by Mary Daheim
Judith held up a hand, feeling like a grade-school pupil. “Did you ever get hold of the police chief?”
Ward winced. “Not yet. The deputy chief called but Frank won’t deal with him. He wants to go straight to the top.”
Judith bit her cheeks to keep from smiling. “I see. Well, good luck. With a three-day weekend at hand, I suspect the chief has gone off to ski in Canada. He usually does, during the winter.”
Ward’s pale blue eyes widened. “You know the chief?”
Embarrassed, Judith coughed. “Ah—sort of. It’s a complicated story.” It wasn’t, of course, but Judith didn’t think it was a good idea to mention that her husband was a homicide detective. “We’ve…um…crossed paths from time to time.”
“Oh.” Ward seemed satisfied. “I’m sorry you folks got stranded up here. I hope you realize that our meetings are real confidential.” His off-center smile was apologetic.
Renie waved a hand. “Sure, Ward, I know how these retreats work. We’ll stay in our little tiny room and amuse ourselves by watching each other’s faces sag with age.”
Ward didn’t seem to see the humor in Renie’s remark. His long bony fingers fiddled with the belt loops on his khaki pants. “I think there’s a game room in the basement. You know—billiards, ping-pong, chess.”
“What fun.” Again, Renie’s irony was lost on OTIOSE’s executive vice president.
Judith, however, decided to take advantage of Ward’s hesitation. “What do you remember about Barry’s disappearance last year, Mr. Haugland?”
Ward, who had started for the refrigerator, paused in midstep. “Barry? Shoot, I don’t recollect much about it. He took off and never came back. The only thing I remember was the avocado dip.”
Judith frowned. “What about it?’
“That’s what he went out for,” Ward explained, opening the refrigerator. “We had all these chips, and he’d made a couple of special dips. But Margo or Max or somebody got a hankering for avocados. Barry volunteered to get some, so he took off and we never saw him again.” Ward removed what was left of the ham from the fridge. “Personally, I’m not much for avocados. They’re too danged squishy.”
As Ward began to carve the ham, Judith leaned against the counter. “Weren’t you shocked when you got back to the city and discovered he’d never shown up at all?”
Ward drew back, looking puzzled. “Well…not really. I mean, people can be kind of odd. Anyway, he didn’t work for me.”
Which, Judith thought with a pang, apparently made Barry a nonentity. “Now that Barry’s body has been found,” Judith began, carefully phrasing her words, “have you thought about why he was killed?”
Ward was pulling out various drawers. “Nope. It sounds kind of fishy to me.” He extracted a knife and fork, then picked up his plate of ham. “I mean, we don’t know for sure that he was killed. And,” he added, heading toward the exit with his long, awkward strides, “we don’t even know if it’s Barry.”
On that jarring note, Ward Haugland left the kitchen.
“You know,” Judith sighed, “he’s right. We won’t know until a positive ID is made by the police.”
“Shoot.” Renie picked at the ham that Ward had left on the counter. “Are you saying Barry killed somebody else and made it look as if he was the victim?”
“It’s been known to happen.” Judith poured out a glass of cold apple cider. “If I had to guess—and you know I will—I’d say that’s not the case. How many other people would have been wandering around Mountain Goat Lodge that Friday afternoon? I’m assuming the place was as dead—excuse the expression—then as it is now. It’d be a real stretch to have somebody show up that Barry wanted to murder.”
“Unless it was prearranged,” Renie noted.
Judith reflected briefly. “No, I don’t think so. If you were Barry, and there was someone you wanted to get out of the way, would you have that person drive to Mountain Goat Lodge, and then do him or her in less than a hundred yards from where your company’s top executives were waiting for their avocado dip? I don’t think so.”
“You have a point,” Renie allowed, “though whoever killed Barry did just that.”
“I know,” Judith said quietly. “As I mentioned earlier, that’s what bothers me most.”
Before the cousins returned to their room, they each called home to let their loved ones know they were marooned. Bill, as usual, was terse on the phone because he firmly believed the instrument was a satanic tool. Joe was somewhat more talkative, if subdued.
“I cuffed a twelve-year-old today,” he said after Judith told him about the storm. “He’d shot two other kids at a strip mall. Can you believe it?”
