Diane Davidson - The Main Corpse

“About what?”

“Mrs. Schulz, please,” said the big redhead, looking uncomfortable. I laughed as relief swept over me. Of course! This had something to do with the Trotfields. Maybe one of the neighbors had complained about all the cars. “Yes,” I said to the two policemen. “I’m sorry. Let me go get Mrs. Trotfield.” Then I hesitated. After all, I was the caterer: I had a professional obligation to protect this party. “Her guests are almost through their entree… any chance you could come back later?”

“We’re here to see you,” rasped the redhead. His eyes bulged. “Just to ask a few questions, Mrs. Schulz. Would it be possible for us to see you someplace private? For maybe ten minutes? Someplace where it isn’t raining?” The downpour had soaked through his dark windbreaker.

My concern about Tom turned to disbelief: The last thing I needed at this moment was another disrupted party and a disgruntled client.

Are you serious? Can’t this wait?” I hissed indignantly. “Please? Do you know who my husband is? I can come down to the department tomorrow. I’ll answer all the questions you want then.”

“We know who you are and it can’t wait,” replied the black-haired man grimly. “It’s about Albert Lipscomb.”

Tom’s words: Shockley’s put himself personally in charge of the investigation. I took a steadying breath. “Let’s get into the kitchen, then.” I opened the door. “Please come quickly before any of the guests see you.”

They followed me into the foyer, where to my annoyance, they stopped to take in their surroundings. I felt trickle of impatience. Before I met Tom, I’d heartily disliked the police. Perhaps my misgivings about the sheriffs department had developed from the fact that when I was deeply bruised and even more deeply depressed, the cops had been unwilling or unable to lock up the Jerk and toss the key to his cell over the Continental Divide. After the divorce, I’d realized that law enforcement folks, unfortunately, don’t have a whole lot of power in domestic disputes unless someone is killed. Marrying Tom and going through the harrowing experience of having him kidnapped by a would-be killer, I’d also come to realize how dangerous his work with the department could be, and how steadfastly most cops carried out their responsibilities. So my attitude had done a complete turnaround. Nevertheless, in the presence of these two men who now stood brushing raindrops off their clothes in the Trotfields’ art-filled foyer, I couldn’t shake my old feeling of discomfort.

“Excuse me, but before we go any further, could I see some ID? Quickly?” I asked. I glanced into the living room. No one looked my way.

The portly redhead with the bulging eyes, I learned, was Investigator Hersey. The black-haired fellow with the missile-shaped head was named De Groot. Neither gave any indication that they knew Tom, which for some reason I didn’t take as a good sign. I handed them back their identification cards, then motioned toward the kitchen.

Hersey puffed himself up as if to follow, but De Groot kept his muddy boots planted on the Trotfields’ Oriental runner. He patted his greasy black hair and stared intently at the deep blue canvas that had so puzzled Arch. After a few moments he leaned over and brought his face up close to the painted cigarette image.

“It’s by Robert Motherwell,” I said, still impatient.

“It’s – “

“One of his Gauloise paintings,” De Groot said without looking away from the painting. Then he straightened and gave me a deadpan look. “The series he started after The Elegies to the Spanish republic.”

“Do you mind, sir?” I whispered. “Could we please go out to the kitchen? I’m trying to do a job here.” De Groot raised his shaggy black eyebrows. When he didn’t move, I rushed on with: “The Trotfields are very wealthy art collectors. I’ll tell you all about it if you’ll come out to the kitchen and ask your ten minutes worth of questions there.”

De Groot stared straight into my eyes as he said, “Very wealthy like your friend Marla Korman?”

I could feel the color rise in my cheeks. What was going on here? Hersey walked past me into the kitchen. De Groot lifted his pointy chin and swaggered after him. I peeked into the living room. Sandy Trotfield wrinkled his forehead at me and scowled. Doggone it. Caterer caught with cops. I smiled and gave him a thumbs-up, but he looked past me into the foyer, puzzled If this inopportune visit from the sheriffs department ruined this party the way Marla’s fight had wrecked the mine party, I would have Captain Shockley’s head on a platter.

Arch had removed his headphones and was saying, “… Well, she’s my mother,” when I banged through the kitchen door. My son gave me a bewildered look. I asked him to tend to the buffet platters and told him I would be talking to these men for ten minutes or less.

“You know you can’t question a minor without a parent present. What’s the matter with you two?” I demanded angrily once Arch had made a wordless exit. “And what’s so important it can’t wait for me to get home?” Next to the counter where the raspberry pies sat partially decorated and unsliced, De Groot stood at attention. I guessed he wasn’t going to have a go at the Rothko above the kitchen table. Hersey leaned his muscled body against a convection oven. There was a small notebook in one of his meaty hands. For guys who had been in some kind of hurry, they now seemed to have reverted to a designed-to-be-infuriating interrogation technique. Or maybe they were waiting for me to offer them food. It’s not going to happen, guys.

Finally Hersey hauled himself up. “Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Schulz. We just need to ask about an event you catered this past Saturday at the Eurydice Mine. Did you know that was one of the last times anyone saw Albert Lipscomb before his disappearance?”

“No, I guess I didn’t know that,” I replied. I glared at the cops. Maybe I could get information from them. “What do you mean, one of the last times?”

They ignored this. De Groot said, “And your function at the party was what?”

“I’m sure you’re aware I was just the caterer, not a guest. I’d never met most of those people before.” I paused, because I knew they’d want me to clarify that. “Excuse me. The people I knew at the party were Marla Korman, Tony Royce, ah … Eileen Tobey from the bank and… let’s see, the Hardcastles I’ve known for a while and … the Trotfields. Oh yes, and I know Sam Perdue.”

“Did you talk to Albert Lipscomb during the party?” De Groot’s pitted face was inscrutable.

I shrugged. “Not much. He asked about the food I was serving. He said Prospect Financial would consider having me cater a picnic. He was just being polite, I think. Why do you want to know if I talked to him?”

“Please, Mrs. Schulz. Let us ask the questions. So you’re saying… he was enjoying the party,” De Groot concluded. “For a while, anyway. Until he got into a fight with your friend Marla.”

“An argument, I’d call it. Not a fight,” I said firmly.

“Argument about what?” asked De Groot. His eye finally caught the Rothko, but this time, apparently, I was going to be spared further enlightenment on the history of abstract expressionism.

“Who sent you?” I demanded. “Why didn’t Tom come ask me these questions himself?”

Hersey said, “Investigator Schulz isn’t on this case.”

“That’s not normal, is it?” I asked mildly. “Tom does more than homicide, and he usually heads cases like this. He does forgery, mail theft. And missing persons,” I added after a pause.

Hersey retorted, “It’s normal for an investigator to be removed from a case when he knows some of the people in the investigation. We’re under direct orders from our captain. Now, please, Mrs. Schulz. Just tell us about this fight on Saturday between Mr. Lipscomb and Ms. Korman. Did you hear them?”