The Main Corpse

by Diane Mott Davidson

  I rubbed my eyes, surveyed the cabin interior, and tried to think. The chaotic events of the previous day welled up. I shivered and checked my watch. It was Tuesday, June 15, just after five in the morning. Outside, Bo, Arch, and Jake stopped beside the pump. The bloodhound was sniffing, his nose pressed to the soggy earth, his tail curled high. Ever wary. Bo held his deadly-looking gun at his side. Below the cabin, a milky fog poured between the trees. Usually a fast, low white cloud means a front is moving through. With any luck, the frigid vapor would soon burn off. Maybe we’d even have a clear day.

  Marla roused herself to her knees, peered out, and grunted. “If we’re going to have English weather, can’t we at least have crumpets?”

  Her eyes met mine across the cabin space. A lump formed in my throat. What a mess. My best friend had been arrested for murder and neither my policeman husband nor I had been able to help her. Now we were all outside the law, and the person who’d framed her for the crime was probably long gone.

  I said, “How are you doing?”

  Marla answered ruefully. “Wait until I have some caffeine, before you ask me that. I know, I know—I’m not supposed to drink the stuff, but I’m desperate. Is there any?”

  “Is there what?” General Bo Farquhar’s arrival startled me, as he always moved so silently. He entered with a load of firewood. Arch and Jake behind him. The dog looked crestfallen. “What do you girls want now, eggs Benedict?”

  I pointed my finger at him. “Don’t call me a girl, boy. Did you bring in that cell phone?”

  He deposited the wood, spanked his hands together to rid them of mud and bark, and brought me the phone. “Try not to get the police onto us. Also, if you want breakfast, you’ll have to improvise, since all the eggs are broken.”

  Breakfast could wait. Bo had activated the cellular; I punched in our home number and suppressed a worry of how cops traced cell calls. In any event, I seriously doubted the Furman County Sheriff’s Department possessed such technology. The phone rang once.

  “Schulz.” His voice was scratchy with sleep.

  “It’s me.”

  I heard him sigh. “Where are you? Are you coming home? Is Arch all right?”

  “He’s fine, we all are. We’re out in the wild trying to track Tony.” He groaned. I went on: “Listen, I’m certain that Tony Royce didn’t drown in that creek. And after I talked to you yesterday, I got information that Prospect Financial was lying about the mine being closed down during the 1940s. Also, we’ve found a bloody test tube and a disguise.”

  “A test tube and a what?”

  “A bald disguise. Like a cap. That someone would wear to look bald. Say, if a person wanted to look like Albert Lipscomb. Think those two items would be enough to clear Marla of drowning her boyfriend? Talk fast, I don’t want anyone to trace this.”

  “No way. Your skipping with Marla makes her look more guilty. And I’m supposed to remind you to obey the law, wife.”

  “But what about that evidence?”

  “I’d have to see it. Miss G. And with the current atmosphere down at the department, it’ll take an act of God to clear Marla. Please—”

  “I’ll call you later. I miss you.” I hung up abruptly. With the possibility of a trace, there was no time for extensive sentimentality. Unfortunately.

  Poor Tom. I hadn’t even asked what kind of fallout had rained on him from the ambulance incident.

  I took a deep breath. Time to think of food. Cooking was low on my agenda. On the other hand, feeding everyone brought a sense of purpose, and might help me move beyond the guilt I felt for betraying Tom. While the general built up the cookstove fire and hauled in water, I scrounged through the Hardcastles’ meager cupboard again. Flour, sugar, cinnamon, baking soda, buttermilk solids. No beef jerky, no dried fruit. I guess the Hardcastles thought trappers would feast on the fresh game they’d snared. After a few moments of grumbling, I came up with three stray teabags, an unopened jar of apple butter, shortening, cream of tartar—a find—and a griddle. A silly memory intruded—Arch’s fourth-grade science fair question. What makes cookie batter puff up? The answer: an acid—cream of tartar—and a base—baking soda. Mixing the reconstituted buttermilk and dry ingredients to a soft batter made me stop fretting, if only temporarily. I kneaded the feathery dough, patted it into a circle on a wooden board, cut it into wedges, then dropped the scones into hot, bubbling shortening.

