The Main Corpse gbcm-6

by Diane Mott Davidson

  I glanced back toward the kitchen, but the chef was nowhere in sight. At this very moment he might be concentrating on his commercial-sized Hobart as it beat ponds of cream sauce with broth into soups that he fervently hoped would make him a multimillionaire. Maybe he believed money would bail him out of being stuck in the kitchen. I doubted both.

  Tony impatiently spread his fingers on the rim of the empty dish in front of him. “Look, Goldy. Just tell me. Everybody says these soups are great. Gonna be the next craze. Lowfat, rib-sticking, but…” He chewed the inside of his cheek to find the right word, then brightened. “Lowfat, rib-sticking, but delish. There’ve been articles in local papers. Pretty soon all kinds of venture capital folks will be itching to get in here. Once this thing takes off: it’ll be too late. I want to get in on the ground floor. Know what I mean? Understand? Comprende?”

  “I guess I don’t,” I said honestly.

  Sam Perdue pressed his thin lips together. His terrified expression had turned resentful.

  “I may have missed Boston Chicken,” Tony continued insistently, as if I had not spoken. He picked up a three-pronged fork and tapped the table in time with his next words. “And I may have missed Outback Steakhouse. But I am not going to miss Sam’s Soups. So tell me. Tell me that these journalists are right.” He scrutinized my face, the dark mustache aquiver. I took another spoonful of the cheese chowder and closed my eyes. I rolled my tongue over the lukewarm melange of ingredients. There was a hint of cheese, yes, but the mixture was not smooth, creamy, or light, not to mention redolent of cheese, whether it was fine Swiss or sharp cheddar. Even I had a better recipe for cheese soup than this. I swallowed and sighed. Every muscle in Tony’s taut, expectant face rolled, tightened, and rolled again, like cables on a high-speed ski lift. Should I take another sip of the tomato, I wondered, smile, close my eyes, swallow? Venture a fourth bite? What happened if I frowned and delicately set the spoon aside? Would he really holler at me?

  “Well – ” I began.

  “She doesn’t like it,” Marla interrupted with a fluttering of bejeweled fingers. She put one chubby hand on Tony’s forearm. He jerked away. “Give it a rest, Tony. Come on.”

  Sam Perdue, his face a mottled study of anger, scraped his chair back, stood, and silently marched away. Marla’s efforts to mollify Tony were unsuccessful. When he made one short, fierce shake of his head, she sent a hopeful gaze around the restaurant.

  “I want to lose money,” she said brightly. “I know how to throwaway more than we’ve already allowed to slip past. Hey, Tony! All we have to do is invest in a restaurant producing food that Goldy thinks is garbage.”

  “Damn it, Marla!” Tony snapped. Then he relented and rubbed her hand. “Don’t get in the middle of this, sweetie. If it’s no good, we’re not going to invest in it. Okay?”

  I could practically hear her purr at his saccharine attentions. Fool! I wanted to shout, but did not. Tony sighed gustily and dipped a clean spoon into the chocolate soup. He didn’t look at me as he put the spoon loaded with dark stuff on my plate.

  “Hey Tony, what am I, a kid?” I demanded. “Don’t you think I can feed myself?”

  “No, you’re not a kid,” he said quietly, still not meeting my gaze. “In fact, I hear you’re the right-hand woman to the county’s number one investigator.”

  “Yeah, too bad he doesn’t investigate soups, right?” I parried. I eyed the chocolate, which was dark and velvety-looking. When the Aztecs had named chocolate “food of the gods,” they’d been onto something. I didn’t want to imagine, much less experience, how Sam’s chef had wrecked it.

  “Eat the damn soup, Goldy, and tell me if it’s any good. It’s the last one.” He scanned the restaurant again, and spoke confidingly. “Sam’s had a hard time with Prospect, and he’s ready to go to the newspapers with his tale of how cruel we’ve been to him. The last thing I want is more bad publicity, okay? Victoria didn’t like the soups, Albert got away with a bundle, and Sam’s going to hate the hell out of me if we veto his plans. I do want to try to help this guy expand, if I can.” He gestured at the chocolate soup. “Tell me if anything here has potential.” He exhaled, then spoke with clenched teeth. “I need a successful investment at this time, because of what’s going on at the firm.”

