Killer Pancake (23 page)

"Okay," I said, as if granting Frances permission for what she was going to do anyway. "Let me get just a quick bite to eat first, and then we'll see what the message is."

The crowd buoyed me along to the booth of a vegetarian Mexican restaurant. I chose a burrito stuffed with roasted peppers, tomatoes, and onions. It dripped with guacamole and melted cheddar, and sour cream oozed out of both sides when I took a bite. The American Heart Association definitely wouldn't approve. My mouth full, I thought of Marla and resolved to get really serious about lowfat cooking. Tomorrow.

"Enjoy," said Frances with a laugh. "Isn't this where your booth was?"

The booth had been abandoned early by the barbecue people. I guess "all you can eat" had been more than they could handle. They'd even pulled down the flaps on the tent, as if to say nobody was home.

Frances pulled up the flap and peered into the dark interior. I stepped up beside her and felt the hot, stuffy air inside.

There was a plastic bag taped to the near table.

"There it is," said Frances as she stepped confidently forward.

"Wait," I said. "Frances," I said again sharply, "wait." But I couldn't restrain her; one of my hands held the burrito, the other the tent flap.

There was a sudden movement. I heard the intake of breath that accompanies effort.

"Frances!" I shouted.

"Help!" she cried.

Stale air swished against my face. Something was coming at us. Because of my years with the Jerk, I had learned how to protect myself from a potential assault. The air - or maybe it was liquid, I realized - whooshed. I dropped the burrito and buckled forward.

"Duck!" I shouted to Frances. A loud sloosh traveled through air. It was coming toward Frances and me. The smell was familiar... acrid.

It was a bucket of bleach water. "Close your eyes!" I screamed to Frances. I shut mine tight, held my breath, and covered my face with my hands. The water cascaded over my doubled-over body in a hard, heavy slap. Cold liquid saturated my chef's jacket.

Someone pushed past me. One of the canvas tent flaps brushed my legs and I heard footsteps. But with the possibility of bleach anywhere nearby, I knew better than to open my eyes.

"Frances! Are you there? Keep your eyes shut, it's chlorine bleach!"

A stream of loud, inventive curses came from about a yard away. Yep - Frances was there.

"Back out of the tent," I ordered, ignoring her angry protests. "Follow my voice. Go slow." Still doubled-over, my hands covering my face, I treaded backward slowly. Soon, cooler air indicated I was outside the tent. I felt metal. Moving metal. A baby stroller.

"Help!" I cried. "I have bleach on me! Don't let any get on the baby!"

A woman screamed and the metal veered away. I started to lose my balance. Voices erupted all around and within a few seconds I felt a large, gentle hand on my shoulder. An adult? A teenager? Whoever had assaulted us? The hand guided me sideways.

"Come on," a man's calm voice urged. "Let me get you a towel."

"I have a friend with me. She needs help too."

"The red dress?" asked the voice. "I'm holding her arm."

More colorful curses indicated this was true. I sighed.

Over the acrid stink of the bleach, the welcome aroma of coffee came close. The masculine voice attached to the hand on my shoulder asked someone for a couple of towels. A piece of cloth with the consistency of a dish towel was placed over my head and tucked around my ears. My sodden hair was being expertly wrapped, turban-style.

"Please," I said, "I need some plain water to rinse my face - "

"All right, stand back, everybody," came another male voice, a familiar one. It was Pete, the espresso man. "Goldy, I'm going to toss a pitcher of plain water in your face," he warned, up close. "It's not cold, not hot. Well, maybe a little cool. Just relax.

Then I'm going to do the same for your friend."

A splash of liquid hit my face and neck. Another towel was thrust in my face and I vigorously scrubbed my cheeks, forehead, and eyes free of bleach and eye makeup. Frances yelped when the water gushed on her, but then she fell silent, no doubt engaged in the same drying activity.

I straightened and felt the cool bleach water trickle down inside my clothes. I opened my eyes, sure that my makeup had run together into one unholy mess. A sea of curious faces surrounded me. The one recognizable face was Pete's. The person guiding me had brought me to the front of Pete's espresso booth. Instead of wondering just what had happened in the tent, my first ridiculous thought was: How in the world did Pete get a booth for the whole four-hour time period, when I had to share mine with the barbecue folks?

