by Mary Daheim
Even in his bathing trunks, Karl Kreager was the portrait of a distinguished businessman. His head of steel-gray hair was still full, his shoulders broad, his physique only marginally touched by time. Judith figured him for around sixty. He was tall, tanned, and had shrewd blue eyes, like agates. His voice was low and cultured, yet still possessed the telltale Midwestern twang. Karl Kreager offered Judith a firm handshake.
Mrs. Kreager’s trim but curvaceous figure was encased in a one-piece white bathing suit cut high on the hip. She, too, was tanned, and almost as tall as Judith. Her short blond hair had been expertly cut, with small fluffy curls over perfect ears. Her even features were more striking than beautiful, but her gray eyes conveyed a smoldering sensuality. Judith guessed that she was a second wife, not yet forty, but at ease with a comfortable life-style that she had earned simply by being born with good looks.
“I swear,” Tessa said in a low voice that held a trace of a Southern drawl, “Dagmar knows everybody. Let me guess—you’re a dance choreographer.”
For some reason, Judith was flattered. “Well—no. Actually, I’m…”
But Tessa had glided over to the umbrella-topped table which held the martini shaker. “I’m perishing of thirst,” she declared. “Why do I always make the mistake of an early-afternoon court time for tennis?”
Karl Kreager regarded his wife with a fond expression, then turned to Judith. “Tessa’s too hard on herself. She works hard, she plays hard. You’d never guess that her husband owned the company. Isn’t that right, Dagmar?” His blue-eyed gaze now concentrated on the bundle of gauze in the lounge chair.
Dagmar’s hat again nodded. “Tessa’s been a fine editor, though she should have let me name more names instead of hinting at so much. I know my libel law. What’s so sacred about Queen Elizabeth and the Pope and all the American Presidents?”
Karl chuckled. “Now, Dagmar, sometimes you can be a bit…shall I say, outrageous? Thor Publishing has always avoided hurting anyone unnecessarily. We never object to telling the truth, but we won’t cause harm for the sake of sensation.”
Dagmar did not take the rebuke kindly. “Harm! Now how can you harm people who behave badly? They ask for it! Movie stars who abuse their families, athletes who take drugs, cabinet members who cross-dress! Where’s the real harm? They hide behind their celebrity status and break the law and defy morality and scorn ethics! It’s up to writers like me—and publishers like you—to expose them for what they really are!”
Karl Kreager’s manner was indulgent, patient. “You’ve done your share, Dagmar. Your books—not to mention your columns—shake a lot of sins out of the trees. If that manuscript you’re working on now is accurate, you’ll be getting more than just a few nasty letters.”
It seemed to Judith that what she could see of Dagmar’s pink face turned pale. “Cranks,” she muttered. “Nothing but cranks, making idle threats. I’ve no time for such cowardice!”
Vaguely, Judith recalled that Dagmar had mentioned threats earlier, while staying at Hillside Manor. “Do you really get threatening letters?” she asked innocently. “Are they serious?”
“Of course not,” Dagmar snapped. “People like me who tell the truth always receive hate mail. It’s an occupational hazard. But it doesn’t scare me. Not one bit.”
Judith thought that Dagmar’s attitude was very brave. But she noticed that, under the piles of gauzy linen, the gossip columnist seemed to be trembling.
FOUR
RENIE WAS EXHIBITING a fear of her own. “I don’t mind heights,” she insisted, pouring scotch for Judith and rye for herself, “but I don’t like those chairlift things. Remember how I wouldn’t go up to the peak of Mount Pilatus when we were in Lucerne?”
Judith could recall their European tour of almost thirty years earlier in amazing detail. “It wasn’t a chairlift, it was a tramcar. So you want a hot dog for dinner? The gondola that goes up Bugler Mountain holds a dozen people in each car, but there’s only a snack bar at the top.” She was consulting her visitor’s brochure. “Good grief, coz, you said yourself that everything here is efficient and up-to-date. I can’t imagine you being a wimp when it comes to eating.”
