[05] Killer Pancake by Diane Mott Davidson

Author:Diane Mott Davidson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
ISBN: 9780307428431
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2010-01-12T20:00:00+00:00

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 anti 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.

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