  Cinnamon Griddle Scones

  1 cup all-purpose flour

  ½ teaspoon cream of tartar

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon sugar

  ½ teaspoon baking soda

  ½ teaspoon cinnamon

  2 tablespoons dry buttermilk solids (available canned in the baking goods section of the grocery store)

  ½ cup water

  2 tablespoons solid vegetable shortening such as Crisco

  Preheat griddle over medium-high heat. Stir together flour, cream of tartar, salt, sugar, baking soda, cinnamon, and buttermilk solids. Add water and stir until well combined. Turn the batter out on a well-floured surface, knead a few turns. and pat into a circle about 6½ inches in diameter. With a sharp knife, cut the dough into 8 wedges. Melt the shortening on the griddle. When the shortening is hot, lower the heat to medium and place the scones on the griddle. Cook until the first side is golden brown, then turn and cook the other side. Test for done-ness by splitting one scone. It should not be doughy, but should look like a biscuit. Remove the scones from the griddle and serve with butter and apple butter.

  Makes 8 small scones.

  Ten minutes later, while Jake attacked his kibble, the four of us hunkered down on the striped back of Lady Maureen and proved the adage that hunger makes the best sauce. We slathered the hot scones with butter—the general had brought a stick with his supplies—and apple butter, courtesy of the Hardcastles. The butter and apple butter oozed comfortingly between the moist, tender, biscuitlike layers. A morning coffee devotee, I was surprised by the delicious taste of the English Breakfast tea I’d brewed. Any port in a storm.

  “Time to pack up,” the general announced. He wanted to get to Idaho Springs and the Eurydice Gold Mine as soon as possible.

  We left the Hardcastles’ cabin somewhat cleaner than we’d found it, and my only hope was that a new layer of dust would cover the interior before the Hardcastles took it upon themselves to visit their country property.

  When we drew up to the mine an hour later, it appeared utterly abandoned. The heavy grates across the menacing portal were wrapped shut by a thick chain. The sheds were tightly locked. How different the old site seemed now, with no tent, no portable ovens, no food, and no partygoers. Arch talked to Jake, who had howled on our way up High Creek Avenue. Jake scrambled over his lap, poked his nose out the window and let loose with a grandiose, ear-splitting wail.

  “Not again,” muttered Marla.

  “Close the damn window,” the general commanded.

  “Okay,” Arch said meekly, “but it’s like up at the cabin. Bloodhounds remember a scent. When they smell it in the air, they howl. It’s just the way they are. I think Tony’s been here.”

  “Honey,” I said mildly, “Jake always howls.”

  “Not true,” Arch maintained, ever loyal.

  “Well, then,” I asked as we piled out of the Jeep, “what if whoever kidnapped Tony was here, and then went off? Or say the kidnapper got the gold, then came back down this dirt road? The dog certainly won’t be able to distinguish between coming and going, will he?” And particularly not this dog, I thought somewhat peevishly.

  “Bloodhounds always go after the freshest scent,” my son replied earnestly, anxious to exhibit his beloved pet’s unique skills. “At this point, the whole idea in Jake’s mind, his whole purpose in life, is just to f-i-n-d Tony.”

  Arch coaxed the working harness, a leather and metal contraption attached to a thicker leather leash, back over Jake’s head. Jake immediately lowered his nose to the train track leading into the mine. I tur
ned and saw Marla staring at the portal. There was fear in her eyes. Jake cast along the area where the party tent had been, nose to the ground, paws taking him first here, then there. He sniffed out a ditch, then the entrance to a shed. My heart sank. This would never work. And even if it did, and if we did find Tony in the mine, what would we do? Suppose he really was dead? Would we call the sheriff’s department? I couldn’t imagine De Groot and Hersey driving up in a department vehicle with big smiles on their faces. Hey, sorry everybody! Marla didn’t kill Royce! Nobody got pushed into Grizzly Creek! Big mistake!

  Jake had a scent. He was pulling dementedly on his leash.

