Killer Pancake

She drew out a Marlboro, held it up for my inspection, and I nodded. Much as I hated cigarettes, I knew Frances would get down to business more quickly if she had nicotine. She fished around in her purse for a lighter, brought one out along with a Jolt cola, lit the cig, popped the can top, inhaled, exhaled, and took a big swig from the can, all in a quick series of practiced motions.

“Okay,” she said presently, “I need more Mignon cosmetics and I don’t want them to get suspicious. So I was hoping you could get the stuff for me—”

“Oh, Frances, for heaven’s sake, I have so much to do today—”

“—and I’ve checked with my editor, and he wants you to cater a big shower, for his wife in two weeks, lots of guests, couples, a hundred people, name your price.” She smiled broadly and took another drag.

I guess I could spare five or ten minutes. “Look, Frances. I can’t spend a lot of time at that counter today. I have another appointment today, my friend is coming home from the hospital, and I have to cook for a big party tonight—”

“I know, I know, the Braithwaites’. But that’s not until tonight, and I was really hoping you could get this stuff for me today.” I sighed. When did she think caterers did their preparations? The cigarette dangled from the side of her mouth as she rooted around in her purse again and finally pulled out a list along with a plastic zip bag. She unzipped the bag and fanned out its contents: three hundred-dollar bills. Then she started reading the list: “Magic Pore-dosing Toner, thirteen ounce; Extra Rich Nighttime Replacement Moisturizer, ten ounce; Ultra Gentile Eye Cream Firmer, ten ounce…” She finished reading, inhaled, blew out a fat stream of smoke, then flicked her ashes over the side of the porch and handed me the money. She was probably the last person in the universe who would want to buy three hundred dollars’ worth of cosmetics. “Okay? Bring me the change—if there is any—and the receipt in the bag. I mean, not that I don’t trust you. But you know.”

“Sure, sure, Frances, whatever you want,” I replied, resigned. I’d long since found that it was easier just to give in to this most-persistent reporter.

Behind us, the screen door creaked open. A scowl darkened Frances’s face. She flicked her cigarette in the direction of the sidewalk and began to root around again in her purse.

“Goldy,” came John Richard’s angry voice, “would you mind leaving the kaffeeklatsch until later and getting your butt in here to look for … what the hell—”

His brow wrinkled and his dark eyes were fastened on Frances as if mesmerized. I followed his gaze back to Frances and saw she was pointing what looked like a hunting knife handle at John Richard’s solar plexus.

“Oh, Frances,” I snapped, “for heaven’s sake, put that away. What kind of thing is that anyway—”

But she paid me no heed. “Get off of this porch,” she said calmly to the Jerk. “This is a ballistic knife. The blade is projected from the handle by a spring-loaded device. John Richard Korman, I’ve just taken the safety off my ballistic knife. I am not in the mood for another baptism by bleach water—”

“Bitch!” the Jerk spat out in furious bewilderment. “I don’t know who you are or what your problem is—”

The muscles in Frances’s unmade-up face were steely. “Funny, I know who you are. And I know about Eileen Robinson, lying in Southwest Hospital with two broken ribs and a pair of bruised arms to match. And I know what happened to me yesterday in the company of Goldy, your not-amicably-divorced-from-you ex-wife. I was unprepared before, but that’s over.” She waved the knife handle. “I am not even slightly intimidated by you.” Sunlight glinted off the weapon. “Move.”

Arch whacked the screen door open. “Okay, Dad, I found my sparklers—” He careened into his immobile father. “What’s …” Then he noticed Frances and her weapon. His eyes and mouth opened wide. His eyebrows rose. “Uh. Excuse me? Mom? Should I call 911?”

My ears were ringing with frustration. What if Frances released the knife and it hit Arch? “No, no, don’t call. Just go with your dad. Frances, put that knife away. Please. Now.”

Frances did not flinch.

John Richard’s face was a study in fury. He stuck out his chin and curled his hands into fists. “I don’t know who you are, lady, but you’re confused. Not only that, but you are breaking the law.” She stared right back at him. “Do you have a permit to carry that? I doubt it. I doubt it very, very much.” He started in the direction of the porch steps. Down he went, with Frances’s ballistic knife following each step he took. As if to attract the attention of neighbors, the Jerk yelled, “You are menacing me, you bitch! Whoever the hell you are! Do you hear? I’m going to file a complaint.”

Frances retorted calmly, equally loudly, “Be my guest!”