Killer Pancake

“Not that he’ll admit to. But don’t worry,” Boyd said in his laconic, confident manner. “He’ll crack. Give it time. Tell Schulz when he wakes up that we’ll have a confession in no time.”

I hung up. I remembered my promise to give an update on Marla to the St. Luke’s parishioners at the early service. Rather than wake Tom, I left him a note on the kitchen table that said Boyd was working on Krill and that he should call the department. As I quietly slid into a skirt and blouse, the key to Prince & Grogan storage caught my eye from where I’d left it on the bureau after removing it from my bra on Friday. I was, after all, going to church, I reflected guiltily, and there was that bit about thou shalt not steal. I slid the key into my pocket. I would return the key. Eventually.

The sparse congregation at St Luke’s all looked droopy-eyed. The interim pastor, who was serving while a parish committee searched for a new rector after the loss of our last one, forgot to turn on the altar lights, but no one minded. We moved slowly through the prayers. Thankfully, there weren’t any hymns. The choir, the organist, and our voices, were on vacation. When asked by the priest, I gave a very brief update on Marla’s condition. During the intercessions, when we made special requests for intervention and healing, I tried to allow my mind to become blank. The excitement of the past few days would eventually fade. The spirit would return to its old rhythms. Into the blankness I summoned Marla’s face. Then Charles Braithwaite’s, then old Mr. Routt’s. I prayed for Julian, for the repose of the souls of Claire and Nick.

Without warning, the parade of faces became muddled in my mind. The more I struggled to focus, the more curiosity insinuated itself, like Scout plopping between me and the espresso machine. You’re tired, I told myself. You’ve been through a lot. I leaned back in the pew.

All around me parishioners continued to offer their supplications. I opened my eyes, then shut them. It didn’t help. My mind was preoccupied with images, questions, memories that didn’t connect. I remembered Arch repeating his science teacher’s assertion that the memory was like a Rolodex. When you can’t remember something, it’s not that you don’t have the information. You just can’t access it. In my mind’s eye I saw a vehicle following mine down to the mall the morning of the Mignon banquet. Saw again someone watching outside our house at night. Heard Shaman Krill shout sixties-style derision, saw him swing a dead rabbit at me. Viewed the pain on Mr. Routt’s unseeing face. Felt the spray of glass as Nick Gentileschi’s body hit the Mignon counter.

My muscles trembled with fatigue. The gentle susurration of prayer rose from the pews all around, and scraps of remembered conversation surfaced in my mind. About Claire: That woman could sell cosmetics…. From Nick: We’re reviewing the films. From Frances Markasian: They’ve got a security problem. From Babs Braithwaite: There’s somebody back there.

But the police had their man: Shaman Krill. Krill, or somebody else that Reggie Hotchkiss had hired, or maybe even Reggie himself, could have done it all. Claire was a fabulous saleswoman, so Reggie certainly had motivation to get rid of one of the competitor’s best producers. Reggie further undermined Mignon’s sales with his bogus Spare the Hares campaign. Covering all the bases, he also copied their products in his own catalogue.

Had Reggie covered all the bases with Nick Gentileschi, though? That was what didn’t fit. Why would someone have to kill the security chief? Because of potentially embarrassing photographs? Because of something that had turned up on the films? What about the cash refund problem? Frances had said, It’s all computerized, so it looks official. But what was official? I had seen stacks of computer printouts in the department store office. Would they detail transactions, or would those be in the ledger?

Someone touched my shoulder; I opened my eyes.

“We’re passing the peace,” a woman told me. She had gray hair pulled back in a neat bun, crinkles around her eyes, and a worried smile. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, thank you.” I stood quickly and shook her hand. “The peace of the Lord.”

She smiled and squeezed my hand. “Peace.”

Which was what Arch had said. And Reggie Hotchkiss, the plagiarizing pacifist.

With enormous effort I turned my attention back to the service and went through the communion portion of the liturgy. Afterward, the tired crowd engaged in halfhearted chat, and I nabbed a cup of church coffee. The stuff tasted like something you would lick off the inside of a twenty-year-old aluminum pot.