  “Hold up,” said the general. “There’s a road around the side of the mountain. It goes down some rough terrain and ends up on a back road to Central City, not far from Orpheus Canyon Road. Maybe Tony and his abductor came for the gold samples, and they went out the other way. Be very sure to let the hound cast for the freshest scent, Arch.”

  But Jake was determined that there was only one scent to follow, and that led straight into the Eurydice Mine. He stopped at the closed grate, and howled.

  “Wait,” the general commanded briskly. He strode over to the corrugated metal shed on the right side of the mine, where the party tent had been pitched less than ten days earlier. He pushed hard on the door until the wood splintered and gave. A moment later, the string of lights leading into the mine ht up. I recalled that Marla had told me the lights had been specially hung for the investors’ tour of the mine, and did not go in very far. But to me, the tiny lamps seemed to go down and in forever, like a vision out of Alice in Wonderland.

  Bo poked his head out the shed door and signaled to us.

  “I don’t know this place at all,” he said, almost apologetically. “And I have no idea what the scent will be like inside the mine. I don’t even know where the safe is, but the tracks should take us to it. I’m hoping that’s where we’ll find Tony.” He looked hard at Arch. “I really don’t want you to be subjected to this, son. Please let me take Jake. You can stay here, in the car if you like, with your mother.”

  Arch pushed his glasses up his nose and squared his shoulders in unconscious imitation of Bo. “Wherever Jake goes, I go. That’s the way it is. My dad’s a doctor and Tom’s a homicide guy. I know about life and death, and you know my mom’s been involved with solving some crimes before.”

  Bo scowled. Then he nodded. Maybe he recognized that Arch could be as stubborn as he was.

  “All right then,” he said. “Here’s the deal. Sorry to take over, Goldy, but with safety an issue, I’d feel better being in charge.”

  I nodded an assent.

  The general went on: “I want Marla to stay at the portal with my gun. Arch, Goldy, and I go in wearing mine safety equipment. We follow the rails with Jake to the safe. No matter what happens, we stay together. A lamp goes out, Jake starts to howl, we all come out and I go back in alone. Got it?”

  Arch said yes. I nodded.

  General Bo led us, catlike, through the shed. He handed Arch and me hard hats, then put one on himself. Arch clamped his foot over Jake’s leash while he fastened the hard hat strap under his chin.

  “Put these on, too,” Bo advised. He held up bulky belts whose loops were crammed with equipment. When we had fastened the cumbersome leather straps around our waists. Bo grinned. “Before we take off, ladies and gentlemen, we’d like to demonstrate the safety features of your belt.” He reached to one side of the belt and pulled on a round reflective device attached to a cord. “This is a cap lamp.” He slid the light into a metal bracket in the front of his hardhat. “Used one of these once when I went into a VC tunnel in ’Nam.” He flipped a switch on the lamp, and it came on. “Only use this if you have to.” He touched the cord on the lamp. “It’s attached to a wet cell battery back here.” He grasped what looked like a miniature flask from the belt. “This is what’s called a self-rescuer. If there’s a fire in the tunnel, what you most need to worry about is carbon monoxide. You use this like diving equipment.” He glanced around the shed, tucked his self-rescuer in his belt, and reached for another of the flasks. Unlike the ones on our belts, this flask was red.

  “This is a training device. Nonfunctioning, that’s why it’s painted red. You pry up this lever to break the seal and discard the cover. Then you bite on this mouthpiece.” When he pulled the cloth cover off the flask, underneath was a metal container with an attached nose clip. He held the mouthpiece of the training flask up to his mouth. “Then close your nostrils with this”—he pointed to the nose clip—“and breathe. The filter inside the self-rescuer turns carbon monoxide into carbon dioxide for about an hour, depending on the concentration of carbon monoxide. You probably won’t need it.” He nodded, his eyes sternly assessing us for signs of cowardice. “Okay? Ready?”

  Arch said yes, eagerly, and scooped up Jake’s leash. I bobbed my head inside the hard hat. It was tight on my head, and I wasn’t sure I would be able to fit the cap lamp into the hat’s bracket if I had to, much less use the respirator. All I wanted to do was find what we had come here for, and get home to Tom. If Tom wanted me back home.

