Part 16 (1/2)

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-s.h.i.+rt, 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 teaspoon salt 2 egg whites 1 16-ounce can juice-packed fruit c.o.c.ktail, drained and juice reserved maple syrup or chopped fresh strawberries macerated with a little sugar Preheat 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 c.o.c.ktail.

Using an -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 since 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 b.u.t.t in here to look for ... what the h.e.l.l-”

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-”

”b.i.t.c.h!” 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?”

My ears were ringing with frustration. What if Frances released the knife and it hit Arch? ”No, no, don't call. Just go with your dad. Frances, put that knife away. Please. Now.”

Frances did not flinch.

John Richard's face was a study in fury. He stuck out his chin and curled his hands into fists. ”I don't know who you are, lady, but you're confused. Not only that, but you are breaking the law.” She stared right back at him. ”Do you have a permit to carry that? I doubt it. I doubt it very, very much.” He started in the direction of the porch steps. Down he went, with Frances's ballistic knife following each step he took. As if to attract the attention of neighbors, the Jerk yelled, ”You are menacing me, you b.i.t.c.h! Whoever the h.e.l.l you are! Do you hear? I'm going to file a complaint.”

Frances retorted calmly, equally loudly, ”Be my guest!”

John Richard bounded into his Jeep, started it, and revved it deafeningly. Arch was still gaping at Frances, who had her eyes and weapon trained on the Jeep. ”Does that knife have an explosive charge or a spring-loaded device?” he asked in a low whisper. Before Frances could answer, John Richard leaned on his horn. Arch scooped up his bag and sidled over to the porch steps. ”Miss Markasian? I don't mean to be, like, judgmental, but I think maybe you should cut back on your caffeine. Don't hurt my dad, okay?” And with that, he sprinted to the Jeep.

Frances pressed her lips together, nudged the safety back in place, and dropped the big knife back in her bag. The Jeep roared away.

”Dammit, Frances, what in the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing?”

She picked up her Jolt cola. ”I told you. Knowing what I know about what happened to Eileen Robinson, and after that little incident on the roof, I swore I'd be ready the next time. That's it. So when you came out your door looking so upset, and then His Menacing Majesty appeared unexpectedly, there I was, a little girl scout, all prepared.” She sighed. ”You should get a weapon, Goldy. It really gives you a sense of power.”

”No, thanks. When do you want to come back to pick up all these cosmetics I'm buying?”

”Later.” And with that she hefted up her bag, for which I had a new and profound respect, hopped down the porch steps, and strode away. I looked up and down the curbs for her car. It wasn't parked on the street. And by the time I looked for Frances, she had disappeared.

Back in the house, I finished making the Killer Pancakes and set them aside to cool. Then I sloshed together a new bucket of bleach water for the fair, carefully covered it, and hauled it out to the van. After packing the Killer Pancakes between layers of waxed paper in a plastic container, I got the spare key to Marla's house from where Julian had left it for me, and started out. Clouds were just beginning to float in from the westernmost mountains. Perhaps it wouldn't be a bright and cloudless day after all. The events of the morning certainly hadn't been very sunny.

By the time I'd let myself into Marla's house, stored the food in the refrigerator, and written a note to the nurse, the westernmost sky was gray with fast-moving, towering thunderheads. Although the rain usually arrived in the mountain towns several hours before it traveled eastward to Denver, even the possibility of being drenched inside a roof tent was unappealing in the extreme. My spirits sank.

The early-bird shopping special had ended Friday. As a result, very few walkers and eaters were lined up outside the mall's entrance. The Spare the Hares! people were nowhere in sight. I parked and hauled all my supplies up to the roof, where a small cl.u.s.ter of people was already beginning to gather. For the early morning musical entertainment today, the food fair organizers had hired a calliope player. The place sounded and felt like a half-empty merry-go-round.

I fired up the burners, set out the salad, bread, and cookies, and plopped the ribs on the grill, where they began to sizzle. That done, I survived the daily visit from the health inspector and started to serve the occasional guest. Pete, whose customers were equally spa.r.s.e, brought me a triple-shot latte and my caterer's uniform, which his wife had washed and pressed. I showed my grat.i.tude by loading him down with ribs and cookies.

”This is probably the best brunch I'll have this year,” he said appreciatively. I toasted him with the paper coffee cup. He frowned. When I looked confused, he said, ”When you hold that cup up, turn the logo out, okay? I need all the advertising I can get.”

I obliged. After a very slow two hours, I packed up the leftovers, returned them to the van, and plucked Frances's list and money from my purse. I had an hour to shop and make it to nearby Hotchkiss Skin & Hair. With any luck, the visit to the cosmetics counter would take less than ten minutes.

There were hardly any shoppers inside the department store either. Dusty Routt wasn't at the Mignon counter. The only sales a.s.sociate was Harriet Wells, and she was writing in the by-now-familiar large ledger.

”Hi-ho, remember me?” I called brightly as I approached.

Her look was glazed, then memories clicked into place and she said brightly, ”The caterer!” She glanced from side to side and whispered, ”Would you like another m.u.f.fin? Tell me what you think is in this one. The store's so dead today, no one will notice. You look starved.” Her laugh tinkled above all the crystal bottles of perfume and bright shelves of makeup.

I gratefully took a fragrant golden-brown m.u.f.fin. I bit into it The orange flecks turned out to be carrot and the spice ginger. I truthfully told her the m.u.f.fin was wonderful and asked for the recipe, always the most sincere form of thanks. While we were talking about the virtues of using sorghum versus honey for sweetener, the ceiling-or something nearby-cracked. Actually, there was a loud cracking sound. I glanced up at the security blind but could see nothing.

”What in the world ...?” I demanded as Harriet offered me another m.u.f.fin.

”Well, you know,” she said with a wise smile, ”there is a fault line that runs right through Golden. We may be in for an earthquake yet!”

I finished the m.u.f.fin, licked my fingertips, and brought out my list. As I started to tick off the items, Harriet's eyes gleamed.

”Wait, wait,” she commanded me excitedly. ”Let me get your client card. That's the only way we'll be able to keep track of all these products!”