The Main Corpse

by Diane Mott Davidson

  I sighed. “Fly.”

  Of course, I didn’t think he’d take me literally. But I should have remembered who I was talking to. Bo turned the wheel sharply and gunned the Jeep off the road. Up and down we rocked, with Bo keeping a sharp eye on the water. Finally the road took us past the perimeter of the airport property. Abutting the highway was a small cliff that rose above the original brook. Over the centuries, the water had cut through the stone, so that on the far side of the brook, perhaps fifteen feet away, was another cliff. Bo expertly piloted the Jeep off the road, then brought it to a stop at the bottom of the hill that led up the cliff. “Ready?” he asked.

  “No, I’m not,” I replied. “Remember the last time you and I were together on a cliff over water? With all the moisture in the rock, we could easily precipitate another slide—”

  “So you’re just willing to let Marla go back to jail for killing this guy who’s about to split forever?”

  “There must be another way—”

  “There isn’t. I could take a tank over that cliff. We’ll make it, Goldy.”

  What other choice did we have? “We’d better,” I told General Bo.

  His face set with determination. Bo pressed the accelerator. The speedometer needle soared upward. My breath seemed permanently caught in my throat. We raced to the edge of the cliff, and then suddenly, we were airborne. My heart beat out the seconds as we flew through the air. Oh, Tom, I’ll never, ever get involved in crime again. I’ll—

  We landed with a thud on the opposite cliff.

  But before I had a chance to express relief, there was a deafening roar behind us. I twisted around and experienced a sight that was familiar, but still terrifying: rocks and dirt disintegrating in a landslide. Where there had been two cliffs and a picturesque brook, there was now a landfill created by an avalanche of dirt.

  “Damn,” murmured the general as the Jeep hurtled through the only nonflooded gate into the airport. “I just got kicked out of the Sierra Club.”

  Hangar C-9 was a large, pale green building with no cars parked outside. The general scanned the area, then said, “I want you to drive over to C-Seven, leave the Jeep in back. Royce might have seen this car when he ran out of the mine.” He paused, his face as serious as I had ever seen it. “Goldy, I’m going to take this guy out. I don’t want you involved. Watch for him from outside. Call in the troops if things get rough. I don’t mean Tom, I mean the whole damn sheriff’s department. Trotfield said his plane’s a small jet, a Citation with the numbers four-eight-two-six Golf. I’ll go into the hangar at the front. You watch for Royce or Trotfield from out here, then come in after me only if you don’t see or hear Royce. If you do see or hear him, call the cops as quickly as possible. Last resort. With any luck, though, we’ve got at least fifteen minutes before they arrive.” He checked the Glock. “Got that?”

  I protested feebly, “Isn’t the hangar locked?”

  “A numbered security lock, and I got the code from Trotfield. Don’t worry. You just do your job, and I’ll do mine. Okay?”

  I nodded and drove the Jeep to C-7, where I parked in back. The weather was finally clearing; where were all the pilots? Probably waiting to come in through the south gate. I scanned the road to C-9 for a dark green Explorer, and saw none.

  I could not let the general undertake this alone. There had to be something I could do. I hopped out and sidled along the back of C-8. I listened and waited. Not a sound. I knocked on the door to C-9 and felt dizzy when the handle turned.

  The barrel of the gun was pointed straight at me. “Goldy, for crying out loud,” the general said amiably. He quickly bolstered his gun inside his new bomber jacket.

  “I want to help.”

  He glared at me, then pointed. “Go stand in the office behind that Gulfstream. Stay where you can get a good look at the Citation without being seen. Don’t turn the light on. Check for a phone. And please, don’t get involved….” His head turned sharply to a sound that hadn’t reached my ears. “Here he comes. Move.”

  I scooted into the office and scanned the space quickly. In the corner of the office was a shovel. I picked it up just as I heard Tony’s all-too-familiar voice. “Excuse me? Who are you?” he demanded of General Bo. “How did you get in here?”

  “I’m Trotfield’s copilot,” Bo announced genially. “Came in by the north gate. Glad to meet you, Mr. Royce.”

  No time to close the office door; it would make too much noise. Through a crack in the blinds, I saw Tony stride in wearing chinos and an expensive red leather windbreaker. His hair was perfectly blown dry, his mustache was evenly clipped. He was carrying a metal briefcase. The general gave Tony a huge smile. I gripped the shovel.

