by Mary Daheim
Killegrew. “First aid!”
Grudgingly, the company stepped aside, except for Leon,
who was still on his hands and knees. Andrea hovered over
Russell, whose eyes looked glazed. Under the thinning fair
hair, Judith could see a bump beginning to rise.
“Mr. Craven,” Judith said softly as she applied the ice bag.
“What’s your first name?”
His eyes didn’t quite focus, and he winced when he felt
the ice. His mouth worked, but nothing came out.
“What’s your first name?” Judith repeated.
“Barry,” Russell replied, and passed out.
Max Agasias had finally simmered down, so much, in fact,
that he and Ward Haugland carried Russell Craven to one
of the lobby’s three long sofas. Andrea, who had hurriedly
helped Leon pick up the rest of his cake, took over from Judith. Her plump, motherly figure was perched on the sofa
arm where she held the ice bag to Russell’s head.
“I won’t take back what I said,” Max declared, pouring
himself a single shot of Canadian whiskey from the make- 70 / Mary Daheim
shift bar Judith and Renie had set up earlier. “Craven and
the rest of those R&D bastards don’t know a damned thing
about marketing.”
“Now, now,” soothed Killegrew, “let’s not bore more holes
in the corporate ship, Max. We all have to work together
and try to understand what goes on in each other’s shop.”
“That’s my point,” Max railed. “Nobody in this company
understands marketing! But R&D is the worst. You cut our
budget for their sake, and we’ll be out selling door-to-door!”
“You won’t have anything to sell,” Ava put in, “if R&D
doesn’t come up with new product. Put a sock in it, Max.
You made your point.”
He’d also made quite a lump on Russell Craven’s head,
but at least Max’s victim had come around. Andrea offered
him a glass of water or a snifter of brandy. Russell said he’d
prefer coffee, strong and black. Judith started back to the
kitchen.
She met Renie in the dining room. “What’s up?” Renie
asked. “Is somebody else dead?”
Judith shook her head. “Just wounded. I’m going to make
coffee.”
Nadia was still in the kitchen, fussing about, apparently
trying to find busy work to calm her nerves. “Is Russell all
right?” she asked when she saw Judith.
“He’s got a nasty bump on his head, but I think he’ll be
fine,” Judith replied, removing a regular-sized coffeemaker
from one of the cupboards. “He should be checked for concussion, though. He seemed a bit confused.”
“No wonder!” Nadia briefly closed her eyes. “Max hit him
awfully hard. It was so unnecessary.”
“Mr. Craven doesn’t strike me as a combative type,” Judith
said, putting coffee into a copper filter.
“He’s not,” Nadia responded. “But he’s very protective of
his R&D people. When someone like Max calls them a bunch
of dreamers and a waste of corporate funds, Russell
SNOW PLACE TO DIE / 71
can become very mulish. Max resents all the other departments because he feels they don’t understand marketing. But
he despises R&D most of all, because of the way they work.
Or don’t, from his point of view.”
“You mean…?” Judith frowned. “They just sit and dream
up things?”
“Yes.” Nadia now seemed more relaxed, perhaps because
she was discussing a subject she knew backward and forward.
It was beginning to dawn on Judith that many of the OTIOSE
conferees were like that. They felt on safe ground only when
dealing with corporate matters. The rest of the world, even
everyday occurrences, seemed to threaten them. “You see,”
Nadia went on, “much of the R&D work is conceptual. As
Russell puts it, his people have to dream a long time before
they can even begin to cope with reality.”
That, Judith thought, explained Russell himself, who didn’t
seem quite plugged in. But it didn’t explain his response to
her question about his first name. “Did Russell know Barry
Newcombe?”
Nadia tipped her head to one side. The stylish platinum
pageboy had wilted during the past few hours. “I don’t think
so,” she answered cautiously. “In fact, I recall him asking
several questions about Barry today. As far as I know, Russell
probably never met Barry until he drove us up to the lodge
last January. Why do you ask?” Her blue eyes hardened like
sapphires.
Judith shrugged. “It’s not important.” The coffee was almost ready and she didn’t want to waste time bringing
Russell his cup. “You knew Barry, of course.”
“Oh, yes,” Nadia replied, her expression softening. “Such
a well-mannered young man. I’d worked with him before
when he’d catered some of the other company events. He
was very good at it, even if he tended to…become distracted.”
She lowered her eyes.
Judith and Nadia both returned to the lobby where Russell
Craven was now in a half-sitting position on the sofa.
72 / Mary Daheim
He seemed reasonably alert, and grateful for the coffee. Judith
offered to pour a cup for the others, but only Andrea and
Ward accepted.
“I’ll get it,” Andrea volunteered, taking Russell’s hand and
placing it on the ice bag she’d been holding to his head.
“Easy does it,” she said in a soothing voice.
