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?”

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

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