The Main Corpse

by Diane Mott Davidson

  “Did you talk to Albert Lipscomb during the party?” De Groot’s pitted face was inscrutable.

  I shrugged. “Not much. He asked about the food I was serving. He said Prospect Financial would consider having me cater a picnic. He was just being polite, I think. Why do you want to know if I talked to him?”

  “Please, Mrs. Schulz. Let us ask the questions. So you’re saying … he was enjoying the party,” De Groot concluded. “For a while, anyway. Until he got into a fight with your friend Marla.”

  “An argument, I’d call it. Not a fight.” I said firmly.

  “Argument about what?” asked De Groot. His eye finally caught the Rothko, but this time, apparently, I was going to be spared further enlightenment on the history of abstract expressionism.

  “Who sent you?” I demanded. “Why didn’t Tom come ask me these questions himself?”

  Hersey said, “Investigator Schulz isn’t on this case.”

  “That’s not normal, is it?” I asked mildly. “Tom does more than homicide, and he usually heads cases like this. He does forgery, mail theft. And missing persons,” I added after a pause.

  Hersey retorted, “It’s normal for an investigator to be removed from a case when he knows some of the people in the investigation. We’re under direct orders from our captain. Now, please, Mrs. Schulz. Just tell us about this fight on Saturday between Mr. Lipscomb and Ms. Korman. Did you hear them?”

  I paused a beat before saying, “Not really. They were outside of the tent where I was catering, and hail was coming down rather hard.”

  “Whose idea was that?” asked De Groot. “To go out in the hail? Your friend Marla’s? How did Albert Lipscomb react to a client dragging him out into the hail to fight?”

  “Did Captain Shockley say Marla dragged Albert out into the hail?” I retorted. Neither cop replied. “There was no dragging. Albert went outside first, then Marla followed him.” I tsked. What was their game plan here? Whatever it was, I had to get the raspberry tarts ready. I glared at De Groot. “I need to work, if you don’t mind.”

  De Groot moved away from the counter. I quickly spooned the rest of the whipped cream on all the pies, then sprinkled them with fresh, plump raspberries. I cut each tart into eight equal pieces, then levered the thick slices out and put them on individual plates.

  Hersey asked, “What were Albert and Marla fighting about?”

  Marla had told me the cops had been around her home asking questions, so these guys surely already knew the answer to that one. “The lab doing the assays for Eurydice ore,” I said impatiently. “You know Marla is a Prospect client. I think she was upset about how Albert was handling an investment. I can’t believe you haven’t been able to learn all you need to know about this from other people who were at the party. Everyone was listening.”

  At that moment, Sandy Trotfield pushed into the kitchen. When he saw the two policemen, he recoiled.

  “What are you two doing here again? Wasn’t one investigative visit enough?” he demanded. “We’re trying to have a party. First you bother us, now you’re bothering our caterer. Why can’t you keep normal hours?”

  “We’ll be done in a few minutes,” De Groot said with a curt nod.

  “Some people are asking about coffee and dessert,” Sandy Trotfield announced to me, as if the two policemen weren’t there.

  “Coming right up,” I replied. Sandy stormed out of the kitchen. So the two policemen had already visited the Trotfields. Maybe that was when De Groot had gotten his art lesson. To Hersey, I said, “So you’ve talked to everyone who was at the party?”

  “Just about.”

  I switched on the coffeepot. “Then do me a favor and don’t belabor this. If you’re working directly for Captain Shockley, he ought to be able to tell you what happened.” Emphasis on the ought, I added mentally. “After all, he was there, too.”

  Hersey said, “Shockley said you helped break up the fight. You were right next to Albert Lipscornb. How did he seem to you? Like a guy whose scam had been discovered? Like, now that something had come out about the mine, he had to get out of Dodge?”

  “Why is Captain Shockley so interested in Marla’s argument with Albert Lipscomb?” I demanded.

  Hersey repeated blandly, “How did Albert Lipscomb seem to you?”

  I closed my eyes and again saw Albert Lipscomb’s furious thin lips and shining wet pate. “Hard to tell.” I opened my eyes and concentrated on Hersey. “Marla told Albert she wanted to see him Monday morning at the Prospect offices. There was nothing in the way he acted to indicate to me that he was going to run away. He was just … ticked off. It happens at parties. People drink too much. They argue. They sleep it off and call me the next morning with a hangover and ask if they did anything really stupid. If I want repeat business, I always say no.”

