Killer Pancake

He laughed. “Are you?” Then he answered his own question. “Of course you’re not. Take catering. I help you chop, right? Sometimes you even give me a little scoop to measure out cookie batter. Small jobs. Helpful jobs. ’Cuz that’s all you’ll trust me with, right? I don’t tell you what to serve or who to serve it to. Correct me if I’m wrong here. Because you’re the caterer and I’m the cop.”

“Please, Tom. Let me help Julian by asking around. He loved Claire so much.”

He frowned, then held up a warning finger. “Okay. On two conditions. You don’t go into situations that you know are going to be dangerous. And two, if I tell you to back off, you do.”

“I thought you said your work wasn’t dangerous—”

“It isn’t when I’m doing it. It could be for you.”

I set out the forks, knives, and plates before replying. Then I said calmly, “Okay. But I’m telling you, Tom, I’m going to help Julian. Frances Markasian and I are friends, remember. Or at least sometimes we act as if we are. I have an idea where she might have found out some of these things.” I told him that I’d chatted with Dusty Routt, the Mignon sales associate, at the banquet. I’d even introduced her to Frances. After hearing about Claire’s death, Frances would have felt no qualms about contacting Dusty for information.

“Routt, Routt, that name is familiar. R-o-u-t-t? There was a big bank job done in the early fifties here in Colorado by a guy named Routt. How old is this Dusty?”

“Julian’s age. She lives down the street with her mother, little brother, and grandfather. Maybe the grandfather is a bank robber, although in our little town, that’s just the kind of news folks love to spread, and I haven’t heard a thing. Not only that, but our church helped build the house they’re in. A bank robber doesn’t sound like the kind of person they like to have living in houses built with charity money and sweat equity. But … don’t you remember my telling you Julian had dated Dusty a couple of times? Then she was expelled from Elk Park Prep, and they sort of broke up. At a party on Memorial Day, she was the one who introduced him to Claire.”

“Let me get this straight.” Tom was scribbling in his notebook. “This Dusty … Routt works for the cosmetics people and used to go out with Julian? When Julian met Claire, Dusty had already been dumped? Why was Dusty expelled, do you know?”

I pursed my lips. “Nope. Julian was always too embarrassed to ask her. You know how that school is, it was all kept very hush-hush.”

“Another fact the local gossip network seems to have missed,” he observed. “And Frances mentioned Claire Satterfield, former boyfriends, and the guy you trashed with roasted vegetables in the mall garage, all in the same breath? Like she thinks there’s a connection?” He looked at his notebook and considered. “Sounds like somebody’s doing a lot of speculating.”

I ignored this. “I’m just saying the rumor is, there seem to have been former boyfriends. Would Shaman Krill have had enough time to get back up to the garage and his precious demonstrators if he’d been driving the truck that hit Claire?”

Tom stood up and ladled a spoonful of crepe batter into the hot pan. It emitted a delicious hiss. “Don’t know yet. We’re going to have to pace it out, time it. Are you going to call Arch to eat or should I? Think he should hear us talking about the investigation? Think he’d feel bored? Left out?”

“Talking about the investigation? Boring? You don’t know Arch.” I could well imagine a police-band radio becoming the next craze. When I called to the TV room that dinner was ready, Arch pleaded loudly that he was watching a rerun of Antonioni’s Blow-Up and could we just save him some on a plate?

“It’s a real complicated film,” he yelled helpfully.

Before I could say anything, Tom called back that that would be fine. I murmured that the crêpes might toughen with microwave reheating, but he shrugged my worries away.

“What about Julian?” I asked.

“What about me?” said Julian from the doorway. He slumped into a kitchen chair. He still wore his serving outfit, and his face was gray with exhaustion. I had not heard his customary footsteps on the stairs. “This looks good,” he said in a tired voice as he regarded the fruit tray. “And before you ask, I’m okay.”

I tossed a salad while Tom filled the crêpes and put them in the oven. While I poured more cider, Tom said, “Julian? How much of our conversation did you hear?”

Julian’s face reddened. “Oh, probably most of it.”

“Then I need your help,” Tom said matter-of-factly. “If you know the worst already and you’re not going to pass out on us, then maybe you can answer some questions.”

“I don’t know the worst already,” Julian shot back fiercely. He glared at Tom. “The worst I know is that she’s dead and we don’t know who did it, okay? That’s the worst so far. What else is there?”

Tom continued calmly. “Do you know if Claire had other boyfriends?”