Killer Pancake

“Oh, damn!” she exclaimed. “I’m going to have to clean up my desk, because it looks as if my heart just bled all over it. So what’s Investigator Schulz saying about the”—she cleared her throat—“accident? Anything quotable?”

“Why don’t you call the sheriff’s department and find out? Then maybe you can tell Investigator Schulz why you were down at the Mignon banquet today. Incognito. All dressed up. Exactly what rumors have you heard about the department store?”

“Cut the tripe, caterer. I’m on assignment, which should be obvious to you, even though it’s been a lot of years since you did that major in psychology. You think it was easy zipping myself into that dress? And the so-called banquet was like some kind of punishment. Diet food makes me gag. I have to eat too much of it, and that makes me feel like a bear foraging for winter. How many tomatoes can one individual consume? But the brownies were terrific.” She chuckled. Like we were such good pals. Like she had told me everything she knew and now I was supposed to do the same for her.

I took a deep breath. “You know, Frances, you did ask me if I knew about the department store’s problems. Since I assume you mean Prince & Grogan, and since I was working for their Mignon people today, I’d like to know what kind of problems would bring you down to the mall all the way from Aspen Meadow. That’s all.”

“Uh-huh. Miss Nosy Caterer. A sales associate at Prince & Grogan gets splattered all over the parking lot and you ask me what kind of problems the department store is having.”

“Don’t talk like that about Claire. It’s disgusting.”

“Oh-ho! So it’s Claire now. You did know her. In fact, you were there in the garage when someone smacked into her. Yes? Spill all, Goldy.”

“Tell me why you were at the banquet in disguise. What’s the problem with the department store?”

Frances took another drag and seemed to consider. “Let me get my pen.”

Doggone it. “No, Frances, don’t act as if we can trade information, for heaven’s sake,” I said to empty air. If anything got into the newspaper, Tom was going to be a tad upset.

Frances came back to the phone and rustled her materials about. “You knew the dead girl,” she prompted.

“You already know she was Julian Teller’s girlfriend,” I replied impatiently. “And you also know I can’t talk to you until Tom—”

VANILLA-FROSTED

FUDGE COOKIES

¾ cup all-purpose flour

½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder

1 teaspoon baking powder

¼ teaspoon salt

¼ cup canola oil

1 cup sugar

1½ teaspoons vanilla extract

4 egg whites, unbeaten

2 cups confectioners’ sugar

2–3 tablespoons skim milk, approximately additional unsweetened cocoa powderPreheat the oven to 350°. Spray a large nonstick cookie sheet with vegetable oil spray.Sift the flour, cocoa, baking powder, and salt together; set aside. Mix together the oil, sugar, 1 teaspoon of the vanilla, and the egg whites until well combined. Stir in the flour mixture. Chill one hour. Using a ½-tablespoon measure, scoop the dough onto the cookie sheet, leaving 2 inches between cookies. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes or until the cookies are puffed and cooked through. Do not overcook.Transfer the cookies to a rack and; cool completely. Mix together the confectioners’ sugar, skim milk, and remaining ½ teaspoon vanilla until pasty. Add skim milk if necessary. Spread a small amount of vanilla frosting on each cookie. Put the cookies back on the rack, dust lightly with cocoa powder, and allow the frosting to dry.Makes 4 dozen cookies

“Ah-ha. ‘Wife of homicide investigator asks newspaper about department store scandals. Declines comment on witnessing murder of store employee.’ Your husband the investigator is gonna love it.”

“What do you mean, murder? So help me—”

“Do you know anything about those demonstrators?” she demanded.

“Of course I don’t,” I replied, struggling to sound calm. Frances had the annoying ability to make me feel constantly off balance.

“Did they get in the way of the catering? Were they near the area where the girl was hit? Or can’t you talk about that either?”

“What makes you think that—” I waved my hand in the empty kitchen, unable even to articulate the thought.

“What makes me think that Claire was run down?” she finished.

“Yes.”

“Things I’ve heard.”

“Gosh, Frances, more rumors? Maybe I should have Tom come over and talk to you.”

“Great idea. We could have lunch and chat about the Bill of Rights. You could cook. That is, if you didn’t throw vegetables around beforehand.”

“Frances, don’t.”

“The way I heard it, the fellow you threw the red peppers on was an activist by the name of Shaman Krill.”

“Why, did he talk to you? All he did was yell at me.”