Read Online The Main Corpse by Diane Mott Davidson - Free Book Online
Authors: Diane Mott Davidson
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Detective and Mystery Stories, Women Private Investigators, Cooking, Large Type Books, Colorado, Caterers and Catering, Cookery, Bear; Goldy (Fictitious Character), Women in the Food Industry
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come visit."
"Who's 'us'?" I asked. I hated sounding like an interrogator, but when it came to General Bo Farquhar, there wasn't much choice. The only guest who isn't here is General Farquhar, Tony Royce had said. Says he's too busy. Really. General Bo, who also happened to be Marla's brother-in-law, had recently finished his prison sentence for possessing rocket-propelled grenades, a large quantity of C-4, Kalashnikovs, Uzis, and all kinds of other contraband. Until he became settled, the general was staying on the estate of some friends who were adapting military technology for law enforcement. I'd heard their thousand-acre spread west of Aspen Meadow was surrounded by closed-circuit cameras and a nine-foot electrical fence. Not the place you wanted to send your son with his untrustworthy dog for a pleasant afternoon romp in the pouring rain.
"Listen, Mom, General Bo says he's real depressed. He was hoping you could bring him something made with chocolate, since the people who're taking care of him don't like it or don't have it or something. His phone number's down in the kitchen. Anyway. Gotta fly." His high-topped black sneakers made squishing noises as he fled before I could raise any more objections.
"Arch, please tell me where you're going. I won't veto it. Even though it's raining, in case you hadn't noticed."
The orange poncho rustled as Arch's short legs hastened down the hallway. "Better ask Tom," he threw back over his shoulder. "I have to go make sure we have everything. Jake's getting impatient."
No kidding. I glanced at my reflection in one of Tom's antique mirrors, and wondered if what folks said about owners looking like their pets would come to pass. I was still a short, slightly chunky thirty-three-year-old with unfashionably curly blond hair and brown eyes. Jake, on the other hand, boasted a sleek brown body, a long nose, droopy eyes and ears, and a perpetually slobbery mouth. All these attributes, my son had enthusiastically reported, helped him smell better. I pressed my lips together. I wished I liked Jake more, since he made Arch so happy. When I'd divorced his father six years ago, Arch had started begging for a pet. But I was freshly single, financially shaky, and struggling to launch a new catering business, not to mention a new emotional life, and I couldn't face the idea of tending an animal. I couldn't picture tearing up endless heads of lettuce for guinea pigs or listening to hamsters race all night on their little wheels. Back then, it was all I could do to maintain myself and Arch and handle the food preparation for nervous clients.
I remembered the rainy day last month when Tom had arrived with Jake. The prospect of caring for an emotionally distraught and out-of-work bloodhound in addition to running my not-so-healthy catering business had been too much. I'd threatened to stick my head into the proofing oven with the cinnamon rolls. I was prevented from doing so by Jake's enthusiastic scrabbling up the cabinet door. Then his not-always-reliable olfactory gland directed him toward the oven, and his powerful legs and body shoved me out of the way as he moved in closer to the rolls. Apparently, Jake loved the smell of cinnamon.
I sighed and entered the kitchen. The delectable smell of lemon and cherries mingled. Outside, Jake yowled away from his doghouse. Rain spat against the windows. My kitchen was warm and snug and smelled terrific. Still, my mood failed to improve.
Tom was setting a single place with a flowered Limoges plate. Hearing my sigh, he shot me an appraising look. Like Arch, he wore a tentlike fluorescent orange poncho. I couldn't imagine what they were planning to do in the rain to restore Jake's shattered ability to trust humans. Clearly, homemade dog biscuits were not enough. Tom gave me his usual jaunty smile. His sand-colored hair was damp. Perhaps he'd already tried to quiet the dog outside, to no avail. Seeing
"Who's 'us'?" I asked. I hated sounding like an interrogator, but when it came to General Bo Farquhar, there wasn't much choice. The only guest who isn't here is General Farquhar, Tony Royce had said. Says he's too busy. Really. General Bo, who also happened to be Marla's brother-in-law, had recently finished his prison sentence for possessing rocket-propelled grenades, a large quantity of C-4, Kalashnikovs, Uzis, and all kinds of other contraband. Until he became settled, the general was staying on the estate of some friends who were adapting military technology for law enforcement. I'd heard their thousand-acre spread west of Aspen Meadow was surrounded by closed-circuit cameras and a nine-foot electrical fence. Not the place you wanted to send your son with his untrustworthy dog for a pleasant afternoon romp in the pouring rain.
"Listen, Mom, General Bo says he's real depressed. He was hoping you could bring him something made with chocolate, since the people who're taking care of him don't like it or don't have it or something. His phone number's down in the kitchen. Anyway. Gotta fly." His high-topped black sneakers made squishing noises as he fled before I could raise any more objections.
"Arch, please tell me where you're going. I won't veto it. Even though it's raining, in case you hadn't noticed."
The orange poncho rustled as Arch's short legs hastened down the hallway. "Better ask Tom," he threw back over his shoulder. "I have to go make sure we have everything. Jake's getting impatient."
No kidding. I glanced at my reflection in one of Tom's antique mirrors, and wondered if what folks said about owners looking like their pets would come to pass. I was still a short, slightly chunky thirty-three-year-old with unfashionably curly blond hair and brown eyes. Jake, on the other hand, boasted a sleek brown body, a long nose, droopy eyes and ears, and a perpetually slobbery mouth. All these attributes, my son had enthusiastically reported, helped him smell better. I pressed my lips together. I wished I liked Jake more, since he made Arch so happy. When I'd divorced his father six years ago, Arch had started begging for a pet. But I was freshly single, financially shaky, and struggling to launch a new catering business, not to mention a new emotional life, and I couldn't face the idea of tending an animal. I couldn't picture tearing up endless heads of lettuce for guinea pigs or listening to hamsters race all night on their little wheels. Back then, it was all I could do to maintain myself and Arch and handle the food preparation for nervous clients.
I remembered the rainy day last month when Tom had arrived with Jake. The prospect of caring for an emotionally distraught and out-of-work bloodhound in addition to running my not-so-healthy catering business had been too much. I'd threatened to stick my head into the proofing oven with the cinnamon rolls. I was prevented from doing so by Jake's enthusiastic scrabbling up the cabinet door. Then his not-always-reliable olfactory gland directed him toward the oven, and his powerful legs and body shoved me out of the way as he moved in closer to the rolls. Apparently, Jake loved the smell of cinnamon.
I sighed and entered the kitchen. The delectable smell of lemon and cherries mingled. Outside, Jake yowled away from his doghouse. Rain spat against the windows. My kitchen was warm and snug and smelled terrific. Still, my mood failed to improve.
Tom was setting a single place with a flowered Limoges plate. Hearing my sigh, he shot me an appraising look. Like Arch, he wore a tentlike fluorescent orange poncho. I couldn't imagine what they were planning to do in the rain to restore Jake's shattered ability to trust humans. Clearly, homemade dog biscuits were not enough. Tom gave me his usual jaunty smile. His sand-colored hair was damp. Perhaps he'd already tried to quiet the dog outside, to no avail. Seeing
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