Killer Pancake

Inside the club, rock music still throbbed against the black walls. People were gathering, expecting food. After what we’d just gone through, the shock of business as usual felt disorienting. In my absence, Julian had laid out the crudités and dips next to a stack of glass plates, and served up glass bowls of asparagus soup. The buffet line was progressing smoothly; it looked as if about half of the forty women had moved through and were seated. Julian was managing to keep the platters filled and neat as he served, smiled, and answered questions. The women giggled coyly at him, and I could guess at their whispered questions: Isn’t he cute? How long do you suppose he’s been doing this? As we entered, Julian’s eyes darted toward us. I knew we weren’t who he was looking for.

Tom took the bowl and steamer from my hands. “Just let’s put the food down. Tell him to come outside,” he murmured. “If these folks see me, they might know something’s wrong. I don’t want to start or to deal with a general frenzy.”

I moved across to the bar. Julian’s face creased in alarm when I asked him to come outside. As we moved toward the door, the women seemed to take no notice of us leaving.

Outside, Julian immediately demanded, “Where’s Claire?”

For a moment, neither Tom nor I spoke. Then Tom sighed. He said bluntly, “There’s been a hit-and-run accident. Claire was hit. I’m sorry, Julian, but she’s … she’s dead.”

Julian clutched Tom’s jacket. He cried, “What? What? What are you telling me? I don’t get it. You’re wrong. You must be wrong.” I felt my throat tighten as I put my arms around him. His hands dropped from Tom’s jacket and his muscled body started to shake. One hand slammed the wall. “Huh?” he cried. “What?” Sweat glistened over his pale skin. His eyes were wild. Shoppers from the mall stopped and stared.

“Oh, bad sign. He’s going into shock,” Tom told me. “He needs medical attention right away.” As Tom barked into the walkie-talkie that we needed another ambulance, I fumbled to undo the top button of Julian’s shirt so he could breathe more easily. I’d graduated from Med Wives 101 and knew all about shock.

At that moment the service entrance to the nightclub opened and the woman in yellow poked her head out. Her blond hair looked oily under the fluorescent lights of the hallway, and her thick makeup seemed to add years to her age. Her jet-black eyebrows gave her a menacing aspect, like Tallulah Bankhead on a bad day.

“What the hell is going on out here?” she demanded in a throaty falsetto. The mall shoppers turned their stare on her. “Where are the exploding bags? Where is Claire Satterfield?”

Tom Schulz ignored her barrage of questions. “Get back, please, ma’am. Leave us alone.”

“Oh, gawd … I suppose.” With a huge sigh and bang of the door, she disappeared. Julian slumped against the wall.

“Takes all kinds,” observed Tom as he lifted one of Julian’s eyelids to check on his state of consciousness.

Thirty seconds later the door opened again, this time revealing Harriet Wells. We were a long way from our conversation about muffins with okra and how much Mignon would pay for the banquet. Harriet looked with genuine alarm at Julian.

“Can I help?” she asked us. Her intelligent blue eyes were full of concern. She looked from Tom to me, trying to ascertain who was in charge. “Can you tell me what’s going on? Will we be one server short for the banquet?”

Julian slumped forward and began to sob. “I’ll be there to serve the food in just a minute,” I snapped as I clutched him. Harriet Wells tilted her head at me skeptically. Clearly, my tear-streaked face and smeared apron did not inspire confidence. Tom once again talked into his radio. The smell of cooking hamburgers from a mall restaurant unexpectedly wafted over us. Julian, Julian, I prayed, pull yourself together. Please.

“Can you tell me what is going on out here?” Harriet asked.

My throat closed in panic. I coughed and began to say, “You see, there’s been—”

Tom put away his radio and interrupted. “We have a crisis. Thanks for your patience. Your caterer will be there momentarily.”

“I certainly hope so,” was Harriet Wells’s parting comment as she quietly closed the nightclub door.

Julian’s face was distorted, as if he’d swallowed something and then choked on it. He pulled himself away from me, gasping for breath.

“Where should we take him?” I asked Tom. “Couldn’t you even tell that woman what happened to Claire?”

Unexpectedly, Julian reeled in Tom’s direction. Tom snagged him as the group of spectators shrieked.

“Lower him to the floor,” Tom ordered tersely. “Slowly, very slowly. Don’t hurt yourself.”

Together, we grasped Julian and helped him down. Before we had him stretched out on the floor, a shaggy-haired policeman rushed up to tell Tom a second ambulance had arrived from the hospital across the street.