What do you do with memos to yourself after you’ve polished them off?”
“I toss them,” Renie replied. “But this came out of a daybook. People don’t usually rip out the pages, they just move
on to the next one. I write my reminders on whatever spare
piece of paper I can find.”
“Good point.” Judith refolded the list and put it in her
shoulder bag. “I think I’ll hang on to this. Maybe something
will come to me.”
The cousins entered the kitchen from the back way,
through the laundry room. “We should wash our clothes
after dinner,” Renie said. “I don’t think we’re getting out of
here tonight. It’s still snowing, but not as hard.”
Dolefully, Judith shook her head. “Meanwhile, Mother is
dangling by her thumbs from one of the coat hangers Aunt
Ellen made out of macaroni for Christmas presents.”
“Macaroni?” Renie frowned. “The ones my mother got
were fusilli. They’re kind of brittle.”
Judith opened the oven. “I got a wreath shaped from
manicotti.”
“Mine was a lampshade of egg noodles. It melted when
Bill screwed in a hundred-and-fifty-watt bulb.”
“Joe took the wreath to work and hung it in the deputy
chief’s office. He ate it.”
Renie giggled. “He did not!”
“I only know what Joe tells me. Aunt Ellen’s a dear, but
SNOW PLACE TO DIE / 185
she does send the strangest presents.” Judith removed the
bean dish and set it on the counter. “Speaking of Joe’s coworkers, I wonder if anyone from the department has tried
to get hold of Frank Killegrew.”
“We wouldn’t know if they had,” Renie pointed out.
The cousins busied themselves with dishing up dinner. It
was almost six-thirty when they announced that the meal
was served. Ava suggested that Judith and Renie join them.
“There’s plenty of room at the table,” Ava said in a sardonic tone.
Judith felt like asking if she could charge for overtime, but
thought better of it. Getting out in one piece seemed like her
greatest priority. She exchanged questioning glances with
Renie, then decided they might as well sit with the others.
At first, there was little conversation except for requests to
pass the salt and pepper.
Judith chose to enliven the atmosphere. “Have any of you
ever met the lodge’s caretaker?”
All eyes regarded her with curiosity, but it was Margo who
responded. “How could we? This place is off-limits during
the retreat.”
“I heard he was an odd duck,” Max put in.
“Who told you that?” Killegrew demanded.
Max looked blank. “Ward? I think he mentioned it when
we were here last year.”
“That’s right,” Ava chimed in. “Ward said he was a Korean
War vet who’d gotten his brains scrambled.”
“How would Ward know?” Killegrew grumbled. “Ward
never served our great country.” He jabbed a thumb at Gene.
“Neither did you. Weren’t you a draft dodger during the Vietnam conflict?”
“I was 4-F,” Gene replied with dignity. “I suffered from
asthma until I was in my early twenties.”
Killegrew turned his hostile gaze on Russell. “Then you’re
the one who went to Canada.”
“I was a conscientious objector,” Russell asserted. “I served
as a medic.”
186 / Mary Daheim
Killegrew harumphed. “If I’d known that when I hired
you, I wouldn’t have. Hired you, I mean. Is that in your
personnel file?”
“I don’t know,” Russell responded, looking affronted.
“Andrea kept all our files. I never bothered to check mine.
Those things aren’t important to me.”
“What difference does it make?” Margo asked in a vexed
voice. “That’s ancient history. How did we get off on this
stupid subject, anyway?”
“The caretaker,” Judith said meekly. “I was wondering if
the laugh we heard this afternoon might have been him.”
No one seemed very comfortable with the suggestion. “It
better not be,” Killegrew said, still irked. “He’s supposed to
stay away.”
“Then who was it?” Ava inquired. “Ms. Flynn has a point.
Somebody was out there.”
Nadia, who had poured herself a glass of white wine,
waved a slim, dismissive hand. “It’s a moot point. We can’t
see outside, so we don’t know what’s happening. It could
have been the ski patrol.”
“We might see from upstairs,” said Max. “When Gene and
I took Ward to the third floor, we got a better view, at least
to the east. I didn’t see anything. Did you?” He turned to
Gene.
Gene shook his head. “I didn’t look. All I wanted to do
was get out of there. It’s not pleasant being in a room with
corpses.”
“Rudy Mannheimer.” It was Max who spoke. “That was
the caretaker’s name. Ward told me he’s been up here for
several years. He’s an antisocial S.O.B., and this is a perfect
job for him.”
“We can see to the east and west,” Killegrew noted, his
manner more amiable. “From our rooms on the second floor,
I mean. Not now, though. It’s dark.”
Judith frowned at the non sequitur. There wasn’t an opportunity to dwell on it; Max wanted to know where Nadia had
gotten her wine.
SNOW PLACE TO DIE / 187
“Over there,” Nadia replied, indicating a mahogany cabinet
that reached almost to the ceiling. “That’s where they keep
several types of wine, including some rather nice French
vintages.”
Gene, Margo, and Ava fairly galloped to the cabinet. A
supply of glasses filled one shelf. Amid the extraction of corks
and pouring of wine, Frank Killegrew requested “something
reddish but not real dark.” Nadia found a rosé, and refilled
her own glass. Russell shyly asked if he might have a sweet
wine, perhaps with blackberries. Max said to hell with it, he
wasn’t much of a wine drinker, and went off to the lobby to
mix another martini.
“He went alone!” Nadia gasped, handing Russell a blackberry cordial. “Do you think…?”
Judith found Max quite safe, unless the double he was
pouring construed a potential danger. “I’m the one who was
on the second floor with the killer, remember?” he said when
Judith expressed concern. “Whoever it was went for Ward,
not for me. I figure I’m safe.”
“I’m not sure anybody’s safe,” Judith said. “It doesn’t pay
to get careless.”
Max took a big drink from the martini glass. “It doesn’t
seem to matter, does it? Whoever our killer is somehow
manages to get the job done.” He waved a big paw at the
collection of bottles. “You want something? You’re Scotchrocks, right?”
“Yes.” Judith smiled, surprised that Max would have noticed. But of course he was a marketing man; such types were
paid to acquaint themselves with the habits of potential
customers and thus to win their hearts, minds, and new accounts.
“Here,” he said, deftly pouring the whiskey over a halfdozen cubes. “How come you aren’t cowering in a corner?”
“I don’t work for OTIOSE,” Judith replied. “Besides, my
cousin and I have our insurance policy.”
Max downed the rest of the double, then began mixing
188 / Mary Daheim
another. “We’ve all seen the garrote, the empty pill bottle,
and the pillowcase. They don’t add up to much, if you ask
me.” He loomed over Judith, his hazel eyes glinting dangerously. “What else have you got? It must be something you