Frank Killegrew had resumed his place of dominance in
front of the fireplace. His shrewd gaze traveled from Renie
to Judith. “We’re going to get back down to business now,”
he said, hands clasped behind his back. “It’s been a terrific
session this evening, right up until the…” He glanced at
Russell, then at Max. “…the controversy. So this train has
to make up for lost time. It’s just about nine o’clock, and we
can keep the old locomotive running until say, ten-thirty. If
you’ll excuse us, Ms. Jones, Ms.…” His voice trailed off.
“Flynn,” Judith said, barely above a whisper.
“We’re gone.” Renie waved one hand, then trotted out of
the lobby.
Judith followed. In the dining room, they met Andrea,
who was carrying two cups of coffee. “I checked Russell’s
eyes,” she said. “They seem normal. Pay no attention to his
mention of Barry. Russell didn’t know him.”
“So I’ve heard,” Judith replied, ignoring Renie’s puzzled
look.
Andrea’s pretty face flushed slightly, an attractive combination with her silver hair. “I understand why he said what
he did. Russell is terribly sensitive. I’m sure the news of
Barry’s death upset him. You know how creative types tend
to overreact.” She bustled off to the lobby.
“I’m creative,” Renie said in an ingenuous voice. “Do I
overreact?”
“It depends,” Judith said, continuing on into the kitchen.
“I don’t think I’ve ever described you as sensitive.”
“What’s with this about Russell calling h
imself Barry?”
Renie picked up her plate but dumped her milk into the sink
and poured out a fresh glass.
SNOW PLACE TO DIE / 73
Judith explained as they went up the back stairs. Renie
thought Andrea’s rationale was probably correct. Judith
didn’t comment further.
It was after ten when the cousins finished their meal. The
storm had not abated. Judith dared to open the window to
get a better view.
“Brrr!” she exclaimed, closing the casement quickly. “It
must be down in the teens, with a wind chill factor of minus
about a hundred. Look at the way the snow is drifting on
the windowsill.”
“It’s drifting, all right,” Renie said without enthusiasm.
“The fire’s almost out. Do you want to stoke it or go to bed?”
Involuntarily, Judith yawned. “It’s getting cold in here
without the fire. We might as well sleep. I’m tired.”
Renie tapped her fingers on the arm of the chair. “I’m
hyped. I always get this way after a big presentation. Finding
a dead body also makes me a little…edgy.”
Judith was leaning against the honor bar. “You’re scared?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Sure. But I’ve been scared before. After nineteen years
with Dan McMonigle, I can face almost anything.”
“You do and you have,” Renie said dryly. “Of course
nobody wants to kill us. We’re insignificant bugs on the
corporate highway of life.”
Judith smiled. “Roadkill?”
“That isn’t what I meant.” Renie got out of the chair and
lighted a cigarette. “One for the road,” she said. “Or should
I say one for the corporate highway?”
“If you must,” Judith responded, then turned to make sure
she’d latched the window properly. “Coz!” she hissed.
“There’s that light again!”
Renie rushed to join her cousin at the window. This time,
she, too, saw a faint, blurred light somewhere out in the
swirling snow. “Jeez! Who could it be?”
74 / Mary Daheim
“Maybe it’s not a who,” Judith muttered. “Maybe it’s a
what.”
“You mean some sort of beacon?” asked Renie, all but
pressing her nose against the window pane.
“Yes. Some kind of weather-related signal. Did you notice
anything like that when we were outside today?”
“No. But I’m not even sure where we’re looking,” Renie
pointed out. “We were on the other side of the lodge.”
The light went out, or perhaps it was swallowed up by the
thick flakes that blew past the lodge with renewed frenzy.
Renie paced the small room, puffing and scowling. “Nobody
in their right mind would be outside in this weather,” she finally said. “Maybe there’s a ski lift nearby. The storm might
have shorted the wiring.”
“That’s possible.” Judith moved away from the window.
She tensed as she heard muffled voices in the hall, then the
closing of doors. “The OTIOSE gang must be wrapping it
up for the night. I hope nobody else got hurt. Say, do you
know why Andrea got so mad at Margo this afternoon?”
Renie shook her head. “I couldn’t guess. Women talk a
great line about helping each other in the business world,
but believe me, the sisterhood is a myth. Look at Nadia and
Andrea—there’s bad blood there, too, probably because
Andrea is an officer and Nadia isn’t. It’s every girl for herself,
just like it is with the boys. Maybe more so, because it’s
tougher for women. The old boy network still seems to
function.”
“They’re sure a testy bunch,” Judith remarked. “Frankly,
I’m surprised. I would expect better of people in executive
positions.”