Renie pouted a little as she sipped her drink. Having spent ten minutes on the phone with her mother, she had been surprised when Judith had still not returned to the condo. Assuming—rightly—that her cousin had gotten trapped by the Chatsworth party, Renie had driven down to the liquor store in the Bugler village and purchased a couple of fifths of whiskey. She had hoped to get a price break on the Scots import and the Canadian brand. She hadn’t. But, she had reasoned, they were on vacation and deserved the best.
“Maybe if I drink about six of these, I won’t care if the chair falls off and I get killed,” she muttered.
Judith shook her head in dismay. “Forget it, we’ll eat someplace else. There are plenty of good restaurants in the area. We’ve got that coupon for The Bells and Motley. How about the French restaurant out on the highway? Or the Italian bistro? There’s German, too. And more French and Mexican and Japanese and—”
“Screw it,” said Renie with an air of resignation. “We’ll go up to Crest House on Liaison Ledge. I always said I’d die for lobster, and maybe I will. But it’ll be worth it, as long as we don’t crash until we come back down.”
Judith relaxed on the comfortable sofa. She still couldn’t quite believe their luxurious surroundings or the spectacular view. She also couldn’t believe that they had ended up as condo neighbors of Dagmar Delacroix Chatsworth and company.
“It really is a small world,” she murmured, sipping her scotch.
Renie shrugged. “When Bill and the kids and I were here last time, our pediatric nurse and her family were staying next to us. I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a dozen people we know from Heraldsgate Hill milling around with the rest of the tourists. This is a popular spot.”
Judith wasn’t inclined to argue. Idly, she leafed through the weekly tabloid newspaper that was published every Wednesday in Bugler. The edition was six days old, with listings of current celebrity visitors. Actors, ballet dancers, opera singers, and athletes were mentioned. World-class skiers were in training, and several famous golfers were enjoying Bugler’s excellent courses.
“Wow,” Judith remarked, “this is really the place to be. I have a sudden urge to do something sporty.”
“Like eat,” said Renie, who was sorting through more restaurant information.
“Listen to this,” Judith went on, still reading from the weekly newspaper. “Anatoly ‘Nat’ 64 runs a school for young ice skaters here. He’s on hand for the rest of the summer, and has Mia Prohowska with him. They arrived back in town last week after finishing up the Ice Dreams tour.”
Renie finally looked up from her eatery guides. “Really? Anne said the show was terrific. I didn’t know that Mia and her coach had a base of operations here, but I’m not surprised. It’s a perfect setting for skaters. Linski must be a wonderful coach. He certainly turned Mia into an Olympic champion twice over. I bet he gets his pick of young skaters. He must charge them up the kazoo.”
Judith was gazing at the small photo of Mia Prohowska, poised on one skate and decked out in feathers. “I don’t think I was ever so moved by a skater as when she won her first Olympic gold medal. She was sheer magic. I felt unpatriotic rooting for a competitor from behind the old Iron Curtain, but Mia made politics seem unimportant.”
Under the influence of the mountains, the cousins mused over winter Olympics past, then decided to act on their dinner of the present. Renie phoned in a seven o’clock reservation at Crest House. Judith called Joe.
There was no answer. She heard her own voice on the machine. It was after six. Joe must be working late, probably on the My Brew Heaven Tavern homicide. Or perhaps he’d decided to eat out.
For all of Bugler’s glamorous reputation, the resort’s life-style was casual. The cousins dressed in slacks. Judith added a white cotton shirt with a black geometric print
; Renie had delved into her designer wear and come up with a matching cocoa tunic and flared pants. Her hairdo still didn’t look very fetching.
Judith and Renie had to drive down the mountain in order to go back up. The lift began above the big new Fiddler Lodge, which was located below the condos. As they approached the little house where the lift tickets were sold, Renie gazed apprehensively at the individual chairs that trundled far up to the higher reaches of Fiddler Mountain.
“I thought they’d be two-seaters,” she said in a fretful voice. “We can’t ride together.”
“Big deal.” Judith gave her an ironic look. “Men, women, and children, too, are making their way up the mountain. If you want to stay here, I’ll send your dinner down in a doggie bag.”
Momentarily, Renie’s appetite overcame her fixation. “Don’t mention dogs. I just about had a fit when that damned Rover jumped in the pool. No wonder you were so upset with him. Poms are such yappy nuisances. If we ever get a dog, it’ll be a Samoyed. Bill thinks they’re tops.”
