Read Online The Main Corpse by Diane Mott Davidson - Free Book Online Page A
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
Ads: Link
my forlorn look, his handsome face and green eyes softened.
"Morning, Miss G." He pressed the button on the espresso machine while his other big hand reached for a diminutive cup. "Not feeling too happy? How about, some coffee cake? Be out in five minutes."
I sighed again. "Sure."
"Now, sit down and have some caffeine. We're going to be going out pretty quick here. Marla called. She wants you to go down to the Prospect office with her tomorrow morning."
"Oh, great." I gratefully sipped the dark, crema-laden espresso he handed me. "I'll be the referee between Marla and Albert Lipscomb. Sounds like loads of fun, huh?"
"You know, I've been thinking. I know I've heard of Albert Lipscomb," Tom said pensively as he re- moved the golden brown, cherry-studded cake from the oven. The fruity, buttery-rich scent was indescribable. "I mean, you told me he's Royce's partner, but there was some other context. It's been a while, though."
"What other context?"
He frowned. "Did he invest in goats? Or goat cheese?"
I laughed. "Not to my knowledge."
He sniffed the cake. "Listen, I just realized Arch and I won't be able to help you pack up for your event this afternoon. I know it's a big deal for you - "
"My dear, it's the only deal for me until I take muffins to the bank on Friday."
"No, no, you had two other calls besides the one from Marla."
I sighed once more. "Arch already told me about General Farquhar."
He slapped the cake onto a cooling rack and rummaged in his back pocket for his trusty spiral notebook. "People named Trotfield, they're Prospect Financial investors who say they loved your food at the mine yesterday. They're friends of Tony's or Albert's, I think. They need you for a dinner party this week. The husband is flying to Rio for five days, and they want to give him a big sendoff. They need you because their chef, an illegal alien from Sri Lanka, skipped." He gave me a wide grin. "I didn't tell Mrs. Trotfield I was from the sheriff's department. Didn't want to jeopardize your booking. Here's their number."
I took the sheet from him. "Yeah, I know them. He used to be a pilot for Braniff, wife has the money, now he flies charters. Thanks loads. What else?"
"Aspen Meadow Women's Club. Dinner meeting on home improvement, tomorrow. The club president, Janelle Watkins, called. She wanted your cheapest chicken dinner, keep it under twenty bucks a head. I said I thought you had a standard menu and Ms. Watkins begged me to fax it to her with a contract. Seize the day and all that. Didn't want her calling some caterer in Denver." He handed me two slick pages from the fax machine, one with my chicken dinner menu, the set prices, and contract stipulations - all signed by Janelle Watkins - the other a photocopy of Janelle Watkins's Visa.
I said admiringly, "Very good, Tom. But why the short notice?"
"Well, the club vice president was going to make the food, but seems she had a tiff with President Janelle yesterday. Veep huffs off saying the only way her home could be improved was if Janelle resigned from their club. I should have offered her a job working for Captain Shockley. Anyway, Madame President Janelle is paying for the dinner herself, says it's worth the price to be rid of that bossy veep who drove everybody nuts anyway."
I grinned. "Fix me another espresso, lawman. I think my luck is changing."
He laughed and ground more Italian roast beans. "Okay, look. We're doing a trail with Jake this morning. Arch is out getting a piece of scented clothing from the trail-setter right now."
"You're what?" I said, incredulous. "Doing a trail? With a bloodhound who was fired because he couldn't smell his own dinner if his life depended on it? And in this rain?" I wailed.
"Best time. Scent's stronger when it's damp. Arch's friend Todd has already hiked up to a spot we agreed on,
"Morning, Miss G." He pressed the button on the espresso machine while his other big hand reached for a diminutive cup. "Not feeling too happy? How about, some coffee cake? Be out in five minutes."
I sighed again. "Sure."
"Now, sit down and have some caffeine. We're going to be going out pretty quick here. Marla called. She wants you to go down to the Prospect office with her tomorrow morning."
"Oh, great." I gratefully sipped the dark, crema-laden espresso he handed me. "I'll be the referee between Marla and Albert Lipscomb. Sounds like loads of fun, huh?"
"You know, I've been thinking. I know I've heard of Albert Lipscomb," Tom said pensively as he re- moved the golden brown, cherry-studded cake from the oven. The fruity, buttery-rich scent was indescribable. "I mean, you told me he's Royce's partner, but there was some other context. It's been a while, though."
"What other context?"
He frowned. "Did he invest in goats? Or goat cheese?"
I laughed. "Not to my knowledge."
He sniffed the cake. "Listen, I just realized Arch and I won't be able to help you pack up for your event this afternoon. I know it's a big deal for you - "
"My dear, it's the only deal for me until I take muffins to the bank on Friday."
"No, no, you had two other calls besides the one from Marla."
I sighed once more. "Arch already told me about General Farquhar."
He slapped the cake onto a cooling rack and rummaged in his back pocket for his trusty spiral notebook. "People named Trotfield, they're Prospect Financial investors who say they loved your food at the mine yesterday. They're friends of Tony's or Albert's, I think. They need you for a dinner party this week. The husband is flying to Rio for five days, and they want to give him a big sendoff. They need you because their chef, an illegal alien from Sri Lanka, skipped." He gave me a wide grin. "I didn't tell Mrs. Trotfield I was from the sheriff's department. Didn't want to jeopardize your booking. Here's their number."
I took the sheet from him. "Yeah, I know them. He used to be a pilot for Braniff, wife has the money, now he flies charters. Thanks loads. What else?"
"Aspen Meadow Women's Club. Dinner meeting on home improvement, tomorrow. The club president, Janelle Watkins, called. She wanted your cheapest chicken dinner, keep it under twenty bucks a head. I said I thought you had a standard menu and Ms. Watkins begged me to fax it to her with a contract. Seize the day and all that. Didn't want her calling some caterer in Denver." He handed me two slick pages from the fax machine, one with my chicken dinner menu, the set prices, and contract stipulations - all signed by Janelle Watkins - the other a photocopy of Janelle Watkins's Visa.
I said admiringly, "Very good, Tom. But why the short notice?"
"Well, the club vice president was going to make the food, but seems she had a tiff with President Janelle yesterday. Veep huffs off saying the only way her home could be improved was if Janelle resigned from their club. I should have offered her a job working for Captain Shockley. Anyway, Madame President Janelle is paying for the dinner herself, says it's worth the price to be rid of that bossy veep who drove everybody nuts anyway."
I grinned. "Fix me another espresso, lawman. I think my luck is changing."
He laughed and ground more Italian roast beans. "Okay, look. We're doing a trail with Jake this morning. Arch is out getting a piece of scented clothing from the trail-setter right now."
"You're what?" I said, incredulous. "Doing a trail? With a bloodhound who was fired because he couldn't smell his own dinner if his life depended on it? And in this rain?" I wailed.
"Best time. Scent's stronger when it's damp. Arch's friend Todd has already hiked up to a spot we agreed on,
Similar Books