  “Now all we need is Sandy,” General Bo persisted in a jocular voice. “He’s got the approach plates for Ordaz International, and our flight plan is already filed in the county’s airport computer. Are the cars coming through the south gate pretty smoothly now?” He really appeared to be enjoying this. He even made a mock salute, before he turned and trod smartly toward the plane.

  “It’s not too bad. Look, we have some bags,” Tony announced in a voice that indicated he expected the copilot to fetch them. But when General Bo continued toward the Citation, Tony followed. He asked mildly, “You been Sandy’s copilot before? How do you think he looks with that new beard?”

  The involuntary, incredulous grimace on the general’s face as he turned back to face Tony sent nervous ripples up my skin. But Bo instantly wiped the look off and assumed the same easy tone. “Oh, I thought he looked better—”

  But it was too late. Royce had tested Bo and he’d failed. The metal briefcase sailed up toward the general’s head and caught him offguard. Bo flailed backward awkwardly and went down with a thud. He grabbed for his gun, but Tony ran forward and kicked it out of his hand. The heavy gun skittered across the hangar floor.

  Oh, God, help me, I prayed. I raised the shovel and leapt for the office door. Tony trotted toward the hangar entrance. When I called his name and started to run toward him, Tony hesitated, his mouth open, stunned to see me. The caterer, of all people. And armed….

  Behind us, there was a shot. The general had scooted over to his weapon, fired at Tony, and missed. Startled, Tony reached inside the red windbreaker and pulled out a small gun. He took aim at the general and fired: pop, pop, pop. Then he walked toward the general. Two more shots reverberated.

  I didn’t think. I ran toward Tony and brought the shovel down with all my might. He groaned and cried out. As his body buckled, his gun sailed from his hand and landed near the hangar door. I swung the shovel down on his head. This time, he went down and did not move. Relief and anxiety mixed in a wave through my bloodstream. I struggled to catch my breath.

  “My tellers will really miss their muffins,” said a calm, cold voice behind me. I turned.

  At the hangar door Eileen Tobey stood, holding Tony’s gun. Sunlight silhouetted her muscular frame. I dropped the shovel.

  “Don’t, Eileen,” I said. “You can’t … I thought you hated Tony.”

  “Shut up. I’m just a great actress.”

  She held the gun aimed at me, but to my surprise, she didn’t pull the trigger. I couldn’t see her eyes. I slid my hands in my pockets.

  “Get your hands out where they’re visible,” she said.

  “I’m just looking for my keys,” I told her, fighting to keep despair from my voice. “Don’t you need them to get away?” I kept my hands in my pockets and started walking toward her. “The sheriff’s department is going to be looking for Albert’s Explorer. They know Tony killed Albert. If you take my Jeep, you’ll be able to get away, far from all this,”

  I was three feet away from her, I stopped, both hands in my pockets, as if awaiting her response. I assumed a puzzled look. She seemed to be struggling with what I was saying about the sheriff’s department and Albert’s Explorer.

  “So do you want the Jeep or not? Let me get medical help for General Farquhar, and
you go—”

  “All right,” she said impatiently. She held Out her left hand, and as she did so, the gun in her right hand dropped slightly. “Give me the damn keys.”

  Do it, I thought. I appeared to fumble in my pocket, then whipped out Jake’s leash, the leash I’d put in my pocket in the mine, and swung it at her hand holding the gun. The metal bit into her hand. Startled, she dropped the gun. I flung my whole body against her. We went down together, out the hangar door.

  Fury gave me an edge. I pulled Eileen’s hair and whaled away like a madwoman. As I pushed her face into the dirt I heard her curse. I pushed harder, grinding her face into the mud until she stopped flailing. If only Tom could see me now….

  Tom said, “It’s over. Miss G.” His voice was angry, disappointed, relieved. “I shouldn’t believe this, but I do.”

  My husband stood ten feet away from me, his .45 raised. When I gasped in surprise, he lowered his gun and signaled to the cops behind him to come get the woman I was sitting on.

