Killer Pancake

Frances narrowed her eyes at Charles Braithwaite. Alarmed by the predatory assessment in them, the doctor began to sidle away. Unabashed, Frances caught him by his wet sleeve to halt his retreat. “Doctor Charles Braithwaite,” she said in an accusing, parental tone. “Thanks for helping us, indeed. You were at the Mignon Cosmetics counter this morning. Now you’re here. Just what kind of interest does a world-famous microbiologist have in a cosmetics company? Eh, Charlie-baby?” Holding Charles’s sleeve with one hand and the wet turban on her head with the other, Frances glared ominously at her prey.

Being wet and disoriented can put one at a disadvantage. Not so Frances, whose crimson dress was already drying with a large orange stripe down its center. Over in the heart of the food fair, the jazz band returned from their break and began a blues riff. Charles Braithwaite glanced fearfully at me, then stared longingly in the direction of the jazz band, as if the soothing music could bail him out.

Julian, meanwhile, had followed our wet trail to the tent that had been my booth that morning and our attacker’s hiding place this afternoon. He angrily whipped back the tent flaps and then quickly strode around the entire tent. At each corner he threw the flaps up, as if daring an intruder to be concealed there. At the back of the tent he stopped short. I shivered inside my cold, wet clothes and tried to ignore the fact that Frances was fiercely interrogating Charles Braithwaite concerning his interest in the mall and the food fair. Here at the mall for no reason? I wanted to say to him. Looking for your blue rose, maybe? It’s at the sheriff’s department. Julian came around the side of the tent holding a clear plastic bag with tape on it. He’d removed it from the table. Inside the plastic bag was a single sheet of paper. Julian ripped into the bag and offered me the contents.

It was one of those cryptic messages we used to send in school, where the words and letters are cut out of magazines or newspapers. This note said: GOLDILOCKS GO HOME. AND STAY THERE.

Well, I better, ah … I need to be going,” said Charles Braithwaite in a meek voice. He had somehow tugged free of Frances and was backing away. His wild, pale hair shone like a corona in the sunlight. “Glad to have been able to help. I have to meet somebody,” he babbled as Frances made a step to follow him.

“I want to thank you again in person,” I called after him. “Maybe tomorrow, at your place! Your Fourth of July party, you know? Remember?” He didn’t respond, not even to wave, as he slunk swiftly away. I turned back to Julian, who was puzzling over the note. “Okay, kiddo,” I said, “did you go with Dusty on some field trip to his place?”

“Oh, yeah. Don’t you remember? It’s awesome. But he’s got a real hangup about security. He got all our names printed out on a list before we came in. Then he wanted to check our driver’s licenses to make sure we were who we said we were, only not everybody had a license. And even though I think he believed we were who we said we were, Dr. Braithwaite still had covered some of his current experiments with tarpaulin before we came trooping through. It was a kick. Real secretive. You know, like he was the CIA or something.”

“Did you see any roses? Experimental roses?”

“Oh, Goldy, he was doing all kinds of experiments. We just saw his equipment.”

I said, “Hmm.” Tom could take care of Charles Braithwaite and his experiments. I didn’t know what to do about the note. My clothes were damp. My heart was still beating hard. If the mall security force was as distasteful as Prince & Grogan’s, they wouldn’t be much help. Call Tom asap, my inner voice warned. If you don’t let him know you’ve been attacked, he’s going to be mightily upset. “Listen, Julian, could you put the flaps down anti let me go into the tent and change? I still need to see Marla today.”

He obeyed in silence. Frances, hands on the hips of her wet dress, squinted thoughtfully at the departing Charles Braithwaite. Then she gathered up the clothes Pete had given her and slipped into the tent next to me. The flap thumped down into place.

“What do you suppose is going on?” she hissed as I removed my sticky chef’s jacket.