Diane Davidson - The Main Corpse

I pictured Macguire’s father in his large, airy office with his gilt-framed degrees and his large, airy ego. I didn’t want to imagine how he would react to this string of lies that was growing more fanciful by the minute.

But Macguire was all smiles. “Oh yes, we can be there early to set up. Are you going to wear pink again? Wonderful. Pink is definitely your color. Yes, your husband is wrong. There’s no way you ate at Taco Tita’s that day. But don’t make a big deal out of it,” Macguire advised solemnly, the world’s sagest marital counselor. “It is your anniversary.” He hung up.

“I don’t believe this.” I dotted the pesto-slathered pizza dough with the bright red tomato slices and creamy cubes of goat cheese. “What if she finds out Guido’s been dead all these years?”

“Hey,” said Macguire. He reached over to preheat the oven for the pizzas and then pulled out a kitchen chair. He missed the rungs and the chair fell on its side. “Oh, sorry, sorry… listen, everything’s going to be okay!”

“What if she learns that restaurant went out of business ten years ago?”

Macguire widened his eyes in mock astonishment. “Oh, Mrs. Kirby-Jones,” he shrilled in uncanny imitation of our client’s neurotic tones, “you must be thinking of the Guido’s on Connecticut Avenue!” He grinned. . “Y’see, I knew that junior-year trip to the nation’s capital would payoff some time. It sounds like’ I actually know something about Washington.”

I sprinkled mozzarella over the pizza. Give up, I thought. It seemed Macguire could be perceptive or deceptive, as the occasion demanded. Still, the kid did have a way of leasing a place in your heart. Aloud, I said mildly, “I don’t know why I ever thought you wouldn’t be able to handle Mrs. Kirby-Jones.”

“Yeah, most people think I’m pretty stupid if they meet me,” he agreed cheerfully. “Just barely graduated, no college. But if I talk to them over the phone, then they think I must be like my supereducated, golf-groupie father, the prep school headmaster – “

“Macguire! I didn’t mean – “

“Oh, it’s okay.” He set the chair upright and flopped into it. “Hey, listen. I felt real good doing that investigation into that ore for Marla. It was like a head trip – I mean, there they are at this big financial party having a big, loud fight over something I’d researched! Man!” He hopped up to slide the pizzas into the oven. Then he crossed his arms, leaned against the oven, and gave me a look of triumph. “I finally found something I’m really good at. I’m a great investigator.” He paused. “So I’m thinking about going into law enforcement. Tell Tom Schulz I want to talk to him. I want to be a cop.”

“Oh, come on. I’m not sure this is something you want to consider seriously… .”

“Chill, Goldy! Who do you think would miss me if I got shot by a bad guy?”

“Macguire!” “I’m kidding, kidding.” He sat back down and stretched out his legs. His sneakers looked sopping wet. “It’s just that I don’t think I’ll ever go to like, some university. So I’m thinking of my future. I really do think I’d be good at cop work. Everybody figures I’m dumb, so they’d trust me and like, tell me stuff.”

I finished tearing up the lettuce and stirred the Bolonese again, then tasted it. The dark, spicy sauce exploded with flavor. I tried to think of how to say what I thought I needed to. “If you decided to be a cop, you know your father would have a fit.”

Macguire’s grin split his face. “Hey, that’s the best part,” he said heartily.

6

The Kirby-Joneses’ house was a massive log-and-glass building that reminded me of a ski lodge. The architect had tucked a kitchen on one end of the first floor as an afterthought. Lucky for us we found the back entrance right away. As we hauled in our boxes, all I could see beyond the kitchen counter was a forest of tropical trees crowding the interior space. A banner announced the decorative theme of the party: “Marriage is a Safari.” Italian food for an African motif. Well, I’d had weirder assignments.

In the great room, Macguire and I bustled between fake palm trees and huge containers of ornamental grasses to set up the bar. I was thankful we hadn’t been asked to wear safari hats or explain how to make lasagne in the outback. Macguire, thank heaven, didn’t broach the topic of a career in law enforcement again. Which was merciful, because within half an hour we were very preoccupied with guests. Macguire tossed salad, passed pizza, stirred ravioli, and served perfect cheese-glazed wedges of lasagne with an enthusiastic smile. I rejoiced that none of the guests were dieters. Everyone dug into the dishes with relish. At the end of the meal, Macguire and I moved smoothly around large ceramic elephants hung with ornamental lights to offer trays of gold-lined coffee cups. While we were finishing the dishes, Macguire shyly complimented Mrs. Kirby-Jones on the radiance of her skin, She handed him a fifty-dollar tip. He volunteered to split it with me, but I told him to keep it.

The rain had finally eased when Macguire and I parted around eleven that night. Tired, but happy with the successful evening, we decided to meet at four the next afternoon to prep the easy-to-cook Women’s Club dinner. With any luck, I told myself as I luxuriated in a very hot shower at home, I could spend the morning helping Marla resolve her business problems, get her over to her cardiac rehab for a late appointment, and cook for the Women’s Club without a hitch. Tom welcomed me into bed with a warm hug.

“You seem pretty pleased with yourself, Miss G.,” he whispered.

“Well, I am. If I can get through tomorrow, I’ll be in good shape.” I nestled my head into his shoulder. “Man, how come you always smell so good?”

“Maybe it’s because this woman I’m married to keeps buying expensive guy soap they don’t stock down at the sheriff’s department.” He stroked my hair.

“How did you and Arch do with Jake? Did those homemade dog biscuits improve his accuracy?”

He groaned. “Not exactly. Todd climbed up a tree. His pool scent was at the bottom of the trunk, of course, but they don’t teach dogs to look up. So Jake couldn’t find him.”

“Great.” “At least we found the kid before he got bronchitis.”

“I won’t say what I think about your idea of a fun-filled outing.”

He grunted noncommittally. “Speaking of which, I suppose you’re going down to Prospect Financial Partners tomorrow with Marla.”

I pulled the covers over his shoulder. “Tom, listen. If they really have a problem with that investment, her heart could go ballistic. There’s an awful lot of money at stake.”

“Yeah, well. Try not to get into trouble.”

I nestled into his arms and murmured, “If marriage is a safari, would you say you’re a hunter, a guide, or a lion.”

“What?”

I found his ear and whispered into it. “Never mind. Just let me get a whiff of that high-class soap.”

“You are asking for it, caterer. You know that, don’t you?”

“Well, now, I guess I do.” I suppressed a giggle as his large hands reached out for my body. If marriage was a safari, I didn’t ever want to come back.

The next morning, fog like gray wool pressed down on the peaks of the Continental Divide. For the moment the rain had ceased. But a steamroller of dark mist churning toward Aspen Meadow promised to change that. I saved drinking my double espresso until I was following Marla’s Jaguar down Interstate 70. That way, the caffeine couldn’t fire up my brain until it was too late to turn back. I remembered Tom’s words: Try not to get into trouble. No problem. I took a sip of coffee. There was no way I was getting into trouble this morning. Except for Marla and Tony, I didn’t even know the folks at Prospect Financial Partners. Or care about them, for that matter. I was just there to referee.