The Main Corpse Read Online Free PDF Page A

people were always approaching Tony and Albert looking for investors. Which usually meant needing a quick cash bailout.
     
     
Edna quirked hennaed eyebrows that matched her hair. "I told Tony that food was a better investment than an abandoned mine!"
     
     
"Well, perhaps you should tell him again," I murmured sympathetically as I scanned the tent for Macgulre.
     
     
"I did! I told him -"
     
     
"Excuse me," I interrupted, "Mrs. Hardcastle? Thanks for the kind words and your... confidence in... food." It was lame, but it was the best I could do. "I do need to be off now because I've really, really got something burning back here."
     
     
With another sniff that didn't speak well for my get- ting future bookings, Edna Hardcastle grasped one of Sam's elbows, turned on the heel of one of her splattered yellow shoes, and strode away with Sam in tow. Whit Hardcastle patted his white hair, straightened his spackled tie, and waddled after her. Some rich people can't abide it when a servant terminates a conversation, I'd found. They want the honor of doing that themselves. If I snubbed Mrs. Hardcastle, it would become town news. And I could not afford any bad news with my business in peril.
     
     
At the back of the tent, Macguire was cautiously removing the sheet of bubbling bacon hors d'oeuvre from the oven and muttering, "Uh-oh. I couldn't tell how long they'd been in. There's no timer on these ovens."
     
     
"They're okay," I said as I eyed the glistening appetizers. I held up a paper-towel-covered platter. "Just use a spatula to scoop them out to drain."
     
     
This Macguire did. I held a silver platter over the hors d'oeuvre, flipped the two trays, then handed the platter of wrapped artichokes back to him. He placed a bowl of the Dijon cream sauce in the center of the tray and lumbered off to the group gathered around the display case.
     
     
I visually searched the clutter behind the counter for the chafer I was going to use to reheat the shrimp dumplings. I had managed to sully the space with heaps of trays, pans of appetizers, and row upon row of beer bottles. To my surprise, I caught sight of Tony Royce. He was rummaging through the Cambro.
     
     
"Tony! Why aren't you mingling with your guests?" Tony uncoiled his athletic body and frowned at me.
     
     
He gnawed on his perfectly trimmed bottle-brush mustache, brushed unseen lint from his khaki pants and khaki shirt, and smoothed his pouffed hair, which had not been flattened by the miner's hard hat. He looked like Hitler with a blow-dry.
     
     
"Well, Goldy, they're not all here, for one thing. For another, I don't want to have to listen to Edna Hardcastle tell me how great Sam's soups are. We're going to look at the place, the clients know that. But Victoria tried them and she didn't..." His voice trailed off, and his eyes darted back to the Cambro.
     
     
I wanted to be polite to Tony, since he was my employer for this particular shindig. I was also keenly interested to know what the late Victoria Lear's involvement in food concepts might have been. But I had cooking to do and we were in the middle of a party. Besides, I didn't want to argue with Tony - yet - about his appointing me to be Prospect's taste tester to succeed Marla and the deceased financial officer.
     
     
"Look, can you help me?" His voice grew desperate. "I need a vodka martini to clear the mine dampness out of my head. I hate that god-awful place. Do you have a freezer back here with some Stoly? Am I looking in the wrong place?"
     
     
I smiled. The new test for machismo, I'd learned, was to take long draughts from an icy bottle of Stolichnaya vodka. Even more macho was to slug down the vodka while gobbling a plateful of jalapeno peppers. "Sorry, Tony. We've just got beer and coffee." I finally spotted the chafer and hurried over to it. "What guests aren't here?"
     
     
Tony frowned, popped the top off a bottle of stout, and took a long swig. Hey! I'm a guy, I don't need a glass! "Who's