Read Online Killer Pancake by Diane Mott Davidson - Free Book Online Page A
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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when Todd had refused to answer one more question about Evel Knievel. Then Arch had renewed his interest in magic. He'd been intensely serious about magic all last summer. But the magic phase had been quickly followed by a C. S. Lewis phase, complete with a handmade model of the Dawn Treader.
Now Arch was fascinated by the sixties. Posters of Eugene McCarthy and Malcolm X decorated his bedroom. The walls reverberated with the sound of the Beatles and Rolling Stones. My general attitude toward these hobby-passions was that as long as they were neither extravagantly expensive nor physically dangerous, they were okay. At least he wasn't into gangs.
Still, I sighed. I suddenly missed him intensely, and Tom, and Julian. And I didn't even mind solitude as much as I minded a lack of information. Why didn't somebody call to tell me how Julian was? I took a deep breath to steady myself.
Loneliness frequently brought my ex-husband to mind. I remembered the many nights I'd waited for him. Most of the time, instead of being in the delivery room with a mother-to-be, he'd been with a waitress, or a nurse, or someone he'd just met....
Marla, who'd stayed married to John Richard Korman six years less than I, told me she'd timed the trip home from the hospital to thirty-eight minutes. Anything over that, and she knew she might as well go to bed.
Speaking of Marla, she should be showing up any moment. I filled the espresso machine with coffee and water.
Because Marla was plugged into every gossip network in Furman County, she heard news at the speed of sound. If it was bad news, she heard it at the speed of light. What had happened to Claire was extra-bad news, though. Incredibly, my doorbell and telephone remained resolutely silent. I poured the dark espresso over ice cubes and milk, then dialed Marla's number. No answer.
I downed the iced latte and told myself I had plenty to do; I could call her later. After an hour of schlepping food and dirty pans into the house, washing and putting equipment away, I called the hospital to check on Julian. Who was I, the operator wanted to know, next of kin, wife, what? A guardian? I said hopefully. A legal guardian? she asked. Well, no. Then no information could be released. Thanks loads.
I dialed Julian's adoptive parents in Utah, told them briefly what had happened, and promised to keep them posted. Was
Julian going to be all right? they wanted to know. Yes, I assured them. I told them Southwest Hospital had refused to give me any information about Julian's condition and that they'd be better off phoning the hospital directly. Was he serious about this girl? his mother asked. My voice broke when I answered that he had seemed to be very serious about Claire. Next I called Tom at his desk and got his voice mail. I tried Marla again. Nothing.
Cook, my inner voice said. Get ahead on assignments. I consulted my calendar. Oh yes, the damn mall food fair. At the moment, I never wanted to see the mall again. But work was work. A Taste of Furman County was part of a big Fourth of July celebration the new mall owners had put together to lure people to shop over the long weekend rather than follow the more traditional pursuits of baseball and picnics. The benefit for Playhouse Southwest, at forty dollars a pop, looked as if it was going to make outrageous money. The fair would occupy the open-air top level of the mall garage. I'd taken the health department's required course on the subject of serving food away from one's established place of business, which was all I ever did anyway.
Now all I had to do was prepare all the food.
I checked my watch: Wednesday, July 1, just before four in the afternoon. Claire's death would surely be on the local news tonight and in the papers tomorrow. And speaking of journalism, nothing in this world would convince me that Frances
Markasian was at the Mignon Cosmetics banquet for her health. Or for her beauty, for that matter. So what had she been looking for? I
Now Arch was fascinated by the sixties. Posters of Eugene McCarthy and Malcolm X decorated his bedroom. The walls reverberated with the sound of the Beatles and Rolling Stones. My general attitude toward these hobby-passions was that as long as they were neither extravagantly expensive nor physically dangerous, they were okay. At least he wasn't into gangs.
Still, I sighed. I suddenly missed him intensely, and Tom, and Julian. And I didn't even mind solitude as much as I minded a lack of information. Why didn't somebody call to tell me how Julian was? I took a deep breath to steady myself.
Loneliness frequently brought my ex-husband to mind. I remembered the many nights I'd waited for him. Most of the time, instead of being in the delivery room with a mother-to-be, he'd been with a waitress, or a nurse, or someone he'd just met....
Marla, who'd stayed married to John Richard Korman six years less than I, told me she'd timed the trip home from the hospital to thirty-eight minutes. Anything over that, and she knew she might as well go to bed.
Speaking of Marla, she should be showing up any moment. I filled the espresso machine with coffee and water.
Because Marla was plugged into every gossip network in Furman County, she heard news at the speed of sound. If it was bad news, she heard it at the speed of light. What had happened to Claire was extra-bad news, though. Incredibly, my doorbell and telephone remained resolutely silent. I poured the dark espresso over ice cubes and milk, then dialed Marla's number. No answer.
I downed the iced latte and told myself I had plenty to do; I could call her later. After an hour of schlepping food and dirty pans into the house, washing and putting equipment away, I called the hospital to check on Julian. Who was I, the operator wanted to know, next of kin, wife, what? A guardian? I said hopefully. A legal guardian? she asked. Well, no. Then no information could be released. Thanks loads.
I dialed Julian's adoptive parents in Utah, told them briefly what had happened, and promised to keep them posted. Was
Julian going to be all right? they wanted to know. Yes, I assured them. I told them Southwest Hospital had refused to give me any information about Julian's condition and that they'd be better off phoning the hospital directly. Was he serious about this girl? his mother asked. My voice broke when I answered that he had seemed to be very serious about Claire. Next I called Tom at his desk and got his voice mail. I tried Marla again. Nothing.
Cook, my inner voice said. Get ahead on assignments. I consulted my calendar. Oh yes, the damn mall food fair. At the moment, I never wanted to see the mall again. But work was work. A Taste of Furman County was part of a big Fourth of July celebration the new mall owners had put together to lure people to shop over the long weekend rather than follow the more traditional pursuits of baseball and picnics. The benefit for Playhouse Southwest, at forty dollars a pop, looked as if it was going to make outrageous money. The fair would occupy the open-air top level of the mall garage. I'd taken the health department's required course on the subject of serving food away from one's established place of business, which was all I ever did anyway.
Now all I had to do was prepare all the food.
I checked my watch: Wednesday, July 1, just before four in the afternoon. Claire's death would surely be on the local news tonight and in the papers tomorrow. And speaking of journalism, nothing in this world would convince me that Frances
Markasian was at the Mignon Cosmetics banquet for her health. Or for her beauty, for that matter. So what had she been looking for? I
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