"Goldy?" Pete's grin was benevolent. "Do you and your friend want some coffee with a couple of shots of brandy? How about a couple of dry sets of clothes? On the house."

Half the folks in the crowd laughed, as if the whole incident were some kind of stunt arranged by the fair people for the band's break. As I accepted Pete's offer of coffee, I searched faces for anyone familiar - malevolent or otherwise. But whoever had done this appeared to be long gone. At my side, Frances was brusquely demanding to know what was going on, had anyone seen anything? Anyone seen someone rush out of the tent? Ignoring her, I waved at the person approaching us. It was Julian.

The crowd, sensing that the entertainment was over, dispersed. Only a couple of stragglers remained. Maybe they were hoping the bleach bath would belatedly eat through our clothes or skin.

"Listen," said a deep voice from behind me. The first thing I noticed, looking up, was that his long-sleeved shirt was wet.

My eyes traveled upward to the delicate features of his face, to the mop of frizzed, Warhol-type white-blond hair. I had seen this tall man that morning, that day, in Prince & Grogan.

It was Charles Braithwaite.

"I... I helped you," he faltered. The skin at the side of his earnest blue eyes crinkled with concern. He was in his thirties, maybe early forties, but because of his height and his extreme thinness, his age was difficult to determine. "I... I wrapped those towels around the two of you. But you need to rinse that stuff out of your hair, ladies. Either that or you're both going to look like skunks. Dark on both sides and a white stripe down the middle." His palm pressed his long, pale hair over to the side in a practiced gesture.

I groaned. "Oh, that's just great." I took the cup of spiked coffee that Pete offered and wondered what Charles Braithwaite was doing first at Mignon, then at the food fair. Tom's words echoed in my ears: Someone who's too helpful... someone who's always around...

Frances demanded if Pete had seen anything. When he said no, she took a large swallow of her drink and said it was too hot. Did he have a phone, she wanted to know, she had to call her boss. Pete laughed. No phone. He handed us T-shirts and sweat pants that listed his location and all the curative powers of coffee. The man was an advertising genius. I turned back to my tall, blond savior. If that was what he was.

"Did you see what happened to us?" I asked. "Did you see anyone else come out of the tent?"

He shook his head. "I heard you," he replied. "Then the two of you stumbled out of the tent. I smelled the bleach, and then

I came over...."

"Yes, thanks," I said lamely. He nodded. His light blue wrinkled rayon shirt, now streaked with liquid, fell unfashionably from his thin shoulders. He was wearing dark slacks and old-fashioned tie-up saddle shoes. His canoelike feet were at least a size fourteen.

Frances blew noisily on her coffee, then turned her attentions to the tall man. "What are you doing here?" she demanded abruptly.

Charles Braithwaite blushed to the roots of his filament-like hair. The saddle shoes began to inch away. "Well, as I was telling your friend... I was here because... well, let's see... I heard the two of you yelling - "

"What in the hell - " Julian began as he rushed up, puffing. He was still wearing his serving clothes from the morning.

"Goldy? And you?" He looked quizzically at Frances. "From the newspaper? Why are you all wet? Why is your hair all wrapped -

? Dr. Braithwaite! What's going on... why are you here?"

I looked curiously at our tall, gangly rescuer, who again mumbled something along the lines that he had to go.

"Goldy, what happened to you?" Julian demanded. "Did you all fall into some water, or what?"

"We'll be at your place tomorrow, on the Fourth," I said to an increasingly uncomfortable Charles Braithwaite. "Maybe you could show me your greenhouse -"

"No. I can't show anyone," mumbled Dr. Charles Braithwaite, embarrassed. He brushed a shock of white hair out of his eyes. "You need to get some dry..." His long fingers gestured awkwardly in my direction.

Irritated, Julian hovered over me. "What happened to you?" he asked again.

"Somebody threw a bucket of bleach water on us," I answered with resignation. "Whoever it was said there was a message at my booth. Frances was trying to help - "

Frances narrowed her eyes at Charles Braithwaite. Alarmed by the predatory assessment in them, the doctor began to sidle away. Unabashed, Frances caught him by his wet sleeve to halt his retreat. "Doctor Charles Braithwaite," she said in an accusing, parental tone. "Thanks for helping us, indeed. You were at the Mignon Cosmetics counter this morning. Now you're here. Just what kind of interest does a world-famous microbiologist have in a cosmetics company? Eh, Charlie-baby?" Holding

Charles's sleeve with one hand and the wet turban on her head with the other, Frances glared ominously at her prey.

