by Mary Daheim
Judith hung up before the message droned to its conclusion. “What staff? I’ll bet there’s only one person in a snow shelter next to the nearest restaurant.”
She was looking for a phone book when the man that Renie had called Russell poked his head in the kitchen. “Excuse me,” he began, then gasped as he saw Judith adorned in the towel. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were…ah…um…”
“Russell?” Judith made a reassuring gesture with her free hand. “You work for the phone company. Do you know where I can find a phone book?”
The ordinary question seemed to calm Russell. “Of course. There’s one in the…er…surely it would be…um…have you looked…ah…I’ve no idea.” His face began to turn a deep red.
Judith put a hand to her shoulder-length silver-streaked hair and rubbed furiously at her scalp. “Okay, okay. Tell me this—how can I reach the local sheriff?”
Russell’s eyebrows rose above his rimless glasses. “You dial 911, just as you would in the city.”
Judith shook her head. “It doesn’t work that way. Maybe the lines are crossed. Have you got another suggestion?”
“Ohhh…” Russell seemed at an utter loss. “I’m R&D, not operations. Really, I’m not what you’d call…practical.”
Judith would have held her head with both hands if the effort wouldn’t have caused her to drop the towel. “R&D? What’s that? I know R&B is rhythm and blues, but…”
“Research and development.” Renie was back in the kitchen. “Russell Craven is vice president-R&D.” She nodded at Russell. “Hi again. What county are we in?”
“County?” Russell’s thin fair hair seemed to twitch. “Well, I really couldn’t say…We are in one, though…I mean, we have to be, don’t we? Counties are like that, sort of next to each other and all…ah…Do you ladies need some clothing?”
Renie gave Russell a toothy grin. “Now there’s a helpful idea, Russell. We wouldn’t mind borrowing a few items for just a bit. Let me see…” Renie glanced at Judith. “How about asking Ava and…” She paused, gazing down at her own towel-wrapped figure. “…Nadia. I think.”
“Yes. Yes.” Russell nodded enthusiastically. “Ava and Nadia. Shall I…?” He gestured at the door.
“You shall. And we thank you.” Renie cocked her head.
Russell started out the door, then turned back. “Oh! This business about the sheriff…is it urgent?”
“It’ll keep,” Renie replied dryly.
Russell left. Five minutes later, Ava Aunuu was in the kitchen, hand-tooled leather suitcase in hand. “What happened?” she asked, evincing what Judith took for actual concern.
Renie introduced Judith to the woman who served as OTIOSE’s vice president–information technology services. The long-winded title didn’t mean much to Judith, but she recalled that Ava was some kind of computer genius.
“We fell in the creek,” Renie explained. “You and my cousin are about the same size, so when Russell Craven suggested we borrow some clothes, I thought of you.”
“Sure,” Ava said, undoing the straps and flipping the locks on her suitcase. “I brought extra everything along. There’s underwear, too. I’m not really into clothes, but you never know what can happen on one of these retreats.” Her brown eyes danced with what might have been amusement—or something less pleasant.
Judith picked up the first items she saw. A high-necked blue sweater and navy slacks, almost exactly like the dark green outfit Ava was wearing. “This’ll be great. Are you sure…?” She gave Ava a questioning look.
“Well…” Ava reached into the suitcase and a removed a red crewneck sweater and matching slacks. “How about these? I’ll bet red’s your color.”
“It is.” Judith smiled. “Thanks a lot.”
“Don’t worry about returning them right away.” Ava’s strong, handsome features seemed to radiate good will. “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 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 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 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?”
“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 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.”
“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.
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.”