Killer Pancake

“Music therapy,” Tom and I said in unison, and then laughed. When Julian appeared with crystal glasses filled with espresso and ice, we thanked him and sat listening to the jazz filtering through the dusky air. I sipped the cold, dark stuff and waited for one of them to speak.

Julian popped a brownie into his mouth and pushed off on the porch swing. After a moment he addressed Tom and me.

“She was under a lot of pressure.”

“What kind?” asked Tom without missing a beat, as if we had not stopped talking about Claire twenty minutes earlier. Wisely, he didn’t reach for his notebook.

Julian shrugged. “Pressure to sell. That was the main thing. You know, Prince & Grogan carries Mignon exclusively in Colorado. Not only that, but the Mignon counter is the only million-dollar cosmetics counter in the state. If the saleswomen don’t sell there, they get fired.” He grimaced.

“Pressure to sell,” repeated Tom.

Julian sighed. “They live off those commissions. Lived.”

“Julian,” I said, “don’t—”

He waved this away. “Plus what I mentioned. You know—pressure to watch for shoplifters.” His tone was resigned. “There was a lot of theft there. It was a big problem in the store. Credit card fraud, employee theft, shoplifting, you name it. Claire introduced me to the guy who was in charge of security. Nick Gentileschi. He was okay, I guess. She was helping him with something.”

“What?” Tom said, too sharply, I thought. “Helping the security guy with what? The shoplifting investigation?”

“I don’t know!” Julian cried. “If I don’t even know the identity of this admirer who wasn’t bothering her anymore, how do you think I know what she was doing with security?”

Arch made one of his sudden appearances, probably lured by the sound of raised voices.

“Hey, guys! What’s going on? Blow-Up was too weird and complicated, I didn’t like it. Is that pancakes on my plate out there? Neat. I put them in the microwave.”

I nodded and held up one finger: I’d be there in a minute.

“She was afraid,” Julian said tonelessly, as if he were speaking from a distant asteroid.

“Who—” Arch began.

I gave him a warning look and shook my head: Say nothing. Arch crossed his arms and waited for an explanation, which he didn’t get.

“Afraid of what?” Tom asked Julian gently.

“Just yesterday she told me she thought she was being followed,” Julian replied wearily. “But she said she wasn’t sure. Oh, God, why didn’t I tell you? I just thought it was some stupid thing, like the unexplained stuff at the counter.”

“Wait,” I said. “Wait.” I thought back through the muddle of the day. Claire, her Peugeot, the helicopter. When I’d swerved the van into the right lane, I’d barely missed a pickup truck. Then when I’d looked again … the pickup had fallen back several car lengths. “Someone might have been following us on I-70 this morning. In a pickup,” I said miserably.

“Make?” asked Tom mildly. “Color? Did you see the driver?”

“No,” I said helplessly. “No … I don’t remember any of that. Maybe I’m just being paranoid.”

Julian was holding his head in his hands.

“Big J.,” said Tom, “why don’t we go inside—”

Julian’s head jerked up. “There’s a part of you that’s always alone,” he blurted out. “People always have secrets, and you know they have secrets, but maybe they don’t want to tell you because they’re afraid of your reaction, or maybe they don’t want to tell you because they don’t want to burden you. She didn’t want to be a burden to me. And I didn’t want to trouble you with it.”

Tom and I exchanged a look. Inside the house, the microwave buzzer went off. My instinct told me Arch and I should leave Tom and Julian alone. Perhaps without an audience Julian would feel more inclined to talk to Tom.

“Let’s go,” I said to Arch.

“Why can’t I eat out here?” Arch asked, perplexed. But he obeyed.

“Mom?” he asked when we were back in the kitchen. He held up his plate precariously. “Should I eat now or not?”

“Sure, hon, they just need to be alone for a while.”

He took a mouthful of crêpe and said, “So what’s going on with Julian? Who was afraid and what’s the big secret?”

I told him Julian’s friend Claire had been killed in a hit-and-run accident. His eyes opened wide behind his glasses. “Do they know who hit her?”

I told him they did not but that Tom was working on it. “Arch, something else. Hon, Marla had a mild heart attack jogging around Aspen Meadow Lake today. She’s at Southwest Hospital but should be out in—”

Before I could finish, Arch whacked his chair back and bolted from the table.

“Arch, wait! She’s going to be okay!”

I bounded up the stairs after him. By the time I got to his and Julian’s room, Arch was lying facedown on the upper level of the bunk. I put my hand on the back of the awful tie-dyed T-shirt, but he shook me off.

“Just go away, Mom!”

“They can treat a mild heart attack—”

“I’m not upset about Marla. I mean, I am upset about Marla. Of course I am. It’s only that … Look, just leave, okay?”