The Main Corpse by Diane Mott Davidson

Author:Diane Mott Davidson
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9780307428554
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 1996-09-04T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

“What is it, what are you doing here?” I asked. It felt like such a stupid question. Nevertheless, these guys had already proven they could make me feel idiotic. The pair eyed us with an undisguised mixture of hostility and suspicion that made me squirm.

“Aren’t you going to ask us about Schulz?” De Groot wanted to know. Before I could frame a response, he held up his hand and smirked. “He’s fine. At least the last time we saw him he was.” He quirked his eyebrows as if he were going to say more, but then seemed to think better of it. Blandly, he appraised Marla’s battered face. “Ms. Korman?”

With an uncharacteristic lack of resolve that made me want to put my arms around her, Marla replied, “Yes? What is it?”

“Can we come in?”

I stepped between the cops and Marla. “No, I’m sorry, you can’t,” I replied curtly before she had a chance to respond. “As you can see, my friend’s in pain. Her doctor wants me to bring her in right away. We’ll talk to you later.”

Hersey ignored me. He stepped to one side and addressed Marla. “Got into another fight, did we, Ms. Korman?”

Marla said tonelessly, “It’s a long story.”

I felt her embarrassment acutely. No woman likes to be seen covered with bruises and cuts: I knew that all too well from my personal experience with the Jerk. My tone to the two investigators was icy. “Would you please leave? We’re under doctor’s orders, on our way to the hospital. My friend is hurt.”

“I’m sorry,” said De Groot. But he wasn’t. Cold, moist air billowed into the foyer. De Groot ran his fingers through his slick black hair. “We’re under time pressure, I’m afraid, Mrs. Schulz. If you take Ms. Korman here to the doctor, we’ll just have to follow you down and talk to her there.”

“You’re joking,” I said. Again, he wasn’t.

“It won’t take long,” said Hersey.

“Oh, let them in,” said Marla dejectedly. “Let’s get this over with, then I’ll go see the doctor.” She turned away from the door and started to limp toward the kitchen. Over her shoulder, she said, “I don’t mind if you talk to me, as long as Goldy can stay with me.” Her gait was pained and self-conscious, and I loathed Hersey and De Groot for their insensitive intrusion even as I jerked the front door open so they could enter.

They didn’t remove their dripping raincoats, and I decided this must be some kind of psychological ploy: We don’t want to be unprotected in this house. I didn’t care. I just wanted them to ask their questions and leave. Hersey craned his thick neck upward to scrutinize the lushly carpeted staircase. Was he looking for someone? Hard to tell. De Groot peered at a framed painting. Executed in bold strokes, it showed a woman holding a cup of coffee.

“You won’t know this one,” I said defiantly. “It’s by a woman, a Colorado artist whom Marla is patronizing.”

De Groot said, “Yeah. I see she has plenty of money to pay people to do what she wants.

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