Free Killer Pancake by Diane Mott Davidson

working for their Mignon people today, I'd like to know what kind of problems would bring you down to the mall all the way from Aspen Meadow. That's all."
    "Uh-huh. Miss Nosy Caterer. A sales associate at Prince & Grogan gets splattered allover the parking lot and you ask me what kind of problems the department store is having."
    "Don't talk like that about Claire. It's disgusting."
    "Oh-ho! So it's Claire now. You did know her. In fact, you were there in the garage when someone smacked into her.
    Yes? Spill all, Goldy."
    "Tell me why you were at the banquet in disguise. What's the problem with the department store?"
    Frances took another drag and seemed to consider. "Let me get my pen."
    Doggone it. "No, Frances, don't act as if we can trade information, for heaven's sake," I said to empty air. If anything got into the newspaper, Tom was going to be a tad upset.
    Frances came back to the phone and rustled her materials about. "You knew the dead girl," she prompted.
    "You already know she was Julian Teller's girlfriend," I replied impatiently. "And you also know I can't talk to you until Tom
    - "
    "Ah-ha. 'Wife of homicide investigator asks newspaper about department store scandals. Declines comment on witnessing murder of store employee. Your husband the investigator is gonna love it."
    "What do you mean, murder? So help me - "
    "Do you know anything about those demonstrators?" she demanded.
    "Of course I don't," I replied, struggling to sound calm. Frances had the annoying ability to make me feel constantly off balance.
    "Did they get in the way of the catering? Were they near the area where the girl was hit? Or can't you talk about that either?"
    "What makes you think that - " I waved my hand in I the empty kitchen, unable even to articulate the thought.
    "What makes me think that Claire was run down?" she finished.
    "Yes."
    "Things I've heard."
    "Gosh, Frances, more rumors? Maybe I should have Tom come over and talk to you."
    "Great idea. We could have lunch and chat about the Bill of Rights. You could cook. That is, if you didn't throw vegetables around beforehand."
    "Frances, don't."
    "The way I heard it, the fellow you threw the red peppers on was an activist by the name of Shaman Krill."
    "Why, did he talk to you? All he did was yell at me."
    "That name, Shaman Krill," she said thoughtfully. "Think it's short for something? Maybe it's an alias. We're talking about a real short guy here? Dark curly hair pulled back in a ponytail? Gold earring? Sort of a cross between a leprechaun and a terrorist?
    Think he was one of Claire's boyfriends? How long had Satterfield been going with this Julian guy?"
    "How do you know Claire was involved with other men?" I countered. "Why did you say Julian was the latest in her batch of conquests?"
    "First you tell me something, Goldy. Did you ever get something for nothing? Listen - I'll come visit you at the food fair, okay? Maybe then you'll be ready to have a real chat."
    Before I could retort, she hung up. She wasn't going to share anything she knew with me until I gave her information. And if I did that, I could just imagine the wrath of Investigator Tom Schulz. Still, he'd be interested to hear about bullying activist
    Shaman Krill, if he hadn't already. Maybe you had to have a weird name to get into Spare the Hares. I slowly swished the spoon through the pot of dark barbecue sauce. There were two things Frances had been digging for: Had I known Claire was involved with other men? And who was Shaman Krill? I wondered if the two questions were related.
    But that was speculation. I returned to my culinary duties to chop, boil, and beat my frustration away. I gathered cocoa powder, flour, sugar, and egg whites, and got out the recipe for the fudge cookies. The dark, delicious cookies had been one of two great inventions in my search for a lowfat chocolate torte. The other had been a lowfat chocolate souffl� that had worked not in the oven but on top of the stove. I sifted the cocoa,