by Mary Daheim
“I’ll probably be seeing your cousin at corporate headquarters
in a week or two.”
Judith grabbed the garments and headed for the laundry
room to dress. She had just slipped into her own boots when
Renie joined her.
“Nadia’s stuff is going to be a squeeze,” Renie said, shaking
out a gray cashmere sweater that had been carefully wrapped
in tissue paper. “But Margo’s too thin and Andrea’s too
plump. It was Nadia or nobody, unless I wanted to wear
one of Russell Craven’s soup-stained suits.”
“Let’s go back,” Judith said abruptly.
“Back? Back where?” Renie’s head poked through the
sweater’s mock turtleneck. “We can’t go home until you’ve
set up the buffet.”
Judith was searching the drawers in the laundry room. “I
know, plus we have to wait at least a half-hour for our clothes
to dry. Ah, here’s a flashlight.”
Renie stared at Judith. “What are we doing?”
“We’re going back to the cave.” Judith was now at the
linen closet. She tossed a blanket at Renie.
“Come on!” Renie cried. “It’s almost dark! What’s the
point?”
Judith was covering herself in a striped Hudson Bay
blanket. “Are you coming or not?”
“Not.” Renie planted both feet firmly on the floor.
“Okay.” Judith swept out into the kitchen, the blanket
trailing behind her.
It wasn’t quite dark, but it was very cold and a few drops
of snow were drifting down. The wind had picked up,
blowing from the north. Judith had to hold up the pants legs
of Ava’s slacks while trying to keep the blanket wrapped
around her. She didn’t try to cross the creek this time, but
squatted on the opposite bank and turned on the flashlight.
“Has he moved?” The voice belonged to Renie, who had
crept up behind Judith.
Judith gave a little start. “He’s still there.” She handed
44 / Mary Daheim
the flashlight to Renie. “Look. See if you see what I thought
I saw.”
Renie, who had only glimpsed the skeletal remains of the
dead man, steeled herself. “I see a really convincing Halloween costume. Except this is January, and it’s not very
funny.” She shuddered, then tried to give the flashlight back
to Judith.
Judith rebuffed Renie. “Look again.”
Sighing, Renie complied. “I see what’s left of his
clothes—jacket, pants, shirt, whatever. It’s hard to tell.
Oh—he’s got a watch on his left wrist.” Starting to shiver
again, Renie had trouble keeping the flashlight from wavering. “There’s a leather thong around his neck, but I don’t see
any medal or jewelry or decoration.”
“That’s not what it’s for,” Judith said in a hollow voice.
As the snow began to fall harder, Renie steadied the
flashlight with both hands. “Then it must be part of whatever
he was wearing.”
Judith took the flashlight from Renie. “No. I saw it from
the back when I was in the cave earlier. It hasn’t anything
to do with apparel. It looks as if it’s been twisted around
something at the base of the neck. I believe you call it a garrote.” She stood up and switched off the flashlight. “Barry
didn’t freeze to death, coz. He was murdered.”
FOUR
“IT WAS ONE of those things you see, but you don’t take in,”
Judith explained as the cousins trudged back to the lodge.
“It was such a shock finding the body in the first place, and
we were so wet and cold that the garrote didn’t really register
until much later, probably when Ava opened her leather
suitcase. But it had been niggling at me all along.”
“Incredible,” Renie murmured. “Barry must have been
murdered a year ago this very weekend.” She stopped suddenly, a stricken expression on her face. “Oh, God—he may
have been murdered by one of them!” Her brown eyes were
riveted on the lodge.
“You’re right,” Judith said in wonder. “Let’s hurry, coz.
We’ve got to finish up and get the hell out of here.”
They were met at the door by the African-American man
who had exchanged his pinstripe suit for a turtleneck sweater
and corduroy pants. “I’d appreciate it,” he said in a grave,
concise voice, “if you’d tell me what’s going on. It’s not safe
to have outsiders wandering around in the snow. OTIOSE
isn’t legally covered for such contingencies.”
“Coz,” Renie said, sounding tired, “meet Eugene Jarman,
Junior, vice president-legal, as if you couldn’t
45
46 / Mary Daheim
guess.” She offered the attorney a small smile. “Gene, you
honestly don’t want to know.”
Gene Jarman quietly closed the doors behind the cousins.
Frank Killegrew and Ward Haugland were both in the lobby,
wearing worried expressions and virtually matching outfits
of plaid flannel shirts, tan khaki pants, and brown suspenders. Beyond them, Russell Craven huddled by the fire, his
face averted.
“I’m afraid it’s my business to know,” Gene responded,
his blunt features solemn. He was average height, but the
self-assured way he carried himself made him seem much
taller. “Let’s sit down and discuss this.”
Judith and Renie looked at each other. “Okay,” said Renie,
removing her blanket and tossing it over one arm. “Has
anybody unlocked the liquor cabinet? This isn’t going to be
pretty.”
