Killer Pancake Part 13

I groaned. "Oh, that's just great." I took the cup of spiked coffee that Pete offered and wondered what Charles Braithwaite was doing first at Mignon, then at the food fair. Tom's words echoed in my ears: Someone who's too helpful ... someone who's always around ...

Frances demanded if Pete had seen anything. When he said no, she took a large swallow of her drink and said it was too hot. Did he have a phone, she wanted to know, she had to call her boss. Pete laughed. No phone. He handed us T-s.h.i.+rts and sweat pants that listed his location and all the curative powers of coffee. The man was an advertising genius. I turned back to my tall, blond savior. If that was what he was.

"Did you see what happened to us?" I asked. "Did you see anyone else come out of the tent?"

He shook his head. "I heard you," he replied. "Then the two of you stumbled out of the tent. I smelled the bleach, and then I came over...."

"Yes, thanks," I said lamely. He nodded. His light blue wrinkled rayon s.h.i.+rt, now streaked with liquid, fell un-fas.h.i.+onably from his thin shoulders. He was wearing dark slacks and old-fas.h.i.+oned tie-up saddle shoes. His canoelike feet were at least a size fourteen.

Frances blew noisily on her coffee, then turned her attentions to the tall man. "What are you doing here?" she demanded abruptly.

Charles Braithwaite blushed to the roots of his filament-like hair. The saddle shoes began to inch away. "Well, as I was telling your friend ... I was here because ... well, let's see ... I heard the two of you yelling-"

"What in the h.e.l.l-" Julian began as he rushed up, puffing. He was still wearing his serving clothes from the morning. "Goldy? And you?" He looked quizzically at Frances. "From the newspaper? Why are you all wet? Why is your hair all wrapped-? Dr. Braithwaite! What's going on ... why are you here?"

I looked curiously at our tall, gangly rescuer, who again mumbled something along the lines that he had to go.

"Goldy, what happened to you?" Julian demanded. "Did you all fall into some water, or what?"

"We'll be at your place tomorrow, on the Fourth," I said to an increasingly uncomfortable Charles Braithwaite. "Maybe you could show me your greenhouse-"

"No. I can't show anyone," mumbled Dr. Charles Braithwaite, embarra.s.sed. He brushed a shock of white hair out of his eyes. "You need to get some dry ..." His long fingers gestured awkwardly in my direction.

Irritated, Julian hovered over me. "What happened to you?" he asked again.

"Somebody threw a bucket of bleach water on us," I answered with resignation. "Whoever it was said there was a message at my booth. Frances was trying to help-"

Frances narrowed her eyes at Charles Braithwaite. Alarmed by the predatory a.s.sessment in them, the doctor began to sidle away. Unabashed, Frances caught him by his wet sleeve to halt his retreat. "Doctor Charles Braithwaite," she said in an accusing, parental tone. "Thanks for helping us, indeed. You were at the Mignon Cosmetics counter this morning. Now you're here. Just what kind of interest does a world-famous microbiologist have in a cosmetics company? Eh, Charlie-baby?" Holding Charles's sleeve with one hand and the wet turban on her head with the other, Frances glared ominously at her prey.

Being wet and disoriented can put one at a disadvantage. Not so Frances, whose crimson dress was already drying with a large orange stripe down its center. Over in the heart of the food fair, the jazz band returned from their break and began a blues riff. Charles Braithwaite glanced fearfully at me, then stared longingly in the direction of the jazz band, as if the soothing music could bail him out.

Julian, meanwhile, had followed our wet trail to the tent that had been my booth that morning and our attacker's hiding place this afternoon. He angrily whipped back the tent flaps and then quickly strode around the entire tent. At each corner he threw the flaps up, as if daring an intruder to be concealed there. At the back of the tent he stopped short. I s.h.i.+vered inside my cold, wet clothes and tried to ignore the fact that Frances was fiercely interrogating Charles Braithwaite concerning his interest in the mall and the food fair. Here at the mall for no reason? I wanted to say to him. Looking for your blue rose, maybe? It's at the sheriff's department. Julian came around the side of the tent holding a clear plastic bag with tape on it. He'd removed it from the table. Inside the plastic bag was a single sheet of paper. Julian ripped into the bag and offered me the contents.

