Diane Davidson - The Main Corpse

I remembered the rainy day last month when Tom had arrived with Jake. The prospect of caring for an emotionally distraught and out-of-work bloodhound in addition to running my not-so-healthy catering business had been too much. I’d threatened to stick my head into the proofing oven with the cinnamon rolls. I was prevented from doing so by Jake’s enthusiastic scrabbling up the cabinet door. Then his not-always-reliable olfactory gland directed him toward the oven, and his powerful legs and body shoved me out of the way as he moved in closer to the rolls. Apparently, Jake loved the smell of cinnamon.

I sighed and entered the kitchen. The delectable smell of lemon and cherries mingled. Outside, Jake yowled away from his doghouse. Rain spat against the windows. My kitchen was warm and snug and smelled terrific. Still, my mood failed to improve.

Tom was setting a single place with a flowered Limoges plate. Hearing my sigh, he shot me an appraising look. Like Arch, he wore a tentlike fluorescent orange poncho. I couldn’t imagine what they were planning to do in the rain to restore Jake’s shattered ability to trust humans. Clearly, homemade dog biscuits were not enough. Tom gave me his usual jaunty smile. His sand-colored hair was damp. Perhaps he’d already tried to quiet the dog outside, to no avail. Seeing my forlorn look, his handsome face and green eyes softened.

“Morning, Miss G.” He pressed the button on the espresso machine while his other big hand reached for a diminutive cup. “Not feeling too happy? How about, some coffee cake? Be out in five minutes.”

I sighed again. “Sure.”

“Now, sit down and have some caffeine. We’re going to be going out pretty quick here. Marla called. She wants you to go down to the Prospect office with her tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, great.” I gratefully sipped the dark, crema-laden espresso he handed me. “I’ll be the referee between Marla and Albert Lipscomb. Sounds like loads of fun, huh?”

“You know, I’ve been thinking. I know I’ve heard of Albert Lipscomb,” Tom said pensively as he removed the golden brown, cherry-studded cake from the oven. The fruity, buttery-rich scent was indescribable. “I mean, you told me he’s Royce’s partner, but there was some other context. It’s been a while, though.”

“What other context?”

He frowned. “Did he invest in goats? Or goat cheese?”

I laughed. “Not to my knowledge.”

He sniffed the cake. “Listen, I just realized Arch and I won’t be able to help you pack up for your event this afternoon. I know it’s a big deal for you – “

“My dear, it’s the only deal for me until I take muffins to the bank on Friday.”

“No, no, you had two other calls besides the one from Marla.”

I sighed once more. “Arch already told me about General Farquhar.”

He slapped the cake onto a cooling rack and rummaged in his back pocket for his trusty spiral notebook. “People named Trotfield, they’re Prospect Financial investors who say they loved your food at the mine yesterday. They’re friends of Tony’s or Albert’s, I think. They need you for a dinner party this week. The husband is flying to Rio for five days, and they want to give him a big sendoff. They need you because their chef, an illegal alien from Sri Lanka, skipped.” He gave me a wide grin. “I didn’t tell Mrs. Trotfield I was from the sheriff’s department. Didn’t want to jeopardize your booking. Here’s their number.”

I took the sheet from him. “Yeah, I know them. He used to be a pilot for Braniff, wife has the money, now he flies charters. Thanks loads. What else?”

“Aspen Meadow Women’s Club. Dinner meeting on home improvement, tomorrow. The club president, Janelle Watkins, called. She wanted your cheapest chicken dinner, keep it under twenty bucks a head. I said I thought you had a standard menu and Ms. Watkins begged me to fax it to her with a contract. Seize the day and all that. Didn’t want her calling some caterer in Denver.” He handed me two slick pages from the fax machine, one with my chicken dinner menu, the set prices, and contract stipulations – all signed by Janelle Watkins – the other a photocopy of Janelle Watkins’s Visa.

I said admiringly, “Very good, Tom. But why the short notice?”

“Well, the club vice president was going to make the food, but seems she had a tiff with President Janelle yesterday. Veep huffs off saying the only way her home could be improved was if Janelle resigned from their club. I should have offered her a job working for Captain Shockley. Anyway, Madame President Janelle is paying for the dinner herself, says it’s worth the price to be rid of that bossy veep who drove everybody nuts anyway.”

I grinned. “Fix me another espresso, lawman. I think my luck is changing.”

He laughed and ground more Italian roast beans. “Okay, look. We’re doing a trail with Jake this morning. Arch is out getting a piece of scented clothing from the trail-setter right now.”

“You’re what?” I said, incredulous. “Doing a trail? With a bloodhound who was fired because he couldn’t smell his own dinner if his life depended on it? And in this rain?” I wailed.

“Best time. Scent’s stronger when it’s damp. Arch’s friend Todd has already hiked up to a spot we agreed on, behind a big rock in the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve. He’s waiting for us. We’ll start at the beginning of that four-wheel vehicle path. It’s not more than three miles.”

“You and my son are going to hike a trail with Jake the retired hound dog for three miles, in the pouring rain? Do you know how much more chance you have of being caught in a rock slide with all the moisture we’ve been having?”

The second espresso hissed into the flowered Limoges cup. Tom clicked the tiny cup down in front of me and stooped to kiss my cheek. “Come on, don’t ruin our fun, Miss G. Arch is dying to do this.”

“Just listen, okay? Think of a cake with frosting. The frosting is the soil and loose rock we have in the mountains. Underneath is fractured rock-the cake. All this rain has added extra weight to the soil-frosting and could make it slide right off the underlying rock-cake. Got it? The land is especially unstable where streams have undercut banks. That’s how you get major rock slides. And then – ” I caught sight of his bemused expression and said, “Would you at least promise to be very careful?”

“Yes, Miss G. And would that be butter cream or meringue frosting?”

“With this weather, Arch is going to come home sick.”

Tom grinned. “Oh, so first he wasn’t going to come home at all because of the frosted-cake rock slide, and now he’s going to come home with a cold. We’re doing better. Anything else?”

Well, great. Tom had never had children and was not burdened with the worry that accompanied every foray into mountainous terrain. Nor did he know that taking a child out in wet, cold weather led to countless hours spent poring over old magazines in a pediatrician’s office. These hours would be followed by countless pink teaspoons of Amoxicillin. Strep throat, ear infections, bronchitis, sinusitis… the man had a lot to learn. On the other hand, he did have a kid’s own enthusiasm for going on adventures, and Arch treasured the time they spent together. I could just hear Arch if I vetoed their expedition. C’mon, Mom, I’m not going to get pneumonia! Sure. I sighed for the fourth time, sipped the espresso, then took a bite of Tom’s coffee cake to keep from saying more. The delectable taste of lemon and the richness of cherry preserves infused the moist sour-cream cake. I narrowed my eyes at Tom, but he laughed.

“Delicious, huh? Be nice to your favorite cop and you can have the recipe.”

There was a pounding at the back door and Arch traipsed through. “Here I am!” he announced as he joined us. His poncho and face were slick with rain. I suppressed a groan. “I’ve got Todd’s T-shirt!” He held up a plastic bag containing a crumpled piece of grayish-white cloth.