  “You’re being a jerk, To-ny,” Marla singsonged, winking at some friends and holding up an index finger to indicate she’d be right over.

  Tony’s voice was corrosive. “Oh, I’m a jerk? I thought you two saved the term jerk for your mutual ex-husband.” Marla tsked, rose, and flounced off She wriggled through some tables, poured herself some forbidden coffee, and carried it off to greet her buddies.

  Tony smoothed his mustache with his index finger and gave me a blank look. “Eat your chocolate soup, Goldy,” he said coldly.

  I watched Marla’s back as she sipped from her coffee cup and chatted with her acquaintances, women who from their expensive clothing looked as if they, too, like Marla, belonged to the nonworking segment of the populace. Maybe they were also signed up for the art appreciation adventure to Italy. The excursion was supposed to be all-female, but maybe the Botticelli and Bernini would be supplanted by marinara and men. Actually, that would have been good for Marla, I mused. Much as I worried about Marla’s health, I worried more about her social life. Not the country club variety, but the intense kind you have with guys. Guys like Tony. Tony who was now giving me the soup-sipping evil eye.

  I took a dainty spoonful of the chocolate concoction. It was too thin. And too sweet. “No more,” I said.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Tony cried. “Can’t you at least give me more information than that?” he demanded in a nasty tone I tried to think of as concerned. He wanted to hear sensory analysis, or at least reasons for culinary rejection, straight from the caterer’s mouth. “You realize we’re talking about a lot of money to be made here?” he added in a lower, patronizing voice.

  Well. That did it. If the man wanted a bona fide taste assessment, the man was going to get one.

  “They’re all boring. They lack creamy texture and depth of taste. They’re too thin. Worse, the seafood and cheese selections are not spicy enough for the American palate. They’re not terrible,” I said wistfully. “Just not… unusual. And I should tell you, Tony, good soups can be extraordinarily labor-intensive. Labor-intensive means lots of money. Plus, soup is volatile. Cook it too long, and it gets like library paste. Cook it too little and it tastes like puddle water.”

  He exhaled loudly and put his head in his hands.

  Outside the restaurant, the soaking wet Audubon group was breaking up. A tall fellow tentatively raised his head, spylike, and trained his binoculars on Sam’s. No long-billed curlew here, I wanted to call to him, just a few odd ducks. The man watched the restaurant just a moment too long to be credibly involved with the birders. I stared until he folded his body down next to a beat-up Subaru. Oh, Lord: Macguire. Trying to be an investigator. What did he think he was doing? Was he tailing somebody? And who? The teenager was going to give new meaning to the term loose cannon.

  Tony caught Sam Perdue’s eye and gave him a sympathetic, sorrowful look. Sam lifted his chin and turned his back. He sure didn’t want to hear analysis of his soup samples from a local caterer.

  “This was a mistake,” I said, and meant it. Poor Sam.

  “Oh, well.” Tony was already on the rebound, just as he’d been after the scene at the mine party. Apparently things went badly in the venture capital world quite often. “You brought the food for our camping trip.”

  “Yes, I did. It’s in the van.”

  He smiled mischievously. “Marla says your husband is a big fisherman. Is he jealous of what we’re doing?”

  “If you actually catch any trout, he’ll be jealous after the fact.”

  Again Tony leaned over and addressed me in an oddly confiding tone. “Has he found my partner yet? Has he gotten any leads?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Tom’s off the case.”
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br />   He wrinkled his brow and continued to whisper. “Why?”

  I shrugged. “Shockley’s the captain, and as you undoubtedly know, his retirement funds are with Prospect. He wants his own people out looking for Albert Lipscomb.”

  “But… but… I thought your husband was the best. That’s what Marla says. ‘Tom Schulz is the best.’” Tony’s face contorted with alarm. “Jesus. They’ll never find Albert if Schulz isn’t working the case. What’s the matter with that Shockley? Doesn’t he want to find Albert? What about my money?”

  Taken aback, I couldn’t think of a word to say. This possibility had never occurred to me. Tony looked apprehensively in Marla’s direction and said: “Listen, Goldy, speaking of husbands, there’s something more important that I need to talk to you about.” He hesitated. “I’m going to ask Marla to marry me this weekend, when we’re up at Grizzly Creek. Think she’ll have me?”