  Painfully, I stood up and allowed two policemen to cuff Eileen. To Tom, I said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I swear, you always say that.” Two uniformed policemen rushed past us. Tom pointed at Tony Royce, who was clutching his head and cursing. The policemen swiftly handcuffed him. Ignoring his howls of pain, they led him outside.

  Tom said to me, avoiding my eyes, “First we get a call saying Albert Lipscomb has been murdered and is up at the Eurydice Mine. The paramedics get there and radio back there’s been some kind of an explosion. Then I pick up your message. So we hightail it out here. Good thing.” Tom scanned the hangar and groaned. “Oh, Christ.”

  The general lay motionless on the concrete floor. While Tom barked into his radio for an ambulance, I ran over and knelt at Bo’s side. Blood stained the bomber jacket and spurted to the floor. Tony had shot him.

  “You can’t die,” I heard myself order General Bo Farquhar. My voice rang in my ears. “You can’t die. Oh, please—”

  The pale, pale blue eyes that I had known so well these past few years opened. “Goldy,” Bo murmured. “Schulz … Marla didn’t …”

  “You did a great job,” Tom told him, kneeling beside me. “Marla will be cleared. Just hold on, sir.” I’d never heard such respect in Tom’s voice.

  With enormous effort. Bo turned toward me. “I’m going to be with Adele….” He raised his head feebly, then let it sink back to my lap. “I … you all … very much….”

  And then he died.

  A rescue team from the Colorado School of Mines cleared the entrance to the Eurydice Gold Mine. They brought out the corpse of Albert Lipscomb. Tony Royce was charged with, among other things, the murders of his financial partner and the First of the Rockies teller. The investigation into the death of Victoria Lear was reopened. Eileen Tobey was charged with grand larceny and being an accessory to murder.

  Once Marla was cleared of wrongdoing, she called her lawyer to sue the sheriff’s department for false arrest, harassment, and anything else the two of them could think of The case against De Groot and Hersey looked very bad. At that point, the Furman County Sheriff, the boss of bosses and certainly the boss of Captain Shockley, invoked a long-standing Colorado statute, called “at pleasure.” Back in the old days, when a Colorado sheriff gathered a posse and went after a criminal, he would release the deputies from duty after they caught the perpetrator. The posse served at the sheriff’s pleasure, period. If he fired them, there was no appeal. There was no review. Three days after Tom apprehended Tony Royce, the Furman County Sheriff fired Investigators De Groot and Hersey. Rather than face the same fate. Captain Shockley promptly withdrew his newly recovered money from Prospect Financial Partners and took an early retirement.

  His face set grimly, Tom informed me that I probably would be charged with complicity in aiding an escape. But the female guard had actually fainted before General Farquhar hit her, just as Bo had maintained. She was fine, she told me repeatedly, and so glad to be rid of Shockley she could kiss me. So at least I wouldn’t be charged with assault.

  Two days later, with obvious reluctance, the District Attorney held a press conference. Because Bo, Arch, and I had helped clear up Albert Lipscomb’s murder and aided in the apprehension of Anthony Royce and Eileen Tobey, there would be no charges filed against us. Despite this vindication, Marla’s blood pressure went through the roof Tony Royce, the man she loved, had deceived her, stolen her money and her heart, and killed people. And her loving brother-in-law had died trying to help her. Her cardiologist ordered her to spend a week in the hospital for tests. For once, too weary to protest, she allowed herself to be admitted, but talked her way into an early discharge so she could come with us to Bo’s memorial service.

  A week later, the five of us—Tom, Arch, Marla, Macguire, and I, took on the responsibility of scattering the general’s ashes. As his wife’s ashes were scattered by Bride’s Creek, we decided that would be an appropriate place for Bo’s. We would take a small picnic that would include Bo’s favorite food—chocolate. The bad weather had come to an end and summer had finally arrived in the high country. On a brilliantly sunny day, we piled into the newly repaired van. Of course, we took Jake, whom I now cherished like a human friend. After all, without Jake’s persistence, we would never have found Tony Royce and broken his chain of crimes. From the knowing, eager expression in the dog’s liquid eyes whenever he looked at me, I knew that he knew I’d had a change of heart toward him.

  By the creek, we ate liverwurst sandwiches and tomatoes vinaigrette and munched Chocoholic cookies, and talked about our wonderful and dangerous times with General Bo Farquhar.