It was one of those cryptic messages we used to send in school, where the words and letters are cut out of magazines or newspapers. This note said: GOLDILOCKS GO HOME. AND STAY THERE.

Well, I better, ah ... I need to be going," said Charles Braithwaite in a meek voice. He had somehow tugged free of Frances and was backing away. His wild, pale hair shone like a corona in the sunlight. "Glad to have been able to help. I have to meet somebody," he babbled as Frances made a step to follow him.

"I want to thank you again in person," I called after him. "Maybe tomorrow, at your place! Your Fourth of July party, you know? Remember?" He didn't respond, not even to wave, as he slunk swiftly away. I turned back to Julian, who was puzzling over the note. "Okay, kiddo," I said, "did you go with Dusty on some field trip to his place?"

"Oh, yeah. Don't you remember? It's awesome. But he's got a real hangup about security. He got all our names printed out on a list before we came in. Then he wanted to check our driver's licenses to make sure we were who we said we were, only not everybody had a license. And even though I think he believed we were who we said we were, Dr. Braithwaite still had covered some of his current experiments with tarpaulin before we came trooping through. It was a kick. Real secretive. You know, like he was the CIA or something."

"Did you see any roses? Experimental roses?"

"Oh, Goldy, he was doing all kinds of experiments. We just saw his equipment."

I said, "Hmm." Tom could take care of Charles Braithwaite and his experiments. I didn't know what to do about the note. My clothes were damp. My heart was still beating hard. If the mall security force was as distasteful as Prince & Grogan's, they wouldn't be much help. Call Tom asap, my inner voice warned. If you don't let him know you've been attacked, he's going to be mightily upset. "Listen, Julian, could you put the flaps down anti let me go into the tent and change? I still need to see Marla today."

He obeyed in silence. Frances, hands on the hips of her wet dress, squinted thoughtfully at the departing Charles Braithwaite. Then she gathered up the clothes Pete had given her and slipped into the tent next to me. The flap thumped down into place.

"What do you suppose is going on?" she hissed as I removed my sticky chef's jacket.

"I have no idea." I peeled off my skirt and decided to keep my underwear on. It was only slightly damp. But my skirt surely resembled one of Arch's tie-dying projects. My fingers grasped the dressing-room storage key, I slipped it into my splotched bra. I didn't even want to picture what bleach would do to my hair. My thoughts were on Charles Braithwaite. Why had he been up on the roof? Maybe there'd been a breach in his security. Had the blue rose been stolen from him? Why? And what possible connection could it-and Braithwaite-have with Claire's murder? I struggled into the clothes from Pete and rubbed my arms.

"I'll call you later," Frances said abruptly, "I need to go talk to our helper." She quickly gathered up her wet belongings and ducked out of the tent. I felt a surge of pity for Charles Braithwaite. But I envied Frances, too, as I was also desperate to know more about what the reclusive scientist was up to.

When I emerged from the tent wearing my new duds and shaking my damp hair, Julian was sitting on the concrete, looking depleted. Fairgoers gave him occasional curious glances. But most rushed around and past him, like stream water flowing around a rock.

"What is it?" I asked him. "Feeling sick?"

He didn't respond right away. Finally he looked at me. His face was patchy and covered with the familiar sheen of sweat produced by the exertion of cooking and serving. His eyes glittered with a wetness he wasn't about to acknowledge. "G.o.d, I don't know. I'm just so tired."

"I told you not to do that d.a.m.n chamber brunch." I helped him up. "How'd it go, anyway?"

His voice was weary. "Fine. And that's not it." He brushed himself off and rubbed his knuckles, raw from too much was.h.i.+ng, on his white caterer's s.h.i.+rt. "I called Tom, the way you said. He said that when they get here, Claire's parents are taking her body back to Australia. They're not even going to have a memorial service in Colorado."

"Julian, I'm sorry."

"It doesn't matter." His toneless voice wrenched my heart. "Something else. After the chamber brunch, Marla's nurse at the hospital called. She said they're moving Marla into a private room, and she was asking for her nightgowns and her mail, and would someone from her sister's family go get her stuff?" I cursed at myself for forgetting. "Anyway," Julian went on, "I said I was the nephew and I would. Marla told the nurse where the spare key was and so now everything is in my car. I thought I should bring it down. Since I was planning to come anyway."