  “But Albert didn’t say he’d meet Marla Monday morning?” Hersey persisted. De Groot crossed his arms and waited his turn. The coffeepot burbled and hissed, and the wake-up smell of Java filled the room.

  “No,” I replied evenly. “He didn’t say he’d be there.”

  “What about Tony Royce?” asked De Groot. “What was he doing while they were fighting?”

  I gave De Groot a half-smile. “Tony Royce helped to break up the disagreement. He was as upset as I was, and was worried about Marla, as I was. But twenty minutes later he seemed to have recovered. I don’t think he’d had as much to drink as Albert.”

  Watching Hersey’s bulging eyes, I wondered vaguely about thyroid medication. Six years the ex-wife of a doctor, and I was still jumping in to diagnose.

  “Did you know Lipscomb before the party?” Hersey asked.

  “Not at all.” Although at this point I was desperately wishing that I had, since he’d successfully absconded with millions of dollars that included some of my best friend’s money. From the tone of their questions, I tried to assess how much these cops knew about Lipscomb. Not a whole lot, it seemed to me.

  I asked them, “What do you know about the bank teller who disappeared?”

  Before either had a chance to answer, Amanda Trotfield chose that moment to bolt into the kitchen. Fast on her heels was her husband.

  “Enough!” Amanda’s voice was fierce. “I’ve had as much as I’ll stand of you two policemen invading our lives! Get out! If you want to talk to the cook, go to her almighty house, not ours!” She stabbed an auburn-painted fingernail in my direction. Her eyes blazed. “And you. Get those pies and coffees out there, or there will be no check.”

  I gestured helplessly in the direction of the pie slices and the coffeepot with its glowing red light. I certainly didn’t appreciate her threatening me in front of these cops.

  Hersey looked at Mrs. Trotfield, who was quivering with indignation, then jotted in his notebook. He pressed his lips together. “Okay, Mrs. Schulz, go back to your cooking. We appreciate your taking some time for us.” He nodded at De Groot.

  I didn’t see the policemen to the door. Neither, I was sure, did the Trotfields.

  Chapter 9

  When Arch and I got home, Tom was sitting in the living room talking to Jake. Actually, he was murmuring to Jake. Cajoling him. The man never gives up. Easily distracted by our arrival, Jake thumped his tail supportively as he drooled long skeins of saliva on our living room rug.

  Tom appraised me. “Uh-oh. Looks like she had another unhappy evening. Come on and have something to eat. You probably haven’t had a bite all day.” He gestured to his offerings: English crackers, a cheddar spread veined with port, a soft drink for Arch, and a bottle of dry sherry. “Which is worse, not having jobs, or having bad jobs?”

  “Can’t decide.” I dropped onto the couch beside him and spread a hillock of the rich, smooth cheese onto a thick cracker. I bit into it: divine. “Thanks for all this.”

  “Yeah, this is great!” Arch exclaimed after swigging the pop. He patted Jake enthusiastically. “What have you guys been up to?” Jake was now a guy, I noted.

  Tom’s green
eyes shone. “We have a trick to show you. Arch, remember we were talking about a game to resocialize Jake? So that he could deal with new situations?”

  Arch nodded vigorously.

  Tom said, “Let’s let your mom do this one.” He turned to me. “Here’s what we do. I’ll hide. You say the word f-i-n-d.”

  I asked demurely, “Do you have a dog biscuit in your pocket, or will he be glad to see you?”

  Arch said, “Mom? What are you talking about?”

  Tom’s handsome face remained unperturbed. “Joke, joke, Miss G., go ahead. Before you give him the command, allow me a few minutes.”

  He walked out of the room. Jake’s mournful eyes followed him anxiously.

  I called after Tom: “Two of the morons who work for Shockley came to interrogate me during the dinner. Maybe you could resocialize them next.”

  When Tom didn’t answer, I turned to Jake and said dubiously, “Find?”