“Liquor,” Ward Haugland echoed, his lanky form twisting
around. “There must be liquor somewhere.”
Judith had spotted what might have been a wet bar in the
dining room. “I’ll check,” she said. “Give me a hand, coz.”
Five minutes later, the cousins had lined up bottles, glasses,
mixer, and a bucket of ice on the big polished burl coffee
table in the lobby. By then, other members of the OTIOSE
executive corps were streaming in. It appeared that their
master had spoken.
“Who’s missing?” Killegrew asked, not bothering to look
around. Judith guessed that others did that for him.
In this case, the task was performed by Ward Haugland,
as befitted his executive vice president’s status. “Ava and
Leon,” Ward said in his faint drawl. “They’ll be here any
minute, Frank. That dinky elevator can’t hold but four or
five people at a time.”
“Persons!” snapped Margo Chang. “How often do I have
to remind you persons that we’re not just people?”
Judith nudged Renie. “Who’s the big bald guy who
SNOW PLACE TO DIE / 47
looks like number nine on the chart showing the Ten Steps
From Ape to Man?”
“Max Agasias, vice president-marketing,” Renie whispered.
“He’s sharper than he looks.”
“I hope so. He practically mowed me down when lunch
was served.” Judith glanced at the elevator in the corner of
the lobby which was discharging Ava Aunuu and the small,
wizened man with buck teeth who Judith also remembered
/> from the midday stampede.
“Leon Mooney,” Renie murmured, “vice president and
comptroller.”
Judith’s brain raced. Not only was she trying to put names
to faces, but she couldn’t keep from trying to figure out if
one of the ten people—or persons—who congregated in the
lobby looked like a murderer. Maybe they all did; certainly
each of them seemed to have the killer instinct.
“Drink ’em if you got ’em,” Frank Killegrew said, his usual
jocular manner tempered by a hint of anxiety. “I believe Ms.
Jones has some news for us.”
“I thought she’d already made her presentation,” Andrea
Piccoloni-Roth said in a waspish tone. “And why is she
wearing Nadia’s castoffs?”
“They’re not castoffs,” Nadia declared with a malevolent
look for Andrea. “Are you mocking me because I don’t make
as much money as you do?”
“Now, now,” said Killegrew. “Let’s get settled and hear
what Ms. Jones has to say.”
Margo, who had just accepted a very dry martini from Judith, stared at Renie. “You haven’t reneged on my color
scheme, have you?”
“Your color scheme!” Andrea exploded. “No wonder I
didn’t much like it!”
“It beats the crap out of the purple and pink you wanted,
Andrea,” growled Max Agasias, the simianlike marketing
head. “What the hell do you think we are, a bunch of fruity
florists?”
48 / Mary Daheim
“It wasn’t purple and pink, you idiot,” Andrea retorted. “It
was purple and gold. They’re regal colors, fit for kings and
queens.”
“Speaking of queens,” Ava began, “what do you suppose
happened to…?”
But Killegrew cut her off. He was standing in front of the
fireplace, Scotch and soda in hand, looking less like a corporate CEO and more like a building contractor in the casual
attire that tended to show off his impressive girth.
“As you know, the purpose of this retreat is to get away
from the workplace, to put some distance between ourselves
and what goes on in each of our shops, to reflect, to recreate,
to…” He paused and leaned toward Margo who was sitting
on a leather ottoman by the hearth. She whispered something
to him and he resumed speaking. “To revitalize ourselves.
Given those parameters and the current, often chaotic state
of the industry, we…”
“It’s an old speech,” Renie said behind her hand. “Margo
writes all of his public utterances. I actually got stuck listening
to one last Memorial Day. You’d have thought Frank won
the Korean War all by himself.”
“…feel compelled to do some soul-searching. But,” he added, lowering his voice and apparently ad-libbing, “we can’t
accomplish much if we’ve got a bunch of distractions. The
last hour or two should have been a time to relax in peace
and quiet. I mean, you can’t play golf in the snow.” He
paused to finger his belt buckle as dutiful laughter rose from
members of the audience. “Anyway, some things have been
going on around here that have gotten me a little frazzled.
I want to keep the ship on course. Before we settle in for the
rest of the weekend, I’d like an explanation. I’m sure it’s
nothing to worry about, but we’re here at Mountain Goat
Lodge because we don’t want to get this train side-tracked.
The moonshot’s got to land on target, right?” The smile he
gave Renie went no farther than his nose. “Ms. Jones, you’re
on.”
Renie, who looked as if she’d been stuffed into Nadia’s
SNOW PLACE TO DIE / 49
sweater and slacks, moved in front of the fireplace. She hesitated, staring down at the flagstone hearth, then lifted her
head and let her eyes take in the entire gathering.
“We found Barry Newcombe this afternoon. He’d been
murdered. Thank you very much.” Renie stepped aside and
lit up a cigarette.
