Killer Pancake gbcm-5

by Diane Mott Davidson

  ⅓ cup nonfat dry milk

  1½ cups skim milk or more as needed

  1½ tablespoons Wondra instant-blending flour

  2 tablespoons light process cream cheese product (not nonfat)

  ⅔ cup grated parmesan cheese 9 ounces cholesterol-free fettuccine

  ½ cup chopped arugulaHeat a medium-size nonstick sauté pan. Remove from the heat and spray with vegetable oil spray. Add the onion and sauté over medium heat until limp, about 5 or 10 minutes. Add the asparagus and the garlic, cover the pan, and turn off the heat. (The steam from the onion will cook the asparagus.)In a large skillet, combine the dry milk and skim milk and whisk until blended. Add the flour, stir, and cook over medium-high heat until thickened. In a small bowl, add 2 tablespoons of the hot sauce to the cream cheese and stir until smooth. Return this mixture to the hot sauce. Add the Parmesan and stir until melted. Keep hot. If the mixture becomes too thick, thin it out with small amounts of skim milk. The consistency should be like cream, not gravy.Cook the fettuccine in boiling water according to the package directions until it is al dente; drain. Add the hot pasta and the garlic and the vegetables to the sauce in the skillet. Stir and cook over medium-low heat until heated through. Serve garnished with chopped arugula.Serves 4Note: To bake the garlic, preheat the oven to 350°. Place a whole head of garlic in a small baking pan. Drizzle one teaspoon of olive oil over the head of garlic; add ¼ cup water to the pan. Bake the garlic, loosely covered with aluminum foil, for 45 to 60 minutes or until the cloves are soft. The cloves will slip right out of their skins to be mashed, chopped, or served whole. The whole garlic cloves can be served as a side dish with any roast meat; the mashed garlic cloves are also delicious mixed with hot homemade mashed potatoes.

  It was the bleach water, and the warning to go home, that made me realize I had to figure out what was going on with the murder of Claire Satterfield, no matter what Tom said. Instead of Frances Markasian being at my side when the chlorine came sailing through the air, it could have been Julian.

  It could have been Arch.

  Whoever had tried to warn me off would stop at nothing, it seemed. So I was in this thing until the bitter end.

  With that decided, I grated the pungent Parmesan cheese into golden strands. Then I rummaged through my cabinets for something that would be like cream and decided on mixing nonfat dry milk into skim milk. It didn’t sound as good as whipping cream, it certainly didn’t look as good as whipping cream, and I wasn’t sure if it would taste anything like, that favorite—and marvelously fattening—ingredient of food service people. But the mixture didn’t have any fat in it, so it was definitely worth a shot. For Marla. I also retrieved a package of lowfat cream cheese from my refrigerator—one of the remnants of the Mignon banquet vegetable dip saga—and decided to blend some of that into the sauce, for richness. Or simulated richness, I thought dutifully, as I slowly poured the dry milk mixture over the flour and began to whisk vigorously.

  As I stirred I tried to reflect. What could I deduce from my latest visit to the mall? I was becoming quite an expert on that place: the location of the covered catwalk around the entrance, called a “blind” by the security people who liked to lurk there, the intricacies of hidden cameras trained and focused on customer transactions, the not-so-obsolete one-way mirrors. I glanced out my window. The pale leaves of the aspen trees in my backyard shuddered in the wind. The saxophone music lilting through the open windows made me think of Dusty—poor, eager, friendly Dusty, expelled from Elk Park Prep, losing a potential boyfriend in the form of Julian, losing another friend in the form of Claire, stepped on by ambitious fellow sales associate Harriet. And living in a house built by Habitat for Humanity, which was certainly a long way from the Aqua Bella mansion she’d yearned for aloud when we were sipping coffee on the mall’s garage roof. But looking back on her exchange with Reggie Hotchkiss, it seemed to me that she’d been radiant, teasing, even flirtatious, before they’d argued. If it really was an argument, and not just more of a tease. In that relationship, Dusty was the sought-after one. Dusty was the one with information. Or so, perhaps, Reggie Hotchkiss had made it appear.

