The Main Corpse by Diane Mott Davidson 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
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became the court-appointed defense lawyer for David Calvin." He took a last swig of champagne. "Good-bye, case."
"No, no," I protested. "You've got other evidence, you've got - "
"Trust me," he said as he brought the sheet of warm bone-shaped biscuits out of the oven. "You lose the keys, you've lost the case."
I rinsed our glasses while he set the biscuits on racks to cool.
"I'm going to take a shower," I murmured in his ear. "And then I want to have some fun."
"Oh, woman," he said with a chuckle. "You better make that a quick shower."
The snow turned back to rain that pattered on the roof as we made love. Afterward, I snuggled into Tom's arms, my hair still damp from the fast shower. As I felt his warmth surround me, I pondered what kind of wonderful man would take the time to make biscuits for my son's new dog after two months of work had been ruined and a killer might go free.
4
Sunday morning I was startled awake by an ungodly canine howl. At first I thought the sound was a dream. Maybe it was the Hound of Heaven's wail, promising divine retribution. Or perhaps it was the bellow of the I Hound of the Baskervilles, on the trail of a hapless victim.
It was neither. It was good old Jake, the hound of Arch. Our much-desired-although-not-by-me canine pet had a problem with allowing people to sleep. Apparently Tom had already succumbed; I could hear the familiar clinking of dishes as he worked in the kitchen. I rolled over and covered my head with a pillow so I didn't have to see the still-falling rain. I didn't resent Jake, I told myself, because Arch loved him. And Tom was working hard with Arch to rehabilitate the dog. I knew I shouldn't feel like Scrooge, but I did.
The sheriffs department had branded Jake an unreliable bloodhound. When the dog's handler of many years retired, the new handler insisted Jake had lost the scent on three consecutive trails. Jake fell into disrepute, was released from his Furman County K-9 unit, and ended up in a kennel. When the hound lost weight and became despondent, an activist group of dog-lovers obtained his release from the department and put him up for adoption. Seizing an opportunity, Tom had brought Jake home last month. Brought him home gleefully. Unrepentantly. As if to mock me, Jake raised his howl an octave and several decibels.
I burrowed under the handmade king-size quilt Tom had presented to me on our first anniversary. Yes, I loved Tom, I 10ved him to pieces. I just didn't love Jake, even if my good-hearted husband had brought him home because my son had been pleading for a pet from time immemorial. Now the two males in my life seemed to have found new meaning in nursing the wretched animal back to mental and physical health. Unfortunately, despite a layer of batting over my ears, I could still hear unreliable, untrustworthy, unhappy Jake. Perhaps he needed to share his misery.
He wasn't the only one who wasn't happy this morning. Depression surfaced. I wished Tom were back in our warm bed, so I could forget the feeling of defeat that inevitably comes on the morning after a bad catered event. Disrupted party, no bookings, sullied reputation looming. Not to mention the possibility of going out of business. I groaned. Even a bloodhound's plaintive wail couldn't drown out the memory of Marla screeching. Now, six too-short hours later, I was in no mood to order Jake-reincarnated-from-the-Baskervilles to be quiet. Not that the The Howler would pay the slightest attention to me, anyway.
As I hauled myself out of bed, I remembered I had a solitary booking for the day - an anniversary dinner for the Kirby-Joneses, buyers for a local gift store who had just returned from Kenya. Weddings and anniversaries were usually my bread and butter in June. This June, however, it seemed as if people either were not getting married, were getting divorced, or were celebrating their anniversaries in
"No, no," I protested. "You've got other evidence, you've got - "
"Trust me," he said as he brought the sheet of warm bone-shaped biscuits out of the oven. "You lose the keys, you've lost the case."
I rinsed our glasses while he set the biscuits on racks to cool.
"I'm going to take a shower," I murmured in his ear. "And then I want to have some fun."
"Oh, woman," he said with a chuckle. "You better make that a quick shower."
The snow turned back to rain that pattered on the roof as we made love. Afterward, I snuggled into Tom's arms, my hair still damp from the fast shower. As I felt his warmth surround me, I pondered what kind of wonderful man would take the time to make biscuits for my son's new dog after two months of work had been ruined and a killer might go free.
4
Sunday morning I was startled awake by an ungodly canine howl. At first I thought the sound was a dream. Maybe it was the Hound of Heaven's wail, promising divine retribution. Or perhaps it was the bellow of the I Hound of the Baskervilles, on the trail of a hapless victim.
It was neither. It was good old Jake, the hound of Arch. Our much-desired-although-not-by-me canine pet had a problem with allowing people to sleep. Apparently Tom had already succumbed; I could hear the familiar clinking of dishes as he worked in the kitchen. I rolled over and covered my head with a pillow so I didn't have to see the still-falling rain. I didn't resent Jake, I told myself, because Arch loved him. And Tom was working hard with Arch to rehabilitate the dog. I knew I shouldn't feel like Scrooge, but I did.
The sheriffs department had branded Jake an unreliable bloodhound. When the dog's handler of many years retired, the new handler insisted Jake had lost the scent on three consecutive trails. Jake fell into disrepute, was released from his Furman County K-9 unit, and ended up in a kennel. When the hound lost weight and became despondent, an activist group of dog-lovers obtained his release from the department and put him up for adoption. Seizing an opportunity, Tom had brought Jake home last month. Brought him home gleefully. Unrepentantly. As if to mock me, Jake raised his howl an octave and several decibels.
I burrowed under the handmade king-size quilt Tom had presented to me on our first anniversary. Yes, I loved Tom, I 10ved him to pieces. I just didn't love Jake, even if my good-hearted husband had brought him home because my son had been pleading for a pet from time immemorial. Now the two males in my life seemed to have found new meaning in nursing the wretched animal back to mental and physical health. Unfortunately, despite a layer of batting over my ears, I could still hear unreliable, untrustworthy, unhappy Jake. Perhaps he needed to share his misery.
He wasn't the only one who wasn't happy this morning. Depression surfaced. I wished Tom were back in our warm bed, so I could forget the feeling of defeat that inevitably comes on the morning after a bad catered event. Disrupted party, no bookings, sullied reputation looming. Not to mention the possibility of going out of business. I groaned. Even a bloodhound's plaintive wail couldn't drown out the memory of Marla screeching. Now, six too-short hours later, I was in no mood to order Jake-reincarnated-from-the-Baskervilles to be quiet. Not that the The Howler would pay the slightest attention to me, anyway.
As I hauled myself out of bed, I remembered I had a solitary booking for the day - an anniversary dinner for the Kirby-Joneses, buyers for a local gift store who had just returned from Kenya. Weddings and anniversaries were usually my bread and butter in June. This June, however, it seemed as if people either were not getting married, were getting divorced, or were celebrating their anniversaries in
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