The Main Corpse

by Diane Mott Davidson

  I handed her the covered plate. “Sounds as if you’re not too brokenhearted.”

  Her reply was defiant. “Well, I’m not.” She paused, wormed her fingers under the wrapping of the plate, and pulled out a piece of cherry cake. She bit into it and made mm-mm noises.

  I said, “You’re not brokenhearted because Tony had already broken your heart, maybe?”

  She shrugged. “Tony and I dated, yes. Off and on. He always acted as if he owned three-fourths of Denver. Plus, he seemed to know everybody. And I wanted to get to know everybody.” She finished her cake, licked her fingers, and put down the dish. Then she pulled a mirror out of her handbag, looked at herself, grimaced, and pulled out a silver lipstick container.

  “You do know everybody,” I observed.

  “Not in the Denver business community I don’t. Albert and Tony and I were in a network, very professional, called WorkNet. Costs a mint, as in a thousand a year to belong. But it’s for business leads. You scratch my back, et cetera. Very well organized. Very productive. You should join.”

  “A thousand a year for business leads? They’d have to be pretty incredible leads.”

  “But Goldy, they are. Say one guy in WorkNet does commercial leases. He knows months before anybody else that a company is coming into town. Now, the company coming in needs everything from telecommunications to decorating to a two-million-dollar pad for their CEO. So in WorkNet, we’ll have, of course, decorators, telecommunications executives, real estate agents, even caterers. The deal is that we all help each other. Say the real estate agent who sells the CEO the mansion finds out that the CEO’s daughter is getting married next summer. Our agent comments, ‘I know this great caterer, absolutely the perfect person to do your daughter’s reception.’ And of course, it’s going to be a twenty-five-thousand-dollar gig.”

  “Tony and Albert were in WorkNet?”

  “Oh, Tony and Albert were in it to the max, darling. This was about five years ago,” she said dreamily. “I simply loved going to those meetings with those guys. They were looking for rich investors right and left, and I basked in all that power, I must say. They wanted me to find wealthy people for them. You’re Marla’s friend. Doesn’t Tony do that with you?”

  I nodded. “He does, all the time. He used to ask if I catered for any rich widows. Last month he wanted to know if I knew any rich doctors.”

  Eileen reached back under the plastic wrapping to pull out another muffin. “Oh, jeez. Does he know your history? I mean, about your ex? I hope you told him off.”

  “No,” I replied matter-of-factly, “I told him I tried to stay away from rich doctors as much as possible. So he asked me if I knew any rich dentists. I said no. Lawyers? Pilots? Plumbers? He said rich folks needed him.”

  “Did you help him?”

  I smiled broadly. “I gave him a few names, but I’m not sure anybody had the kind of net worth he was looking for.”

  Eileen took another bite of muffin and nodded appreciatively. “I didn’t bring Albert or Tony anybody, either. And no alarm bells went off when they wanted to invest my entire divorce settlement of two hundred thousand dollars. Make you a million in two years, they promised. I gave them forty thousand.” She paused. “Tell me, as a food person, would you have invested your divorce settlement in goats?”

  “What? Goats? As in farm animals?”

  She licked her pinky. “As in farm animals. Tony and Albert didn’t get caught, so maybe it was a genuine deal. Anyway, they said they only needed about five hundred thousand to get started. After they took my forty thou, they went out to meet people in churches. I’ll bet you Tony and Albert spent my money on Sunday clothes. Those guys went to more churches, I swear, they were like apostles of the ecumenical movement. The two of them convinced numerous devout folks that the climate in Morrison, Colorado, was the same as that of Kashmir, Pakistan. That’s where they raise the goats that provide the hair for cashmere yarn, in case you’re interested. Mountainous region, sound familiar?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Well, I haven’t gotten to the food part.” She relip-sticked her mouth and opened her eyes Wide. “Goat cheese. Or chèvre, if you prefer. The Morrison cashmere goats were going to provide goat cheese and yarn. A double-barreled investment. Plus Albert said slaughtered goats would go to feed Denver’s hungry, and the skins would be sold to raise money to build shelters for the homeless. That’s how they got the church people. As I recall,” she stared at the ceiling, “they raised about four hundred thousand dollars on that one. Without so much as a single strand of goat hair or plate of cheese to show for it.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Oh my dear, so painful. The two of them actually bought some land, bought a few goats, brought investors out and had them try on cashmere sweaters, taste a little Montrachet. But the samples were from a delicatessen, and the cashmere sweaters were from Scotland. Their goats all died. They unloaded the land. The investors, including yours truly, got back less than ten cents on the dollar.”

