Diane Davidson - The Main Corpse

At the back of the tent, Macguire was cautiously removing the sheet of bubbling bacon hors d’oeuvre from the oven and muttering, “Uh-oh. I couldn’t tell how long they’d been in. There’s no timer on these ovens.”

“They’re okay,” I said as I eyed the glistening appetizers. I held up a paper-towel-covered platter. “Just use a spatula to scoop them out to drain.”

This Macguire did. I held a silver platter over the hors d’oeuvre, flipped the two trays, then handed the platter of wrapped artichokes back to him. He placed a bowl of the Dijon cream sauce in the center of the tray and lumbered off to the group gathered around the display case.

I visually searched the clutter behind the counter for the chafer I was going to use to reheat the shrimp dumplings. I had managed to sully the space with heaps of trays, pans of appetizers, and row upon row of beer bottles. To my surprise, I caught sight of Tony Royce. He was rummaging through the Cambro.

“Tony! Why aren’t you mingling with your guests?” Tony uncoiled his athletic body and frowned at me.

He gnawed on his perfectly trimmed bottle-brush mustache, brushed unseen lint from his khaki pants and khaki shirt, and smoothed his pouffed hair, which had not been flattened by the miner’s hard hat. He looked like Hitler with a blow-dry.

“Well, Goldy, they’re not all here, for one thing. For another, I don’t want to have to listen to Edna Hardcastle tell me how great Sam’s soups are. We’re going to look at the place, the clients know that. But Victoria tried them and she didn’t…” His voice trailed off, and his eyes darted back to the Cambro.

I wanted to be polite to Tony, since he was my employer for this particular shindig. I was also keenly interested to know what the late Victoria Lear’s involvement in food concepts might have been. But I had cooking to do and we were in the middle of a party. Besides, I didn’t want to argue with Tony – yet – about his appointing me to be Prospect’s taste tester to succeed Marla and the deceased financial officer.

“Look, can you help me?” His voice grew desperate. “I need a vodka martini to clear the mine dampness out of my head. I hate that god-awful place. Do you have a freezer back here with some Stoly? Am I looking in the wrong place?”

I smiled. The new test for machismo, I’d learned, was to take long draughts from an icy bottle of Stolichnaya vodka. Even more macho was to slug down the vodka while gobbling a plateful of jalapeno peppers. “Sorry, Tony. We’ve just got beer and coffee.” I finally spotted the chafer and hurried over to it. “What guests aren’t here?”

Tony frowned, popped the top off a bottle of stout, and took a long swig. Hey! I’m a guy, I don’t need a glass! “Who’s not here? Marla’s brother-in-law, for one thing. I’ve never even met the guy, but I sure have heard a lot about him.”

“General Farquhar?” I tried to conceal my surprise by opening the chafer cover in front of my face.

Tony paused with the stout bottle halfway to his lips and eyed me curiously. “Yeah, after the Medigen IPO got so much publicity, we had all kinds of people wanting to get into the Eurydice venture. Farquhar sent us a check and said he was too busy to come in.”

100 busy. Right. Too busy in jail. I pretended to be absorbed with the contents of the chafer. Thank heavens Macguire had already filled the bottom pan-the bain-marie—with hot water. Tiny bubbles floated promisingly upward. I heaved up the hotel pan with the shrimp dumplings and lowered it into place.

“Hey, Tony,” I said. “I need to borrow a watch. There’s no timer on the oven, and we almost burned the bacon appetizers.”

Bacon-Wrapped Artichokes

with Dijon Cream Sauce

5 artichoke bottoms (one 14-ounce can, drained)

10 slices center-cut bacon

3 tablespoons Dijon mustard

ź cup half-and-half or heavy cream

Preheat oven to 400°. Cut each artichoke bottom into 8 equal pie-shaped wedges. Cut each bacon slice into fourths. Wrap a piece of bacon around each artichoke wedge and secure with a toothpick. Place on a rimmed cookie sheet and bake for 20 to 30 minutes, or until the bacon is crisp. Drain thoroughly. Combine the Dijon mustard with the cream and serve as a dipping sauce.

Makes 40.

Note: Occasionally cans of artichoke bottoms will contain 6, rather than 5 pieces. In that case, use 12 slices of bacon to make 48 appetizers.

Tony glanced at his gleaming Rolex. He said solemnly, “You’re not borrowing my watch.”

Okay, so his watch probably cost more than my van. I kept -my voice courteous. “Well, could you tell me when ten minutes is up?”

He nodded, swallowed the last of his stout, and popped the top off another. Albert Lipscomb’s bald head shone like an approaching beacon under the tent lights as he strode toward us. He put down a plate with a half-eaten quesadilla and leaned toward his partner.

“Tony, Captain Shockley wants to talk to us about Victoria,” Albert said in a low voice. Tony groaned and took a swig of stout from the new bottle. Albert persisted glumly: “He’s very upset. We need to talk to him.”

“My head’s full of damp air. He’s your friend. You talk to him.”

Albert sighed and rubbed his scalp. “Oh, all right.” But he didn’t have a chance. Marla strode up, pinched a wad of Albert’s madras jacket, and yanked him in the direction of the shed.

“I don’t want you to leave before we have a talk,” she announced. “About assay reports. Let’s go in here with the cap lamps and have a chat.”

Albert, dumbfounded, looked at Tony for help. Then his mournful eyes turned back to Marla. “I don’t understand what… what is so important – “

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about,” Marla snapped. She let go of his jacket and put one hand on an ample hip. She shook her other hand in a furious fist under Albert Lipscomb’s nose.

“Wait, wait,” I implored, with a harried glance out at the center of the tent. “Don’t talk about this now. Don’t ruin the party. .

. .”

Tony was suddenly between the two of them. He lifted his dark eyebrows and bit his mustache. He murmured, “For heaven’s sake, guys, this is not the time…” He put his hands on Marla’s shoulders. “Please, sweetheart, you know you shouldn’t distress yourself. You could get sick – “

Marla shot him a withering glance and slapped his hands away. “I’ll talk to you later, Tony. This whole thing was his idea, not yours, and you’re being duped, too. So move back.”

Tony, aghast, took two steps away from them. Marla and Albert advanced in the direction of the corrugated metal shed. Or rather, that was as far as Marla could back Albert up. With a hasty glance at the guests, Tony followed them. I used tongs to move the dumplings around, keeping an eye on the confrontation. What had gotten into Marla? Couldn’t whatever it was wait?

“Absolutely not.” Albert’s voice rose in answer to something Marla had said. He laughed. The chuckle I’d heard earlier from him had been an awkward, uncomfortable one. The new one was derisive, as if Marla had told a particularly absurd joke. “You’re completely mistaken. The Kepler lab is well known, and totally reliable. It – “

“Oh, I don’t think I’m mistaken,” Marla sniped right back. “My source says the only reliable process is afire assay – “

Tony once more tried to intervene. “Marla, please. We can all sit down together – “

Albert snarled at Marla, “You bitch. What are you trying to do?”

She cried, “It is my money and my investment!” Macguire timidly knocked on the top of the dumpling chafer, as if that could gain him admittance to our uncomfortable little scene at the back of the tent. “Uh, that Captain Shockley guy doesn’t want to come back here and leave the display case out of his sight. But he just asked if there was some kind of problem – “