“Eeek!” cried a voice somewhere over Judith’s head. “My
hose! I’m being attacked by an animal! I feel fur and disgusting warmth!”
“What is it?” inquired an anxious male voice. “Not a porcupine, surely.”
Judith grabbed Sweetums with both hands and dragged
him out from under the table. “Sorry,” she apologized again.
“My husband must have let him in when he went to work.”
“I hate cats,” said the woman who had first complained.
4 / Mary Daheim
“Cats carry all kinds of dread disease,” stated a man at the
end of the table.
“That cat looks mean,” remarked a woman who was
sprinkling powdered sugar on her pancakes. “Is he rabid?”
Sweetums was now sitting by the swinging doors, his long,
fluffy tail curled around his large orange, white, and gray
body. The yellow eyes narrowed and the whiskers twitched.
“He’s a very healthy cat,” Judith declared in a defensive
tone. “I’ll take him outside. Come on, Sweetums. Let’s go
eat some birds.”
A gasp went up from some of the guests. Judith immediately realized she should have kept her mouth shut. But this
time she didn’t apologize. Nudging Sweetums with her foot,
she guided him into the kitchen, down the narrow hall past
the pantry and the back stairs, and out onto the porch.
Sweetums balked. It was extremely cold, as befitted the
third week of January. Heavy dark clouds hung in low over
Heraldsgate Hill. Despite the budding camellia bushes and
the green forsythia shoots, Judith sensed that winter was far
from over. She didn’t blame Sweetums for not wanting to
stay outside. Maybe he’d be satisfied visiting Judith’s mother
in the converted toolshed. Gertrude Grover was probably
champing at the bit, awaiting her own breakfast.
Judith went back into the kitchen to prepare her mother’s
morning repast. Then she and the cat trudged down the
walkway to the small apartment. Gertrude opened the door
and offered her daughter a knuckle sandwich.
“You’re late, you moron,” Gertrude snarled. “It’s sevenforty-nine. I’m practically ready to keel over from starvation.”
Her small eyes brightened as Judith uncovered the plastic
tray. “Flapjacks, huh? You got any little pigs?”
“Not today,” Judith replied as Sweetums sniffed around
the legs of Gertrude’s walker. “Bacon, not too crisp, just the
way you like it, swimming in its own grease.”
“Mmm.” Gertrude seemed appeased. “Did you warm the
syrup?”
SNOW PLACE TO DIE / 5
“Of course.” Judith began setting the breakfast things on
Gertrude’s card table, which was littered with magazines,
jumble puzzles, candy boxes, candy wrappers, and half a
chocolate Santa. Gertrude had already eaten the head and
shoulders, and was obviously working her way through the
little round belly. Though bacon, eggs, and pancakes might
not be the most wholesome of foodstuffs, Judith consoled
herself that at least they weren’t sweets. In recent years,
Gertrude had begun to reject such items as fruit, vegetables,
and almost anything else that was healthy. The problem had
been exacerbated by the holidays. Gertrude had stockpiled
sugary treats given by friends, relatives, and neighbors. If
her mother had had any of her own teeth left, Judith guessed
that they would have fallen out by New Year’s Eve.
Returning to the house, Judith tended to her guests’ latest,
not always reasonable requests, and tried to keep smiling.
She knew she was suffering from the usual post-holiday
doldrums. Traditionally, January was a slow month in the
hostelry business, but this year had proved to be an exception. For the first time since Judith had converted the family
home into a B&B almost eight years earlier, Hillside Manor
was booked through the twenty-first. Following on the heels
of the holiday season with its professional and personal
hustle-and-bustle, Judith could have used a respite. But there
was none, and she was tired, cranky, and drained of her
usual cheerful enthusiasm.
It was eight-thirty by the time the guests had finished
breakfast. Two couples had drifted into the living room to
drink coffee in front of the fireplace, and the others had gone
upstairs to prepare for checkout. Judith dialed Renie’s number, propped the portable phone between her shoulder and
ear, and loaded the dishwasher.
“You’re late,” Renie snapped. “I was ready to drive over
to see if you’d died.”
“Just busy, coz,” Judith replied in a listless voice. “Anyway,
the answer is no. I’ve got a full house this week- 6 / Mary Daheim
end and I’m really beat. Today’s Tuesday, and if this event
is set for Friday, that doesn’t give me much time to put together a menu that’ll last through the long weekend.”
“Oh. Okay. Bye.”
“Wait!” Annoyed with herself for letting Renie goad her,
Judith slapped a hand against the dishwasher lid. “I mean,
you’re not mad?”
“Huh? No. That’s fine. See you.”
“But what will you do?” Judith asked anxiously. “You said
you were in a bind.”
“I’ll kill myself. I’m getting a noose out of the broom closet
even as we speak.” Renie’s voice was unnaturally placid.
“Now where’s a box I can stand on?”
“Dammit, you’re making me feel guilty.”
“That’s okay. You’ll forget all about it when Bill keels over
from grief and you and Joe end up with our three kids. They
may be adults legally, but they’re still a financial drain. Unlike
you, we haven’t been able to marry ours off.”
Judith’s mind flashed back to Mike and Kristin’s wedding
the previous summer. It had been wonderful; it had been
terrible. Judith had felt the wrench of parting with her only
son, and had somehow temporarily buried her feelings by
trying to help her homicide detective husband catch a murderer. But during the months that followed, the sense of loss
had deepened. Even though Mike hadn’t lived at home for
several years, his marriage had been a major life change for
Judith. He and his bride worked as park rangers some four
hundred miles away in Idaho, but they were due to be
transferred. The new posting could take them almost anywhere in the fifty states, and Judith feared she wouldn’t see
her son and his wife more than once a year. The hollow
feeling wouldn’t go away, and Judith knew it was another
reason she felt not only tired, but suddenly old.
“When do you make your presentation?” Judith asked,
forcing herself out of her reverie.
“Friday,” Renie answered, no longer placid. “I told you,
it’s just for a day. Can’t Arlene Rankers help you
SNOW PLACE TO DIE / 7
throw some crap together for these bozos? Bring her along.
You’ll be up at the lodge for about six hours, and they’ll pay
you three grand.”
“Arlene’s getting ready for her annual jaunt to Palm Desert
with Carl, and… three grand?” Judith’s jaw dropped.
“Right.” The smirk in Renie’s voice was audible. “OTIOSE
pays well. Why do you think I’m so anxious to peddle my
pretty little proposals? I could make a bundle off these phone
company phonies.”
“Wow.” Judith leaned against the kitchen counter. “That
would pay off our Christmas bills and then some. Six hours,