  My heart plummeted. I certainly hope not. “You’re going to ask her to marry you on a fishing trip? Why don’t you just go to the Brown Palace and skip the rod-and-reel routine? I think she’d be more likely to say yes. You’d certainly get less wet.”

  “No, no, no,” he said desperately. “This is important, Goldy. I told Marla this fishing trip was going to be a big deal. She thinks we’re trying to catch enormous cutthroat trout. Being by the water is very romantic.” He snorted. “So,” he said as if he were discussing a merger he’d just read about in Forbes, “do you think she wants to get married or not?”

  “I don’t know,” I said truthfully, but was prevented from saying more by Marla’s approach. I suddenly had a vision of myself standing up and screaming, Marla, get an ironclad prenuptial agreement! But of course, I didn’t.

  “I’ll talk to you when we get back,” Tony whispered hastily. “Save the first weekend in August for us. You can cater the reception.”

  I grunted and was stopped from saying Why, thank you, Your Highness, by Marla’s arrival.

  “I see you all got your differences straightened out,” she said impatiently. “I just saw Nan and Liz and… uh-oh, there’s Sam!” she hissed. “Did you tell him you didn’t like the soups, Goldy? He certainly doesn’t look very happy.”

  That was an understatement. The man looked ready to drown me in his precious soup.

  “We need to go,” Tony said curtly. “We still have to pack up all the gear. Is your van locked, Goldy?”

  “Come on, guys, I begged them, can’t you go fishing another weekend?”

  Tony stared at the ceiling. Over the sound of seagull calls, he said, “We need to get moving. Is the food really in your van, or did you forget it?”

  “I remembered the food, chill out. Oh, and speaking of which, refrigerate the” – I lowered my voice – “soup until you leave.” I directed my plea at Marla. “It’s raining. You’re going to get drenched even if it stops – “

  “You don’t seem to know who you’re talking to.” Tony’s voice had gone from insulting back to its normal arrogance. “All my stuff is waterproof: Goldy. State-of-the-art. And we’ll get up there when all the other fishermen are too wimpy. We’ll catch a lot.”

  “That I doubt,” said Marla with a perfumed shrug. “You won’t say that when I fix you my pan-fried trout,” chided Tony, as he helped her into her shiny white raincoat. “Maybe we won’t even need Goldy’s soup.”

  As we left, Edna Hardcastle was condoling with Sam Perdue, who refused to acknowledge our departure.

  Outside, Macguire was nowhere to be seen. I hoped, rather than believed, that he’d given up his investigative fantasies.

  I turned to Marla. But she was making a joke with Tony, something about being smart like fish, something about schools. The old joke.

  I didn’t say what was on my mind. Stay home, Marla, I wanted to beg, but I couldn’t say the words. She looked over, wanting me to share in her laughter. Again I tried to speak, but the warning remained in my throat, unspoken.

  Don’t say yes.

  11

  It was another slow weekend with no bookings and intermittent rain. Friday and Saturday, I experimented with shrimp curry and grilled tuna with Japanese noodIes. After marination in lemon juice and crushed bay leaves, the tuna was delectable. But the curry was so hot even Jake turned his nose up at it. An unusually fierce, windy rainstorm late Saturday night took out our telephones as well as our electric power. We drove through thick fog to get to church, then decided to take Arch and Todd Druckman to a Rockies game, tickets courtesy of the Druckmans’ vacationing neighbors.

  The Rockies were playing the Mets. By the eighth inning, the Rockies were ahead by one. In the top of the ninth, with two out and a runner on second, the Mets’ catcher hit a line drive down the left field line.

  Ellis Burks backhanded the ball on the first bounce and flung it with such force to home that I thought Jayhawk Owens was going to spin a cartwheel when he reached for it. Owens managed to catch the ball, pivot, and tag the runner out to end the game. The crowd went wild.

  The memory of that play flickered in my mind Monday morning, when an event came out of left field that-shocked me no less than if I’d tried to catch Burks’ throw with my bare hands.

