The Main Corpse

Tomato-Brie Pie Crust: 1¾ cups all-purpose flour ¾ teaspoon sugar ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ cup chilled lard, cut into pieces 6 tablespoons chilled unsalted butter, cut into pieces 1–3 tablespoons ice water Preheat the oven to 350°. Place the flour, sugar, and salt into the bowl of a food processor fitted with the steel blade. Process 5 seconds, then add the lard, process until the mixture is like cornmeal (10 seconds), then add the butter and process until the mixture resembles large crumbs (10 seconds). Add the water one tablespoon at a time, pulsing quickly just until the mixture holds together. Roll the dough out between sheets of wax paper to fit into a buttered 9-inch pie pan. Prick the dough and flute the edges. Bake the crust for 5 to 7 minutes, or until it is an even, pale gold. Set aside on a rack while preparing the filling. Filling: 1½ pounds (5 medium-size) ripe tomatoes, trimmed but not peeled, cut into eighths, seed pockets removed 5 ounces Brie cheese, rind scraped off, cut into small cubes 2 ounces best-quality fresh mozzarella cheese, cut into small cubes 1 ounce Fontinella cheese, cut into small cubes ⅓ cup chopped fresh basil 3 large eggs ⅓ cup heavy cream ⅓ cup milk Preheat the oven to 350°. Drain the tomatoes thoroughly on paper towels. Place the cheese cubes evenly around the prepared crust. Place the tomatoes on top of the cheese, and top with the basil. Beat the eggs, cream, and milk, and pour this mixture over the tomatoes, basil, and cheese. Place in the oven and bake 35 to 50 minutes, until center is set. Allow pie to cool 10 minutes before serving. Serves 6. Chapter 2 Try as I might, I couldn’t discover what Marla was so angry about. When Macguire unpacked the crystal glasses—not real, of course, for an outdoor event—he mumbled that I’d learn soon enough. And then I became so busy loading the quesadillas and tomato-Brie pies into the ovens that I didn’t have time to ask again. I didn’t even notice when Prospect partner Albert Lipscomb arrived with the last of the cases of brew. The boxes of gleaming brown bottles just seemed to appear magically in the tent. I was briefly aware of tall, athletic Tony with an equally tall, but bald, man moving confidently in the direction of the large storage shed abutting the side tent flap. From their assured manner together, I figured the balding man had to be Prospect partner Albert Lipscomb, the most tedious man on earth, as Marla had called him. After a moment the two men emerged from the shed wearing miner’s hard hats complete with cap lamps. Without stopping to talk to the few clients who’d already arrived, they walked briskly into the mine. I watched curiously as the two men disappeared down the dark-hewn throat into the earth. But I was even more interested in their mission. Before leaving they’d spoken with Macguire briefly, pointing at the middle of the tent. Macguire had in turn disappeared and returned with another man, whom I could see only from the back. With great effort, Macguire and his helper hauled a glass display case the size of a large coffee table back to the spot in the center of the tent that the partners had indicated. “What’s going on?” I asked Macguire when I was by his side. He was dusting off his hands and muttering about having to wash them again before serving the food. The man with him, whom I belatedly (and with a sinking heart) recognized as Captain Shockley of the Furman County Sheriff’s Department, spoke first. “Well, now. If it isn’t Mrs. Schulz.” Shockley, in his late fifties, towered over me. I took in his formidable paunch and green polyester suit. He had thin, ruffled black hair above an ominous, horsey face. Within a mass of crepey wrinkles, his bulging brown eyes glared at me. He looked like a boss. I just wished he wasn’t Tom’s boss. He said, “I wonder why Prospect happened to hire you to cater this event?” Anxiety gnawed at my stomach as Shockley tilted toward me. His oversized teeth were set in a joyless grin as he waited grimly for my reply. “Um, because my best friend is dating one of the partners?” He turned back to the display case. “I figured as much.” He stared glumly into the empty glass compartments. “What are you two doing?” I asked brightly. “I mean, I guess this table isn’t a place where we can put trays of dumplings.” Shockley ignored me, and Macguire gave a barely perceptible shake of the head. Don’t ask. But I didn’t need to inquire again, because within a minute Tony and his partner reappeared at the mine opening, each with a knapsack slung over his back. When they approached the display table, Macguire tugged me aside. “It’s supposed to be a surprise for the clients,” Macguire said in a low voice. “They made it a surprise mainly for security reasons,” he added. “The partners didn’t want anyone to know in advance about a display of samples from the mine safe.” I watched Shockley open the top of the glass case. Tony and Albert Lipscomb began to place chunks of streaked rock inside. “That police captain? Shockley? He said they’re doing a, like, before-and-after exhibit. You know—samples of ore on one side, ingots of refined metal on the other. The partners are giving Shockley the key to the case. You know—for safekeeping during the party.” The partners opened the second knapsack and carefully lifted out thick, gleaming bars of gold. For a moment, Macguire and I did not speak. We were transfixed by the sight of the precious yellow metal glimmering seductively in the light of the tent lamps. I was sure the bars were worth a fortune. “But,” I said finally, “I thought they already gave the investors chunks of ore. Marla said she got one when they came up for their tour.” When Macguire didn’t answer right away, I looked at him. The same uncertainty I’d seen earlier again clouded his face. “Maybe I just shouldn’t talk about it.” He gestured to the makeshift parking area that was bathed in icy rain. “Anyway, here come some more guests.” And indeed, car