Killer Pancake

“Of course,” Babs continued, “all the major food people in Denver will be here. The food fair is one of our benefits. Playhouse Southwest, do you know the group? We used to be called the Furman County Dramatic Auxiliary. We just did The Taming of the Shrew. Sound familiar? Didn’t I tell you about it?”

I nodded vapidly. Actually, I’d talked to Babs Braithwaite on the phone only about the Fourth. We’d seen each other briefly after her car hit Julian’s. I bit my lip. Don’t say anything, I reminded myself. At least not anything nasty. The Taming of the Shrew. Sound familiar? Actually, no. Knee-deep in nonfat ingredients, I hadn’t caught any plays lately. Then again, her little auxiliary might want to have a catered function sometime in the future. If I could do John Birch Beef, I could do Shakespeare shashlik. I gave Babs what I hoped was an ingratiating grin.

“Yes. Let’s see, Dr. John Richard Korman,” she mused throatily as she touched a sapphire necklace. “Up and Coming in Denver did an article on our most recent production. You must have seen that issue, there was also an article on Dr. John Richard Korman. So—”

“I’m sorry, Babs,” I interrupted. Anything to get off the subject of the Jerk. “What’s your connection to Mignon Cosmetics?”

“Ooh!” She chuckled and gave Harriet a flirtatious look. “I’m such a good customer, they invited me. Oh, there’s Tiffany Barnes …”

And off she sailed. Man, I couldn’t wait to ask Marla about that piece of work. I put Babs Braithwaite out of my mind and set about carefully unwrapping the lettuce leaves that would form the containers for the hoisin turkey.

Claire trotted over to me. Her comely brow was wrinkled with frustration. But before she could explain, something across the room caught her attention. I looked in that direction and saw only a group of beautifully groomed chattering women, all wearing corsages. “Oh my God,” Claire groaned.

“What?”

“Nothing … Look, Goldy, I’m in trouble,” she announced “I … forgot the damn decorations. They’re Mignon bags we stuff with colored tissue paper. We call them exploding bags. Y’know? I need to go to my car and get them. Come with me? I don’t want to go out there alone.” She looked desperate. Considering the swelling group of protesters I’d seen outside, I felt a pang of sympathy for her. I wasn’t too eager to face that indignant group alone either.

“Of course I’ll come with you,” I assured her. “I might as well bring in the sole and get the steamer going, anyway. We need to make it quick, though,” I added. I lifted the trays of vegetables and hid them on a shelf under the bar. I had the feeling we were being watched, so I grabbed a spare tablecloth, unfurled it, and placed it over the wrapped food while Claire tapped her foot. I ignored her impatience. I would be damned before I came back to picked-over trays.

At the service door we met Julian. He was laden down with Nonfat Chocolate Tortes.

“Where do you two think you’re going?” he demanded as soon as he saw us approaching. “It’s a zoo out there. I couldn’t find one of those suits to help me—”

“We’ll be fine,” Claire cooed as she kissed her index finger and planted it on his nose. She swept past him in a flurry of dark ringlets and black sheath. “Just going to pick up some bags. Back in a jif.” Mimicking her touch on the nose, I followed on her heels.

The demonstrators had become a jeering, sign-waving horde. A few uniformed members of the Furman County Sheriff’s Department were attempting crowd control. I didn’t see Tom. Claire and I decided to pick up our respective bundles and meet at the column nearest the mall entrance. I made off for the van, fumbled with the keys, and rummaged around in the dark interior, looking for the steamer. At last I found it underneath the container of roasted vegetables. If I loaded myself up, this would be the last trip out to the van. Another roar went up from the angry demonstrators. I quickly surveyed all the remaining food and decided it was worth the hassle. Balancing the bowl of vegetables on top of the plastic container of greens, I picked up the steamer, then carefully made my way toward the appointed column. With the hubbub all around, I desperately wanted to look inconspicuous. Or as inconspicuous as a woman toting forty pounds of fish and vegetables can be.

Over the rumble of the demonstrators, I heard a revving engine. It was closer to me than to the cops and the crowd, and getting closer by the moment. I craned my neck around. There was no car in sight. Neither the crowd nor the cops seemed to take any notice of me, so I continued to meander through vehicles on my way to the entrance, my attention on the triple deck of supplies I was balancing. There was another shout from the crowd and behind me, a squeal of tires.