“Are the other kids dead?” Judith asked, lacing her voice with sympathy for Joe, the perp, and the victims.
“No, they’ll probably make it,” Joe replied. “But it still makes me sick. This kid—Jamaal—isn’t a bad kid, really. At least I don’t think he is. He just wants to belong. But it’s been rough getting him to open up. He doesn’t trust adults, especially not middle-aged white males.”
“Why don’t you let Woody interrogate him?” Judith asked, referring to Joe’s long-time partner, who was black.
“Because I’m the primary.” Joe said. “And frankly, Woody can be pretty hard on black kids who get themselves in trouble. Sometimes it’s almost like he takes it personally. Woody made it, and he can’t understand why kids with the same ethnic background don’t bother to try.”
“Woody was solid middle class,” Judith pointed out. “I’ll bet most of the gang members haven’t had that advantage.”
“You’re right,” Joe agreed, “but tell that to Woody. He says that’s all the more reason less fortunate black kids should try even harder.”
Judith could picture Woodrow Wilson Price, with his serious brown eyes and thick walrus mustache, lecturing disadvantaged youth. He would be solemn, eloquent, and somewhat pedantic. It was dubious that he’d make even the slightest dent on most of the bad apples Joe had described.
“By the way,” Judith said, nervously clearing her throat, “you may hear something about an…incident at the lodge.”
“An incident?” Joe sounded on guard.
“Yes. Ah…well…it seems that a body was discovered this afternoon not far from the parking lot. Um…it’s not a new body, it’s an old body. That is, it’s…er…been dead for a long time. The OTIOSE president and CEO has been trying to get hold of the chief.”
Judith thought she heard Joe say an extremely naughty word under his breath. “The chief? Our chief?”
“Yes. Mr. Killegrew—the CEO—will only deal with his vis-à-vis.”
“Screw Mr. Killegrew,” Joe growled. “The chief’s in Hawaii. Besides, Mountain Goat is way outside our jurisdiction.” He was silent for a few seconds, then exploded. “Jude-girl!” The nickname was not spoken with affection. “How the hell did you get mixed up with another freaking body?”
Judith’s voice came out in a squeak. “I’m just along for the ride.”
Renie, who been watching and listening with reasonable attention, yanked the phone out of Judith’s hand. “Listen, Joe,” she said in a sharp, querulous tone, “don’t blame your wife. She’s right, this is all my doing, and all she did was provide the food. We’ll probably be home tomorrow, so go easy on her. It’s been a long day.” Renie handed the receiver back to Judith.
Neither husband nor wife spoke immediately, but it was Joe who broke the strained silence. “Okay, okay. It’s not your fault. Am I to understand that this dead body met with an accident?”
“That’s it,” Judith said brightly. “It must have been an accident. A skier, a hiker, a…wandering minstrel. Be sure and tell Mother I’m okay, and let Arlene know what’s going on. I trust she’s still in charge?”
“Arlene was in the kitchen when I last looked about an hour ago,” Joe said in a more normal voice. “If she’s not there now, I’ll call her.”
“Thanks.” Judith slumpe
d onto the tall stool next to the counter. “I love you.”
“I love you.” Joe sounded just a trifle weary. “Keep out of trouble. Please.”
“Renie and I are going straight to our room,” Judith assured Joe.
The cousins didn’t get any further than the door to the laundry room. Leon Mooney had tiptoed into the kitchen, a napkin tied around his scrawny neck. “Is there any more angel food cake?” he asked a bit shyly.
“I’ll look.” Judith removed the cover from the glass cake plate. “Yes, would you like some?”
“A thin sliver,” Leon replied, seemingly unable to meet Judith’s gaze. “You needn’t add the strawberries. I’m allergic.”
“Okay.” Judith cut a piece of cake and put it on a dessert plate. “There you go, Mr. Mooney. How’s the meeting coming along?”
“Oh!” Leon put a hand to his mouth. “It’s top secret! I daren’t discuss it!”
Judith smiled indulgently. “Of course you can’t. How stupid of me. Are all your annual retreats so very secretive?”
