Diane Davidson - The Main Corpse

2

Try as I might, I couldn’t discover what Marla was so angry about. When Macguire unpacked the crystal glasses – not real, of course, for an outdoor event – he mumbled that I’d learn soon enough. And then I became so busy loading the quesadillas and tomato-Brie pies into the ovens that I didn’t have time to ask again. I didn’t even notice when Prospect partner Albert Lipscomb arrived with the last of the cases of brew. The boxes of gleaming brown bottles just seemed to appear magically in the tent. I was briefly aware of tall, athletic Tony with an equally tall, but bald, man moving confidently in the direction of the large storage shed abutting the side tent flap. From their assured manner together, I figured the balding man had to be Prospect partner Albert Lipscomb, the most tedious man on earth, as Marla had called him. After a moment the two men emerged from the shed wearing miner’s hard hats complete with cap lamps. Without stopping to talk to the few clients who’d already arrived, they walked briskly into the mine.

I watched curiously as the two men disappeared down the dark-hewn throat into the earth. But I was even more interested in their mission. Before leaving they’d spoken with Macguire briefly, pointing at the middle of the tent. Macguire had in turn disappeared and returned with another man, whom I could see only from the back. With great effort, Macguire and his helper hauled a glass display case the size of a large coffee table back to the spot in the center of the tent that the partners had indicated.

“What’s going on?” I asked Macguire when I was by his side. He was dusting off his hands and muttering about having to wash them again before serving the food.

The man with him, whom I belatedly (and with a sinking heart) recognized as Captain Shockley of the Furman County Sheriffs Department, spoke first.

“Well, now. If it isn’t Mrs. Schulz.” Shockley, in his late fifties, towered over me. I took in his formidable paunch and green polyester suit. He had thin, ruffled black hair above an ominous, horsey face. Within a mass of crepey wrinkles, his bulging brown eyes glared at me. He looked like a boss. I just wished he wasn’t Tom’s boss. He said, “I wonder why Prospect happened to hire you to cater this event?”

Anxiety gnawed at my stomach as Shockley tilted toward me. His oversized teeth were set in a joyless grin as he waited grimly for my reply.

“Um, because my best friend is dating one of the partners?”

He turned back to the display case. “I figured as much.” He stared glumly into the empty glass compartments.

“What are you two doing?” I asked brightly. “I mean, I guess this table isn’t a place where we can put trays of dumplings.”

Shockley ignored me, and Macguire gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. Don’t ask. But I didn’t need to inquire again, because within a minute Tony and his partner reappeared at the mine opening, each with a knapsack slung over his back. When they approached the display table, Macguire tugged me aside.

“It’s supposed to be a surprise for the clients,” Macguire said in a low voice. “They made it a surprise mainly for security reasons,” he added. “The partners didn’t want anyone to know in advance about a display of samples from the mine safe.” I watched Shockley open the top of the glass case. Tony and Albert Lipscomb began to place chunks of streaked rock inside. “That police captain? Shockley? He said they’re doing a, like, before-and-after exhibit. You know samples of ore on one side, ingots of refined metal on the other. The partners are giving Shockley the key to the case. You know – for safekeeping during the party.”

The partners opened the second knapsack and carefully lifted out thick, gleaming bars of gold. For a moment, Macguire and I did not speak. We were transfixed by the sight of the precious yellow metal glimmering seductively in the light of the tent lamps. I was sure the bars were worth a fortune.

“But,” I said finally, “I thought they already gave the investors chunks of ore. Marla said she got one when they came up for their tour.”

When Macguire didn’t answer right away, I looked at him. The same uncertainty I’d seen earlier again clouded his face. “Maybe I just shouldn’t talk about it.” He gestured to the makeshift parking area that was bathed in icy rain. “Anyway, here come some more guests.”

And indeed, car after car was pulling into the parking lot. Macguire and I hustled off to the serving area and loaded up our trays with bottles, glasses, and napkins. Have a good time, I warned myself. Guests can always read your mood! So forget the weather and buck up! Unfortunately, a caterer’s worries are as contagious as measles.

But my apprehensions proved groundless. Despite the rain, despite the recent loss of the firm’s investment officer, the atmosphere among the partygoers soon vibrated with joviality. Wave after wave of guests extricated themselves from muddy Range Rovers and Jeep Grand Cherokees and greeted each other with loud cheers and high fives. We made it through the Red Sea, doggone it, and now we’re going to party! Just as heartily, they hailed Macguire and me with demands for drinks. We were happy to oblige.

Once the first batch of thirty-five-dollar-a-bottle Belgian ales was gone, the party became more like a bash at the end of exams than a dignified gathering of wealthy investors. Fine with me. I am ecstatic when rich people celebrate anything, as long as I supply the food. With these folks in such excellent humor, maybe I’d even be able to wangle a couple of July Fourth bookings.

Then again, I reasoned as I served another round of ales, these guests certainly had reason to whoop it up. Tony Royce and Albert Lipscomb had made them a bundle. Tony’s job was to come up with investment ideas and bring in clients. Albert analyzed the companies’ balance sheets and managed the money. The investment officer ran – or rather, used to run – interference between the clients and the partners. And they’d all done spectacularly. Year before last, Prospect had infused money into Medigen, a regional biotech company. This year, Medigen had gone public and made the Prospect clients a widely reported packet. Now they were trying something new. Contrary to their usual pattern, Albert Lipscomb had been the one who’d pushed the idea of investing in the Eurydice Gold Mine. A lifelong Coloradan, Albert had inherited the mine from his grandfather, who’d vehemently insisted up to his death that the mine contained untapped gold ore. Prospect had hired a geologist who agreed with the grandfather, and the high-rolling clients had piled in. Coloradans can’t resist gold. When they climb the peaks, they kick over rocks to search for untapped veins. When they picnic, they scan the creeks for shiny nuggets. Mention gold, and people go wild. Let them, I say, especially if it means they’ll need catered functions to celebrate their strikes.

Once everyone was flourishing a third or fourth crystal glass full of brew, I brought out the crab quesadillas with chili cilantro salsa. Macguire offered the hot mushroom caps stuffed with savory chicken sausage. Guests were all too happy to drool and consume. Fantastic! Scrumptious! Who cares about calories? We’re all going to get rich! It was great.

For a while after the display case was set up, I didn’t spot Mr. Magnetic, Tony Royce. Marla took time from her chatter with friends about her upcoming travel plans with Tony to wave me in the direction of bald Albert Lipscomb. With the miner’s hat and heavy jacket off, Albert appeared unexpectedly lithe and well-built. His slender chest was covered with a pale blue monogrammed shirt. His madras tie, seersucker jacket, yellow pants, and hand-sewn loafers couldn’t have screamed preppy more loudly if he’d been wearing a sign. While Macguire stopped to talk to Marla, I scooted toward Albert to offer the tray of quesadillas the first pass. Suck up to the high rollers, my cooking instructor had advised, or you’re going to have a brief career in catering.