Killer Pancake полностью

I downed the iced latte and told myself I had plenty to do; I could call her later. After an hour of schlepping food and dirty pans into the house, washing and putting equipment away, I called the hospital to check on Julian. Who was I, the operator wanted to know, next of kin, wife, what? A guardian? I said hopefully. A legal guardian? she asked. Well, no. Then no information could be released. Thanks loads.

I dialed Julian’s adoptive parents in Utah, told them briefly what had happened, and promised to keep them posted. Was Julian going to be all right? they wanted to know. Yes, I assured them. I told them Southwest Hospital had refused to give me any information about Julian’s condition and that they’d be better off phoning the hospital directly. Was he serious about this girl? his mother asked. My voice broke when I answered that he had seemed to be very serious about Claire. Next I called Tom at his desk and got his voice mail. I tried Marla again. Nothing.

Cook, my inner voice said. Get ahead on assignments. I consulted my calendar. Oh yes, the damn mall food fair. At the moment, I never wanted to see the mall again. But work was work. A Taste of Furman County was part of a big Fourth of July celebration the new mall owners had put together to lure people to shop over the long weekend rather than follow the more traditional pursuits of baseball and picnics. The benefit for Playhouse Southwest, at forty dollars a pop, looked as if it was going to make outrageous money. The fair would occupy the open-air top level of the mall garage. I’d taken the health department’s required course on the subject of serving food away from one’s established place of business, which was all I ever did anyway. Now all I had to do was prepare all the food.

I checked my watch: Wednesday, July 1, just before four in the afternoon. Claire’s death would surely be on the local news tonight and in the papers tomorrow. And speaking of journalism, nothing in this world would convince me that Frances Markasian was at the Mignon Cosmetics banquet for her health. Or for her beauty, for that matter. So what had she been looking for? I resolved to get going on the food. Then I’d give Tom another buzz.

I looked over the menu I’d planned for the opening day of the fair: baby back ribs with homemade barbecue sauce, steamed sugar snap peas with fresh strawberries vinaigrette, homemade bread, and vanilla-frosted fudge cookies. The barbecue sauce needed to simmer for hours before being slathered over the ribs. People can’t resist spare ribs, I reflected as thin, fragrant slices of onion fell from my knife. Ribs smelled great when they were cooking, and, like potato chips, one was never enough. When I added the onion to the simmering vinegar, tomato, and lemon of the sauce, a delectable scent perfumed my kitchen, and I began to relax. Needless to say, my newfound peace was interrupted by a jangling phone.

“You never tell me a damn thing,” Frances Markasian barked into the receiver. “I don’t know why you think we’re friends. I especially can’t understand why I helped you with those damned heavy boxes! Women can get hernias, you know.” I heard the striking of a match in the background, then a noisy inhalation. “You knew what went down at the mall this morning. And I had to wait to hear from the sheriff’s department’s public information office! The hell with you!” I could imagine Frances sitting at the edge of her ragged canvas-covered swivel chair next to her paper-strewn desk, chugging Jolt cola and working her way through the second of her three daily packs of cigarettes. Frances believed if she acted enough like a hotshot journalist, maybe she’d become one.

“The hell with me? That’s what you’re calling to tell me? You’re always saying,” I said as I stirred the aromatic sauce, “that you’re the journalist and I’m the cook. What did you want me to tell you?”

“Let’s start with what you know about Claire Satterfield. Were you in the garage when she was hit?”

I cradled the phone against my shoulder and slid the heavy, meaty slabs of pork into the oven. “C’mon, Frances, I’m already married to a cop. The last thing I need is for you to start acting like one,”

She took a drag and blew into the phone. “Uh-huh. And did you know your boarder-assistant guy, Julian Teller, was only the latest in Ms. Satterfield’s list of male conquests?”

“No, I didn’t.” And I certainly hoped Julian didn’t either. On an ordinary day I would have enjoyed sparring with Frances. Sometimes she was as good a source of information as Marla. But today was not ordinary, and I found her questions and insinuations annoying in the extreme. “Who told you Claire had other male conquests?”

“May I please speak to Julian?” Frances inquired sweetly.

“He’s in the hospital. He went into shock when he heard about Claire. Some people,” I added harshly, “have normal human emotions in response to death.”