“A great cop,” I corrected him, and kissed him back.
“But I certainly,” he said as he scooped me up easily into his arms, “never”—I squealed as he started to walk out of the kitchen—“ever,” he said emphatically as he carried me up the stairs to our bedroom, “had this much fun doing police work in my entire life.”
So much for second helpings.
Saturday morning, July 4, brought a very early call for Tom. His subsequent departure accompanied a mumbled farewell to me that I thought included words about bail. But I was still half-asleep, and registered only the loss of his body heat from our bed.
At half past five I gave up on slumber. Daylight had invaded our bedroom, and the morning concert of birds was in full swing. I was exhausted. I’d crept downstairs at midnight when I heard Julian talking on the phone. His tone had been the one he used with friends—confiding, pleading. I can’t stop thinking about her. When they take the body, it’ll be like she’s really dead. Why would someone do this? I’d felt guilty listening in and tiptoed back upstairs. Now, with another food fair day looming and no relief in sight for Julian’s pain, I felt as if it was all too much.
I pushed the window open, took a deep breath of cool, sweet air, and gazed at the bowl of ultra-blue Colorado sky. Stretching up to the horizon, vast expanses of pines covered the closest mountains like thick waves of forest-green needlepoint. Brilliant chartreuse groves of aspens in full leaf patched the deep green undulating over the hills. The air was extremely still. Aspen Meadow Lake offered a plate-glass reflection of the spruces and ponderosa pines lining its shore. With any luck, this weather would hold through the food fair and the fireworks at Aspen Meadow Lake.
I went through a slow yoga routine, fixed myself a cappuccino, and moved efficiently around the kitchen to assemble more ribs, salad, bread, and cookies. I caught sight of the bag that had held Marla’s hand cream and realized it was finally Saturday. The day Marla was due home. Also the day Claire’s parents were arriving from Australia to claim her body.
I sat at the kitchen table and tried to remember if Julian had told me what he was doing today. Had I failed him in not being around during this painful time? At least during the night he’d been seeking companionship by talking to someone on the phone. I sipped the last of the cold coffee, rinsed my cup, and caught sight of a note Julian had left under a refrigerator magnet. He had arranged to get together with some school buddies. Would I please, he wanted to know, leave him instructions for preparing the Braithwaites’ Fourth of July party tonight? I’ll be home by ten AM., and I want to learn how to do that turkey curry, he wrote in his small, cramped script, so don’t just give me the easy stuff! And then—Did you find out anything about Claire? J.
Grief tightened my throat. In two months Julian would be at Cornell. A year ago, he’d needed a place to live for his high school senior year, a salary for his work with the catering business, and a short course in food service before he began his official college studies in food science. But the tight family unit we’d developed since had come as a bonus, a surprise, a slice of what the theologians call grace. Now his departure loomed like a black hole. I punched buttons on my kitchen computer to bring up the menu for the Braithwaites. My mind mulled Julian’s last plea: Did you find out anything about Claire? No, Julian. Nothing helpful. Nothing to answer your questions or to ease your pain. Nothing to explain why I—and by extension, my family—was being threatened. Yet.
Through an effort of pure will, I pushed the sadness aside. I wanted to help Julian patch his shattered young life back together. That would be my farewell present.
In the interim, it was time to work. My screen held the lowfat menu Babs Braithwaite had ordered: Cucumber-Mint Soup, Barbecued Fruit Skewers, Turkey Curry with Raisin Rice and Condiments, Vegetable Slaw, Homemade Rolls, Frosted Fudge Cookies. Honestly, lowfat food was beginning to dominate my life. The printer spat out the menu while I checked that we had all the ingredients for the curry and the cookies. I removed ground turkey from the freezer to thaw, then chopped onions and apples for the sauce. I scrawled a note to Julian that he could start by chopping the fruit for the barbecue skewers.
The phone rang and I gave my usual greeting: “Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right!”
“Ah, may I speak with Miss Shulley?” The voice was high and extremely snooty. I figured it was a wrong number, but the caller plowed on to explain: “This is Hotchkiss Skin & Hair. Is Miss Shula available? She requested an urgent appointment for skin treatment and asked to order all the products from our catalogue. I was wondering how she planned to pay for her order.”
