Killer Pancake

I straightened and felt the cool bleach water trickle down inside my clothes. I opened my eyes, sure that my makeup had run together into one unholy mess. A sea of curious faces surrounded me. The one recognizable face was Pete’s. The person guiding me had brought me to the front of Pete’s espresso booth. Instead of wondering just what had happened in the tent, my first ridiculous thought was: How in the world did Pete get a booth for the whole four-hour time period, when I had to share mine with the barbecue folks?

“Goldy?” Pete’s grin was benevolent. “Do you and your friend want some coffee with a couple of shots of brandy? How about a couple of dry sets of clothes? On the house.”

Half the folks in the crowd laughed, as if the whole incident were some kind of stunt arranged by the fair people for the band’s break. As I accepted Pete’s offer of coffee, I searched faces for anyone familiar—malevolent or otherwise. But whoever had done this appeared to be long gone. At my side, Frances was brusquely demanding to know what was going on, had anyone seen anything? Anyone seen someone rush out of the tent? Ignoring her, I waved at the person approaching us. It was Julian. The crowd, sensing that the entertainment was over, dispersed. Only a couple of stragglers remained. Maybe they were hoping the bleach bath would belatedly eat through our clothes or skin.

“Listen,” said a deep voice from behind me. The first thing I noticed, looking up, was that his long-sleeved shirt was wet. My eyes traveled upward to the delicate features of his face, to the mop of frizzed, Warhol-type white-blond hair. I had seen this tall man that morning, that day, in Prince & Grogan.

It was Charles Braithwaite.

“I … I helped you,” he faltered. The skin at the side of his earnest blue eyes crinkled with concern. He was in his thirties, maybe early forties, but because of his height and his extreme thinness, his age was difficult to determine. “I … I wrapped those towels around the two of you. But you need to rinse that stuff out of your hair, ladies. Either that or you’re both going to look like skunks. Dark on both sides and a white stripe down the middle.” His palm pressed his long, pale hair over to the side in a practiced gesture.

I groaned. “Oh, that’s just great.” I took the cup of spiked coffee that Pete offered and wondered what Charles Braithwaite was doing first at Mignon, then at the food fair. Tom’s words echoed in my ears: Someone who’s too helpful … someone who’s always around …

Frances demanded if Pete had seen anything. When he said no, she took a large swallow of her drink and said it was too hot. Did he have a phone, she wanted to know, she had to call her boss. Pete laughed. No phone. He handed us T-shirts and sweat pants that listed his location and all the curative powers of coffee. The man was an advertising genius. I turned back to my tall, blond savior. If that was what he was.

“Did you see what happened to us?” I asked. “Did you see anyone else come out of the tent?”

He shook his head. “I heard you,” he replied. “Then the two of you stumbled out of the tent. I smelled the bleach, and then I came over….”

“Yes, thanks,” I said lamely. He nodded. His light blue wrinkled rayon shirt, now streaked with liquid, fell un-fashionably from his thin shoulders. He was wearing dark slacks and old-fashioned tie-up saddle shoes. His canoelike feet were at least a size fourteen.

Frances blew noisily on her coffee, then turned her attentions to the tall man. “What are you doing here?” she demanded abruptly.

Charles Braithwaite blushed to the roots of his filament-like hair. The saddle shoes began to inch away. “Well, as I was telling your friend … I was here because … well, let’s see … I heard the two of you yelling—”

“What in the hell—” Julian began as he rushed up, puffing. He was still wearing his serving clothes from the morning. “Goldy? And you?” He looked quizzically at Frances. “From the newspaper? Why are you all wet? Why is your hair all wrapped—? Dr. Braithwaite! What’s going on … why are you here?”

I looked curiously at our tall, gangly rescuer, who again mumbled something along the lines that he had to go.

“Goldy, what happened to you?” Julian demanded. “Did you all fall into some water, or what?”

“We’ll be at your place tomorrow, on the Fourth,” I said to an increasingly uncomfortable Charles Braithwaite. “Maybe you could show me your greenhouse—”

“No. I can’t show anyone,” mumbled Dr. Charles Braithwaite, embarrassed. He brushed a shock of white hair out of his eyes. “You need to get some dry …” His long fingers gestured awkwardly in my direction.

Irritated, Julian hovered over me. “What happened to you?” he asked again.

“Somebody threw a bucket of bleach water on us,” I answered with resignation. “Whoever it was said there was a message at my booth. Frances was trying to help—”