Diane Davidson - The Main Corpse

I began to slice fat vine-ripened tomatoes thinly, removing the seed pockets as I went along. “What other favor?”

“Oh, didn’t he tell you? Tony was really hoping you’d do a taste-test for Prospect. Could you manage it? I think he’d pay for your time …”

I barely avoided slicing my index finger. “You’re not serious, are you? I don’t want to be paid to taste someone else’s food. Besides, I thought you got out of analyzing restaurants. How does Tony think I can possibly help?”

“Don’t ask me, I’m the dumb broad who can’t even read an assay report,” Marla said blithely. “And as for tasting – well, Tony just doesn’t trust his own taste buds. What he’ll do is watch the traffic in and out of Sam’s Soups there by the lake. He’ll talk to people, maybe conduct exit interviews, like that. Albert will crunch the numbers. All you have to do is sample Sam’s menu and tell Tony if there’s any way that soup will be the next food craze. You know he’ll appreciate it, he’ll have you cater Prospect’s next big do. Please?”

“Friday lunch,” I agreed reluctantly. Whether Tony would have me cater Prospect’s next big affair was something I doubted very much, given yesterday’s fiasco at the mine. But Marla was my closest friend, and I couldn’t bear to disappoint her. Besides, it was the only way to get her off the phone. “I’ve made a couple of unexpected bookings, and Friday’s the first time I can manage. Now please, I have to – “

“What, go feed the dog? How come I can’t hear the mighty canine? Usually he’s in the background singing away.”

“He’s out with Tom and Arch.”

“In this weather?”

“Don’t remind me.” I removed the wrappings from several packages of milky-white chevre and started to cut it into small cubes. “No, I’ll let you go if you’ll just promise you’ll come to Cherry Creek with me tomorrow morning. Be the buffer at the Prospect office.”

I inhaled deeply, turned away from the chevre, and stirred the dark Bolognese sauce. “If I come with you, promise you won’t lose your temper again with Albert Lipscomb.”

“I’ll be like Mr. Rogers. On Librium,” she added, and signed off. As the former wives of a doctor, Marla and I always laced our similes with drugs.

“Okay, look,” I said to Macguire, but stopped. “Macguire, what are you doing?” I cringed as a large chunk of dough just missed the ceiling. “Macguire!”

Macguire held his hands out for the dough, but it landed on the counter. “Oops.” He gave me a sheepish look. “You know how you see those pizza guys…” He scooped up the dough and began to press it into a jelly roll pan. “Never mind. How’s Marla? Has she recovered from that big argument? Did that guy explain what he was up to?”

Provencal Pizza

1 ź ounce envelope active dry yeast

1 cup warm water

˝ teaspoon sugar

˝ teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons olive oil

2 ˝ to 3 cups all-purpose flour

˝ cup prepared pesto

12 ounces ripe tomatoes, thinly sliced and seed pockets removed

3 ˝ ounces chevre

4 ounces best-quality fresh mozzarella, grated

In a large mixing bowl, sprinkle the yeast over the warm water. Add the sugar, stir, and set aside 10 minutes, until the mixture is bubbly. Stir in the salt and olive oil. Beat in 2 ˝ cups of the flour, then add as much extra flour as needed to make a dough that is not too sticky to knead. Knead on a floured surface until the dough is smooth and satiny. (Or place the dough in the bowl of an electric mixer and knead with a dough hook until the dough cleans the sides of the bowl, (approximately 5 minutes.) Place the dough in an oiled bowl, turn to oil the top, cover with a kitchen towel, and let rise in a warm place until doubled in bulk, about 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 425°. Brush a little olive oil over the bottom and sides of a 10-by 15-inch pan. Punch the dough down and press it into the bottom of the pan. Spread the pesto over the dough. Lay the tomato slices in even rows over the pesto. Dot the surface evenly with the chčvre, an sprinkle the mozzarella over the entire surface. Bake for 15 to 25 minutes, or until mozzarella is bubbly and dough has cooked through.

Serves 6.

“No, he’s doing that tomorrow morning.” I let water gush into my pasta pentola and set it on the stove. “I’m going down to the Prospect office with her and try to keep things sane.”

He stopped reading the pizza recipe and gave me a look. “The two of you are going down there together? Alone? Are you taking a referee’s uniform and a whistle? Can I come?” He was hoping for fisticuffs, apparently.

The phone rang again and I begged Macguire to : answer it so I could start on the salad. Instead of giving my customary greeting, however, my ever-helpful assistant barked, “Yeah, this is Goldilocks’ Catering! What do you want?”

Even across the room I could hear Mrs. Kirby-Jones’ hysterical voice over the wire. I gestured desperately for the phone.

Macguire cupped his palm over the receiver and opened his eyes wide. “I’m never going to learn how to handle people if you don’t let me handle them. Go make salad. If she hangs up on me, you can call her back and say some weird teenager just broke into your kitchen – Excuse me? What?” he said into the phone.

I held my hands up in mock surrender and returned to the counter to tear radicchio to shreds. Just when you think you’re getting a handle on things in your personal life, your business life intrudes with a crisis. Or vice versa.

“Oh, my. Mm-hmm,” Macguire said with unsettling empathy. “No. How many people, again? What? Oh, yes, we’re completely mobile.” I felt my heart lurch. What was he promising? Macguire furrowed his brow and watched me rip into a head of arugula. “We can move around the African decorations in your dining room, that’s absolutely no problem at all. Oh, no, you don’t know who you’re talking to. This is Goldilocks’ Catering –”

His blithe assurances were interrupted by more hysterical objections that threatened to rise to a shriek.

“What?” he demanded, cradling the phone under his ear and reaching for the pizza dough again. I cringed, envisioning another attempt at spinning it through the air. “Oh, pull~leeze! What did he say?” I waved the sauce spoon, trying desperately to get Macguire’s attention. But he was staring at my shelves of cookbooks. Knowing him, he wasn’t reading any of the tides. “Vegetarian burritos? For twenty people? In the next two hours?” He hesitated. “Oh, no. No way. We’re having green lasagne the way Guido used to make it, lady! I mean, uh, Mrs. Kirby-Jones.”

The voice on the telephone rose precipiously. . Please listen to me, Mrs… . er … “ Macguire faltered. He clutched his throat with his free hand, and stuck out his tongue. I’m being strangled by Mrs. Kirby-Jones! The shrill protests had changed to pleading. “Please,” he repeated. “Will you listen? I did the research myself I called Guido’s-on-the-Pike. I don’t care what your husband says he remembers… . You didn’t eat at Taco Tita’s. They even remember you at Guido’s. You were wearing that gorgeous pink dress with that wonderful corsage… . Nope, you were at Guido’s, not Taco Tita’s, that’s for sure. The whole staff gets teary-eyed every time they think of it. You were the most beautiful bride they’d – ” I signaled violently. Macguire turned to me, finally. And winked.

Oh, Lord, I prayed, please get us out of this mess. “Yes, ma’am. Talked to them myself. Talked to Guido, as a matter of fact. Who, me? Who am I? Why, I’m Goldilocks’ researcher. Macguire Perkins. Yes, the same Perkins.” Macguire smiled and rolled his eyes. “Yes, my father is the headmaster of Elk Park Preparatory School. What, me? I’ve already graduated. Oh, Harvard. Next year.”