Snow Place to Die : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery Page 6

“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

  44 / Mary Daheim

  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

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  46 / Mary Daheim

  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

  SNOW PLACE TO DIE / 47

  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?”

  48 / Mary Daheim

  “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

  SNOW PLACE TO DIE / 49

  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.”

  50 / Mary Daheim

  “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.

  SNOW PLACE TO DIE / 51

  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.”

  “Cut the sexist remarks,” Margo demanded in a shrill voice.

  “At least one of our lobbyists is a woman.”

  “So?” Max sneered at Margo. “If you ask me, she’d like to

  get in the sack with some cute little…”

  “Now, now,” reprimanded Killegrew, “let’s keep our plane

  in its landing pattern. We’ll skip all these local folks. I mean,

  persons. I’m calling the chief of police back in the city.”

  “Good idea,” said Ward.

  “You’re damned right,” agreed Max.

  “Could somebody describe Barry Newcombe?” asked

  Russell.

  “Call the chief,” Killegrew ordered Nadia. “Explain

  everything. He’ll know what we ought to do.”

  Judith knew what she had to do. It was after six, and she

  had to set up the buffet. Though no one heard her, she excused herself and headed for the kitchen. Renie followed.

  “It serves the chief right,” Judith said, getting a big ham

  out of the refrigerator. “He ought to have to put up with

  these self-centered morons. Joe says that under all that public

  bonhomie the chief is a stuffed shirt.”

  “I’ll carve the turkey breast,” Renie volunteered. “I

  52 / Mary Daheim

  gather you’ve had enough of the OTIOSE crowd.”