The Main Corpse by Diane Mott Davidson Page B
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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Fiji. Today's job would be the perfect antidote for worry. I had been thankful for it, even though it had posed a few problems.
I stretched through my yoga routine and recalled all the fun Macguire and I had had planning the menu for the Kirby-Joneses. Twenty-five years ago, well-wishers at their wedding reception had so besieged the newlywed K-Js that the bride and groom had left Washington's Congressional Country Club ravenous. So we drove and drove, and then we stopped and had this wonderful Italian food, Mrs. Kirby-Jones had wistfully informed me at our planning meeting. It was at a marvelous place called Guido's on Rockville Pike. I wore my pink dress with the double-orchid corsage.
As it turned out, the Kirby-Joneses desired a menu offering Italian items that exactly matched the dinner they'd had right after their wedding reception. I'd promptly acquiesced. After all, most. food orders are emotionally based.
I moved from the yoga asana known as the Sun Greeting to some leg stretches. I recalled poor Macguire's unhappy face when he'd reported back to me. His painstaking investigations had revealed that Guido's-on-the-Pike in Rockville, Maryland, had gone out of business over a decade ago. Guido, now deceased, hadn't bequeathed any menus to his heirs. Of course, I had not revealed these details to Mrs. Kirby-Jones. As I said, I was frantic for work. I just need to know what you ordered, I'd said confidently to my new client. Don't give it a second thought, I'd maintained, we'll ask the restaurant for their recipes and it'll taste just like Guido's. With what I considered promising resourcefulness, Macguire had located a single back issue of Gourmet that contained Guido's-on-the-Pike recipe for Bolognese sauce. So now I was committed to serving pizza with goat cheese, ravioli in white wine cream sauce, lasagne verde with Bolognese sauce, tossed salad, Italian bread, and tiramisu to twenty people. But in April, when I'd booked the event, hoping we could serve dinner on the Kirby-Joneses' expansive deck, I hadn't figured on an incessant downpour on June 6. Maybe that was why Jake was howling. Somebody had left him out in the rain. I wanted to howl, too.
Coffee, I thought. I need coffee. I finished dressing for church and went in search of caffeine and the rest of the household. The only family member I could find was Scout the cat, a stray I'd adopted two years ago. He was crouched in a window well watching Jake bark. I would have sworn the cat was delighted to observe the dog's misery. To date, Scout had made no sign of forgiving us for adopting the hound.
"I'm sorry," I muttered, and stroked his back. know you would have preferred a gerbil."
Scout's response was the scathing feline equivalent of hrumph.
"Mom?" came Arch's voice from behind me. "Why I are you talking to the cat about rodents?"
My son's appearance this morning was a jumble of tortoiseshell glasses magnifying brown eyes, freckles, tousled brown hair topped with a baseball cap worn backwards, sweatpants, and a too-long, crookedly hanging orange poncho. "Well, Mom?" he said in the reproachful tone he often took with me these days. He straightened his glasses on his freckled nose and waited.
"I feel sorry for Scout. Why is that dog howling, anyway?"
Arch peered out the window and adjusted his cap. "He's not that dog. Jake's just excited."
"About what?"
"About going out with Tom and me."
"Out where? Aren't you coming with me to church?"
Arch frowned. "We're going on a mission, actually. Tom took me to the five o'clock church service yesterday. Jake is feeling a lot better, and not acting so...you know, nervous. We wanted to see if he could get his trust level back." He paused. When I didn't protest his attempt to rehabilitate Jake, he plowed on. "Listen, General Farquhar called while you were gone last night. I told him about getting Jake. He wants us to
I stretched through my yoga routine and recalled all the fun Macguire and I had had planning the menu for the Kirby-Joneses. Twenty-five years ago, well-wishers at their wedding reception had so besieged the newlywed K-Js that the bride and groom had left Washington's Congressional Country Club ravenous. So we drove and drove, and then we stopped and had this wonderful Italian food, Mrs. Kirby-Jones had wistfully informed me at our planning meeting. It was at a marvelous place called Guido's on Rockville Pike. I wore my pink dress with the double-orchid corsage.
As it turned out, the Kirby-Joneses desired a menu offering Italian items that exactly matched the dinner they'd had right after their wedding reception. I'd promptly acquiesced. After all, most. food orders are emotionally based.
I moved from the yoga asana known as the Sun Greeting to some leg stretches. I recalled poor Macguire's unhappy face when he'd reported back to me. His painstaking investigations had revealed that Guido's-on-the-Pike in Rockville, Maryland, had gone out of business over a decade ago. Guido, now deceased, hadn't bequeathed any menus to his heirs. Of course, I had not revealed these details to Mrs. Kirby-Jones. As I said, I was frantic for work. I just need to know what you ordered, I'd said confidently to my new client. Don't give it a second thought, I'd maintained, we'll ask the restaurant for their recipes and it'll taste just like Guido's. With what I considered promising resourcefulness, Macguire had located a single back issue of Gourmet that contained Guido's-on-the-Pike recipe for Bolognese sauce. So now I was committed to serving pizza with goat cheese, ravioli in white wine cream sauce, lasagne verde with Bolognese sauce, tossed salad, Italian bread, and tiramisu to twenty people. But in April, when I'd booked the event, hoping we could serve dinner on the Kirby-Joneses' expansive deck, I hadn't figured on an incessant downpour on June 6. Maybe that was why Jake was howling. Somebody had left him out in the rain. I wanted to howl, too.
Coffee, I thought. I need coffee. I finished dressing for church and went in search of caffeine and the rest of the household. The only family member I could find was Scout the cat, a stray I'd adopted two years ago. He was crouched in a window well watching Jake bark. I would have sworn the cat was delighted to observe the dog's misery. To date, Scout had made no sign of forgiving us for adopting the hound.
"I'm sorry," I muttered, and stroked his back. know you would have preferred a gerbil."
Scout's response was the scathing feline equivalent of hrumph.
"Mom?" came Arch's voice from behind me. "Why I are you talking to the cat about rodents?"
My son's appearance this morning was a jumble of tortoiseshell glasses magnifying brown eyes, freckles, tousled brown hair topped with a baseball cap worn backwards, sweatpants, and a too-long, crookedly hanging orange poncho. "Well, Mom?" he said in the reproachful tone he often took with me these days. He straightened his glasses on his freckled nose and waited.
"I feel sorry for Scout. Why is that dog howling, anyway?"
Arch peered out the window and adjusted his cap. "He's not that dog. Jake's just excited."
"About what?"
"About going out with Tom and me."
"Out where? Aren't you coming with me to church?"
Arch frowned. "We're going on a mission, actually. Tom took me to the five o'clock church service yesterday. Jake is feeling a lot better, and not acting so...you know, nervous. We wanted to see if he could get his trust level back." He paused. When I didn't protest his attempt to rehabilitate Jake, he plowed on. "Listen, General Farquhar called while you were gone last night. I told him about getting Jake. He wants us to
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