  No wonder she was so pleased with Prospect’s recent run of disastrous luck. “Sounds like maybe it was just a bad investment,” I murmured.

  She gave me an incredulous look. “I looked up the deed for that land this year, although I wasn’t smart enough to do it back then. Prospect doubled its money on it. Maybe they were sincere, maybe it was all a mistake, who was I to judge? Either way, this winter, I alerted the state consumer fraud people.”

  I held my breath. “What did they find?”

  “Nothing. They said there was a statute of limitations problem and their staff had just been cut back to the bone. Plus, I was the only one who’d made any noise.”

  I straightened out the last of the fruit skewers and tried to think what to ask next. “Did you keep … seeing Tony during that time?”

  “What was I supposed to do when all his damn goats were dying? I’d never seen a man so sad. He chalked it up as a loss, and he and Albert quietly got out of the goat business. I didn’t get suspicious until the following year, when the two of them were yakking away in WorkNet about selling ostrich eggs to all the would-be ostrich farmers. One day, I got up my courage and cornered Albert. I told him in no uncertain terms that if he and his partner didn’t get out of animal husbandry, I’d write up the goat fiasco for the WorkNet newsletter. Albert told Tony I was upset. Tony said, Oh, sweetheart, can’t we go out for dinner? So I went, but I wouldn’t give them a dime for ostriches. Now what I don’t know is when the two of them started investing in regional companies. Prospect Financial Partners did great when Medigen went public. And might have done great with mining gold, who knows?”

  “Sheesh. But,” and I tried to sound thoughtful, “didn’t you start dating Tony again? As in this year?”

  Her cheeks colored. “A couple of times, why? Why shouldn’t I try to stay friends with Tony? He’s a part of the business community, whether I like it or not.”

  “I’m just saying it doesn’t sound as if you’re friends.”

  “Well, I … I mean I guess Marla is the jealous type, or something.” She pressed the plastic wrap tightly over her plate. “Tony and I haven’t seen each other in ages.”

  “You saw him at the mine party, didn’t you? Of course, I was busy, but I thought I saw you talking to Albert—”

  Eileen glanced out the window, and I had the sudden feeling that she didn’t wish to discuss that particular conversation. “Just casual, I assure you, Goldy. Trying to bury the hatchet. I’m not an investor in the mine—they just invited me for … social reasons, I think.” She turned her gaze from the window and winked at me. The wicked gleam was back in her eyes. “I certainly hope Marla didn’t loan either of them any money. I’d never entrust either of those guys with my money again. Never. But listen, I have to go. You can just call me about next week.”

  I felt a headache looming, and groaned. “Okay. But … what worries me is that I think Marla wants to make the relationship with Tony permanent. I mean, they have tiffs, b
ut—”

  “Well, maybe she’ll reconsider now that Tony’s three and a half mil lighter. I promise, Goldy. Those Prospect Financial guys are bad karma. I never take a bite of goat cheese without thinking of them.”

  Chapter 10

  I raced home to prepare a dish for Marla and Tony’s evening meals out on the range. Or rather, by the trout-swollen brook. In the spirit of the taste testing I’d be doing later, and also because it could be such a comfort in rainy weather, I decided on homemade chicken soup. I chopped mountains of leeks, onions, carrots, and celery, then gently stirred them into a golden pool of olive oil along with the chicken breasts. If I hadn’t been making the soup for cardiac patient Marla, of course, I would have used unsalted butter instead of oil. Small sacrifice.

