Killer Pancake

Julian amazed me, really. He had proven himself to be singlemindedly ambitious in the schoolroom and the kitchen. He loved and hated with a ferocity that was frightening and occasionally explosive. But there were times like these when I was reminded he’d spent most of his life among the Navajo in Bluff, Utah. He had an uncanny ability to act the wise healer when it was heeded. I watched him calmly checking Charles Braithwaite for shock. What had he said to Charles in the greenhouse? You’re too young to die. Claire Satterfield had been much too young to die too. What was still unclear to me was whether Julian would be able to heal from that terrible loss. He was too young to have the loving part of himself die.

The deputy’s voice crackled in my ear. ‘Tom Schulz isn’t here.’ At that moment, the first wave of law-enforcement and fire vehicles pulled up, so I signed off.

Hours later, when the fireworks had ended and the moon had risen and the guests—including an angry Tony Royce, without his promised brownies—had finally left, when Babs Braithwaite had exploded in a fit of hysterics and Charles had been taken to the hospital for observation, when the toxic-waste team had realized only nitrogen—a fertilizer—had spilled, and Julian had decided to spend the night at a friend’s, I drove the van home. The fireworks spectators had all departed, but in the moonlight I could see the enormous mess of trash they’d left on the golf course by the lake.

I came through the door just before two A.M. Tom, amazingly enough, was in the kitchen making chocolate ice cream. Waiting for me, and undoubtedly too wired from the investigation to sleep, he’d decided to concoct a Neapolitan ice cream torte, with a chocolate-cookie-crumb base and layers of homemade vanilla, fresh strawberry, and finally dark chocolate ice cream. Allowing thirty minutes per batch of ice cream, I figured he’d been at this for quite some time. The kitchen was a mess of cream containers, beaters, and bowls.

“It’s not exactly the colors of the flag,” he said ruefully when I peered into the bowl and raised my eyebrows. “But it’s gonna be great. I can’t wait for you to try it. Where’ve you been anyway? I guess my little ruse didn’t work.”

“Little ruse? Little ruse? Is that what you call it?” I glared at him. He grinned widely. After a few seconds of trying to keep up my withering stare, I couldn’t help myself. I burst out laughing. “And when did you have time to do all that menu planning, Mr. Investigator? I am never, never going to forgive you.”

He grabbed me by the waist and swung me perilously close to the clutter of ice creams. “Oh, sure you’re going to forgive me,” he reassured me as I giggled wildly. “And I didn’t have time to do the cooking. I faxed your recipes down to a chef from a restaurant near the sheriff’s department, and paid him to get the ingredients together and make the cookies and the soup and the bread dough. It took me less than five minutes. Anyway, knowing you, the risotto didn’t stop you, it just slowed you down. The fireworks were over a couple of hours ago. Was the party okay?”

He sat me down on a chair and I told him all about it. I assured him that Julian had been a champ and that Dr. Charles Braithwaite would survive, especially if he could get some intensive psychiatric help. I confessed to having a fight with Reggie Hotchkiss, and that Julian had been involved. Tom seemed worried—did I think Hotchkiss had thrown the bleach water and left the note? I said I had no idea. He asked if Reggie could know where Julian was tonight, and I told him Reggie had left long before Julian had decided to go his friend’s house.

“Think you’ll ever cater for the Braithwaites again?” he asked.

“No. And I don’t care either. I am kind of disappointed that they may be innocent in all this. I still don’t trust either of them.”

When I finished talking, Tom wordlessly cut me a wide wedge of the triple-layered torte. The chocolate ice cream was still soft over the more solid layers of strawberry and vanilla. Biting into the three delicious flavors and through the crunchy chocolate-cookie crust, I was reminded of childhood birthday parties in New Jersey, where Neapolitan ice cream and chocolate cake were the order of the day.

I told Tom, “This is the most delicious thing I have ever tasted in my entire life. But you know we shouldn’t have it. We don’t want to get into the kind of situation … like Marla.”

Tom put his arms around me. “Everything in moderation, Miss G. Besides, you’re too young to have a heart attack.”

“Excuse me,” I blubbered, “but I am not.” Too young. It seemed that phrase was cropping up a lot lately. I even remembered using it with Arch, when I’d told him he was too young to be using sixties language….

I sat up straight. Wait a cotton-picking minute.

“Ah-ha!” said Tom. “She’s changing her mind. She’s going to have some Neapolitan ice cream after all—”

“Tom,” I said urgently, “who did Shaman Krill say he worked for?”