Diane Davidson - The Main Corpse

“Which two morons? Now that Shockley makes the assignments, the morons are everywhere.”

“De Groot and Hersey.”

He groaned and poured himself a glass of sherry. “The Odd Squad. Shockley’s right-hand goons. Those two guys so completely botched a robbery case of mine that I avoid working with them whenever possible.”

“Yeah, well, I wish I could have avoided them. Oh,” I toasted him and added matter-of-factly, “something else. I saw the general today, and you’ll never guess what the two of us experienced together.”

Tom smiled mischievously. “Don’t tell me. An explosion. Wait, let me guess. C-four, his favorite. It was a very big explosion, and you were safely far away.”

“It might’ve been an explosion some distance away that precipitated a very big landslide, and I was on the edge of it.” I sipped sherry, related the events of the afternoon, and, remembering Bo’s queries, asked if Tom had ever heard of environmental statements being done for a mine.

“You mean the claims?” When I shrugged, he said, “I think those are recorded with the county clerk, as well as down in Denver with some state agency. And I’m pretty sure operating mines have to be inspected periodically for safety. And hey, speaking of safety?” He gave me a searching look. “A landslide? What on earth were you doing?”

“Nothing,” I protested. “Not a thing. It’s not like an avalanche, where you can plan to trigger it. I mean, unless you have the right weather conditions and use an explosive. In this case, all we had was a full moon, and the fact that they were working with explosives in the area,” I added as I reached for another cracker. Tom was right: I was ravenous.

He shook his head. “I swear, Goldy, you get into more trouble in a day than I do in a year.”

“I don’t go looking for trouble,” I protested, mouth full.

“Oh, please. You know how many crooks have said that to me?”

“Thanks loads.” I wagged a finger at him. “I’m going to find out what’s going on with this financial firm. Prospect’s chief investment officer dies in Idaho Springs, one of the partners disappears, my friend’s money gets stolen.” I paused to lick creamy cheese from my fingers, then continued with my litany: “A problem with assay reports. Idiot cops hovering to insult and intimidate people.”

Tom’s look was somber. “It’s a missing persons case, Miss G. That’s it. It’s not even a needle in a haystack. It’s a caraway seed.”

I scooted over on the couch and gave him an affectionate squeeze. I do love a man who makes culinary metaphors.

The next morning, Friday, the phone rang early. Marla.

“Okay, listen,” she began without preamble, “I’m sorry to be calling you so early, or so late as it turns out, but Tony thought that I ordered the food for this weekend, and of course I thought that he had, and we need nonperishables, if you can imagine. So I was thinking – “

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you have the wrong number. And why didn’t you warn me about those idiot cops?”

“I tried.” She groaned. “Awful, aren’t they? They offended the Hardcastles by implying they were nitwits for investing in an abandoned mine. And listen to this. First thing that happened at the Trotfields’ place? You’ll never guess. As soon as the two cops came into the house, De Groot sneezed on the Motherwell. But listen, I do need to talk to you about the food for our fishing trip – “

“I thought you and Tony weren’t getting along.”

“We’re not, but it’s temporary. And contrary to the prevailing opinion in Colorado, I don’t think schlepping into the cold, wet mountains is going to transform us into a healed couple. But Tony’s desperate to get away for a couple of days, and he’s told everybody he’s going, so if he comes back without any fish, he’ll lose face.”

We said in unison, “Machismo.”

“But,” I protested, “aren’t you leaving soon? As in this afternoon? I may be able to cook fast, but I’m not superhuman – “

“Oh Goldy, please don’t say no, you have such a knack with food, and Tony really is a wreck – “

I sighed. “Hold on.” I tied a robe around my waist and scanned the bedroom. Tom was not under the covers. Oh, yes. I’d sleepily registered his predawn departure. What was it he’d said? Something about female soccer players getting into a brawl at an indoor game last night. Apparently the referee failed to whistle penalties for lots of rough play, and the game ended in a free-for-all. The cops arrested one of the goalkeepers, and Tom’s presence was needed this morning to deal with the mess. One thing I’d learned in the last year: Policemen work a lot harder than doctors. And at odder hours. I stared at the clock: seven-thirty. I had to get cracking on my weekly muffins-and-coffee cake assignment for the Bank of Aspen Meadow. But guilt cut between these considerations. Marla had given me so many business referrals that I felt duty-bound to squeeze her in. And of course, she was my best friend. Besides, if I didn’t intervene, she would eat fat-loaded junk food.

“Look, Marla, I have a job this morning, and then I’m meeting you and Tony for lunch at Sam’s Soups. Why don’t I bring you some food then?”

“Oh gosh, could you?”

I glanced out the window and thought my eyes must be deceiving me, because it wasn’t raining. It was just very, very cloudy and dark. “What I’m trying to tell you,” I said patiently, ”is that I’m not going to be packing a fresh whole stuffed turkey for you. You’d get ptomaine. I’ll fix one cozy campfire dinner, and you can do the freeze-dried routine for the rest of the time. Okay? By the way, what are you going to do about fresh water? And firewood? The ground is soaked.”

She said that fuel, water, and beverages were Tony’s department, that they’d need enough food and snacks to get through the weekend, and she’d see me at Sam’s at noon for my taste-test. I threw open the upstairs window and took a deep breath of moist mountain air. Fog was moving, ghostlike, through the sodden branches of the pine trees. I wouldn’t want to be out fishing this weekend.

I stretched through a yoga routine, got dressed, then answered a call from Todd Druckman’s mother, Kathleen. Some vacationing neighbors had given her Rockies tickets for the weekend. She wanted to invite Arch to Coors Field for a doubleheader against the Dodgers. I was profusely thankful that Arch would have something to do during the day besides retrain Jake.

I awakened Arch, who was none too happy to be brought to consciousness before eleven on a summer morning. But the promise of spending even a foggy day watching the Blake Street Bombers – a quartet of the Rockies’ best players – and the rest of the beloved baseball team brightened his spirits considerably. I promised I’d bring Jake inside if it started to rain, and yes, the dear hound could stay in Arch’s room while I was out. Then I gave my son breakfast and managed to convince him to wear a waterproof jacket before he slipped out the back door.

I checked the computer for my morning assignment at the bank. It was one of my favorite regular jobs, as I usually heard enough gossip from Eileen Tobey, the bank manager, to last a full month. Eileen infused all of her stories with great drama, which might explain why in her spare time she was the diva of the Aspen Meadow theater group. When she wasn’t playing Blanche DuBois or Lady Macbeth, she was on the phone tracking down the town’s latest rumors. Eileen was the kind of person who became your closest friend when a misfortune – cancer diagnosis, contested divorce, suicide of a relative – befell you. Unfortunately, the intimacy did not last a week past her learning every grisly detail of your crisis. And since she found out everyone’s details, she was the most remarkably informed gossip I knew. She’d been talking to Albert at the Eurydice Mine party. Given her personality, I knew I could pump her for information today and she’d never even speculate about the reasons for my nosiness.