Killer Pancake by Diane Mott Davidson

best products and the hottest line," she continued authoritatively. "Everyone is going to be copying us - but we've got the jump on them because we've got the best sales associates and the best customers!" More thunderous applause. "And you're going to take us into the future!" From her jacket pocket she whipped out a pair of sunglasses and put them on. This was some kind of cue, because from her table, half a dozen other women quickly donned sunglasses. "So look out, everybody!" she cried. "The future of Mignon Cosmetics is so bright you're going to have to pull out those shades!" And then there was final, furious clapping from the audience as the black-haired woman strutted back to her seat. Wearing sunglasses, she had a hard time finding it, but someone finally took her hand and guided her back to her spot.
    Out of place. That was what Tom always said he looked for, something out of place. And that was what appeared at exactly that moment: a person who didn't fit. Someone who was usually a slob. Someone who didn't wear lipstick or blush or face powder - ever. Someone who, as far as I knew, owned nothing but an ancient, too-large black trench coat and a ratty pair of sneakers held together with duct tape.
    "Frances?" I asked tentatively as I doled out pieces of Nonfat Chocolate Torte to the women in line. "Frances Markasian?"
    She smiled broadly at me and winked, then put her finger to her lips. But I was having none of it.
    "Why are you here?" I demanded of Frances Markasian, a reporter from Aspen Meadow's small weekly newspaper, the
    Mountain Journal. Had the Mountain Journal even run one article on fashion and makeup? The only piece I remembered seeing was on hunters wearing camouflage blackface when they went looking for elk.
    Frances Markasian arched one freshly plucked eyebrow at the superbly groomed women who surrounded her, and grinned broadly. She patted her dark dreadlocked hair, now pinned into a thick, frizzy bun, then wiggled fingers at the women as they surveyed her. I itched to tell them that Frances Markasian wearing sling-back heels and a spangled St. John's knit dress was about as rare a sight as a red-tailed fox at a country club tea. But I kept mum.
    As the women wandered back to their tables bearing their plates of Nonfat Chocolate Torte, I hissed, "How could you possibly have heard already?"
    Frances picked at crumbs on the torte plate at the bar. "Heard what?"
    Doggone it. When she finally raised her trying-to-look-innocent black eyes at me, I said evenly, "About the demonstrators.
    One of them tried to block the door and I whacked him."
    "You whacked him? With what? A knife or a chocolate torte pan?"
    "A tray of vegetables."
    The sleek black-haired woman had taken off her sun- glasses and was making a concluding announcement. The Mignon luncheon was finally breaking up. I tried to make my tone to Frances conciliatory. "Why don't you tell me why you're here? In fact, why don't you help me pack up my stuff while you're spilling your guts?"
    "Do you have any real food? I'm still hungry."
    I sighed. "Peach cobbler or brownies?"
    Before Frances could reply, a short, slightly plump young woman with dyed orange-blond hair cut in a brushed-forward pixie style appeared at the bar. Dusty Routt, unlike journalist Frances Markasian, was not out of place at this perfumed, stylish lunch. Dusty lived just down the street from us in a house built by Aspen Meadow's branch of the charitable group Habitat for
    Humanity. For a time she'd gone to prep school with Julian, but had been mysteriously expelled before graduation. She and Julian shared the bond of being scholarship students, and they'd started going out before Dusty was expelled. But a month ago Dusty had made the mistake of introducing Julian to her fellow sales associate in her new job. The fellow sales associate had been
    Claire Satterfield. Now Dusty's usually cheery face was mournful and her cornflower-blue eyes pleading.
    "Hi, Goldy," she said in her