  The phone’s ringing pierced the silence when the clock’s digits glowed exactly 7:30. Apparently, both our electric power and telephone service had been restored. I figured that Tom had reset the clocks before he left. Arch, I was fairly sure, was still asleep. Since I didn’t have any bookings, I thought it must be my mother calling from New Jersey to do a postmortem on the game. She’s a big Mets fan.

  It was not my mother. It was Macguire Perkins. He rasped and wheezed so badly into the receiver that at first I barely recognized his voice.

  “Oh, Goldy, I’m so sorry. I’m in Lutheran Hospital. In Denver. I’ve got such bad news. I really screwed up.”

  I threw off the sheets, shot up in bed, and dragged my mind from baseball to Macguire. Macguire in the hospital? “Macguire, what’s wrong?”

  “I was tailing them. But I lost them. Marla and her boyfriend. Something happened. Somebody…somebody hit me over the head – ” he wheezed. ” – and I guess I struggled, but then the perp must have hit me again, because I just like, passed out or whatever.”

  “Someone hit you? When? Where? Macguire, start over, please. Are you okay?”

  “Out in the woods, near Grizzly Creek. It was at night. And there was that big storm, you know? When I came to, there was a ton of blood coming out of this gross cut on my scalp. I mean, the blood’s all over my shirt, pants, everything. It was nasty.” More wheezing. “I thought I was dying. I figured I’d been hit by a rock, or a rock slide, or jeez, I don’t know, because I can’t remember hearing anything. But sometimes you don’t, you know, remember hearing a rock slide. Your mind blanks it out. At least that’s what this guy at school told me.” His voice shredded into coughing. “Anyway, I tied my shirt around my scalp and tried to drive my car out, but the front tires were flat. I thought, that’s weird, how could they both be flat? And I couldn’t see any big rocks or boulders nearby, so I was like, totally confused. And scared. Even though there was nobody around and all I could hear was the rain.” There was murmuring in the background. “Yeah, okay,” I heard Macguire say. “I’ll be off in a minute.” He sighed, which led to more coughing. “That was the nurse. I had to have six stitches, and the covering of my skull is torn. I didn’t even know the skull had a covering. I mean, you know. Besides skin. And, of course, hair,” he added dutifully.

  “Macguire, I’m so sorry… but why… why did you do this? What were you thinking?”

  He sighed gustily, with the world-weary air of Sam Spade. “I know it’s dumb. But I was up at Albert Lipscomb’s house with you guys, and it was all so weird when he skipped. So I just thought if I followed Tony it would lead to Albert. I mean, eventually. Then I’d be the hero. I should have known better, I know. Don’t tell me, I already feel totally stupid.”

  I was out of bed and pulling on a sweat suit, the phone
tucked under my ear. “For heaven’s sake, Macguire, how did you get back to town? Couldn’t Marla and Tony help you? Did you call the police?”

  “I couldn’t find Marla and Tony,” he whined helplessly, and I was painfully reminded of how young he was. “That’s what I called to tell you. After I came to, I went over to where I’d watched them fixing dinner. I had to wait for flashes of lightning to see anything. You wouldn’t believe how dark it was. And it was really raining – Anyway, I called, but they weren’t at the campsite any more. Marla’s car was there, that new Mercedes, all locked up. I don’t know where they went, I swear. But it was real dark, you know. The wind was blowing like crazy, it was raining so hard… . And it was really cold.”

  He hacked again, then spoke to someone, probably the nurse. I prayed that he had some idea of where Tony and Marla were, some idea that they were okay.

  “Did you ever see Marla and Tony? I mean after you were hit?”

  “No, I’m telling you, I couldn’t find them. And I called and called. They must have left on foot, because they only had the one car up there. Goldy, it looked as if a bear or something had gone through their campsite, it was such a frigging – excuse me – mess. I stumbled back until I came to the dirt road, then I walked out to the state highway. A guy in a truck picked me up. He brought me here. And then I guess I like passed out again, or something, because my memory gets kind of blurry. Oh yeah, the guy in the truck said he would call the police. They operated on me, sewing up that cut, yesterday sometime. Gosh, I feel like hell. And the nurse says I have to get off the phone. I’m going to call the school secretary at home, in case my father phones and wonders where I am.”