“Not so,” Renie said, turning back the spread on the nearest
twin bed. “These people are under tremendous pressure,
from within and without. As a public utility, OTIOSE is
watched closely by the state and federal commissions, not
to mention the public and the media. So when
SNOW PLACE TO DIE / 75
they go off on a private retreat like this, they’re supposed to
vent and let their hair down. It’s only natural that their
emotions boil over and they behave badly.”
“They sure do,” Judith agreed.
“They’re spoiled brats,” Renie said. “I’ve tried to explain
that.”
“I know. I’m just not used to it,” Judith said with a shake
of her head. “I’ve never been involved in corporate life. Oh,
there were politics and a pecking order within the library
system, but it wasn’t like this.” Slowly, she wandered around
the room, hugging herself to keep warm and absently taking
in the modest decor: another mountain-scape, a brightly
colored Native American throw rug, a photograph of the
lodge under construction. The handwritten date in the corner
read August 21, 1936.
“This must have been a public works project,” Judith
mused. “You know—one of FDR’s efforts to put the unemployed to work during the Depression.”
“Probably,” Renie agreed. “It has that look—spare, but
functional. Of course the recent owners from the private
sector have tried to jazz it up. Like the fancy kitchen, and
the conference rooms.”
“Speaking of kitchen,” Judith said with a sheepish expression, “I wouldn’t mind getting a little extra something.” She
pointed to her empty plate. “How about you?”
Renie waved her cigarette. “I’m good, but I’ll be your
bodyguard. It’s probably not wise to go off by ourselves.”
The lights in the corridor had been dimmed. Judith and
Renie decided to use the elevator now that they assumed the
lobby was vacant. Again, it appeared that Nadia—or somebody—had tidied up. A single lamp glowed in a corner by
one of the sofas. In the grate, the fire had died down to a
few crimson embers. The wind moaned in the big chimney,
and the pennants that hung from the rafters rustled gently
above the cousins’ heads.
The dining room was dark, but Renie found the switch.
76 / Mary Daheim
A pale, sallow patch of light followed them into the kitchen.
Judith started to feel for the on-off button by the sink, but
stopped abruptly.
Something was wrong. She could make out the marbletopped counter and the glass dessert plate. She could also
see that someone’s face was lying in what was left of the
angel food cake.
SIX
NEITHER JUDITH NOR Renie screamed. Instead, they held
onto each other so hard that their fingernails practically drew
blood. Finally, after what seemed like hours, but was probably only a minute, they stood back and stared at their discovery.
“It’s Leon Mooney,” Renie said, stunned and hoarse. “What
happened to him?”
Reluctantly, Judith went around to the other side of the
counter. Leon’s small body sagged against the counter, his
knees buckled, his arms dangling at his sides.
“He is dead, I gather?” Renie still sounded unnatur
al.
Judith felt for a pulse in Leon’s frail wrist. “I’m afraid so.”
Her own voice was shaking. “It could have been a heart attack.”
But Judith knew better. As soon as Renie’s fumbling fingers
managed to turn on the lights, Judith saw the ugly bruise on
the back of Leon’s head. Then she spotted a heavy-duty
plastic freezer bag next to his feet. The bag had something
in it. Judith bent down for a closer look.
Through the transparent plastic, Judith could see the
soapstone Eskimo carving. “Good God!” she breathed,
wobbling on her heels. “It’s that same carving Max used to
conk Russell!”
77
78 / Mary Daheim
“Poor little Leon!” Renie sounded genuinely moved. “I
hardly knew him, but he seemed the most harmless of the
bunch.”
Judith sat down on the floor and held her head. “This is
awful. I feel kind of sick.”
Renie, who had propped herself up against the refrigerator,
scanned the kitchen. “I hope whoever did this isn’t lurking
around here someplace. Is he still warm?”
Judith nodded, then tried to focus on the digital clock. “It’s
ten to eleven. Didn’t Killegrew say they were going to cut
the meeting off at ten-thirty?”
“I think so,” Renie replied. “That’s about when we heard
the noises in the hall.”
“Dear heaven.” Judith rocked back and forth on the floor.
“We have to do something.”
Renie gestured at the phone. “Should we at least try to call
for help?”
Judith hesitated. “Yes. We have to.”
“I’ll do it.” On wobbly legs, Renie went to the phone.
Judith averted her eyes from Leon’s pathetic body. If the
little man had seemed wizened in life, he now appeared utterly wraithlike in death. But, Judith thought, that’s what
he’d become—a wraith. She felt an unaccustomed bout of
hysteria surging up inside.
“Damn!” Renie slammed the phone back in place. “I can’t
get a dial tone! The lines must be down.”
The announcement snapped Judith out of her emotional
slide. She started to get up, still trying not to look at Leon.
“We can’t do anything about that,” she said, using the
counter’s edge to pull herself to a standing position. “How
do we deliver the bad news?”
Renie twisted her hands together. “Nadia, I suppose. We
start with her. Or should it be Margo? She’s p.r.”