Mary Daheim - Snow Place to Die - A Bed-and-breakfast Mystery

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?”