after car was pulling into the parking lot. Macguire and I hustled off to the serving area and loaded up our trays with bottles, glasses, and napkins. Have a good time, I warned myself. Guests can always read your mood! So forget the weather and buck up! Unfortunately, a caterer’s worries are as contagious as measles. But my apprehensions proved groundless. Despite the rain, despite the recent loss of the firm’s investment officer, the atmosphere among the partygoers soon vibrated with joviality. Wave after wave of guests extricated themselves from muddy Range Rovers and Jeep Grand Cherokees and greeted each other with loud cheers and high fives. We made it through the Red Sea, doggone it, and now we’re going to party! Just as heartily, they hailed Macguire and me with demands for drinks. We were happy to oblige. Once the first batch of thirty-five-dollar-a-bottle Belgian ales was gone, the party became more like a bash at the end of exams than a dignified gathering of wealthy investors. Fine with me. I am ecstatic when rich people celebrate anything, as long as I supply the food. With these folks in such excellent humor, maybe I’d even be able to wangle a couple of July Fourth bookings. Then again, I reasoned as I served another round of ales, these guests certainly had reason to whoop it up. Tony Royce and Albert Lipscomb had made them a bundle. Tony’s job was to come up with investment ideas and bring in clients. Albert analyzed the companies’ balance sheets and managed the money. The investment officer ran—or rather, used to run—interference between the clients and the partners. And they’d all done spectacularly. Year before last, Prospect had infused money into Medigen, a regional biotech company. This year, Medigen had gone public and made the Prospect clients a widely reported packet. Now they were trying something new. Contrary to their usual pattern, Albert Lipscomb had been the one who’d pushed the idea of investing in the Eurydice Gold Mine. A lifelong Coloradan, Albert had inherited the mine from his grandfather, who’d vehemently insisted up to his death that the mine contained untapped gold ore. Prospect had hired a geologist who agreed with the grandfather, and the high-rolling clients had piled in. Coloradans can’t resist gold. When they climb the peaks, they kick over rocks to search for untapped veins. When they picnic, they scan the creeks for shiny nuggets. Mention gold, and people go wild. Let them, I say, especially if it means they’ll need catered functions to celebrate their strikes. Once everyone was flourishing a third or fourth crystal glass full of brew, I brought out the crab quesadillas with chili cilantro salsa. Macguire offered the hot mushroom caps stuffed with savory chicken sausage. Guests were all too happy to drool and consume. Fantastic! Scrumptious! Who cares about calories? We’re all going to get rich! It was great. For a while after the display case was set up, I didn’t spot Mr. Magnetic, Tony Royce. Marla took time from her chatter with friends about her upcoming travel plans with Tony to wave me in the direction of bald Albert Lipscomb. With the miner’s hat and heavy jacket off, Albert appeared unexpectedly lithe and well-built. His slender chest was covered with a pale blue monogrammed shirt. His madras tie, seersucker jacket, yellow pants, and hand-sewn loafers couldn’t have screamed preppy more loudly if he’d been wearing a sign. While Macguire stopped to talk to Marla, I scooted toward Albert to offer the tray of quesadillas on the first pass. Suck up to the high rollers, my cooking instructor had advised, or you’re going to have a brief career in catering. “Marla tells me you’re recently married?” Albert said slowly after I’d introduced myself. His light brown eyes regarded me seriously. “To a police officer? Is this true?” I felt myself frowning. Was this a trick question? “Ah, yes. My husband works for Captain Shockley over there.” Albert smiled painfully, showing small, even white teeth. “And will your husband be happy when Captain Shockley gets enough money in his Prospect account to retire?” “Well.…” “Never mind.” Again the pained grin. Lipscomb was trying, unsuccessfully, to find some common ground where we could banter. “So.” He took a deep breath. “Do you find yourself catering a lot of policemen’s picnics?” “In this weather,” I replied sincerely, “I’d be happy to cater any picnics.” “In that case … we’ll certainly keep you in mind,” he drawled, chuckling and giving me that same agonized smile. Kip yew ian mahnd. Although he was from Colorado and not the South, he apparently had picked up a southern accent during his years at the Citadel, where Marla mentioned Albert and Tony both had gone to school. Albert rubbed his free hand over his bald pate and droned on: “We’re always needing wonderful food like this. My grandfather was particularly fond of smoked meat. Is that Smithfield ham I smell?” I mumbled something along the lines of “Not exactly,” and wondered if Macguire was listening to his Walkman instead of taking the bacon-wrapped artichokes out of the oven. Albert Lipscomb moved past me to talk to Eileen Tobey, the new president of Aspen Meadow Bank and a loyal client of mine. Eileen winked at me and held up a glassful of raspberry-flavored beer in a silent toast. I smiled, nodded, and gave her a thumbs-up, even though I’d drink liver-flavored lemonade before indulging in raspberry beer. But I did treasure Eileen’s business. In the midst of my current downturn, she’d booked me for a small, regular catering job at her bank. If this Prospect party was a success, perhaps Eileen would want me to do a businesswomen’s luncheon event later in June … inside, that is.… “Oh, Goldy!” gushed a nearby female voice. I turned from Albert and Eileen in time to see a gnarled hand reach out to stop me. “These Mexican pizza things are out of this world! Did you make them? For someone with no formal chef training, you amaze me.” My heart sank. It was Edna Hardcastle.