was the avocado dip.”
Judith frowned. “What about it?’
“That’s what he went out for,” Ward explained, opening
the refrigerator. “We had all these chips, and he’d made a
couple of special dips. But Margo or Max or somebody got
a hankering for avocados. Barry volunteered to get some, so
he took off and we never saw him again.” Ward removed
what was left of the ham from the fridge. “Personally, I’m
not much for avocados. They’re too danged squishy.”
As Ward began to carve the ham, Judith leaned against
the counter. “Weren’t you shocked when you got back to the
city and discovered he’d never shown up at all?”
Ward drew back, looking puzzled. “Well…not really. I
mean, people can be kind of odd. Anyway, he didn’t work
for me.”
Which, Judith thought with a pang, apparently made Barry
a nonentity. “Now that Barry’s body has been found,” Judith
began, carefully phrasing her words, “have you thought about
why he was killed?”
Ward was pulling out various drawers. “Nope. It sounds
kind of fishy to me.” He extracted a knife and fork, then
picked up his plate of ham. “I mean, we don’t know for sure
that he
with his long, awkward strides, “we don’t even know if it’s
Barry.”
On that jarring note, Ward Haugland left the kitchen.
“You know,” Judith sighed, “he’s right. We won’t know
until a positive ID is made by the police.”
“Shoot.” Renie picked at the ham that Ward had left on
the counter. “Are you saying Barry killed somebody else and
made it look as if he was the victim?”
“It’s been known to happen.” Judith poured out a glass of
cold apple cider. “If I had to guess—and you know I will—I’d
say that’s not the case. How many other people
would have been wandering around Mountain Goat Lodge
that Friday afternoon? I’m assuming the place was as
dead—excuse the expression—then as it is now. It’d be a
real stretch to have somebody show up that Barry wanted
to murder.”
“Unless it was prearranged,” Renie noted.
Judith reflected briefly. “No, I don’t think so. If you were
Barry, and there was someone you wanted to get out of the
way, would you have that person drive to Mountain Goat
Lodge, and then do him or her in less than a hundred yards
from where your company’s top executives were waiting for
their avocado dip? I don’t think so.”
“You have a point,” Renie allowed, “though whoever killed
Barry did just that.”