  “He loved us all very much,” Marla said, raising her voice above the thunder of Bride’s Creek, when we’d finished our recollections. Lifting the urn above the water, she emptied the ashes into the raging water.

  I said a silent prayer. I’d never known anyone like Bo Farquhar. The world would seem an emptier, less colorful place without him. Even as I thought it, Tom’s fingers closed around mine.

  As we turned to go back to the van, Jake flung his head up and howled. Arch tugged on his leash, but the hound wouldn’t budge. Instead, Jake pointed his body in the direction of the pines and howled again, heart-breakingly. Arch shook his head, then squinted at the trees.

  “Mom,” he said softly. “Everybody. Look.”

  We turned. Moving through the sunlit trees was a solitary wisp of vapor. It seemed to have a military bearing.

  Index to the Recipes

  RECIPE

  Tomato-Brie Pie

  Bacon-Wrapped Artichokes with Dijon Cream Sauce

  Jake’s Dog Biscuits

  Provençal Pizza

  Chocoholic Cookies

  Sugar-Snap Pea and Strawberry Salad

  Plantation Pilaf

  Sour Cream Cherry Coffee Cake

  Banana-Pecan Muffms

  Rainy Season Chicken Soup

  Stir-Fry Chicken with Asparagus

  Cinnamon Griddle Scones

  AUTHOR’S NOTE: Plantation Pilaf and Stir-Fry Chicken with Asparagus are lowfat recipes. Banana-Pecan Muffins can be made lowfat by omitting the pecans. Cinnamon Griddle Scones can he made lowfat by cooking on a nonstick griddle lightly sprayed with vegetable oil spray, and serving without butter.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DIANE MOTT DAVIDSON lives in Evergreen, Colorado, with her family. She is the author of ten bestselling culinary mysteries and is at work on her eleventh, Chopping Spree.

  If you enjoyed Diane Mott Davidson’s The Main Corpse, you won’t want to miss any of the tantalizing mysteries in her nationally bestselling culinary mystery series! Look for CHOPPING SPREE, the newest mystery, at your favorite bookseller’s.

  CHOPPING

  SPREE

  by

  Diane

  Mott

  Davidson

  Success can kill you.

  So my best friend had been telling me, anyway. Too much success is like arsenic in chocolat
e cake. Eat a slice a day, Marla announced with a sweep of her plump, bejeweled fingers, and you’ll get cancer. Gobble the whole cake? You’ll keel over and die on the spot.

  These observations, made over the course of a snowy March, had not cheered me. Besides, I’d have thought that Marla, with her inherited wealth and passion for shopping, would applaud the upward leap of my catering business. But she said she was worried about me.

  Frankly, I was worried about me, too.

  In mid-March I’d invited Marla over to taste cookies. Despite a sudden but typical Colorado blizzard, she’d roared over to our small house off Aspen Meadow’s Main Street in her shiny new BMW four-wheel drive. Sitting in our commercial kitchen, she’d munched on ginger snaps and spice cookies, and harped on the fact that the newly frantic pace of my work had coincided with my fourteen-year-old son Arch’s increasingly rotten behavior. I knew Marla doted on Arch.

  But in this, too, she was right.

  Arch’s foray into athletics, begun that winter with snowboarding and a stint on his school’s fencing team, had ended with a trophy, a sprained ankle, and an unprecedented burst of physical self-confidence. He’d been eager to plunge into spring sports. When he’d decided on lacrosse, I’d been happy for him. That changed when I attended the first game. Watching my son forcefully shove an opponent aside and steal the ball, I’d felt queasy. With Arch’s father—a rich doctor who’d had many violent episodes himself—now serving time for parole violation, all that slashing and hitting was more than I could take.

  But even more worrisome than the sport itself, Marla and I agreed, were Arch’s new teammates: an unrepentant gang of spoiled, acquisitive brats. Unfortunately, Arch thought the lacrosse guys were beyond cool. He spent hours with them, claiming that he “forgot” to tell us where he was going after practice. We could have sent him an e-mail telling him to call, Arch protested, if he only had what all his pals had, to wit, Internet-access watches. Your own watch could have told you what time it was, I’d told him, when I picked him up from the country-club estate where the senior who was supposed to drive him home had left him off.