Bless Julian. We picked up Marla's belongings from the Rover and I drove us to the hospital in the van. I checked the lobby's pay phones to call Tom. They were both in use. After some confusion at the reception desk, we found the right elevator and made our way to Marla's new private room. I clutched the jar of hand cream I'd bought at Prince & Grogan. Julian, his mouth pressed in a tight line, held a grocery sack full of bedclothes and mail. When we were on the right floor, I asked at the nurses' station when Marla was expected to be discharged. The on-duty nurse smiled and said probably tomorrow, and they certainly were going to miss her! I grinned back. Sure.

"Oh, I swear, finally!" Marla said when we entered the room. She was lying in bed, looking even more uncomfortable and depressed than the day before. Tony Royce, a thick-mustached equities a.n.a.lyst who was Marla's current boyfriend, sat on a ventilation unit next to a window. In a corner of the room sat a nurse, one I recognized from the Coronary Care Unit.

The nurse announced softly: "Two visitors, Miss Korman."

Marla said, "Tony, I need to see my family. Okay?"

Tony Royce appraised Julian and me the way you would cattle, then snorted. "They're not your family!" But he propelled himself off the ventilation unit anyway and sauntered toward the door. Because my income did not allow me to invest heavily in equities, Tony viewed me as being from a lower rung on the evolutionary ladder. I didn't much like him, either, but I kept that to myself. Usually, like now, I ignored him.

"How are you? "I asked Marla gently. "Did the atherectomy go okay?"

Marla raised a warning finger and whispered, "I guess so. It's over, that's the best part. Notice the private room and nurse?" I nodded. For the first time in three days, I saw a tiny, brief smile cross Marla's face. I guessed she'd finally convinced someone to look up her record of contributions to the hospital. I smiled too, but then noticed Tony Royce standing by the door. Since Tony had not been to the hospital since Marla had her attack, he was probably feeling as bereft as I had the first day. On the other hand, his relations.h.i.+p with Marla rested largely on the fact that she was one of his best clients. Maybe he was just being difficult.

"I'm sorry," the nurse said with more insistence, "the patient can't have more than two visitors."

I glanced at Julian. His eyes pleaded with mine. I relented. "Okay," I said. "Stay here and I'll walk out with Tony."

"Oh, thanks a lot," Tony said jokingly as I took him by the arm and propelled him out the door and into the hall.

"Come on, you've been with her today and we haven't," I told him. "Besides, I need to ask you a financial question."

"You? A financial question?" He looked at my borrowed outfit. "What, coffee futures? You're talking about a lot of money."

"What do you know about a company run by someone called Reggie Hotchkiss?"

"You mean Hotchkiss Skin & Hair?" When I nodded, he ma.s.saged his mustache with his index finger. "Not much. Why, Goldy? You interested in the stock? I'm not sure they're publicly owned."

"I'm interested in the company. Can't you just find out how they're doing? I'll pay you in cookies."

He snorted again and said he'd see what he could do. He gave another you've-got-to-be-kidding a.s.sessment of my damp hair and sweatsuit proclaiming the virtues of Pete's coffee.

Back in the private room, the drabber-than-yesterday's hospital gown and absence of her usual twinkling barrettes and jewelry made Marla's depressed visage seem even more washed out than during either of my previous visits.

"Do you ... want me to stay?" Julian asked Marla when I returned. He hesitated, perched beside a turquoise chair of molded plastic. "I know you probably need to be with Goldy. I just ... wanted to bring you your stuff. And see how you were doing."

The juxtaposition of needing to see one person and perhaps wanting to see another was not lost on Marla. "Stay," she said weakly. "I need as many friends as I can get, at this point. And the nurse says I can have longer visits now, anyway."

"Thirty minutes," came the calm admonition from the corner.

Marla held out her hand to Julian. "Here I am thinking of myself, and I understand you've had the worst news. I'm so sorry about Claire."

Julian took her hand and looked at it. His shoulders slumped.

