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

“ 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.