“My, yes.” The little man nodded gravely. “But this year, it’s even more so.”
“I see,” Judith replied, though of course she didn’t. “I suppose you always make a lot of big decisions that determine how the company will be run in the coming year.”
“Definitely, definitely.” Leon wagged his head. “Executive decisions. Visionary decisions. Especially this time. The twenty-first century is at hand.” OTIOSE’s vice president and comptroller looked terrified at the prospect.
“It’s not really an old company, is it?” Judith remarked with a quick glance at Renie, who had sketched in the corporate history earlier.
“My, no,” Leon replied. “It was founded by Mr. Killegrew a few years after the big Bell System breakup. OTIOSE is an independent company, serving a fast-growing number of business and residential customers in the Pacific Northwest.” Leon sounded as if he were reading from one of Margo’s p.r. brochures. Indeed, he had to take a deep breath after he finished speaking.
“OTIOSE,” said Renie, with a touch of irony, “is all Frank Killegrew. He’d worked for one of the Baby Bells as an engineering vice president. Then he decided there was room in the marketplace for a new independent, so he rounded up investors and put in quite a bit of his own money to get OTIOSE started. Isn’t that right, Leon?”
Leon’s gaze, which was always evasive, now seemed fixed on his angel food cake. “That’s true. He bought up some very small independents as well. You know—family-owned, small-town firms without proper funding for the new technology.”
Renie nodded. “His timing was excellent. He was able to buy out the little guys when they were faced with bankruptcy or getting in over their heads.”
“Yes,” Leon murmured, his buck teeth fretting his lower lip. “Yes, Frank Killegrew is very astute.” At last, he looked up at the cousins. “Excuse me, I must get back to the meeting. I shouldn’t have sneaked away, but I’m very, very partial to angel food cake. My dear mother used to make it for me. Rest her soul.” His withered face turned wistful.
The cousins watched him tiptoe out of the kitchen. “He’s not like most of the others, is he?” Judith remarked.
Renie shook her head. “He’s an odd duck. Actually, he’s exactly what he looks like—the stereotypical bookkeeper who spends his days—and nights—hunched over his accounts.”
“I can’t see him using a garrote on Barry Newcombe,” Judith said, again heading for the back stairs.
“Probably not,” Renie agreed.
This time the cousins got as far as the rear door to the laundry room. That was when Nadia came tearing into the kitchen, screaming, “Help! Help!”
Judith and Renie backtracked, practically colliding with each other. Nadia’s slight figure was running in circles, small hands waving frantically.
“What is it?” Renie demanded, setting her plate and glass of milk down on the counter.
“It’s Mr. Craven! Quick, I need an ice bag!” Fighting for control, Nadia opened the freezer section of the refrigerator.
“What happened to Mr. Craven?” Judith inquired.
“Mr. Agasias attacked him with a soapstone Eskimo!” Nadia was grabbing handfuls of ice, spilling cubes all over the floor in the process.
“Here,” Judith said, holding out a plastic bag to Nadia. “Fill this, then we’ll take it out to Mr. Craven.”
Nadia’s hands were shaking so badly that she could hardly get the cubes into the bag. The autocratic demeanor Judith had seen earlier in the day had faded and fizzled into a quivering bundle of nerves. “Oh, dear,” Nadia cried, “I’m usually not such a wreck. But this weekend is turning out rather badly…”
“I’ll take the ice bag,” Judith said with a reassuring smile as Renie began to scoop up the fallen cubes. “Why don’t you wait here and collect yourself?”
“I shouldn’t,” Nadia said, but collapsed onto one of the tall stools anyway. “Oh, dear. I do feel nervy.”
The scene in the lobby was like a tableau on the stage. Andrea Piccoloni-Roth was bending over the prone figure of Russell Craven; Ward Haugland and Gene Jarman were restraining an irate Max Agasias; Ava Aunuu had a finger shoved into a bewildered Frank Killegrew’s chest; Margo Chang held the soapstone carving at arm’s length; Leon Mooney was scrambling around on the floor retrieving his angel food cake, which he’d apparently dropped.
“Excuse me,” Judith called, trying to edge around Ava and 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-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 awfu
lly 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 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.