  Jake scrambled off, nose to the carpet. Arch watched him, transfixed. Within fifteen seconds, Tom strolled triumphantly back into the room. Jake pranced and whined alongside. Tom told Jake what a great job he’d done, and the hound enthusiastically climbed Tom’s chest. After the obligatory biscuit-gift, the dog and Arch took off for his room, and Tom sat down next to me.

  “Which two morons? Now that Shockley makes the assignments, the morons are everywhere.”

  “De Groot and Hersey.”

  He groaned and poured himself a glass of sherry. “The Odd Squad. Shockley’s right-hand goons. Thos two guys so completely botched a robbery case of mine that I avoid working with them whenever possible.”

  “Yeah, well, I wish I could have avoided them. Oh,” I toasted him and added matter-of-factly, “something else. I saw the general today, and you’ll never guess what the two of us experienced together.”

  Tom smiled mischievously. “Don’t tell me. An explosion. Wait, let me guess. C-four, his favorite. It was a very big explosion, and you were safely far away.”

  “It might’ve been an explosion some distance away that precipitated a very big landslide, and I was on the edge of it.” I sipped sherry, related the events of the afternoon, and, remembering Bo’s queries, asked if Tom had ever heard of environmental statements being done for a mine.

  “You mean the claims?” When I shrugged, he said, “I think those are recorded with the county clerk, as well as down in Denver with some state agency. And I’m pretty sure operating mines have to be inspected periodically for safety. And hey, speaking of safety?” He gave me a searching look. “A landslide? What on earth were you doing?”

  “Nothing,” I protested. “Not a thing. It’s not like an avalanche, where you can plan to trigger it. I mean, unless you have the right weather conditions and use an explosive. In this case, all we had was a full moon, and the fact that they were working with explosives in the area,” I added as I reached for another cracker. Tom was right: I was ravenous.

  He shook his head. “I swear, Goldy, you get into more trouble in a day than I do in a year.”

  “I don’t go looking for trouble,” I protested, mouth full.

  “Oh, please. You know how many crooks have said that to me?”

  “Thanks loads.” I wagged a finger at him. “I’m going to find out what’s going on with this financial firm. Prospect’s chief investment officer dies in Idaho Springs, one of the partners disappears, my friend’s money gets stolen.” I paused to lick creamy cheese from my fingers, then continued with my litany: “A problem with assay reports. Idiot cops hovering to insult and intimidate people.”

  Tom’s look was somber. “It’s a missing persons case. Miss G. That’s it. It’s not even a needle in a haystack. It’s a caraway seed.”

  I scooted over on the couch and gave him an affectionate squeeze. I do love a man who makes culinary metaphors.

  The next morning, Friday, the phone rang early. Marla.

  “Okay, listen,” she began without preamble, “I’m sorry to be calling you so early, or so late as it turns out, but Tony thought that I ordered the food for this weekend, and of course I thought that he had, and we need nonperishables, if you can imagine. So I was thinking—”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you have the wrong number. And why didn’t you warn me about those idiot cops?”

  “I tried.” She groaned. “Awful, aren’t they? They offended the Hardcastles by implying they were nitwits for investing in an abandoned mine. And listen to this. First thing that happened at the Trotfields’ place? You’ll never guess. As soon as the two cops came into the house, De Groot sneezed on the Motherwell. But listen, I do need to talk to you about the food for our fishing trip—”

  “I thought you and Tony weren’t getting along.”

  “We’re not, but it’s temporary. And contrary to the prevailing opinion in Colorado, I don’t think schlepping into the cold, wet mountains is going to transform us into a healed couple. But Tony’s desperate to get away for a couple of days, and he’s told everybody he’s going, so if he comes back without any fish, he’ll lose face.”

  We said in unison, “Machismo.”

  “But,” I protested, “aren’t you leaving soon? As in this afternoon? I may be able to cook fast, but I’m not superhuman—”

  “Oh Goldy, please don’t say no, you have such a knack with food, and Tony really is a wreck—”

  I sighed. “Hold on.” I tied a robe around my waist and scanned the bedroom. Tom was not under the covers. Oh, yes. I’d sleepily registered his predawn departure. What was it he’d said? Something about female soccer players getting into a brawl at an indoor game last night. Apparently the referee failed to whistle penalties for lots of rough play, and the game ended in a free-for-all. The cops arrested one of the goalkeepers, and Tom’s presence was needed this morning to deal with the mess. One thing I’d learned in the last year: Policemen work a lot harder than doctors. And at odder hours. I stared at the clock: seven-thirty. I had to get cracking on my weekly muffins-and-coffee cake assignment for the Bank of Aspen Meadow. But guilt cut between these considerations. Marla had given me so many business referrals that I felt duty-bound to squeeze her in. And of course, she was my best friend. Besides, if I didn’t intervene, she would eat fat-loaded junk food.