My blood ran cold. I’d never even had a facial, and here I was, a not-well-to-do caterer ordering all kinds of hideously expensive products and making an appointment for a treatment—which the woman pronounced with the same kind of awe usually reserved for electroshock therapy—under false pretenses. The caller was bound to ask all kinds of questions I was not prepared to answer—What is your skin type, or do you even know? Is this your first visit? How many years of neglect are we talking about? I pressed my lips together and wondered how much of a drain it was going to be—from time, money, and emotional reserves—to find out exactly what Reggie Hotchkiss was up to.
“This is Mrs. Schulz. I made the call. And I have a coupon for the facial.”
The voice became instantly ingratiating. “Oh, Mrs…. Zult, we can take you at your earliest convenience. There’s no problem with scheduling a skin treatment. And of course we’ll also provide you with all the products you requested. How soon can you make it in today, and do you plan to pay by check or credit card?”
Why did she need to know this? Did they have people stiff them for soap and moisturizer? “Ah … well, I live up in Aspen Meadow—”
“In the country club area? Or in Flicker Ridge?”
Needless to say, the answer to that question was neither of the above, although I catered in million-dollar homes in those areas quite often. I imagined my interrogator with a pen poised over the same kind of client card that Dusty had filled out for me at Mignon. I said, “How much … er … time should I allow?”
“Well, Mrs…. Shoop, that depends on what you would like us to do for you. What problems are you having with your skin?”
“Aah …” What problems, exactly? “My … er … face is in a state of crisis. I … don’t feel as if I’m as attractive as I could be.”
“Mrs. Chute,” purred the smug voice, “that’s why we’re here! You’d best allow two hours for a facial and makeup application. That’s not very long to undo several decades of abuse.”
Decades of abuse sounded a bit extreme, but I said only, “Two hours? I can be there by one. How do I get there from Westside Mall?”
She explained where in the Aqua Bella neighborhood Hotchkiss Skin & Hair was located. I could drive or I could walk.
“And with the coupon,” I said uneasily, “just how much more will it cost to undo several decades of … complexion problems?”
She told me. I said I’d put the whole thing on my credit card, hung up, then grabbed the counter to keep from fainting.
“Gosh, Mom.” Arch entered the kitchen from the direction of the TV room. He pushed his glasses up his nose. “Now what?” Today’s tie-dyed T-shirt was a symphony of bilious colors.
“Remember … when your soles separated from your sneakers and I couldn’t afford to buy you a new pair?”
“Only dorks call them sneakers these days, Mom. But okay, sure. That was in November of sixth grade. You got me some new athletic shoes at Christmas. So?”
“I’m about to spend the cash equivalent of ten pairs of athletic shoes.”
Arch, being a literal fellow, looked at my feet. “Why’d you do that?”
“’Cuz my face needs it.”
He slowly raised his large brown eyes behind their tortoiseshell glasses from the floor to my face. “Am I missing something here?”
“Oh, Arch. I’m sorry. You
went to bed early, and now you’re up early. What you’re missing is a nice breakfast. How about some?”
Unlike the previous day, he brightened. You never could tell with kids, when they would be hungry. But breakfast, unlike the world of beauty, was something we both understood. Since Marla was coming home in the late morning, I resolved to prepare a dish that I could take over and leave for the private nurse to heat up in Marla’s kitchen. Something healthful that wasn’t oatmeal. If I worked quickly, I’d still be able to set up for the food fair with time to spare. Watched by my ravenous son, I began to measure flour and whip yet more egg whites. Something beautiful and appealing to the eye and to the tongue. Something breakfast-y that would satisfy Marla’s sweet tooth. Something that could be frozen and reheated without catastrophe.
Within moments I was dropping dollops of batter speckled with fruit cocktail on a nonstick cookie sheet, and feeling pretty smug. Arch transported the food for the fair out to the van, and by the time he was finished, a delicious pancake aroma swirled through the kitchen.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” he said as he mixed Dutch cocoa powder with sugar to make hot chocolate. “Julian’s gone to visit some friends. He left early. And Tom left early too. Tom said to tell you Krill is an actor. I thought krill lived in the ocean.”
I said I wasn’t exactly sure, but I thought Krill was just some weird guy who was very convincing acting like a weird guy. I brought out the cookie sheet with the fruit-cocktail pancakes. Arch oohed approvingly at the golden, puffed rounds. He heated maple syrup—a mail-order gift from his grandparents, who doted on him—while I put together a fresh strawberry sauce for Marla.
