Killer Pancake by Diane Mott Davidson

one of his first acts was to replace the hutch glass and sand and refinish the buffet's dents.
    My apprehension over the dangers of his job were legion. Whenever I heard over the radio of a shooting, whenever a midnight phone call brought him out of our warm bed, whenever that midnight phone call meant that before he left he was cinching the Velcro bands around his white bulletproof vest, my heart ached with fear. My anxiety had not been eased when a murderer had kidnapped Tom for four days this spring, just as we were about to be married. He scoffed and said that had been a bizarre event. He hadn't even believed it himself.
    Nor did Tom and I quite know how to talk to each other about our work. Tom claimed he enjoyed discussing investigations with me as long as I wouldn't get upset. Or worse, tell anybody what he or I had uncovered. To me, Tom always appeared either in control: when he was surrounded by his team in an investigation, or in relaxed good humor, when we were together and he was telling me about bloodstain patterns or check-kiting. I, on the other hand, did not relish rehashing the trials of cooking for, serving to, and cleaning up after the rich and shameless. Occasionally I would regale him with stories about the Thai guest at a reception for two hundred who'd insisted on giving me his recipe for whole baked fish-in Thai, or about the drunk Polo Club host who fell off his horse before eating one bite of the vegetarian shish kebabs.
    Reflecting on all this, I'd failed to notice that Tom had stopped cooking and was staring at the cupboard above the kitchen counter, his face twisted with pain.
    "Tom! What is it?" Startled, he dropped the shell bits he was holding. I apologized and helped him wipe them off the floor.
    By the time he straightened up, he had assumed his normal end-of-the-day relaxed look. Still, I was taken aback. In the two months that we'd been married, I'd never seen him look agonized. Until now. Despite his disclaimers to the contrary, the job did take its toll, after all.
    He forced a wide grin. "Hey there, Miss G."
    "What's wrong?"
    "No more than usual." He rinsed his hands and dried them on a dish towel. "Julian's okay, he just needs to rest. I think he's asleep. Did you get in to see Marla?"
    I hugged him briefly and murmured that I had. Which reminded me. I phoned the St. Luke's answering machine and left a brief message about Marla's condition, then left another message for a woman in the parish who had once hired a private nurse.
    Did she have any recommendations? I asked her tape. Then I washed my hands and glanced at the recipe before retrieving some fresh garlic. Alas, the Jerk had carried off my knives somewhere.
    "Marla was very angry. Claimed she hadn't had a heart attack," I commented over my shoulder as I looked around the dining room for my knifeblock. This seldom-used space was a monument to my former life as a doctor's wife. It looked like a furniture store. I'd bought the solid cherry buffet, hutch, and dining room suite right after my first wedding. Then I'd feverishly crocheted an enormous tablecloth and undertaken the tiresome needlepointing of floral covers for the chair seats. I should have been taking a karate class. Better yet, shooting lessons. I hefted up the knifeblock from the table and brought it back to the kitchen.
    "I'm guessing Marla will be home at the beginning of next week," I told Tom as I sniffed a clove of garlic. The garlic was fresh and juicy; its pungent smell filled the air. I told Tom what the cardiologist had told me about Marla's condition and her upcoming angiogram and potential atherectomy. "I'm going to go in and see her every day," I added defiantly as I minced. But of course Tom wouldn't be jealous if I made a daily visit to a friend. I shook my head and reached for another clove of garlic. Old reactions died harder than I thought.
    Tom turned back to his recipe card and abruptly changed the subject. "How did Korman get through the security