  I removed the chicken breasts when they were tender and milky white, then whisked in flour, white wine, and lowfat chicken broth. The homey scent of cooked vegetables wafted upward. My mind churned. As I sliced the chicken, I wondered how much of Tony’s character Marla really knew. Or wanted to know. But then again, as a former girlfriend, especially one who’d been jilted, Eileen Tobey was not the most reliable of sources. And besides, my own Tom had remembered Albert in connection with the goats and goat cheese, not Tony and Albert together. Maybe Eileen was indulging in some reputation-destroying back-stabbing, by exchanging the names and the players.

  Rainy Season Chicken Soup

  2 dried porcini mushrooms

  2 tablespoons butter

  2 leeks, white part only, split, rinsed, and diced

  1 medium-size carrot, diced

  1 medium-size onion, diced

  1 large celery rib, diced

  2 boneless, skinless chicken breast halves

  2 tablespoons all-purpose flour

  2 tablespoons dry white wine

  4 cups chicken stock, divided (preferably the homemade lowfat chicken stock made from the recipe in Killer Pancake)

  1 cup fat-free sour cream

  1 cup fideo (fine-cut egg noodles) salt and pepper

  Using a small pan, bring a cup of water to boiling and drop in the porcini mushrooms. Cook uncovered over medium-high heat for 10 minutes, then drain the mushrooms, pat them dry, and slice thinly. Set aside. In a large sauté pan, melt the butter, over low heat. Put in the leeks, carrot, onion, celery, and chicken, stir gently, and cover to cook over low heat for 5 minutes. Take off the cover, stir the vegetables, turn the chicken, and check for doneness. (The chicken should be about half done.) Cover and cook another 5 minutes, or until chicken is just done—not overdone. Remove the chicken from the pan and set aside to cool. Sprinkle the flour over the melted butter, vegetables, and pan juices, and stir to cook over low heat for 2 minutes. Slowly add the white wine and 2 cups of the chicken broth. Stir and cook until bubbly and thickened. Add the sour cream very slowly, and allow to cook gently while you slice the chicken into thin, bite-size pieces.

  In a large frying pan, bring the remaining 2 cups of stock to boiling, and add fideo. Cook 4 minutes, or until almost done. Do not drain. Slowly add the noodle mixture to the hot vegetables and sour cream mixture. Add the chicken and the mushrooms and bring back to boiling. Serve immediately.

  Serves 4.

  When the soup had cooled, I packed it into zipped plastic bags and wedged frozen ice packs between the bags in a large cardboard box. I also loaded in fruit, granola, yogurt, raw vegetables, nonfat sour cream dip, and homemade bread. As I revved up the van, I wondered if I should be the one to confront Tony about the goat story. Then again, Elieen had left out a few significant facts in her tale, including that she’d resumed dating Tony several years after the goat swindle. Nor, she said, had she alerted the consumer fraud people until after she and Tony broke up this year. Maybe Albert was the real swindler; that certainly seemed to be in line with the way he was acting now. No matter what, I thought as I pulled up in front of Sam’s Soups, I doubted this afternoon’s scheduled taste-testing would give me an opportunity for a business-oriented heart-to-heart with Tony.

  “Here you are, finally,” he said, as he guided me through the tables by the bank of windows facing Aspen Meadow Lake. The bright navy-and-white interior of Sam’s Soups was meant to conjure up culinary memories of New England, I guessed, as I watched waiters and waitresses clad in sailor’s outfits zip between tables. A long fisherman’s net hung along one wall, while another festooned the ceiling. Framed posters depicting cross sections of seashells graced the other wall. And what did I hear? I moved close to a wall-mounted speaker. Yes: It was the piped-in sound of seagulls. Tony grinned proudly as I took all this in. He was his usual dapper self: white monogrammed shirt, navy pants, mustache freshly clipped, hair blown dry into a soft wave. “We’ve been waiting for you, Goldy. Sam’s chef has prepared a whole smorgasbord of soups just for you.”

  I glanced around the crowded restaurant. As the only caterer in a small town, I’d learned that it’s not a good idea to frequent the local eateries. Then all the people who see you say, “Why do you suppose she’s eating here? Think it’s better than her own stuff? Is she here to spy? Or to be critical?” Experience made me doubt Sam Perdue would join us for the taste-test. Why submit your own wares for judgment from a rival? And how could I honestly evaluate his soups in his presence? Alas, he waved at Tony and me from his seat next to Marla. They were at the table in the middle of the restaurant that I guessed was our destination. At least Sam looked more composed than he had at the Prospect office four days ago. His baby-fine blond hair was neatly combed over his bald spot. His slight frame made him look much younger than the thirty-two years of age someone had once told me he was. If I criticized his food, I’d feel as if I were hurting a child. My heart sank.