  And then I thought of Harriet, perfectly coiffed, ambitious, keeping her distance from the inquisitive Reggie, even attempting to prevent Dusty from talking to him. Harriet had been working at that Mignon counter a lot longer than Dusty had, why didn’t Reggie Hotchkiss ask her questions? Perhaps he had, or he’d tried to, yet she was loyal to the company. She certainly wouldn’t want to jeopardize her commissions by telling secrets to the rival Hotchkiss Skin & Hair. Or would she?

  And what about the Braithwaites? Charlie was obsessed by more than science, that much was clear. Had he dropped the improbably hued rose near Claire’s body? Why was Babs hanging out—literally—above the cosmetics counter, when I was hauled away by Stan White, Nick Gentileschi’s henchman? Did Babs know what was going on between Charlie and Claire, if anything?

  I scooped out some of the thickened cream sauce into the dollops of cream cheese, whisked them together, then stirred the mixture back into the sauce. While this was heating I sautéed the red onion and then added the smashed cloves of baked garlic and the asparagus, covered the pan, and put it aside. The water was boiling. I dropped in the ribbons of pasta, decided to serve it with a salad of fresh raspberries and lightly steamed baby peas, and turned my attention to dessert.

  If we were going to have pasta with vegetables, then we could handle a dark, rich dessert. I decided on the fudge soufflé that I’d stumbled upon in my attempt to make Nonfat Chocolate Torte. When chocolate chips and skim milk were heating in the top of a double boiler, I beat egg whites with sugar, salt, and vanilla until they were fluffed and opaque. Then I swirled the chocolate and egg white mixtures together and put the resulting dark cloud of chocolate back in the double boiler to cook while we ate dinner. Next I stirred the shredded Parmesan into the fettuccine, vegetables, and sauce, heated this until the luscious-looking concoction was just bubbling, and called the boys. I looked at my watch: six forty-five. Amazing. Not that Arch would appreciate my culinary speed and skill, however.

  I put a call in to Tom and again got his voice mail. I told him we were eating the most delectable goodies for dinner that he could possibly imagine, and the later he got home, the less likely it was that he would get some. Mean, I knew, but tactics were tactics.

  And delectable the meal was. The cheesy, thickened cream sauce coated every delicate strand of fettuccine and crunchy bite of asparagus. The salad was light and refreshingly tart. Arch ate hungrily. Julian consumed nearly nothing. When I asked if they wanted fudge soufflé for dessert, he merely shrugged. As I began to clear the dishes, I again suggested to Julian that he go to bed instead of trying to help dean up or work on the Braithwaites’ party. He wouldn’t be much help on the Fourth if he was too exhausted to do anything. To my surprise, he assented and trudged up to his bunk. Arch, ecstatic that he’d get a double portion of dessert, gleefully sneaked away with it to the television room.

  Grateful for the quiet, I started to rinse dishes and place them in the dishwasher. It was half past eight So much for Tom making it home for dinner. But as soon as I had that thought, the front-door latch popped.

  Tom strode in, stood at the kitchen threshold, opened his arms, and said, “You look beautiful.”

  Hard to ignore my runaway, bleach-splotched hair, my face streaked with makeup, Pete’s oversize Virtues of Coffee sweatsuit. “Is that a joke?”

  He circled me in an enormous hug. “Never,” he whispered in my ear. For the first time that day, I relaxed. But then I tensed, trying to think of how to explain my appearance.

  “Some … bleach water spilled on me today.” It was sort of the truth. Half of the truth.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to ask. How’s Marla?” His mouth close to my ear sent shivers down my spine.

  “Surviving. Want to taste some of the lowfat food I’m teaching myself to cook for her? Want to hear how I got into trouble today?”


  “Do I have to? I’d rather do something else,” he murmured.

  “Incorrigible.”

  “Beautiful.”

  “Later.”

  On that hopeful note, he reluctantly pulled away from me. I poured him a glass of red wine, started the fettuccine reheating, and asked if he’d listened to the voice mail.

  “Oh, yes,” he replied with a broad smile. “Yes, yes. And I listened to my other messages too. Had a little visit with the horticultural powers that be. Seems Charles Braithwaite, Ph.D., is in the process of getting the blue rose patented, which takes quite a while. One thing you have to do when you’re patenting a flower? You name it.” I put a plateful of the steaming pasta in front of him. He wound up a spoonful of the fettuccine and downed it. His bushy eyebrows arched upward. “Gosh, Goldy, this is delicious. Lowfat?”

