Killer Pancake

She closed her eyes. “You hate cooking diet stuff.”

“I’m going to learn to like it.”

“Oh, to be thin!” Marla said with a hoarse laugh. “I may get there after all. The hard way.”

“Don’t,” I said. Then my eyes fell on a FedEx package on the white hospital bedspread. “What’s this? Want me to open it?” She nodded. I ripped it open and handed it to her.

After a moment, she grunted. “It’s from Hotchkiss Skin & Hair. They always want to impress their customers with how they’re getting you all the latest things. You know Reggie Hotchkiss, Goldy. Don’t you? He was a big radical with the S.D.S. and got his picture in Life magazine ages ago. He went to jail for destroying federal property and dodging the draft and all that.”

“Destroying federal property? What kind?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Let me think.” She took a deep breath. “Oh, yeah. After he burned his draft card and failed to break into the CIA, he tried to drive his mother’s Bentley up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, and hit a lamppost en route. That was the picture that was in Life,” she added. “Someone said it was all propaganda from the British car maker. You must have seen him around town, he goes to everything.”

“The only time I saw Reggie Hotchkiss up close and personal, I was trying to eavesdrop on a conversation he was having with Dusty Routt about Mignon products. She said he was going to get into trouble.”

Marla sputtered, “The guy’s a genuine yuppie, Goldy. The last thing he would do is get into trouble when he’s trying to take over his mother’s cosmetics business.” She frowned at me. “Haven’t you ever had a facial at his place?”

I laughed. “No, can’t say that I have. Haven’t had the time, money, or inclination. Especially since I’ve been knee-deep in nonfat dips and chocolate tortes.”

“And ducking bleach water,” Julian interjected.

Marla ignored him and handed me a yellow piece of paper. “Well, here’s a free coupon for the facial. You have to buy fifty bucks’ worth of cosmetics from their fall line, though, so you might not want to use it. God knows I won’t be able to.”

I glanced at the coupon, then flipped through the slick pamphlet from Hotchkiss. The glossy photographs were of boxes, bottles, and jars of soap, cream, toners, makeups of various shapes, sizes, colors. What confused me was how the printing underneath each photograph was imperfectly aligned with the products. It was as if the photos had been taken long before, and the descriptions added hastily, just before the pamphlet went out….

Wait a minute. Fall into Color with Hotchkiss Skin & Hair! Hadn’t I just had those very words printed at the top of a banquet menu? Hotchkiss Magic Pore-closing Toner with Mediterranean Sea Kelp—tones skin as it closes pores! Hotchkiss Patented Extra Rich Nighttime Replacement Moisturizer with Goat Placenta—slows down the aging process scientifically! Ultra Gentle Eye Cream Smoother with Swiss Herbs—firms eye area with secret European formula! Hot Date Blush. Chocolate Mousse Lipstick. Unbelievable. The words and descriptions were virtually the same. I thought again of Reggie Hotchkiss, the man with the persistent questions at the Mignon counter. But this mailer had gone out yesterday morning. My bet was that it had been hastily printed and FedEx’d the day after the Mignon banquet, when Mignon’s latest products were unveiled.

He was there. He had been. What had Dusty said? We saw you. Maybe Claire had seen him too. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to.

I tucked the coupon into the loaned sweatpants. I had to talk to Tom, the sooner the better. I scanned Marla’s face, and saw that fatigue was finally triumphing over her desire—her need—to be with family. Julian and I made noises about leaving.

Eyes half-closed, she protested weakly. “Tony told me a friend of his played golf three days after he had a heart attack.”

“Golf sucks,” Julian observed.

The weak smile widened. Marla shifted her bulky body around under the sheets, trying to get comfortable. “Tony thinks I should go to this dinner party with him tomorrow in the club. Since I’m pressuring Gordon to bust me out tomorrow, it’s a possibility. I can’t imagine anything more depressing than being at home alone when all the fireworks go off, anyway.”

“A party?” I said, confused. “A golf party?”

“Golf parties suck,” Julian contributed.