Diane Davidson - The Main Corpse

Tony must have seen Macguire and guessed his mission, for he hurried back over to the two of us. “No, no,” he said with a desperate wave to dismiss my assistant. “Nothing’s wrong. Tell anybody who asks that it’s about corn futures. Or something. Go pass around some more food. Please,” he added belatedly. Then he darted back to Marla and Albert.

I didn’t know if ten minutes had gone by, but I used the tongs to arrange a platter of hot dumplings for Macguire to distribute. At that moment, Albert adjusted the lapels of his madras jacket, lifted his chin, and shrugged mightily.

“And today I got the paperwork to prove it,” Marla shrilled. “But I had to have three glasses of that vile beer before I had the courage to come over here and confront you – !” Perhaps to make certain he was paying attention, she thumped his chest. Caught off guard, Albert dropped his glass, which shattered. Ale foamed across the tent floor. No, no, no, I thought uncharitably, I haven’t been paid yet.

“Look, guys,” Tony began again. “We need to postpone whatever discussion – “

“Shut up, Tony,” Marla snarled. I’d never seen her so enraged.

Albert Lipscomb turned away from Marla. Marla held up her index finger and continued to scold. A blare of sound erupted from the far side of the tent. The chink of glasses and babble of guest voices – not to mention the noise of this fracas – were suddenly drowned under the flood of violin music cascading from the portable speakers. Poor Macguire must have turned the volume way, way up. Over Vivaldi, I heard Marla yell, “And another thing!”

But Albert didn’t want to hear about the other thing. He stumbled past us, out into the rain. Marla stomped after him. Her crimped brown hair had shaken loose from the twinkling barrettes. Her green-and-gold silk dress drooped off one shoulder, and her bejeweled fingers were clenched. I rushed over to Tony’s side.

“Doggone it, do something,” I demanded.

“Like what? You saw how I tried,” he said sourly. “They won’t listen to me.”

The rain was changing to hail. With her recent medical history, Marla had no business being out in a hailstorm. I wiped my hands, now damp with fear, on my chef’s jacket. Surprised by the unexpected downpour of icy pebbles outside the tent, Albert Lipscomb wobbled on his pale loafers. Perhaps his sudden loss of equilibrium was owing to the beat of hailstones on his bald pate. He extended his long arms to get some balance, but the muddy road proved too slippery and he faltered. To my horror, Marla flew forward to try to catch him. He slipped from her grasp and careened sideways onto a car. Before he could stand up, Marla started yelling at him. The only word I could pick out was creep.

Tony smoothed his mustache and looked around to see if any guests were watching. He tried to appear nonchalant as he walked along the shed wall to the edge of the tent. With another cautious glance at the guests, he loped after his partner and his girlfriend. I doused the flame on the chafer and scooted around the counter. As inconspicuously as possible, I kicked the broken glass under the shed and headed for the edge of the tent. I needed this job: I was not about to let this party fall apart.

Out in the parking area, Marla reached into a pocket and flourished a sheet of paper at Albert and Tony. Tony talked rapidly while Albert stood with his arms crossed, his long, pale face a study in disgust. The three seemed impervious to the thickening wash of hail. Why, why, why? I wondered wildly, studying their furious faces. Albert snatched the paper from Marla’s hand and tossed it into the air. Hail thudded hard on the car roofs and the tent overhead. Oblivious, Marla and Albert continued to yell at each other.

Since Tony didn’t seem able to pry Marla and Albert apart, I thought I should try, but out of view of the guests. I yanked on the rope that would let down the tent flap. It wouldn’t budge. I signaled to Macguire to take over serving the food. A few guests were straining to get a glimpse of the contretemps outside, but thankfully, most were still looking at the gold, eating, drinking, and chatting.

I pulled again on the rope: no luck. I had to convince Marla and the partners to stop bickering, because it was not good for Marla to argue. Her excitable temper frequently got her into trouble, although she’d been doing better lately. One of her most notable fights, I recalled as I strode across the tent floor, had been with our violent ex-husband. When the Jerk had come at her with a rolling pin, she’d swung a hanging plant at him and dislocated his shoulder. But post-heart attack, she’d promised to stay cool no matter what the circumstances. I had to stay cool, too. No brawls, I promised myself.

I opened the storage shed’s flimsy door and peered into the dark interior space, as if I needed to search out more supplies. My footsteps gritted over the dirty floor as I rushed past rows of hard hats, wide belts, and what looked like cloth-covered flasks. When I opened the outer door, I gasped as hail hit my cheeks. I blinked and trotted through the jumble of parked four-wheel-drive vehicles. Attempting a shortcut, I headed through a mass of shrubbery and promptly got caught in a web of branches. Breathing hard and shivering, I untangled my damp skirt from several sandcherry bushes and considered dashing back to the tent. But the raised voices spurred me on.

“Don’t try to tell me what I don’t understand! You’re this mine’s promoter, Albert!” Marla’s normally husky voice cracked with rage. “I trusted you!”

Marla and Albert stood inches apart. Like boxers in the thirteenth round, both swayed slightly. Whatever their argument was about, it had exhausted them both. Tony stood off to one side, his head in his hands.

Marla’s wet dress was plastered to her body and her damp hair had slipped askew in weedlike clumps. Lean-built Albert Lipscomb staggered uncertainly. I suddenly wished I’d had the means to call 911 while I was under the tent. But Arch is always scolding me for overreacting. Marla and Albert hadn’t hit each other. They’d only been arguing. At least, I hoped they were only arguing.

“I swear… I swear…” Albert’s voice had hardened. Ah sweah, ah sweah … Without warning, he straightened. “The Eurydice is going to produce!” he yelled. The Yer-ih-dahsey. “You don’t understand, this mine was closed by the government during the height of its gold production! The assays show an average of two troy ounces of gold per ton of ore! Do you have any idea how good that is? When are you going to listen to me?”

Tony dropped his hands from his face and groaned. He said, “Could we please, please discuss this down at the office?”

Marla ignored Tony, ducked, and scooped up the sodden paper Albert had thrown into the mud, “But… but… look at this report!” she shouted. “The only way to test ore reliably for gold is to do a fire assay. This guy at the Colorado School of Mines says – “

“Oh, dear God,” Tony grumbled. “I do not believe this. Do not, do not. If you just would have let me – “

“What the hell is this?” Marla screeched, undeterred. She thrust the sodden, muddy sheet under Albert’s nose. “What difference does it make if you have the best geologist in the universe? You have to have a good assay! I want my hundred thousand dollars back, you scum! Tony says you’ve got it!”

“Do something!” I begged Tony.

Tony’s mouth hung open beneath his bedraggled mustache. His eyes were on Marla. He didn’t seem to hear me.

“Marla, will you listen to me?” Albert protested angrily. “That might be from the wrong – “

I’d had enough. “Okay, look,” I told Tony. “I’ll get : Marla. You get him.”

Tony snapped to attention and nodded. Tall and thin as a whippet, he strode obediently in his partner’s direction. I approached Marla, shaking my head. I couldn’t imagine what they’d say down at her cardiac rehab program Monday morning. Of course, it was unlikely that she would tell them she’d engaged in an ear-splitting dispute with her financial adviser. In a hailstorm, no less.