  General Bo carried a hammer out to the portal entrance, where he examined the chain and padlock. Loudly, he said, “Okay, here we go.” A few swings of the hammer broke the padlock, and Bo unthreaded the chain.

  “Don’t worry. Mom,” Arch told me as we neared the iron doors that Bo pulled open. Jake surged forward expectantly. “Mines are really safe these days. Not like they used to be.”

  “What a comforting thought.”

  Marla listened to Bo explain that the safety on the Glock was a small lever on its trigger. His ice blue gaze held her as he explained in a no-nonsense voice, “You aim and shoot. This is a nine-millimeter semiautomatic and you’ve got nine rounds. You see a guy. You see a jackrabbit. You see a bumblebee. You shoot. Got it?”

  Marla nodded mutely and took the gun. I had my doubts about her ability to use it. General Bo lithely stepped out of the way so Jake, tugging Arch with all his canine might, could enter the mine first. I was the last one to step into the tunnel.

  The dank air struck my nostrils like a blow. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t cold, musty dampness blowing gently in my face. The moist breeze stank of metallic earth.

  “Fifty-one degrees year-round,” General Bo reported cheerfully. “No matter what the weather is outside, that’s the temperature inside a mine or cave. Might get a tad warmer as we go in.”

  Jake tugged forward down the tunnel, then made a quick right into what General Bo informed us was a “drift” cut out of the rock. This was the way, I surmised, to the magazine that held the explosives I’d read about in the inspectors’ reports. Once he was in the drift, however, Jake seemed to become confused. With his long ears flopping, he backtracked from the drift and sniffed energetically along the floor of the main tunnel. He sniffed up the walls, around the tracks, started up the tunnel, then headed back to where Marla stood.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Pool scent,” Arch said as he tugged Jake back. He sounded discouraged. “Tony’s been in here, Jake can tell that. But because of the enclosed space, Jake thinks Tony’s everywhere. In this kind of situation, it’s very hard for a bloodhound to be able to tell exactly where the scent was, or how far back the person he’s tracking went.” He grimaced with dismay. “That’s why they use German shepherds in places like this, like when someone’s trapped in a building. Shepherds don’t get overwhelmed by so much scent.”

  “Just give him time,” Bo advised. I felt less hopeful, but said nothing.

  After more uncertain sniffing, Jake shuffled down the railroad track. The general pointed to the shadowy tunnel ahead. We were to move into the mine. Just what I was dreading.

  Step by echoing step, we moved deeper into the earth. Twice I tripped on the old, rusted track. The damp breeze coming from inside the mine grew mustier and staler. Only three feet over our heads, the
rough-hewn rock was occasionally covered with chain-link fencing.

  “To sheath unstable rock,” the general explained. “By the way, the top of the tunnel is called its back.” He reached over to touch the stone walls. “These are called the mine’s ribs.”

  The cold air was seeping through my outerwear and into my underclothes. Our footsteps echoed eerily. About fifty feet in, I looked back. Marla stood motionless in the entry, guarding the portal. I wished with all my heart that Arch and I were back there with her.

  About seventy feet in, the tunnel and the track made a right-hand turn. Jake, still sniffing up the ribs, turned right also. But again he seemed confused. Water dripped from overhead. By the light of the lamps along the wall, I could just make out a crack in the rock above us.

  “Fault,” General Bo said matter-of-factly. “Why does the air smell so bad?”

  “That’s one of the biggest problems, bringing ventilation to the miners. They ventilate the place with raises that go up the mountain. They’re like shafts, only miners climb from level to level via ladders—”

  We were diverted from discussing this by Jake scrabbling frantically up what looked like a timber wall built up on the left side of the tunnel. I glanced backward. Because of the turn we had made, I could no longer see Marla.

  “What is it?” I said. “What’s he found?”

  “More pool scent, I think,” Arch responded. He held out his hand to the wall. “Maybe this is the sump.” He clambered up the side of the wall, put his hand over the side, and made a splashing sound. “Yep, it’s water.”

  “The sump,” the general explained, “is the reservoir of water that drains down from the mine. They use the water for the drilling, as I was saying—”