Diane Davidson - The Main Corpse

“Hold on,” said the general as he scanned the room. The glow from the lamp also illuminated the room’s most unusual furnishing: an enormous tiger skin, complete with head. When Maureen Colbert had been a benefactor of the Denver Zoo, she had paid for a tiger to be brought from India. When the large female tiger – named Lady Maureen by the zoo director, to pay homage to Mrs. Colbert – had died some years later, the zoo had sent the animal to the taxidermist, then presented it to Mrs. Colbert. This way, she would forever have a reminder of her gift-albeit on the floor of her restored cabin. I didn’t know what Jake would make of the Lady Maureen rug, and wasn’t eager to find out. The general nodded to me, and I moved toward the tiger skin. When I’d heated up the pork on the cabin cookstove last fall, I’d spent quite a bit of time looking at Lady Maureen. Now something about the dead tiger didn’t look right.

“Damn, it’s cold,” Bo muttered. “Looks like who ever broke in didn’t leave much of a trace. I don’t suppose the owners keep firewood inside. Or whoever’s been here used it up.”

“There should be plenty of wood under a plastic cover,” I said quietly, “out by the toolshed.”

When he reholstered the gun and nipped out the door, I knelt beside the tiger skin. Outside, I could hear Marla and Arch insistently telling Jake to hush up. I turned back and examined the rug from one side, then the other. After a moment, I figured out what looked strange. Someone – perhaps with a sense of humor – had wedged a flesh-colored balloon deep inside the tiger’s mouth. The balloon was packed in so deeply that the plastic was barely visible between the tiger’s teeth. I felt along the sharp incisors and touched the folds of the object. It was thicker than plastic, more like latex. Carefully, I pulled the rubbery thing out.

It was not a balloon. It looked like a flesh-colored covering of some kind. In the dim light, I could discern drops of dried liquid. I rubbed the pale bumps gently. Makeup came off on my fingers.

Check the trash, I could hear my mother’s voice saying in my ear, her favorite means of getting to the source of the problem. I scanned the room and made for the stenciled trash can beside the wood stove. At its bottom was a small pile of crumpled sheets. I set the pink rubber thing aside and examined the sheets. They were pristinely dustless; they had not been in this trash can very long.

Five cellophane wrappers from Oriental noodle packages crinkled in my hands. I put these aside and reached for the rest: crumpled pages of type that appeared to have been photocopied from a book. The first was a sheet of instructions that included a diagram of an ear. Above the diagram in capital letters was the warning: “Be very careful when cutting around ears, that you cut only the cap.” And at the bottom, a new section: “Applying Makeup.”

I flipped through the pages until I came to one of photographs of men. The heading read: “Woochie Professional Quality Bald Cap.” The introduction to the instructions began: “Woochie premium bald caps can sometimes be reused… .”

I stared at the pink balloon. A bald cap. Who’d put this thing in the tiger’s mouth, and why?

I stuffed the papers and cap into the trash, replaced the can, and ran outside to check on Arch. My son was driving down on the water pump handle with all his strength. Water was not issuing from the spigot. Jake continued to howl. Marla yelled at the dog to hush as she showed Arch how to prime the pump with a full rain bucket. General Bo stood by the toolshed loading his arms with firewood. I ran over to him.

“Whoever hit Marla that night has been here,” I told him. “I think. Been and gone, it looks like. The guy … left trash… a disguise that makes you bald.”

General Bo shook his head. “Hold out your arms.” I did so and he handed me the logs. He was already moving in Arch’s direction. “We shouldn’t have taken the working harness off the dog. He could have told us if what he’s smelling up here is Tony. Maybe that’s why he’s barking so much.”

“We could try him with the harness,” I said as I hustled along behind him.

“No. It’s too dark to get any tracking done. The dog needs to eat and rest. Start the fire. I’ll get Arch, Marla, the dog, and the supplies inside.” He pulled out the Glock. Suddenly Jake howled more fiercely than ever.

The general called impatiently, “Come on, everybody inside! Carry as much as you can.”

I stumbled with the wood to the cabin door. Jake yelped. If a person or persons was indeed nearby, they could be in no doubt of our presence now. Arch grabbed the bucket and Jake’s leash. Marla limped toward us. I couldn’t believe she was carrying a bag from the Jeep trunk. When the two of them were safely through the door, I brought it almost closed. A moment later, the general backed into the cabin, his non”-gun-holding hand grasping a last bag of supplies. He bolted the door.

While I stuffed wood into the stove, my mind raced. Not believing he or she would be followed, this criminal had left evidence gleefully. Catch me if you can. But] where was he going? Did he have Tony with him? And : most important, would we sort out what had happened before the Furman County Sheriffs Department caught up with us?

Food, I told myself. We’ll eat first and worry later.

By the time Arch had poured Jake a bowl of water and’ Marla had dished out some kibble, I had the beginning of a fire going in the stove. Arch assured us that Jake would let us know if there was anyone in the vicinity of the cabin. I knew that to be true, as Jake had certainly alerted us to every rustle of movement on our street. We all agreed to relax. If possible, Marla said with a sigh.

The general built a fire in the main fireplace, and soon the cabin was lit with a cozy glow. I poked through the cabinets lining the cabin walls. The corner cupboard yielded an array of crockery and pewterware that looked authentically nineteenth-century. I thought with a pang that Tom, with his great love of antiques, would have admired the tankards and chargers. The Hardcastles had stocked two sets of plates: a collection of plain ironstone, and a lovely set of spatterware with a rose in the center of each plate. This, too, Tom had taught me the name for – Adam’s Rose. Soon, I thought with a pang, he would return to an empty house, see my note, and wonder if we were still alive. Perhaps he was already home. As the rain beat down on the roof I was thankful, finally, for one thing. At least we weren’t outside.

While Marla and Arch tried to figure how the four of us would make do with two small beds, Bo unpacked the bags of food. A large bundle of fresh asparagus lay next to a package of chicken breasts, a bag of rice, and several small jars of condiments. He had brought half a dozen eggs. Five of them were now broken.

“Thought you’d like to do a stir-fry,” he announced solemnly. “Since I didn’t know what our cooking situation would be.”

Marla burst out laughing. Arch gave me ashy, oh-well sort of smile. I asked Bo to set us up on the small table while I hunted for, and found, a heavy cast-iron skillet that would do for a wok. In another pot, I started water for the rice and then turned my attention to the chicken. Anything to get away from thinking about the unknown lurking in the mist. And speaking of the unknown, why shouldn’t I call Tom? That would at least put my mind at rest, if not his.

“Did you bring the cellular phone in from the car?” I asked General Bo.

He shook his head grimly. “No, and I don’t want anyone going out until morning. Too risky.”

Oh, great. I assessed the Oriental-style ingredients. I started the rice and sliced the chicken breasts. While the chicken marinated in egg white, sherry, soy sauce, and cornstarch – a tenderizing trick I’d learned from a television food show – I pressed a pungent garlic clove and sliced a pile of bright green asparagus and fragrant white onion. Soon the chicken, garlic, and onion were sizzling in the pan and a mouth-watering scent filled the cabin. I steamed the sliced asparagus and stirred in dark, tangy black bean sauce. At least I was making something for Marla that was lowfat, I thought grimly.