  FUDGE SOUFFLÉ

  ½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder

  ½ cup confectioners’ sugar

  1 cup skim milk

  ⅓ cup semisweet chocolate chips

  5 egg whites

  ¼ cup sugar

  ½ teaspoon vanilla extract Lowfat whipped topping (optional)Whisk the cocoa powder, confectioners’ sugar, and milk in the top of a double boiler over boiling water until smooth. Add the chocolate chips and stir until the chips are melted. Stir and lower the heat to simmer.In a large bowl, beat the egg whites until soft peaks form. Gradually add sugar and beat until stiff peaks form. Fold the vanilla and ½ cup of the chocolate mixture into the egg white mixture.Bring the water in the bottom of the double boiler back to a boil. Stir the chocolate-egg white mixture into the chocolate mixture in the top of the double boiler. Using and electric beater or a whisk, beat this mixture for a minute or until it is well combined. Cover the double boiler and continue to cook over boiling water for 25 to 30 minutes or until the soufflé is puffed and set. Serve with lowfat whipped toping, if desired.Serves 4

  “Don’t act so surprised. What’s Braithwaite going to name the rose? And did you do any research on Hotchkiss?”

  His green eyes twinkled. “Charles Braithwaite was naming his blue rose the Claire Satterfield.”

  “Good Lord!”

  Arch stuck his head into the kitchen, waved to Tom, and announced he was going up to bed early. I must have looked stunned. At the beginning of July, Arch was rarely willing to hit the sack earlier than he did during the school year.

  “But—” I began.

  Arch pulled his mouth into a tight scowl. “I just don’t want Julian to think I’ve abandoned him.”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t think you’ve—”

  But he was gone. I didn’t go after him because the phone rang. It was Tony Royce. While Tom savored the fettuccine and polished off the salad, Tony informed me that Hotchkiss Skin & Hair was a privately held company that didn’t have to report its profits and losses to shareholders, so the information he’d been able to get for me was sketchy.

  “That’s okay,” I told him. My pencil was poised. “Sketchy is better than zilch.”

  “Hotchkiss Skin & Hair needs a face-lift, Goldy. We’re talking major surgery.”

  “Skip the puns, Tony—”

  But he was on a roll. “I mean,” he persisted, “we’re talking a company that puts a new wrinkle on financing!” I know Tony and Marla had fun together, and that she thought he was brilliant with money. But the substance of their relationship, I had to admit, I just didn’t understand.

  “And their financial status is …?” I prodded.

  “Who are you talking to?” Tom suddenly wanted to know.

  “Just a sec, Tony.” I covered the phone. “Marla’s boyfriend. He’s an equities analyst, and he looked into Hotchkiss Skin & Hair for me.”

  Tom was incredulous. “Doing the financial check on the company is our job. What are you doing?”

  I said defensively, “I just happened to run into Tony at the hospital. Ill tell you all about it.”

  “You’d better.”

  “Okay, Tony,” I said back into the phone, ignoring the expression on Tom’s face, “what’s their financial status?”

  Tony Royce snorted. “Terrible, terrible. Hotchkiss has been giving facials for years, when women thought they needed them and would line up out the door to get one. But from a business standpoint, facials aren’t exactly a big growth industry these days. They’re labor-intensive. Which means expensive, and you can’t do a huge markup on them. And, unless you’ve got a steady demand from the carriage trade to sustain your business, you’re out of luck.” He paused to sigh, taking deep satisfaction from being the man in the know. “But baby-boomer women … now, there’s an interesting demographic group. The ones who have money mostly work outside the home, and they don’t have time for facials. Or,” he said with a chuckle, “no advertising genius has yet convinced these women that they need to have facials. So Mama Hotchkiss, sensing she needed to change with the times, decided to launch a new set of products designed for these very same baby-boomer women. It was called Renewal. Didja ever buy any Renewal, Goldy? I mean,” he chuckled, “not that you need it or anything.”

  “Can’t say that I made that purchase, Tony.”

  Another lugubrious sigh. “Neither did anybody else. Renewal flopped. Big-time. Mama Hotchkiss went to the bank for a loan. Nobody was biting, even when she offered free facials. Bankers don’t like facials, Goldy. They prefer to look intimidating and ugly inside their expensive suits so that customers will bow down, scrape, and lick the floor.”