Frank Killegrew gasped; Nadia Weiss screamed; Max
Agasias swore; Andrea Piccoloni-Roth sagged in her chair;
Margo Chang protested Renie’s smoking; Russell Craven
asked, “Who’s Barry Newcombe?”
“I don’t get it,” Ward Haugland said, scratching his head.
“This sounds screwy.”
“I think,” Gene Jarman said carefully, “we need to have
this situation clarified. Ms. Jones?”
Renie related how she and Judith had accidentally uncovered the ice cave by the creek. Judith, in turn, told how
she had seen the garrote around the skeleton’s neck. Some
of her listeners reacted with skepticism.
“That’s crazy,” asserted Ward Haugland. “It must have
been a joke. Somebody did that after poor Barry died.”
“Hikers, probably,” said Killegrew, though his fingers
shook as he picked up his slide rule. “They can be strange.
A lot of them are ex-hippies.”
“Excuse me,” put in Margo. “I don’t think that makes sense,
Frank. Who would find a body and make a joke out of it?
Why didn’t they call in a forest ranger? No, I’m afraid Ms.
Jones’s cousin is right.”
“Poor Barry!” Andrea was still reeling in her chair. “He
was so sweet! Do you remember the duck pate he left for
us? It was divine.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Margo snapped. “You ate all
of it.”
“Did I ever meet Barry Newcombe?” Russell Craven asked
in a bewildered voice.
Killegrew intervened before the two women could go at
it again. “Let’s not get derailed,” he urged. “We don’t want
to go off on a sideline and miss the depot.”
50 / Mary Daheim
“What the hell happened?” Max demanded from his place
behind a big wood and leather sofa. “Barry took off here
around two in the afternoon. Did somebody jump him outside?”
“He didn’t take the van.” The speaker, who had been silent
until now, was the gnarled little man Renie had identified
as Leon Mooney.
All eyes turned to the vice president and comptroller.
“That’s true,” said Ava. “Or if he did, he came back and then
disappeared.”
“We thought he’d walked to the store at the summit,” Ward
said. “It was a mighty funny thing to do, but Barry was a
great walker.”
A dozen questions flashed through Judith’s mind, but it
wasn’t her place to ask them. Renie, however, possessed the
corporate cachet. “How long was it before you realized he
was missing?”
Glances were exchanged; several people shrugged. “A
couple of hours?” Max finally offered.
“It was at dinner,” Andrea said. “Actually, it was before
dinner. We expected Barry to serve as bartender. When he
didn’t show up, Gene stood in for him.”
Gene Jarman uttered a self-deprecating laugh. “I’d tended
bar while I worked my way through Stanford Law School.”
He lifted one shoulder in a dismissive gesture, as if to suggest
that those degrading days were far, far
behind him.
Judith couldn’t resist. “What did you do when Barry never
showed?”
The others looked at her in mild astonishment. “We carried
on,” Margo said. “We figured he’d…had one of his whims.”
“All that’s behind us,” Killegrew declared before Judith
could speak again. “Let’s get this tugboat hooked up to the
barge. The question is, what do we do now?” His glance
lighted on Gene Jarman.
SNOW PLACE TO DIE / 51
Gene tugged at one earlobe. “The authorities must be notified.” He gazed at Judith and Renie. “Or has that already
been done?”
“We tried,” Renie said. “There seems to be some confusion
over jurisdiction.”
“Really?” Gene gave a slight nod. “That’s possible. This
is something of a borderline location.”
“Which district?” asked Ward Haugland. “Do we have
supporters in the legislature from around here?”
“Screw the legislature,” Max Agasias snarled. “It’s the rate
commission we care about. What the hell have our lobbyists
been doing lately anyway? They’re down there in the capital
drinking high-priced booze out of some low-down hooker’s
spike-heeled shoes.”
“Cut the sexist remarks,” Margo demanded in a shrill voice.
“At least one of our lobbyists is a woman.”
“So?” Max sneered at Margo. “If you ask me, she’d like to
get in the sack with some cute little…”
“Now, now,” reprimanded Killegrew, “let’s keep our plane
in its landing pattern. We’ll skip all these local folks. I mean,
persons. I’m calling the chief of police back in the city.”
“Good idea,” said Ward.
“You’re damned right,” agreed Max.
“Could somebody describe Barry Newcombe?” asked
Russell.
“Call the chief,” Killegrew ordered Nadia. “Explain
everything. He’ll know what we ought to do.”
Judith knew what she had to do. It was after six, and she
had to set up the buffet. Though no one heard her, she excused herself and headed for the kitchen. Renie followed.
“It serves the chief right,” Judith said, getting a big ham
out of the refrigerator. “He ought to have to put up with
these self-centered morons. Joe says that under all that public
bonhomie the chief is a stuffed shirt.”
“I’ll carve the turkey breast,” Renie volunteered. “I
52 / Mary Daheim
gather you’ve had enough of the OTIOSE crowd.”