Snow Place to Die : A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery Page 8

  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?”

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  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

  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

  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