Being wet and disoriented can put one at a disadvantage. Not so Frances, whose crimson dress was already drying with a large orange stripe down its center. Over in the heart of the food fair, the jazz band returned from their break and began a blues riff. Charles Braithwaite glanced fearfully at me, then stared longingly in the direction of the jazz band, as if the soothing music could bail him out.

Julian, meanwhile, had followed our wet trail to the tent that had been my booth that morning and our attacker's hiding place this afternoon. He angrily whipped back the tent flaps and then quickly strode around the entire tent. At each corner he threw the flaps up, as if daring an intruder to be concealed there. At the back of the tent he stopped short. I shivered inside my cold, wet clothes and tried to ignore the fact that Frances was fiercely interrogating Charles Braithwaite concerning his interest in the mall and the food fair. Here at the mall for no reason? I wanted to say to him. Looking for your blue rose, maybe? It's at the sheriff's department. Julian came around the side of the tent holding a clear plastic bag with tape on it. He'd removed it from the table. Inside the plastic bag was a single sheet of paper. Julian ripped into the bag and offered me the contents.

It was one of those cryptic messages we used to send in school, where the words and letters are cut out of magazines or newspapers. This note said: GOLDILOCKS GO HOME. AND STAY THERE.

11

"Well, I better, ah... I need to be going," said Charles Braithwaite in a meek voice. He had somehow tugged free of Frances and was backing away. His wild, pale hair shone like a corona in the sunlight. "Glad to have been able to help. I have to meet somebody," he babbled as Frances made a step to follow him.

"I want to thank you again in person," I called after him. "Maybe tomorrow, at your place! Your Fourth of July party, you know? Remember?" He didn't respond, not even to wave, as he slunk swiftly away. I turned back to Julian, who was puzzling over the note. "Okay, kiddo," I said, "did you go with Dusty on some field trip to his place?"

"Oh, yeah. Don't you remember? It's awesome. But he's got a real hangup about security. He got all our names printed out on a list before we came in. Then he wanted to check our driver's licenses to make sure we were who we said we were, only not everybody had a license. And even though I think he believed we were who we said we were, Dr. Braithwaite still had covered some of his current experiments with tarpaulin before we came trooping through. It was a kick. Real secretive. You know, like he was the CIA or something."

"Did you see any roses? Experimental roses?"

"Oh, Goldy, he was doing all kinds of experiments. We just saw his equipment."

I said, "Hmm." Tom could take care of Charles Braithwaite and his experiments. I didn't know what to do about the note.

My clothes were damp. My heart was still beating hard. If the mall security force was as distasteful as Prince & Grogan's, they wouldn't be much help. Call Tom asap, my inner voice warned. If you don't let him know you've been attacked, he's going to be mightily upset. "Listen, Julian, could you put the flaps down and let me go into the tent and change? I still need to see Marla today."

He obeyed in silence. Frances, hands on the hips of her' wet dress, squinted thoughtfully at the departing Charles

Braithwaite. Then she gathered up the clothes Pete had given her and slipped into the tent next to me. The flap thumped down into place.

"What do you suppose is going on?" she hissed as I removed my sticky chef's jacket.

"I have no idea." I peeled off my skirt and decided to keep my underwear on. It was only slightly damp. But my skirt surely resembled one of Arch's tie-dying projects. My fingers grasped the dressing-room storage key; I slipped it into my splotched bra. I didn't even want to picture what bleach would do to my hair. My thoughts were on Charles Braithwaite. Why had he been up on the roof? Maybe there'd been a breach in his security. Had the blue rose been stolen from him? Why? And what possible connection could it - and Braithwaite - have with Claire's murder? I struggled into the clothes from Pete and rubbed my arms.

"I'll call you later," Frances said abruptly, I need to go talk to our helper." She quickly gathered up her wet belongings and ducked out of the tent. I felt a surge of pity for Charles Braithwaite. But I envied Frances, too, as I was also desperate to know more about what the reclusive scientist was up to.

"When I emerged from the tent wearing my new duds and shaking my damp hair, Julian was sitting on the concrete, looking depleted. Fairgoers gave him occasional curious glances. But most rushed around and past him, like stream water flowing around a rock.