Killer Pancake

By the time I slipped behind the wheel of my van, I thought I was going to have a heart attack myself. As I drove back to Aspen Meadow, I inhaled deep yoga-exercise breaths. Claire Satterfield had been dead for three days. Nick Gentileschi had tumbled out of the blind today. His body hadn’t even twitched when it landed.

How long had he been dead? And then there was Reggie Hotchkiss, who had spied at the Mignon banquet, under cover of wig. In addition to all that, tonight I was catering a chi-chi dinner for a couple up to their wealthy ears in the imbroglio: Claire’s presumed lover, Dr. Charles Braithwaite, and Charlie’s wife, Babs, the woman Nick Gentileschi had been covertly photographing in the Prince & Grogan fitting rooms.

How did I get myself into these situations?

When my van chugged off the interstate at the Aspen Meadow exit, the rain clouds had cleared and left an immense bluer-than-blue sky. I passed the country club, where sunlight glinted off the roof of the Braithwaites’ greenhouse at its high point on Aspen Knoll. It was from there that the guests would finish munching their fudge cookies and watch the Fourth of July fireworks display over Aspen Meadow Lake. Which would give me some time to do some snooping around in the infamous greenhouse.

I swung the van up to our house and saw that Julian had returned and left the Range Rover at a slight angle in the driveway. I parked in the one available spot on the street. When I hopped out, Sally Routt, Dusty’s mother, was outside, pulling weeds. Her son Colin was on her back, snuggled into one of those corduroy baby-holders. I didn’t see Dusty, which was probably just as well. I couldn’t take any questioning on how the Hotchkiss facial had gone. Besides, I needed to phone Tom. I called a greeting to them, but Colin seemed fascinated by the mass of long-stemmed purple fireweed. Colin was so thin and tiny, it was hard to believe he was three months old. As he reached for a monarch butterfly on a fireweed stem, his little hand was dwarfed by the butterfly’s dark, outstretched wings. Deprived of his target, his head of gleaming strawberry-blond hair bobbed in my direction. Poor, sweet child, born too early, to a family that could scarcely manage to take care of him. I felt my heart squeeze inside my chest.

When I came through the security system, I smelled simmering onions, cooked potatoes, and … cigarette smoke. The latter seemed to be drifting down from the second story. At least it’s not hashish, I thought grimly as I took the stairs two at a time. In the spare bedroom at the front of the house, I found Julian sitting hunched over in the maple rocking chair I had used to rock Arch when he was an infant. Smoke curled from an unfiltered cigarette in his hands. His foot tapped the floor as he pushed back and forth. A small pile of ashes lay at his feet. He had not noticed me.

I said, “I’m back. What’s going on?”

He didn’t look around. His voice was morose, resigned. “Not much. I read your note and marinated the fruit. I cooked the potatoes and onions for the cucumber soup too.” His face twisted. “Did you find out any—?”

“Not yet. Actually, there’s some more bad news.” I sat down in the old love seat that now belonged to Scout the cat. “Want to hear it?”

“I guess.”

“Nick Gentileschi died at the store. He had an accident.”

Julian’s eyes opened in terror and disbelief. “What? The security guy? What happened? Does Tom know? What kind of accident?”

“Oh, Julian …” I sighed. “He fell out of one of those blinds. I don’t know more than that. I was just about to go call Tom. Want to come down?”

He seemed suddenly aware of the cigarette he held and tapped ashes into his palm, “I’ll be down in a little bit. Listen, Goldy, I’m sorry—”

“About what? I’m trying to help you—”

“It’s just that I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I’m not going to get hurt. Now, I know you probably don’t want to talk about this, but do you think you’re going to be up to helping me with the Braithwaites’ party?”

His “Sure” was anything but. I walked pensively down to the kitchen. Before I could call Tom, the phone rang. It was Arch. He rarely called from the Keystone condo because the Jerk, who lavished money on himself, complained about any extra dollar Arch cost him. The only exception to this rule was on those rare occasions when John Richard had done something—failing to show up was one of his favorites—that made him feel guilty. When John Richard was hit by a rare attack of conscience, Arch would get loaded down with gifts he would never use. In fact, when my son came home from one of these weekends toting a new mountain bike, skis, or Rollerblades, I knew there’d been trouble.

I gripped the phone and tried not to sound panicked. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s not about Dad, don’t worry. He’s asleep in the other room,” he said in a low voice. “I think he had too much to drink at lunch. He’s having a nap.”

“Too much to—” I let out an exasperated breath. “Arch, do you need me to come and get you?”