  Speaking of licking and scraping, I checked on the soufflé that I was trying to keep warm for Tom. It was still dark and puffed. I removed the double-boiler top from the heat. I’d found that working with food often helps when listening to arrogant people on the telephone.

  “So,” he persisted, “what do you think happened?”

  “Renewal flopped, just as you said,” I replied. “But the business didn’t go under. So … if a cake I’d staked my reputation on flopped, and I didn’t lose the business, I’d develop a cookie. Or a torte. You have to sell something.”

  “Take you out of that apron and put you in a banker’s suit, Goldy.”

  High praise indeed, considering the source. “Thanks. So Hotchkiss started to look for new products? But they needed more money for that, so they went to some pal of yours.”

  “Hey. I know everyone in the Denver financial community, and I’ve lived here for only a little over a year.”

  “You’re marvelous. Forget the cookies, I’m going to have to pay you in brownies.”

  Tony made a long hmmm noise. “So they got a loan to develop new products. Their business plan was drawn up by none other than—”

  “Reggie Hotchkiss!” I concluded triumphantly.

  “If you knew all this, why’d you ask me?” He sounded peeved.

  “I didn’t know any of it, Tony. You did sketchy for me, I just filled in the holes. How long does Hotchkiss Skin & Hair have to prove themselves?”

  “They report to my banker friend next month. But he’s been getting glowing reports from Reg. They’ve got a new line, they’re guaranteed success. Everyone makes piles of money.”

  Yes, I knew all about their new line, it was fresh from Mignon Cosmetics. But I decided not to mention that to Tony. I asked him how and when I could deliver the promised brownies to him. He said he’d be at the Braithwaites’ party tomorrow night, and hadn’t a little bird told him I was catering that party? You bet, I said, and hung up.

  I told Tom what I’d learned. He even took out his trusty spiral notebook and jotted down a few notes. Then, while he watched in amusement, I flipped through the phone book, located Hotchkiss Skin & Hair, and put in a call. Lucky for me, the corporate number had a tape saying if I wanted a facial or any one of their products, leave my name and number. Someone would get back to me just as soon as one of their skin-care staff became available.

  I summoned a frantic voice. My newly discovered acting ability was going to get me into deep trouble
one of these days, but right now I had to admit I was rather enjoying it. “This is Goldy Schulz calling, and I need a facial at your earliest convenience! I … I saw a brochure of your new product line and I want to buy everything. Everything. I need it! You have to understand, I’m desperate! I know you all are the ones who can help me!” I left my number and disconnected.

  “Woman,” Tom mused as he rinsed off his dish. “Sometimes I don’t know what to think about you.”

  I ladled scoopfuls of hot fudge soufflé into bowls and spooned on lowfat whipped topping. I handed one to Tom. “I’ve told you all I know. Now, what did you find out about Hotchkiss? And what about Shaman Krill? What he’s up to?”

  Tom shook his head and took a bite. “Oh, God.”

  Oh, God, was right. The fudge soufflé was warm and rich, and melted on the tongue, just the way the thousand-calories-a-bite hot fudge sundaes did. Marla was going to love this. “Tom? What did you find out?”

  He wrinkled his brow and dug into the soufflé. “Hotchkiss is in trouble financially. Desperately needs to have success with his new line.”

  “If you knew all that, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I have ways of investigating that don’t involve sleazy characters like Tony Royce.”

  I sighed. “So you don’t mind if I get a facial?”

  “’Course not. Just don’t—”

  “Get into trouble, I know.” I felt guilty not telling him about the bleach water and the threatening note, but I knew he would halt my sleuthing around immediately if I ’fessed up. “There’s a ton of fudge soufflé here,” I warned him. “Both of the guys went to bed already, so I hope you’ll eat more.”

  He gestured with his spoon. “Remember when you were living with the Farquhars, and you told me all about how chocolate was an aphrodisiac?” I nodded, and he picked up our bowls and put them in the sink. Then he pulled me up from my seat. It was so unexpected that I laughed. Maybe because he’d been gone so much lately, it felt as if we were going to be newlyweds forever. He kissed my cheek, then my other cheek, then my ear. “Isn’t that what you told me? You’re such a great caterer. To do all that research, I mean.” He narrowed one eye and arched one of those bushy brows. “Tell you what, though, I’ve always thought of myself as a good cop.”