Diane Davidson - The Main Corpse

“Go to sleep,’: Bo chided after we’d spent a fruitless hour trying to figure out who knew what and when they knew it.

Marla and I lay down on the cold, musty-smelling beds. Arch and Jake claimed the back of Lady Maureen. The general extinguished the kerosene lamps, and stretched out on the floor. The fire’s embers glowed, crackled, and waned, from time to time shooting up a flare of flame. I tried to sleep. Exhausted as I was, slumber eluded me. After a while I crept over to one of the windows arid tried to send thoughts to Tom: We’re all right. We’ll be home soon.

Eleven o’clock. My son’s measured breathing, a sound I would recognize even if he were thirty feet away, filled the darkened cabin. Midnight: The rain ceased, and Marla was snoring. By two, I thought I was the only one awake, although the general’s breathing was as hushed and catlike as his movements. Out the window, the clouds had thinned to fast-moving wisps. When the moon emerged from behind a skein of haze, I glanced in the direction of the creek, half expecting to see the ghost of that tragic, long-buried bride. But there was only fog, wafting through the trees. Tom, I thought, how are you? But I heard no answer and saw nothing. The only spirit I felt was my own, and it was full of pain.

I must have fallen asleep. I was startled awake with my forehead pressed against the frigid windowpane. I tensed and brought my head up abruptly. What was that sound? It was nearby: a door creaking open. Narrowing my eyes, I could make out Arch and General Bo Farquhar moving through pewter-colored predawn light. My son gripped the leash of a panting, nervous Jake. For a fleeting moment, I thought I must be trapped in a lost episode from Little House on the Prairie. Where was Michael Landon and his ever-hopeful little family? And why was I staring at the large head of a dead tiger?

I rubbed my eyes, surveyed the cabin interior, and tried to think. The chaotic events of the previous day welled up. I shivered and checked my watch. It was Tuesday, June 15, just after five in the morning. Outside, Bo, Arch, and Jake stopped beside the pump. The bloodhound was sniffing, his nose pressed to the soggy earth, his tail curled high. Ever wary, Bo held his deadly-looking gun at his side. Below the cabin, a milky fog poured between the trees. Usually a fast, low white cloud means a front is moving through. With any luck, the frigid vapor would soon burn off. Maybe we’d even have a clear day.

Marla roused herself to her knees, peered out, and grunted. “If we’re going to have English weather, can’t we at least have crumpets?”

Her eyes met mine across the cabin space. A lump formed in my throat. What a mess. My best friend had been arrested for murder and neither ‘my policeman husband nor I had been able to help her. Now we were all outside the law, and the person who’d framed her for the crime was probably long gone.

I said, “How are you doing?” Marla answered ruefully. “Wait until I have some caffeine, before you ask me that. I know, I know – I’m not supposed to drink the stuff, but I’m desperate. Is there any?”

“Is there what?” General Bo Farquhar’s arrival startled me, as he always moved so silently. He entered with a load of firewood, Arch and Jake behind him. The dog looked crestfallen. “What do you girls want now, eggs Benedict?”

I pointed my finger at him. “Don’t call me a girl, boy. Did you bring in that cell phone?”

He deposited the wood, spanked his hands together to rid them of mud and bark, and brought me the phone. “Try not to get the police onto us. Also, if you want breakfast, you’ll have to improvise, since all the eggs are broken.”

Breakfast could wait. Bo had activated the cellular; I punched in our home number and suppressed a worry of how cops traced cell calls. In any event, I seriously doubted the Furman County Sheriffs Department possessed such technology. The phone rang once.

“Schulz.” His voice was scratchy with sleep. “

It’s me.”

I heard him sigh. “Where are you? Are you coming home? Is Arch all right?”

“He’s fine, we all are. We’re out in the wild trying to track Tony.” He groaned. I went on: “Listen, I’m certain that Tony Royce didn’t drown in that creek. And after I talked to you yesterday, I got information that Prospect Financial was lying about the mine being closed down during the 1940s. Also, we’ve found a bloody test tube and a disguise.”

“A test tube and a what?”

“A bald disguise. Like a cap. That someone would wear to look bald. Say, if a person wanted to look like Albert Lipscomb. Think those two items would be enough to clear Marla of drowning her boyfriend? Talk fast, I don’t want anyone to trace this.”

“No way. Your skipping with Marla makes her look more guilty. And I’m supposed to remind you to obey the law, wife.”

“But what about that evidence?”

“I’d have to see it, Miss G. And with the current atmosphere down at the department, it’ll take an act of God to clear Marla. Please – “

“I’ll call you later. I miss you.” I hung up abruptly.

With the possibility of a trace, there was no time for extensive sentimentality. Unfortunately. Poor Tom. I hadn’t even asked what kind of fallout had rained on him from the ambulance incident. I took a deep breath. Time to think of food. Cooking was low on my agenda. On the other hand, feeding everyone brought a sense of purpose, and might help me move beyond the guilt I felt for betraying Tom. While the general built up the cookstove fire and hauled in water, I scrounged through the Hardcastles’ meager cupboard again. Flour, sugar, cinnamon, baking soda, buttermilk solids. No beef jerky, no dried fruit. I guess the Hardcastles thought trappers would feast on the fresh game they’d snared. After a few moments of grumbling, I came up with three stray teabags, an unopened jar of apple butter, shortening, cream of tartar –a find – and a griddle. A silly memory intruded-Arch’s fourth-grade science fair question. What makes cookie batter puff up? The answer: an acid-cream of tartar – and a base – baking soda. Mixing the reconstituted buttermilk and dry ingredients to a soft batter made me stop fretting, if only temporarily. I kneaded the feathery dough, patted it into a circle on a wooden board, cut it into wedges, then dropped the scones into hot, bubbling shortening.

Cinnamon Griddle Scones

1 cup all-purpose flour

˝ teaspoon cream of tartar

ź teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon sugar

˝ teaspoon baking soda

˝ teaspoon cinnamon

2 tablespoons dry buttermilk solids (available canned in the baking goods section of the grocery store)

˝ cup water

2 tablespoons solid vegetable shortening such as Crisco

Preheat griddle over medium-high heat. Stir together flour, cream of tartar, salt, sugar, baking soda, cinnamon, and buttermilk solids. Add water and stir until well combined. Turn the batter out on a well-floured surface, knead a few turns, and pat into a circle about 6 ˝ inches in diameter. With a sharp knife, cut the dough into 8 wedges. Melt the shortening on the griddle. When the shortening is hot, lower the heat to medium and place the scones on the griddle. Cook until the first side is golden brown, then turn and cook the other side. Test for doneness by splitting one scone. It should lot be doughy, but should look like biscuit. Remove the scones from the griddle and serve with butter and apple butter.

Makes 8 small scones.

Ten minutes later, while Jake attacked his kibble, the four of us hunkered down on the striped back of Lady, Maureen and proved the adage that hunger makes the best sauce. We slathered the hot scones with butter – the general had brought a stick with his supplies – and apple butter, courtesy of the Hardcastles. The butter and apple butter oozed comfortingly between the moist, tender, biscuitlike layers. A morning coffee devotee, I was surprised by the delicious taste of the English Breakfast tea I’d brewed. Any port in a storm.