The cousins headed for the lift-ticket office, though it seemed to Judith that Renie was dragging her feet. A fresh-faced young man stuck his head out of the small window. Judith noted that he was cradling a thick textbook in his lap. She figured him for a student working his way through college.
“No skis, no charge,” he said in a disinterested voice. “Next chair.”
The lift’s pause was almost imperceptible. An eight-year-old hopped off and Judith got on. She glanced back to see what Renie was doing. Another youngster was descending, then a woman and a man. Renie stood there, hesitating. Judith was ascending the mountain, feeling secure as well as liberated. Renie was still on the ground. At least a half-dozen empty chairs had paused, waited, and then continued back up the mountain. Renie appeared to be holding onto her purse as if it were a parachute.
Across the way, on the descending chairs, Judith saw an elderly woman who had to be near ninety. The woman waved. Judith waved back. Then she craned her neck. Sure enough, Renie had apparently been given sufficient courage by the old lady’s daring. With an uncertain movement, Renie clambered into the chair. She was a full ten spaces behind Judith.
“Okay, okay,” said Renie testily when she got out of the chair at Liaison Ledge, “so we made it up. What about down?”
But Judith was too absorbed in the view to listen to Renie’s complaints. From this spot halfway up the mountain, the vista was breathtaking. She could see not only the entire resort complex and the valley below, but beyond that to sparkling lakes, the winding ribbon of highway, another valley, and, it seemed, almost the coast. The clear air made her feel euphoric. She smelled evergreens and crystal springs and the hint of fine food.
Judith took in deep, unsullied breaths, pleased to find her allergic reaction to Rover completely cleared up. “This is just great.”
Finally, Renie’s fears seemed conquered by the spectacle. “This is fabulous. There are helicopter tours, you know. Or horseback rides. And, of course, hikes, if we were the athletic type.”
Judith grinned at her cousin. “Let’s not get carried away. We are not athletic. Nor are we young. And I imagine all these things cost money.”
“The horseback rides aren’t too expensive,” Renie responded as they headed for the restaurant. “The kids went on them when we were here. They had a great time.”
Crest House was busy. Despite their reservation, a brief wait was required. Judith and Renie queued up with a dozen other diners, admiring the restaurant’s handsome, rugged architecture and decor. After five minutes, Renie was starting to fidget when another couple entered and the rest of the customers made way as if for royalty.
“Now, wait a minute,” Renie growled in annoyance.
Judith poked her in the ribs. “Stick it, coz. That’s Mia Prohowska and Nat Linski.”
Renie shut up and stared. The lithe, lovely woman with the flaming red hair and the big, burly man with the gray-dappled beard were not only recognizable, but also recognized. Several patrons greeted them by name, if in a deferential manner. Mia and Nat allowed the maître d’ to lead them to a table, meanwhile bestowing nods and smiles in their wake. Mia’s graceful demeanor made her simple red-and-white polka-dot frock seem as elegant as a ball gown. By contrast, Nat’s indigo linen jacket was slightly, if fashionably, rumpled, lending him an air of disdain for the masses.
“She’s not as tall as I thought,” Judith said in a whisper.
“He’s bigger than he looks on TV,” Renie whispered back.
“Did they get married?” Judith asked.
Renie shook her head. “I don’t think so. Wasn’t Mia forced into some sort of liaison with the head of the secret police in her native land? Or was that just a P.R. ploy to get sympathy for her in the West?”
Judith couldn’t remember the details. “The guy’s name was Boris. Of course, they were all named Boris in those days. But he was a real beast, and had some sort of hold over Mia. Maybe he was hanging her parents by their thumbs, or something. I suppose Boris is now serving up hash browns at a fast-food chain somewhere in Eastern Europe.”
A table was ready for the cousins. To their surprise, they were seated almost directly across from Mia Prohowska and Nat Linski. Judith tried not to stare.
“They’re arguing over the wine list,” she said under her breath. “At least I think that’s what they’re doing. They’re not speaking English.”
“Surprise. They’re not American.” Renie’s tone was wry, but she had already turned her attention to the menu. “I’m sticking with the lobster, but I want to mull over the salad choices. Let’s have a drink and think.”
