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
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
