go!”

I banged open the door. When I looked back, the tank teetered as the freezing chemical splashed over one side, emitting clouds of white smoke. Julian scrambled toward the exit, his arms firmly encircling Charles Braithwaite’s chest. Charles, his white hair wild, kicked halfheartedly. But he was no match for young Julian’s strength. The three of us bounded out of the greenhouse just as the vat crashed downward. I couldn’t help it—I looked back again, just in time to see the liquid nitrogen spilling over and destroying the blue rose plants.

Our odd trio darted through the guests meandering up to the house. We turned deaf ears to “Oh my goodness, what’s the matter with Charlie!” and “The fireworks must have really upset him!” and laughing exclamations of that ilk. In the kitchen I called 911 and told them who I was, where we were, and what was going on.

“Liquid nitrogen?” was the deputy’s incredulous response. “Liquid nitrogen? Are you sure that’s all it was? Were there any other chemicals? We’re going to have to get the toxic waste team up there. Was this part of some wacko Fourth of July party?”

“No, no,” I said. “Any chance you could put me through to Tom Schulz?”

The deputy stalled and kept asking me questions until I assured him I wasn’t going to hang up, I just wanted to talk to Tom instead of him. He said he’d transfer me. Then he put me on hold.

I tapped my fingers on the kitchen counter and watched as Julian ministered to Charles Braithwaite. Using a low, quiet voice, Julian admonished Charles to lie relaxed on the spotless kitchen floor, and to breathe normally. Was he hurt, Julian wanted to know. When Charles shook his head, Julian asked him who he was and what was going on. Tears ran down Charles’s thin face as he gave halting responses to Julian’s steady questions. Then Julian patted his shoulders and checked his pulse and told him in a voice that rippled out like custard that everything was going to be all right.