Diane Davidson - The Main Corpse

“The Farquhars used to live over here,” I reminded him.

“They were different. The general was doing cool bomb experiments and he had all that nifty security. And he wasn’t stuck-up.”

Crazy, maybe, but not stuck-up. Thank goodness for small blessings. I wheeled the van onto Arnold Palmer Avenue. “The place where we’re going has good security.”

Arch shot me a fierce look. “I bet they’re not guarding a batch of state-of-the-art explosives.”

“No, they have paintings. You know, art. The husband flies all over the world, but the wife’s the one with the money. She uses it to buy paintings by famous artists.”

He snorted. “See, I told you. They’ll have a teensy-weensy yard that their kids can’t even play in. And then they’ll have a great big house filled with gross paintings. There’ll be pictures of people with horses, people with dogs, horses with dogs, dogs with – “

“Arch, please. You’re acting prejudiced against these people, and you don’t even know them. Besides, with the money you earn tonight, you can buy some rawhide for Jake. And if you want a portrait of him, you can paint it yourself.”

He hrumphed. But he was right about the area where we were catering. Less than twenty years old, Meadowview is a posh development that features enormous houses that resemble yachts anchored to small grass lots. The lots might boast one or perhaps two pine trees. But the heavy demand for the residences in this expensive mansionhood had come from East Coasters and Californians fleeing high crime rates and even higher living costs. These new Coloradans could now look forty feet across their property and find themselves peering into their neighbor’s bedroom. Would that make them feel perfectly secure, I wondered? Probably not.

“Gosh, this is valuable?” Arch asked half an hour later, when we were setting up the buffet. “This is what they have all that security for? Do you suppose somebody meant to paint this way?” He was staring at a large Motherwell canvas on the Trotfields’ foyer wall. In the dining room, Amanda Trotfield had hung Giacometti and Henry Moore sketches. A Franz Kline and a de Kooning graced the living room. The Motherwell that Arch was regarding so skeptically featured a large section of blue, with a fragment of a cigarette painted in one corner. Not a painting I would have chosen for the entryway to a smoke-free house.

“I don’t know, honey, but yes, I think the artist probably meant to paint that way. At least it’s not people on horses. Let’s serve the appetizers and then we’ll be able to take a break.”

While Arch passed trays of filo-wrapped spinach triangles, I tossed fat, juicy strawberries with chilled, steamed sugar-snap peas in a light vinaigrette. It was a delicate, unusual salad that would contrast well with the Plantation Pilaf-a rich-tasting lowfat dish featuring succulent shrimp bathed in sherry and tomato juice. Marla had told me she was invited tonight, and I was eager to see her again. She had looked so bad when she’d told me the news about Albert absconding with the money that I was deeply worried about her. I hoped she’d have some news about either the teller or the missing money tonight. Then again, maybe someone else would have news. The Trotfields were Prospect Financial investors; Sandy Trotfield had called Albert Lipscomb’s office the morning the infamous partner hadn’t shown up for work. According to Tom, the Trotfields were friends of Tony, Albert, or both. Tony Royce himself as well as the Hardcastles, would be in attendance tonight, too. One of the guests ought to know something.

I loaded a tray with ice and liquor bottles. Perhaps I could ask a few questions that would help Marla find out what was going on with that mine. Then again, maybe I was just being nosy.

Sugar-Snap Pea and Strawberry Salad

1 tablespoon extra-virgin olive oil

2 teaspoons raspberry vinegar

ź teaspoon Dijon mustard

ź pound (1 cup) sugar-snap peas, including pods, strings removed

1 pound (4 cups) ripe strawberries, thickly sliced

Combine the oil, vinegar, and mustard in a small bowl; whisk thoroughly and set aside. Steam the sugar-snap peapods for 30 seconds or until bright green but still crunchy. Remove them from the heat, drain, then quickly run cold water over them to stop the cooking, and drain again. Combine the sugar-snaps with the sliced strawberries. Whisk the dressing again and drizzle over the peapods and strawberries. Serve immediately or chill for no more than one hour. Serves 4.

As soon as the hors d’oeuvres and drinks were well in hand, I advised Arch to take a break. He had just poured himself a soft drink when Marla popped into the kitchen.

“Hey, guys!” Her cheeriness seemed forced, and her complexion was splotched. She was wearing a shiny royal blue Princess Di sort of dress, only she looked more like a young Queen Mother. “These abstract paintings destroy my appetite,” she grumped. “Why can’t the Trotfields at least buy a few Warhol soup cans?”

“Oh, stop it,” I said. “Go have fun with the guests.”

She made a face. “Oh, sure. The cops have been around questioning all the Prospect clients, and nearly everyone here tonight has invested with Prospect, as you probably know. Did we know this about Albert Lipscomb, do we know that? Tonight we’ll hear everyone’s theories on what really happened to Albert. Sort of a replay of last month, when I had to endure everybody’s theories on what happened to Victoria. Was she depressed, was she a bad driver, was she forced off the road, did she have car problems?” She lowered her voice. “Tony says the clients don’t know about the missing three and a half mil yet, so mum’s the word, Goldy. The clients suspect Albert took a wad of dough, though. And not a word tonight about the mine. Tony’s in his act-normal mode. It’s boring as hell.” I muttered a silent curse. So much for sneakily questioning the guests. Marla winked at Arch and said, “Hey, guy, got any chocolate? I’m desperate.”

Arch laughed. “You haven’t even had dinner yet.” I poured tiny amounts of glistening olive oil into two wide frying pans. “What’s the act-normal mode?” Marla scowled. “Oh, don’t get me started on Tony and how he’s repressing his hysteria. I used to think he needed me. Now I think he needs an IV full of Demerol, a straitjacket, and a padded cell. Make that an IV full of Thorazine. I’m so tired of the man I could spit.”

“Well, don’t do that,” I said as I shook the pan of sauteing onions. They sizzled invitingly. “Listen, Marla. There’s something I need to ask you…” But what was it the general had said? I inhaled the rich scent of caramelizing onions and tried to remember.

Plantation Pilaf

3 tablespoons olive oil

8 ounces (1 ź cups) onion, halved and very thinly sliced

3 garlic cloves, pressed

1 ź cups rice

2 cups homemade low-fat chicken stock (recipe is in KILLER PANCAKE,) or use 2 cups canned chicken broth

ž cup tomato juice

ź cup dry sherry

1 ž teaspoon paprika

˝ teaspoon salt

1 quart water

1 tablespoon Old Bay seasoning

24 medium or large raw “Easy-Peel” shrimp (8 to 10 ounces of frozen raw shrimp)

1 cup canned pineapple chunks, thoroughly drained and patted dry on paper towels

1 cup frozen baby peas

In a nonstick skillet, heat 1 tablespoon olive oil over medium heat. Add onions and cook until they are translucent. Add garlic, stir, and lower heat. Cook very briefly, only until garlic is also translucent. Do not brown the onions or the garlic. In another wide skillet, heat the remaining 2 tablespoons olive oil over medium heat. Add rice and saute until golden brown. Add cooked onions and garlic, stock, tomato juice, sherry, paprika, and salt. Cover the pan and cook 20 to 30 minutes, or until juices are absorbed.