When his mouth was full, Arch said, “You m’berd’s c’ming early f’ me today?” When I glared, he swallowed and repeated: “You remember Dad’s coming early for me today? We’re going over to his condo for the Fourth. I think Keystone puts on some fireworks. Now do you remember? Not as good as Aspen Meadow Lake, probably,” he added, no doubt to console me.
“No,” I said lightly, “I didn’t remember, thanks for reminding me. Are you packed?”
“Sort of. I still have to find my sparklers. Hey, Mom! These pancakes are awesome … I mean, cool! You should call them Killer Pancakes!” He shoveled in a few more mouthfuls. I looked out my kitchen window and found myself wishing for some of that soothing saxophone music. But at this hour, the only sound was the morning rush of traffic down Aspen Meadow’s Main Street, topped by a louder, closer sputter of a foreign car coming down our road. The sound was familiar, and I knew it the way I knew the sound of the mailman’s old grinding Subaru. But I couldn’t place it. Then I did hear a familiar roar—the Jerk’s Jeep. I sighed and headed for the front door to let him in before he staged some sort of stunt. He’d never touched me when Arch was present. On the other hand, when it came to my ex-husband, there was always a first time for most things bad.
I opened the door and he strode in angrily. He bellowed for Arch. He seemed loaded for bear, although I judged him to be sober. Of course, I’d been wrong about that before too.
“In the kitchen!” was Arch’s fearful response.
“Don’t mind me,” I said as I started to close the front door, then thought better of it and left it ajar.
John Richard bent over Arch’s plate which held only a half-pancake in a puddle of syrup. Then he slowly moved his eyes to stare into the half-full cup of hot chocolate. Arch, who had stopped eating, gave me a confused glance.
John Richard rasped, “Why do you eat that shit your mother gives you? You want to grow up fat and sick and have a heart attack like Marla?”
I said, “Get. Out.” Why was he doing this? Did he secretly feel guilty himself about Marla having the heart attack? Unlikely.
“Gee, Dad,” Arch interjected, “it’s okay—”
A loud knocking made the front-door frame reverberate; a female “Hoo-hoo?” echoed down the hall. John Richard stood with his hands on his hips, unmoving, staring at my collection of cookbooks as if fascinated by their arrangement on the shelf. Arch ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs. He knew he had to get his stuff, and quickly, to avoid a scene.
“Hoo-hoo, Goldy, it’s your partner in bleach!” came the voice again.
Frances Markasian peered into the foyer. She had reverted to her normal attire: black T-shirt, frayed blue jeans, duct-taped sneakers, voluminous black raincoat, and equally voluminous black purse. She looked like a skinny bat. “There you are!” she said. “Sorry to be here so early, but I was just trying to catch you before you went to the fair. Is that okay? Can we talk? Can I come in? I won’t smoke.”
I came out onto the front porch and gestured in the direction of the porch swing. “Let’s just stay out here. I thought I heard your Fiat, I just wasn’t used to hearing it so early in the morning.”
KILLER PANCAKES
2 cups all-purpose flour
1 cup sugar
1 teaspoon baking soda
½ teaspoon salt
2 egg whites
1 16-ounce can juice-packed fruit cocktail, drained and juice reserved
maple syrup or chopped fresh strawberries macerated with a little sugarPreheat the oven to 350°. Spray 2 non-stick cookie sheets with vegetable oil and set aside.Sift the dry ingredients together and set aside. Beat the egg whites until frothy. Beat in the juice. Gradually add the dry mixture, stirring until well blended. Fold in the fruit cocktail.Using an ½-cup (2-tablespoon) measure, scoop dollops of pancake batter onto the sprayed pans, leaving at least 2 inches between the pancakes. Bake for 10 to 15 minutes or until puffed and golden. Serve hot with maple syrup, fresh strawberries, peaches, or other fruit.Serves 4
Frances backed toward the swing, her head tilted as she appraised me. “Goldy, are you all right?”
I attempted a smile. “Let’s just say I had an unexpected visitor early this morning.”
“Who?”
“Frances, what exactly is it you want me to do for you?”
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 s
ince 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?”
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