Read Online Killer Pancake by Diane Mott Davidson - Free Book Online
Authors: Diane Mott Davidson
Tags: Fiction, General, Humorous stories, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Detective and Mystery Stories, Mystery Fiction, Women Detectives, Cooking, Colorado, Caterers and Catering, Cookery, Bear; Goldy (Fictitious Character), Women in the Food Industry
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convince Tom to let me disable the system about two weeks after we were married this spring. Back then, during a typically frigid and snowy April in Aspen Meadow, I hadn't thought we'd have a summer with record- shattering heat. But now it was July, and June had been the hottest since the state started keeping weather statistics in the late
1800s. Coming into the old house when it had been clamped up tight in our absence, I felt like Gretel being forced into the oven by the witch.
I opened the windows downstairs, then threw the upstairs windows open and allowed the afternoon breeze off Aspen
Meadow Lake, a half-mile away, to drift in. Combined with the lilting notes of jazz saxophone coming from down the street, the fresh air felt heavenly. The music came from the Routts' place. Dusty's grandfather played the instrument to placate Dusty's little brother, Colin, who was born prematurely at the beginning of April, before the Habitat house had been finished. Dusty's mother hadn't done too well hanging on to men; I'd heard both Dusty's father and the father of the infant had taken hikes.
Mesmerized by the music, I crossed to the windows looking out on the street and gazed at the Routts' place. To build the dwelling, the local Habitat for Humanity had relied on funds and workers from our parish, St. Luke's Episcopal Church. The house was a simple two-story affair with inexpensive wood paneling, a tiny deck, and a room with jalousie windows off the right side.
Church workers had repeatedly graded the driveway during Aspen Meadow's muddy spring. The yard was covered with freshly excavated dirt. Red clay over the septic tank was as raw as a wound. Along the sidewalk, a stand of purple fireweed had somehow survived the construction. Unlike several of our neighbors, I'd welcomed the Routts, even if they were poor. I'd enjoyed being the church person assigned with coordinating two weeks of dinners sent in during the move and unpacking. Although I'd never met the grandfather, Dusty and her mother, Sally, had been profoundly thankful. I liked them. And at the moment I was even jealous of them: The saxophone music was coming out of open windows, something I could have only when I was home.
Maybe Tom would agree to keeping the upper-story windows ajar, at least for the summer. Even if I regretted marrying the Jerk, shouldn't I be able at least to get a summer breeze? My ex was a wimpy, jealous, temper-tantrum thrower who had given me black eyes more times than I cared to remember. But of one thing I was sure-John Richard Korman would never scale an exterior wall to get in a window.
Downstairs, the saxophone music was louder. I flopped into a wingchair and listened to the music, taking care not to look at the couch where Julian and Claire had embraced only a few hours before. Where was Arch? I checked the kitchen, where a note in his handwriting was taped on my computer screen: Todd and I came back & now we're doing tie-dying back at his house, just like they did in the sixties. Back around 5. Have fun today, Mom.
Arch, the most serious thirteen-year-old on the planet, always hoped I had fun. It was good he wasn't here. I didn't want him asking forty-five questions about Julian or Claire before I had any information. Besides, with his new activity, Arch was well occupied. At his age, my son developed enthusiasms on a biannual basis, and I had learned to go with whatever was the current wave. This had not always been the case. When he'd become involved in role-playing games two years ago, I was convinced one of us was going to end up institutionalized. When he finally abandoned constructing paper dungeons and fictional dragons, he and his friend Todd Druckman had switched to elaborate trivia quizzes. For months, Guinness books of records had spilled off every available shelf. Although Arch's ability to spout interesting facts still had not positively affected his school performance, the trivia obsession had eventually lost its lure
1800s. Coming into the old house when it had been clamped up tight in our absence, I felt like Gretel being forced into the oven by the witch.
I opened the windows downstairs, then threw the upstairs windows open and allowed the afternoon breeze off Aspen
Meadow Lake, a half-mile away, to drift in. Combined with the lilting notes of jazz saxophone coming from down the street, the fresh air felt heavenly. The music came from the Routts' place. Dusty's grandfather played the instrument to placate Dusty's little brother, Colin, who was born prematurely at the beginning of April, before the Habitat house had been finished. Dusty's mother hadn't done too well hanging on to men; I'd heard both Dusty's father and the father of the infant had taken hikes.
Mesmerized by the music, I crossed to the windows looking out on the street and gazed at the Routts' place. To build the dwelling, the local Habitat for Humanity had relied on funds and workers from our parish, St. Luke's Episcopal Church. The house was a simple two-story affair with inexpensive wood paneling, a tiny deck, and a room with jalousie windows off the right side.
Church workers had repeatedly graded the driveway during Aspen Meadow's muddy spring. The yard was covered with freshly excavated dirt. Red clay over the septic tank was as raw as a wound. Along the sidewalk, a stand of purple fireweed had somehow survived the construction. Unlike several of our neighbors, I'd welcomed the Routts, even if they were poor. I'd enjoyed being the church person assigned with coordinating two weeks of dinners sent in during the move and unpacking. Although I'd never met the grandfather, Dusty and her mother, Sally, had been profoundly thankful. I liked them. And at the moment I was even jealous of them: The saxophone music was coming out of open windows, something I could have only when I was home.
Maybe Tom would agree to keeping the upper-story windows ajar, at least for the summer. Even if I regretted marrying the Jerk, shouldn't I be able at least to get a summer breeze? My ex was a wimpy, jealous, temper-tantrum thrower who had given me black eyes more times than I cared to remember. But of one thing I was sure-John Richard Korman would never scale an exterior wall to get in a window.
Downstairs, the saxophone music was louder. I flopped into a wingchair and listened to the music, taking care not to look at the couch where Julian and Claire had embraced only a few hours before. Where was Arch? I checked the kitchen, where a note in his handwriting was taped on my computer screen: Todd and I came back & now we're doing tie-dying back at his house, just like they did in the sixties. Back around 5. Have fun today, Mom.
Arch, the most serious thirteen-year-old on the planet, always hoped I had fun. It was good he wasn't here. I didn't want him asking forty-five questions about Julian or Claire before I had any information. Besides, with his new activity, Arch was well occupied. At his age, my son developed enthusiasms on a biannual basis, and I had learned to go with whatever was the current wave. This had not always been the case. When he'd become involved in role-playing games two years ago, I was convinced one of us was going to end up institutionalized. When he finally abandoned constructing paper dungeons and fictional dragons, he and his friend Todd Druckman had switched to elaborate trivia quizzes. For months, Guinness books of records had spilled off every available shelf. Although Arch's ability to spout interesting facts still had not positively affected his school performance, the trivia obsession had eventually lost its lure
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