Killer Pancake

“That name, Shaman Krill,” she said thoughtfully. “Think it’s short for something? Maybe it’s an alias. We’re talking about a real short guy here? Dark curly hair pulled back in a ponytail? Gold earring? Sort of a cross between a leprechaun and a terrorist? Think he was one of Claire’s boyfriends? How long had Satterfield been going with this Julian guy?”

“How do you know Claire was involved with other men?” I countered. “Why did you say Julian was the latest in her batch of conquests?”

“First you tell me something, Goldy. Did you ever get something for nothing? Listen—I’ll come visit you at the food fair, okay? Maybe then you’ll be ready to have a real chat.”

Before I could retort, she hung up. She wasn’t going to share anything she knew with me until I gave her information. And if I did that, I could just imagine the wrath of Investigator Tom Schulz. Still, he’d be interested to hear about bullying activist Shaman Krill, if he hadn’t already. Maybe you had to have a weird name to get into Spare the Hares. I slowly swished the spoon through the pot of dark barbecue sauce. There were two things Frances had been digging for: Had I known Claire was involved with other men? And who was Shaman Krill? I wondered if the two questions were related.

But that was speculation. I returned to my culinary duties to chop, boil, and beat my frustration away. I gathered cocoa powder, flour, sugar, and egg whites, and got out the recipe for the fudge cookies. The dark, delicious cookies had been one of two great inventions in my search for a lowfat chocolate torte. The other had been a lowfat chocolate soufflé that had worked not in the oven but on top of the stove. I sifted the cocoa, flour, baking powder, and salt and beat egg whites, then stirred oil, sugar, and vanilla. After combining all the ingredients, I put the cookie batter away to chill. I had just retrieved the ingredients for icing when the doorbell rang. Oh good, I thought: Marla. Finally.

I looked through the peephole prepared to see my big-bodied, big-hearted friend triumphantly holding up the bags of gourmet goodies she always brought to ease tense or troubling situations. But anticipatory delight quickly froze to dread. The Jerk’s distorted mug grinned broadly into the peephole’s circular eye.

“Let me in, Goldy,” he bellowed. “I have to talk to you!”

Fear opened a hollow in my stomach. In the years since the divorce, my ex-husband had rarely demanded to talk to me. Looking for Arch, he either barged in angrily—pre-security system—or waited sullenly for our son on the doorstep. But this afternoon Arch was doing tie-dying with Todd. I looked out at John Richard, trying to decide what to do. He drew back in a dramatic gesture from the door and held his arms out. He was wearing Bermuda shorts, Polo shirt, Top-Siders without socks—the very portrait of a rich guy.

“I’ve got news,” he shouted, pressing his face in again at the peephole. “Bad news! You want to hear it or not?” He added snidely, “It concerns somebody you care about a lot!”

I really did not want to see him. The day had been awful enough. And yet here he was, doing a typical power-trip, teasing with the possibility of bad news. I hesitated. The security system was disarmed. I could go out on the porch to talk to him. All I had to do was unlock the dead bolt and walk out the door. But when I started to fumble with the bolt, the phone rang in the kitchen. Darn it all, anyway. I dashed for the kitchen.

“Goldilocks’ Catering—” I began breathlessly. The Jerk was banging on the front door. There was a smart thwack of wood against metal. I heard the Jerk curse loudly. “Goldilocks’ Catering,” I repeated, “Where Everything—”

“It’s me,” Tom interrupted. “I’m at the hospital.”

“Boo!” said John Richard Korman as he walked up behind me. His breath smelled of whiskey. I shrieked and dropped the phone.

“Who’s that?” said Tom. Coming from the dropped phone, his voice was distant but clearly alarmed. “Goldy? Are you there?”

I stared furiously at my ex-husband, who gave me a wide-eyed mocking leer in return. Involuntarily, I glanced around for my wooden knifeblock. John Richard followed my gaze and wagged one finger at me. He moved in the direction of the knifeblock, scooped it up, and cradled it and its protruding black handles as he moved into the dining room. Goose bumps pimpled my arms. By the time John Richard walked empty-handed back into the kitchen, I’d managed to pick up the dangling receiver. “It’s … John Richard, and Arch isn’t home, but John Richard says that there’s bad—”

“For crying out loud, Goldy, what the hell is he doing there?” Tom hollered. “Get him out! Now!”

I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see the Jerk’s furious expression. “Tell me how Julian is,” I said firmly into the receiver. “Then I will.”

“I’m not calling about Julian—” Tom began.

“Hey, Gol-dy-y!” the Jerk said calmly. Nastily. “He’s not calling about Juli-a-n. He’s at the hospital and he’s calling about somebody else.”