  “Look, Marla, I have a job this morning, and then I’m meeting you and Tony for lunch at Sam’s Soups. Why don’t I bring you some food then?”

  “Oh gosh, could you?”

  I glanced out the window and thought my eyes must be deceiving me, because it wasn’t raining. It was just very, very cloudy and dark. “What I’m trying to tell you,” I said patiently, “is that I’m not going to be packing a fresh whole stuffed turkey for you. You’d get ptomaine. I’ll fix one cozy campfire dinner, and you can do the freeze-dried routine for the rest of the time. Okay? By the way, what are you going to do about fresh water? And firewood? The ground is soaked.”

  She said that fuel, water, and beverages were Tony’s department, that they’d need enough food and snacks to get through the weekend, and she’d see me at Sam’s at noon for my taste-test. I threw open the upstairs window and took a deep breath of moist mountain air. Fog was moving, ghostlike, through the sodden branches of the pine trees. I wouldn’t want to be out fishing this weekend.

  I stretched through a yoga routine, got dressed, then answered a call from Todd Druckman’s mother, Kathleen. Some vacationing neighbors had given her Rockies tickets for the weekend. She wanted to invite Arch to Coors Field for a doubleheader against the Dodgers. I was profusely thankful that Arch would have something to do during the day besides retrain Jake.

  I awakened Arch, who was none too happy to be brought to consciousness before eleven on a summer morning. But the promise of spending even a foggy day watching the Blake Street Bombers—a quartet of the Rockies’ best players—and the rest of the beloved baseball team brightened his spirits considerably. I promised I’d bring Jake inside if it started to rain, and yes, the dear hound could stay in Arch’s room whi
le I was out. Then I gave my son breakfast and managed to convince him to wear a waterproof jacket before he slipped out the back door.

  I checked the computer for my morning assignment at the bank. It was one of my favorite regular jobs, as I usually heard enough gossip from Eileen Tobey, the bank manager, to last a full month. Eileen infused all of her stories with great drama, which might explain why in her spare time she was the diva of the Aspen Meadow theater group. When she wasn’t playing Blanche DuBois or Lady Macbeth, she was on the phone tracking down the town’s latest rumors. Eileen was the kind of person who became your closest friend when a misfortune—cancer diagnosis, contested divorce, suicide of a relative—befell you. Unfortunately, the intimacy did not last a week past her learning every grisly detail of your crisis. And since she found out everyone’s details, she was the most remarkably informed gossip I knew. She’d been talking to Albert at the Eurydice Mine party. Given her personality, I knew I could pump her for information today and she’d never even speculate about the reasons for my nosiness.

  I ground Italian roast coffee beans and watched twin spurts of dark liquid hiss out of my machine. Then I sipped the espresso and tried to remember what I’d heard lately about Eileen herself. This past January, Eileen’s ex-husband had filed for bankruptcy within a week of Eileen being named the new branch manager of the Bank of Aspen Meadow. I seemed to recall a rumor that she had celebrated both events with none other than Tony Royce. Was she one of the girlfriends who’d been jilted when Tony swore undying loyalty to Marla this spring? I wondered.

  For the lavish employee coffee break Eileen had me cater every Friday, I usually served an assortment of fresh fruit and baked goods, Eileen set aside an hour when she was available to talk to her employees during this time about any problems they were having. I was always surprised by how many problems could be recounted, and how much food could be consumed, in sixty minutes. This Friday I’d decided on fresh Strawberry-Pineapple-Kiwi Skewers, Scones with Lemon Curd, Banana-Pecan Muffins, and Almond-Poppy Seed Muffins. At the end of the computer menu, Tom had typed me a note: Why don’t you treat the bank employees to my Sour Cream Cherry Coffee Cake? Love you, T. His recipe followed the note. Honestly, this guy.