Killer Pancake

“He didn’t. I’ve been laboring on that guy day and night. He won’t tell us jack.”

“But he wasn’t with the animal rights people, you know that. And he’s an actor. How old would you say he was?”

“About as old as this Neapolitan ice cream is going to be by the time you eat it.”

“Tom!”

“I forget. Twenty-seven, maybe.”

“So he wasn’t old enough to know any of that sixties lingo he was using with us like ‘fascist pig’ and ‘capitalist imperialist’ and all that.”

“There are movies,” Tom said dubiously. “Documentaries.”

“And scripts,” I said. To humor him, I had a bit of ice cream. He’d put fresh strawberries into the pink layer. It was like chilled, succulent essence of fruit. “You know who uses that kind of language? For whom it’s second nature, don’t you?”

He cocked his head and lifted his eyebrows. “Nope. But I just know you’re going to tell me.”

“Reggie Hotchkiss. He knows the lingo. He paid for the demonstration, I’ll bet, to disrupt Mignon. Shaman Krill is a Reggie Hotchkiss plant. Maybe Reggie ran Claire down himself. Oh, Lord, and I had a fight with him tonight….”

Tom said, “The security for this house is airtight. And I have a forty-five, don’t forget.”

“You don’t believe me. I’ll bet you a thousand dollars Reggie has something to do with the murders at that department store.”

Tom reached over and began to unbutton the top of my blouse. “Guess what? I get to sleep in tomorrow. No strategy meeting first thing. And why don’t you bet something I really want?”

I shook my head. “You know what being newly married to you is like? It’s like walking a marathon instead of running it. I hardly ever get to see you, so we’re always in … what’s it called? The heady throes of romance. At the rate we’re going, we’ll be newlyweds for the next ten years.”

“So living with me is like stopping smoking and walking a marathon. What’s a heady throe of romance?”

“Plus I can see you’re just bowled over with my marvelous powers of deduction.”

He kept unbuttoning. “As always.”

“And I see catching a killer is the highest priority for you right now.”

He let go of my blouse and reached for the phone. “I’ll bet you a thousand dollars that I can put in a call to have Shaman Krill picked up faster than you can get those clothes off and meet me upstairs.”

I didn’t collect on his bet. I could have. When Tom reached the sheriff’s department, they—true to form—put him on hold. I even had time for a shower.

Later, much later, I murmured, “I love you, love you, love you,” into his ear and buried my nose in his short, sweet-smelling hair. For a night that had taken so many bizarre turns, this one was ending up pretty well. He pulled me in close. Pale moonlight filled our bedroom. I felt sleep fall as gently as the pink bursts of fireworks had scattered their lights over the lake.

When Sunday morning came, Tom was still sleeping soundly. I slipped out of bed with the idea that a hefty dose of caffeine was in order. But Scout the cat boldly rolled onto his back in front of the espresso machine and demanded attention. I rubbed his stomach as he writhed from side to side, demanding more! more! Eventually he decided he’d had enough affection and hopped off the counter, and I was able to load the machine with fresh beans and water. Soon dark strands of espresso hissed into the twin shot glasses and I poured them over milk and ice and stepped out onto the front porch.

The brilliant morning sky promised a return to hot weather. Geraniums and johnny-jump-ups in the porch pots moved in the breeze. A dog barked in the distance. Across the street, the Routts’ house was silent: no Colin crying, no jazz saxophone. The morning of the fifth of July always felt odd. It was as if time had slipped around midnight during the fight for independence, and left the whole country to suffer a summer hangover.

I sipped my icy latte and wondered how Charles Braithwaite was doing. Julian had just gone through shock. He’d managed to recover fairly quickly. But Charles was older. Age usually dictated a longer recuperation from trauma. And speaking of recovering from trauma, Marla was due to greet the world again this afternoon. I checked my watch: seven-twenty.

When I finished the coffee I felt heavy-hearted and tired. I toyed with the idea of going back to bed. But before I could do so, the phone rang. I bolted for it so the ringing wouldn’t wake up Tom. It was Officer Boyd from the sheriff’s department.

“He’s asleep,” I whispered. “Can it wait?”

“Just tell him we got Krill,” said Boyd. “Tom said it was your idea anyway, that the guy was a phony. Looks as if you were right, Goldy. Krill buckled when we asked him if his employer was Hotchkiss. He told us Hotchkiss hired him to be disruptive, even gave him a script. The lingo, the chants, the dead bunny—you name it.”

“But did Krill drive the truck that killed Claire? Did he … have some connection to Gentileschi?”