daren’t discuss it!”
Judith smiled indulgently. “Of course you can’t. How
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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 cousins 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,
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“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
Killegrew. “First aid!”
Grudgingly, the company stepped aside, except for Leon,
who was still on his hands and knees. Andrea hovered over
Russell, whose eyes looked glazed. Under the thinning fair
hair, Judith could see a bump beginning to rise.
“Mr. Craven,” Judith said softly as she applied the ice bag.
“What’s your first name?”
His eyes didn’t quite focus, and he winced when he felt
the ice. His mouth worked, but nothing came out.
“What’s your first name?” Judith repeated.
“Barry,” Russell replied, and passed out.
Max Agasias had finally simmered down, so much, in fact,
that he and Ward Haugland carried Russell Craven to one
of the lobby’s three long sofas. Andrea, who had hurriedly
helped Leon pick up the rest of his cake, took over from Judith. Her plump, motherly figure was perched on the sofa
arm where she held the ice bag to Russell’s head.
“I won’t take back what I said,” Max declared, pouring
himself a single shot of Canadian whiskey from the make- 70 / Mary Daheim
shift bar Judith and Renie had set up earlier. “Craven and
the rest of those R&D bastards don’t know a damned thing
about marketing.”
“Now, now,” soothed Killegrew, “let’s not bore more holes
in the corporate ship, Max. We all have to work together
and try to understand what goes on in each other’s shop.”
“That’s my point,” Max railed. “Nobody in this company
understands marketing! But R&D is the worst. You cut our
budget for their sake, and we’ll be out selling door-to-door!”
“You won’t have anything to sell,” Ava put in, “if R&D
doesn’t come up with new product. Put a sock in it, Max.
You made your point.”
He’d also made quite a lump on Russell Craven’s head,
but at least Max’s victim had come around. Andrea offered
him a glass of water or a snifter of brandy. Russell said he’d
prefer coffee, strong and black. Judith started back to the
kitchen.
She met Renie in the dining room. “What’s up?” Renie
asked. “Is somebody else dead?”
Judith shook her head. “Just wounded. I’m going to make
coffee.”
Nadia was still in the kitchen, fussing about, apparently
trying to find busy work to calm her nerves. “Is Russell all
right?” she asked when she saw Judith.
“He’s got a nasty bump on his head, but I think he’ll be
fine,” Judith replied, removing a regular-sized coffeemaker