  Edna Hardcastle fluttered up to the table just as I was sitting down next to Marla, who greeted me with a grateful smile. “Oh, you’re here, you’re here,” Edna gushed. She wore a two-piece beige herringbone knit. Her henna hair was swirled up in an intricate twist. “Now don’t worry about a thing, Goldy,” she admonished before I could say a word. “I know you’re probably thinking. Oh, what can I do? I’m just a local person. In fact, we’re all putting a great deal of faith in you, dear, and much is riding on your opinion. Of course, if we had only invested in food from the beginning …” Her voice trailed off. “But never mind, here you are, and we’re all going to be so interested in your opinion, it’ll give us a chance to get in on the ground floor….”

  As she blathered on, Tony sidled over to his seat and gestured for me to pick up a spoon and dig into one of the blue porcelain bowls in the center of the table. Helpful sticky notes on the platter containing the soup bowls said: Terrapin Tom’s Tomato, Moby Dick’s Chicken, Cocoa Beach Chocolate, Cranky Crab, Big Cheese Chowder. Hold on. Cocoa Beach Chocolate soup? I didn’t think I could get even the chocoholic General Farquhar to sample that. Mrs. Hardcastle was chattering about the cook she’d had in Wisconsin. You could just get the best cheese there, and had Tony ever tasted upstate cheddar?

  Sam murmured placating noises to Mrs. Hardcastle, while Marla and Tony talked about soups they’d tasted at French restaurants, I suddenly recalled the late Victoria Lear, who had not liked Sam’s Soups, despite the cute names. I should have been smiling and paying attention to Mrs. Hardcastle, or getting off a gentle barb that the only cheese Tony knew was from goats, but unfortunately, what went through my mind as I contemplated the blue bowl was. You can die doing a taste test. I scooped up a spoonful of Cranky Crab soup. Flaunting risk, I lifted the spoon, toward my lips. Suddenly all eyes in the restaurant seemed focused on my open mouth. I hesitated. Images of medieval poison tasters came to mind. One bite, and it might be my last.

  “For crying out loud, Goldy,” Marla admonished as the spoon holding the crab mixture trembled in my fingers. She waggled her head in reproof. “When I taste-test, it’s fun. It’s just seafood. Don’t think soup. Think casserole. It’s not going to kill you.” Could Marla possibly still want to invest in a chain of soup-only restaurants, a
fter all that had been happening with Prospect Financial? Apparently so. But not until I gave a thumbs-up to the Cranky Crab concoction. I noticed she wasn’t having any soup-casserole, however. Trying to be careful about her diet, Mm-hmm.

  “Let Goldy try the stuff, will you?” Tony Royce advised as he shifted in his chair and glanced around at the other tables. “We have to make things appear normal,” he added. He sounded nervous. Normal, his favorite word. “We’re carrying on with business as usual. We’re tasting. We’re investing. Big crowd here, likes soup. Okay, let’s go, Goldy. Eat.”

  There was no soup bowl in front of Tony, either, I noticed. Not a good sign. Sam Perdue ran his fingers through his thin blond hair. His eyes crinkled with anxiety.

  Over my shoulder, Mrs. Hardcastle gabbed without a break. “… This is no ordinary soup, you know. Sam’s is about to expand from its Denver and Aspen Meadow locations because this is really a singular creation, don’t you think so, Tony?”

  Tony waved his hands expansively. “They use all the freshest ingredients. All the restaurant critics are raving about this … what, Mrs. Hardcastle?”

  “Light-tasting magic,” she responded rapturously, with a hand on her throat. “Oh, how I do wish that Victoria had felt … oh, but never mind. And that awful Albert! Oh, Tony, Tony, I knew he duped you back with that goat cheese—”

  I faltered and set the spoon down on the platter.

  “Maybe I should go back to my table,” Mrs. Hardcastle murmured.