bosses, they handle correspondence, they know all the gossip.
They can be a great source of information, which means their
importance goes far beyond their lowly titles and puny
paychecks.”
“Interesting,” Judith murmured. “Maybe that’s what got
Barry killed.”
Renie shuddered. “I hope not. I kind of like Nadia’s hermit
theory.”
“It’s comforting,” Judith allowed, then turned a dour face
to Renie. “The only problem is, I don’t believe it.”
FIVE
A FEW MINUTES before eight, the cousins went downstairs
to get some food. They had snooped around on the second
floor until they found a staircase that led from the west end
of the main corridor to a small hallway off the laundry room
and the rear entrance. A quick peek into the dining room
told them that the conferees had finished eating. Judging
from the hum of conversation, they had regrouped in the
lobby.
“Who tidied up?” Judith inquired, noting that the big
round table had been cleared away and the sideboard swept
clean.
“Nadia, I suppose,” Renie replied, opening the refrigerator.
“Maybe someone was kind enough to help her.”
The cousins loaded plates with ham and turkey sandwiches, raw vegetables, and what was left of the potato salad
Judith had made from Gertrude’s legendary recipe. They
were about to return upstairs when Ward Haugland entered
the kitchen.
“You’re still here, huh?” His smile was off-center and selfconscious. “I guess you can’t get out in this storm.”
“That’s right,” Renie replied. “We’re marooned. I don’t
suppose you’ve heard a weather forecast?”
61
62 / Mary Daheim
Ward shook his head. “Nope. There’s no radio or TV at
Mountain Goat. That’s one of the reasons we pick this place
for the retreats. Frank doesn’t want any pleasurecraft bobbing
around our corporate ship of state. Or something like that,”
he added with an uncertain frown.
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.
SNOW PLACE TO DIE / 63
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
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
64 / Mary Daheim
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
SNOW PLACE TO DIE / 65
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
66 / Mary Daheim
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 slumped 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
SNOW PLACE TO DIE / 67
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
68 / Mary Daheim
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 cousi
ns 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,
SNOW PLACE TO DIE / 69
“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