"Thanks, Marla. I'm sorry too."

Eventually he let go of her hand and flopped into the chair. I asked her how she felt now that she'd survived the atherectomy. She told me to lean in close, then whispered that her groin and back were still killing her. Then she told us she'd talked to the private nurse arranged to start when she came home. The nurse would double as a driver, and this seemed to relieve her. I sat in Tony's place by the window. The ventilation unit blew chilled air out onto my calves. Outside the window, people of all ages in athletic gear walked and jogged around a paved track. They weren't patients, I wagered, but doctors, nurses, and administrators. In any event, it wasn't exactly the view I'd want if I'd just had a heart attack while running. I thought I could see Dr. Lyle Gordon lumbering through his laps. If Marla could have seen him, she would have made a joke about it. That was her way. But she was still flat in the bed, and every few minutes her mood seemed to sink a little lower. The three of us sat for a while, saying nothing.

"How's Arch?" Marla asked finally.

Julian and I fell over each other saying how great Arch was, wearing his Panthers s.h.i.+rt and doing tie-dying, and looking for old Beatles and Herman's Hermits records.

"I think I have some Eugene McCarthy b.u.t.tons in my attic," Marla said feebly.

We all fell silent again, the brief spark in our conversation like a fire gone cold.

"Well, show me what you brought," Marla tried again.

Julian picked up the bag and delicately unloaded the articles and mail onto the foot of the bed. I picked up the bedclothes and folded them into reasonable clumps before stacking them on the bedstand within Marla's reach. Marla took the pile of mail from Julian and sorted through it without interest.

"Oh, boy, the doctor's not going to like this," she said, holding up a postcard. She read, "From my mother, postmarked Lucerne. 'Have found a perfectly wonderful couple to hang around with and will be going to their chateau for a month! I'll write again when I have their address.'" She tossed the postcard on the floor. "So much for Mom coming in to lend a hand."

"Jeez," said Julian, "can't you write to her General Delivery or something?"

"It's one thing if it's Bluff, Utah, Big J.," Marla told him affectionately. "It's another if it's the entire country of Switzerland. This couple probably latches on to Americans and brings them to their rented chateau to give them a big pitch and swindle them out of millions of dollars on some stock deal in Mexico. Wouldn't be the first time for dear Mom. I actually think she enjoys it."

She stared at another postcard. "I already told good old Lyle Gordon all he needs to know about our family history. I got the 'you are-going-to-die-if-you-don't-change-your-ways' speech." She gave me a mournful look. "No more goodies from Goldy's kitchen." She sighed again and turned her face toward the window. "G.o.d, I'm better off dead."

"Don't worry," I said, too quickly. "I'm going to cook all lowfat food for you. And it'll be so delicious you won't be able to tell it's good for you."

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 hoa.r.s.e 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. G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+fted 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.

Now Marla seemed to be having trouble breathing. But she inhaled and struggled onward anyway. The nurse in the corner looked up from her notes. The EKG machine did not seem to be registering any distress, however, so she stayed put. Marla went on. "No, no, at the Braithwaites' big estate, do you know them? She's quite the socialite and he's a-"

"Scientist," I said. "I know. Please don't talk about it Marla, do you need the nurse to come over here?"

She pressed her dry lips together and shook her head. "Do you know the people having the party?"

"Yes, of course I know them. But I thought you knew them. I'm catering the dinner, for goodness' sake. And Babs Braithwaite said you recommended me." I thought back to Babs's chatter about Marla. I said, almost to myself, "So how did she hear about me if you didn't-"

"Oh, Goldy, for heaven's sake!" interjected Julian in a harsh whisper. "You've got ads. You're in the Yellow Pages! You're doing the food fair. Why does it matter how she heard about you?"

Marla had fallen asleep. Her chest rose and fell regularly. Julian and I tiptoed out of the hospital room and stopped in the hall.

I faced Julian suddenly. "I'll tell you why it matters. Babs Braithwaite lied."

He gave me a patronizing look. "This is the Braithwaites we're talking about? The scientist who's married to the woman who slammed into the Rover"-he demonstrated by whacking his hands together-"when she said I didn't put on my turn signal? Which I did."

"The very same."