The cocktails arrived at the same time that Dagmar Delacroix Chatsworth and her party of four were led to a table on the opposite side of the restaurant. Judith was somewhat surprised to note that Rover hadn’t been included.
“We can’t seem to shed that bunch,” she remarked, observing Dagmar, who was resplendent in bright green crepe, complete with turban and scarf-cum-shawl. “I feel haunted.”
“Ignore them,” Renie said simply, finally choosing a spinach salad with a warm bacon dressing. “They won’t bother us. We’re too insignificant.”
But Mia Prohowska and Nat Linski were not about to ignore the Chatsworth party. Or, more precisely, Mia wasn’t. She was on her feet, striding angrily toward Dagmar. Nat Linski got out of his chair but remained at the table, watching apprehensively.
Several other diners had now taken note of Mia’s stormy descent upon Dagmar. All around the restaurant, heads were turning and conversation dropped to a hush.
Mia gestured in an irate manner; Dagmar half-rose from her chair; at the head of the table, Karl Kreager was acting as either a referee or a peacemaker. The cousins strained to catch what the two women were saying. Mia’s excited, accented English was incomprehensible, but Dagmar’s shrill voice carrried, at least in snatches:
“…artistic integrity…you’ve had your day in the sun…Americans aren’t corrupt like your former Communist bedfellows…”
Nat Linski was now stalking across the restaurant, his big body shaking with wrath. Mia was shrieking at Dagmar, who made a slashing gesture with one crepe-covered arm. The skater shoved Dagmar away. Karl Kreager got to his feet, trying to pull Mia off her prey. A trio of waiters had congregated nearby, their expressions anxious and uncertain. The mâitre d’ had been alerted, and was right on Nat Linski’s heels.
Nat pushed Kreager aside, no mean feat, considering the publisher’s size and physical condition. But Nat was even larger, somewhat younger, and seemingly stronger. Freddy Whobrey chortled with glee while Agnes Shay shuddered with dread. Tessa Kreager seemed more amused than unnerved.
Nat Linski said something brief and hostile to Karl Kreager. He spurned the mâitre d’, glared at Dagmar, then gathered up Mia Prohowska and half-carried her back to their table. Mia was crying. She slumped in the chair, her face blotchy and her head down. Nat muttered to her in their native tongue, then sigh
ed with exasperation and reached over to take her hand. Their conversation grew even more intense.
Slowly, the restaurant was returning to normal. Patrons still watched both sets of combatants with curious, if now discreet, eyes. The previously carefree voices had taken on a quiet edge. Peering around her menu, Judith tried to study the Chatsworth group. Karl was brushing lint—or possibly the memory of Nat’s touch—off the sleeves of his navy blazer. Agnes was still cringing in her chair, clutching at the high neckline of her plain blouse. A magnum of champagne was being delivered. The gaiety seemed forced. But the party was going on. Judith turned back to the dinner entree listings. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Mia Prohowska leave the table and head for the ladies’ washroom.
“I’m having the baby-back pork ribs,” Judith announced, trying not to stare at Nat Linski, who was brooding over a frosted glass of vodka.
“Maybe I’ll have two lobsters,” Renie mused. “They’re always so small.”
Judith arched an eyebrow at her cousin. “Don’t be a hog. They’re also rich. You’ll give yourself a stomachache.”
The arrival of their salads eased Renie’s hunger pangs. She settled for a single serving of lobster, then offered to help Judith eat her ribs. Judith told Renie to take a hike. The cousins enjoyed their food and concentrated on Judith’s quandary about the catering business.
“It’s a double-edged sword,” Judith explained, noting that Mia still hadn’t returned from the washroom and that Nat had gone from brooding to fidgeting. She also observed that Dagmar was now absent from her place across the room. “The more outside catering dates I get, the more I’m forced to spend time away from the B&B. Doing receptions and cocktail parties at Hillside Manor isn’t a problem. I’m on the premises. But if I need Arlene to help me with an outside job, I have no permanent backup for the B&B.”
“Corinne Dooley has pitched in a couple of times,” Renie pointed out, spraying herself with lobster, but not seeming to mind. The bib she’d been given didn’t quite cover her tunic.