Killer Pancake

“You’re sick!” I shouted. I stood up, my fists clenched. “You’re crazy!”

“You’re arrested,” said Tom Schulz happily as he grabbed Shaman’s arms. “For assault.”

Another policeman, a fellow named Boyd whom I knew well, snapped on the handcuffs. The dead rabbit, I noticed, lay by the front left Cadillac tire. I wondered if they would have to take it as evidence.

“Wow,” said Julian, brightening. “That was cool. Talk about just in the nick of time, man, I’m impressed.”

“So this is where you’ve been.” I walked quickly over to Tom. “Why didn’t you tell me you were staking out the garage to look for Krill?”

“Because we haven’t been here that long—”

“Tom, I really need to talk to you. You wouldn’t believe the things that have happened today—”

“Life-endangering things?” he queried, holding tight to a struggling Shaman Krill.

“You pig!” shouted Krill. “You idiot!”

“Well, not exactly—” I said.

“Look, Miss G., we just got a tip”—he aimed his remark at Krill—“from a real member of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals that this guy was here. They call you the volunteer cheerleader,” he told Krill. He turned back to me. “Goldy, where’d you get those clothes?”

“Oh, it’s a long story.”

“It always is with you.” He eyed Julian. “Is he okay?”

“Who can tell? Check your voice mail when you’re finished with this guy.”

“I’ll finish you!” Krill yelled, but no one was listening.

Officer Boyd picked up the rabbit carcass with gloved hands and put it into a paper evidence bag, and then the three of them took off in a sheriff’s department vehicle. Who, I wondered, was Shaman Krill really working for?

Two levels down, Julian and I finally found the Rover. Julian drove me back to my van and we arrived home in tandem around six o’clock. When we came through the door, the melancholy rhythm of “Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” reverberated down the stairs from Arch’s room. When I called to him, he replied that he was testing a strobe light and would be there in a minute.

Trying to focus on things domestic in general and on dinner in particular, I opened the walk-in. Wrapped triangles of creamy Port Salut, tangy Brie, and crumbly Gorgonzola cheeses beckoned. Tom had made a sign that said Ours! with an arrow pointing to the shelf below, to distinguish the extravagant purchases of foodstuffs he made for our newly formed family. I could always count on that shelf to bulge with the choicest berries and other produce, the ripest cheeses, the most expensive seafoods. I was trying to decide from the Ours! shelf when Arch arrived in the kitchen, still wearing the Panthers shirt. He’d found a pair of round-framed sunglasses and strap-up-the-legs sandals to go with the shirt. He looked like a beachcomber.

“I’m hungry,” he announced unceremoniously. “In fact, I’m going to faint if I don’t have some food.” He lifted up the sunglasses and glanced at my outfit, then at my face and hair. “Gosh, Mom, you look weird. I know you like coffee, but don’t you want to advertise your business instead of Pete’s?”

“Arch, please …”

“All right, all right. Just … when are we going to eat? I mean, I don’t want to be rude, but it’s been a hundred hours since lunchtime.”

“Well, I was kind of thinking of taking a shower first,” I said hopefully.

Arch moved the sunglasses down his nose, clutched his stomach, and made his eyeballs bulge.

“Oh, stop,” I grumbled. So much for the shower. Marla was coming home the next day, in any event, and if I was going to follow through on my promise to do some lowfat cooking for her, now was the time. “Dinner in forty-five minutes?” I asked brightly.

Arch looked around the empty kitchen. No food was started. The table was covered with advertisements for the fair. “What are you fixing?” he asked dubiously.

“Why don’t you let me—” Julian began.

“Absolutely not,” I broke in, “you’re taking a break. I’m fixing pasta,” I said noncommittally to Arch. Pasta was always a safe bet. What did I have on hand? Hard to remember, since Tom had taken it upon himself to buy so many goodies for us.

“What kind?” my son wanted to know.

“Arch—”

“Maybe you’d just better let me order in from the Chinese place.”

“Hey, kiddo! What are you, the plumber’s son who can’t get his leaky sink fixed for a year? I’m going to cook dinner! I may be in professional food service, but I always fix the meals around here, don’t I?”

“Well, not always—” he began, but when he saw my glowering expression, he fell silent.

Julian came to my rescue. “Come on, Arch, let’s go listen to rock groups for a while.” Julian tousled Arch’s brown hair that stuck out at various angles. Since it was summertime, I never told him to comb it. Worrying about the prep school’s dress and appearance code didn’t start until fall.

Arch pulled away. “You don’t need to take care of me, Julian. I’m okay.”

“I’m not trying to take care of you. I really want to listen to some tunes.”

“But I can’t on an empty stomach!” He narrowed his eyes at me, not to be dissuaded. “What kind of pasta? Fettuccine?”