Killer Pancake

Oh yes, how could I forget? He did indeed live in Aspen Meadow. His family owned a prosperous Denver-based company: Hotchkiss Skin and Hair.

When the orderlies finally wheeled Marla back up from having her angiogram, she looked completely transformed. Her complexion was wan, and her usual animation had disintegrated into grogginess. I waited while the nurse hooked her back up to her monitors. By the time I came into the cubicle, Marla, a large, raucously funny person whom I always thought of as being in full bloom, appeared completely deflated.

She caught sight of me and groaned. “I feel gross. I look gross. My back’s killing me. You gotta get me out of here, Goldy.”

“I’m trying, believe me—”

Dr. Lyle Gordon walked into the cubicle and checked Marla’s IV. He was wearing a white lab coat over his scrubs. His gray fluff of hair stood up straight on his head. “Ah, the patient’s sister. Did she tell you?”

I said, “Tell me what?”

His eyebrows pinched inward. “We had an emergency operation this morning and had to delay her procedure. Your sister’s angiogram showed blockage at the mid-right coronary. So we’re going ahead with the atherectomy.” He turned to Marla. “But it’s too late today, unfortunately. We’ll need to wait until tomorrow.”

“Oh my God,” groaned Marla. She eyed her cardiologist with as much fierceness as she could muster. “You mean, I’m going to have to go all night with this … this thing sticking into my groin—”

“It’s called a catheter,” said Lyle Gordon patiently, patting the sheet. “Ms. Korman. We’re going to get through this—”

“Oh yeah?” Marla interrupted. “Who’s we, white man?”

“Ms. Korman—”

Marla snapped, “Shut up!”

Dr. Lyle Gordon clenched his teeth and straightened his shoulders. Then he addressed me, enunciating each phrase: “I need. A surgeon. On standby. Tomorrow. I can’t get a surgeon to be on standby until tomorrow. And we need the surgeon in case something goes wrong. Worst case, we’ll have a surgical suite ready if the catheter perforates the heart or tears the artery or she has another heart attack—”

“As God. Is my Witness.” Marla growled from her bed, “I am never giving this hospital another—”

“Help me out here, would you please?” Dr. Lyle Gordon begged me.

I said, “Sure,” and he abruptly left the cubicle. “Marla, look,” I said lightly, pointing to a potted coral begonia on her nightstand, “someone’s sent you flowers.”

She skewed her glance sideways at the perky blossoms, then turned away. “I don’t care.”

I opened the card and could not hide my astonishment. “They’re from the general. ‘Hoping for a speedy recovery.’ I thought your brother-in-law was in jail for possessing explosives.”

“He is in jail, but Bo has friends everywhere.” Marla closed her eyes.

I put my hand on her shoulder. “They’re going to kick me out of here any minute. Please tell me what I can do for you.”

“I’ll give you a hundred thousand dollars to help me escape.”

“Marla—”

“You’d have to cater birdwatchers’ picnics for three years to make that kind of dough.”

“And your second choice is …”

She sighed such a deep, depressed sigh that I briefly considered trying to break her out. “Okay, Goldy.” She seemed suddenly tired, as if she’d given up. “Get somebody to bring me some lingerie and my mail. Some folks have been calling, and I guess Tony’s coming in tomorrow.” Tony was her on-again, off-again boyfriend. “I don’t know what the hell the hospital’s done with my stuff. The spare house key is in a key box under my dryer vent.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“My life is over. I’ll never eat another éclair. They’ll put me in a wheelchair to go around Aspen Meadow Lake….”

“Your life, sister, is just beginning. Buck up, now, I’m going to learn how to cook lowfat, and we’ll walk around the lake together—”

Before we could pursue this healthy vision further, Marla drifted off to sleep. I kept my hand on her shoulder until the ten minutes were over.

Then I zipped out to a pay phone, put a call in to Tom, and reached his voice mail. I told him about Reggie Hotchkiss, proprietor of what could be a rival company to Mignon, and about Reggie’s conversation with Dusty Routt. I told Tom that I missed him and hoped we’d see him tonight.

At home I fixed grilled cheese sandwiches for Arch and me, at his request. When he asked about Marla, I put my gooey sandwich down and decided against finishing it. I took a salad and bowl of soup upstairs, but Julian said through his door that he didn’t want anything, thanks. Finally, Arch and I sat in the backyard and watched rippled pink clouds slowly change color as the sun drifted toward the mountains.

“Did you talk to Tom on the phone, Mom? Has he found out anything yet?”

“Haven’t talked to him. He’ll be home late.”

“Seems as if he’s always working when, you most want to talk to him,” Arch observed. “During an investigation, I mean.”

“I know.” I’d been thinking the same thing myself.