“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,
“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-
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
