Dead Man Docking (7 page)

Renie spoke without expression. “I'm on retainer since the cruise line moved its operations to San Francisco. It's a bit different now.”

“Ah.” Rhoda's gaze was shrewd. “I see.”

“I assume,” Renie said lightly, “you and your husband can afford not to work.”

Rhoda's smile was wry. “Oh, Ricky makes an occasional show of turning up in my father's bank headquarters. It pleases dear old Dad and temporarily keeps my darling spouse out of trouble. I understand the two of you are cousins.”

“Yes, but more like sisters,” Judith explained. “We were both only children who grew up two blocks from each other.
We're our own best friends. We've seen each other through—” She stopped suddenly, annoyed with herself for babbling like a brook. Rhoda St. George seemed to have turned the tables on Judith. Worse yet, Renie had already done an about-face.

Rhoda seemed unruffled by the abrupt end of the sentence. “Yes?”

Judith stared. “Yes? Er…that's it. I came with Serena because her husband couldn't make the trip.”

Rhoda sipped her martini and munched on the olive before speaking again. “But you didn't know any of these people personally?”

“No.”

Rhoda polished off the olive before turning back to Renie. “And you?”

“I knew Mags and Paul Tanaka,” Renie said, sounding slightly defensive. “What about your relationship with the rest of these people?”

Rhoda let out a little sigh. “Besides Mags and Connie, Rick and I are acquainted with the snooty Mrs. Giddon and her darling daughter, Anemone. We also know the pompous Pankhurst and Ambrose Everhart. I think we met Jim Brooks once, and Rick knew Captain Swafford from somewhere or other. Rick tends to know everyone.”

Judith frowned. “Ambrose Everhart? Which one was he?”

“The no-show,” Rhoda replied. “He's Mrs. Giddon's puppetlike private secretary.”

“Why didn't he come tonight?” Renie inquired.

“It does seem odd,” Rhoda said, putting her cigarette out in a lead-crystal ashtray. “Erma usually has him dancing attendance, in case she drops a canapé—or forgets to drop a name.”

Renie swirled the Drambuie in her glass. “What about Pankhurst?”

“Erma's attorney and business adviser,” Rhoda replied. “He, too, dances the dance. Though I suspect he's plying Erma for investment funds these days. Horace wants to build a museum in San Mateo.”

“To himself?” Renie inquired.

Rhoda shook her head; the perfectly coiffed auburn hair didn't move. “It's to be a cork museum. Sponges, too, I think.”

Judith gaped. “What for?”

“Oh—wine corks from all the world's finest labels—and the Napa Valley, naturally. Historic corks. Famous corks. Corked corks. Corks are beginning to lose favor, even with some of the finest vineyards. Thus, he figures they will become collector's items. Who cares? It's what's in the bottle that counts. As for the sponges…” Rhoda dismissed them with a shrug.

“What about the blond bombshell?” Renie queried. “CeeCee Something-or-other.”

“Orr,” Rhoda said. “Rhymes with…never mind.”

“More or less than a gold digger?” Judith asked.

“Why,” Renie put in, “does Mrs. Giddon allow her financial adviser to bring a cheap hussy on this cruise?”

“Who would you two think has the real leverage?” Rhoda queried.

“Who has the most money?” inquired Renie.

“What about influence?” Rhoda remarked.

“Influence or affluence?” said Judith.

The three women stared at one another and burst into laughter.

At that moment, the door opened and Rick St. George appeared, looking as dapper as ever. If he was startled to see the cousins, he didn't show it. “Ladies! Such a mirth-filled goddesslike trio! Given tonight's dire deeds, you should be somber, like the Fates. Which is Clotho, which is Lachesis, which is Atropos?”

“More like the Three Stooges,” Renie retorted. “Two of them, at least. Why don't you tell Curly and Moe here how dire
are
the deeds?”

“Yes, darling,” Rhoda put in, “I'm curious, too.”

Rick sailed his hat across the room; it landed atop an abstract marble sculpture. “Dire enough,” he replied, abandoning his urbane manner. “I'm afraid our host was stabbed to death.”

“Really!” Rhoda sounded only vaguely surprised. “That's a shame. Do you know who did it?”

“Not yet,” Rick responded, moving to the bar to fix himself yet another martini. “In fact, we aren't sure yet what weapon was used.”

“It wasn't in the body?” Rhoda asked in a curious tone.

“No dagger, no shiv, no butcher knife, no quaint native spear. Removed by the killer, I presume.” With a practiced hand, he wielded the martini shaker. “Might be that said weapon could be closely identified with the evildoer.”

“Was there very much blood?” Rhoda inquired. “I don't care for blood, as you well know.”

“Some blood, darling,” Rick replied, putting one foot on a leather footstool. “We won't dwell on it. Whoever did the dirty deed knew exactly where to strike the lethal blow.”

“And knew Mags well enough to get very close,” Rhoda said.

“That,” Rick declared, “doesn't rule out anyone at the party, including crew. But what's the motive? Come on, darling, let your intuition run amok.”

“Stabbing is very personal,” Rhoda mused. “I'm guessing the motive is about sex or love. That includes jealousy, of course.”

“You can't rule out hatred,” Rick said.

Rhoda patted her perfect curls. “But how many people carry an instrument that can be used to stab someone? Especially among this crowd.”

“The fair sex,” Rick replied, glancing at each of the women's feet. “Your high heels would be a perfect weapon.”

“True,” Rhoda agreed. “Maybe we're looking for a woman with four-inch stilettos who had been spurned by Mags. Or there's always the long metal nail file.”

Judith's headache was growing to epic proportions. “Excuse me,” she said in a piteous voice, “Serena and I must be getting back to our stateroom. All this conjecture makes my brain feel like it might explode.”

Rick and Rhoda eyed Judith with interest. “Do you,” Rick
asked, “enjoy those mystery party games or perhaps a rousing round of Clue?”

“No! I mean…yes! Yes,” Judith went on, lowering her voice. “I love to play mystery games. I even do the jigsaw-puzzle ones.”

Renie sniggered. “But she's terrible at it. She wouldn't recognize a clue if it fell in her cornflakes.”

Rick smiled benevolently. “It's not as tricky as you'd think, though I suppose it does require a certain knack. My adoring wife and I occasionally delve into the world of crime solving. Keeps us from getting bored.” He took another sip of his drink and hiccuped. “Also keeps us from passing out.”

Judith was on her feet; Renie followed her lead.

“We'll be passing out now,” Judith said. “Out of your suite, that is. Thanks for the drinks and the conversation.”

“Our pleasure,” Rhoda asserted. “We like meeting new people.”

“I do, too,” Judith agreed as Rick let them out and closed the door. “But,” she said to Renie as they moved toward their own suite, “are the St. Georges for real?”

“I'm not sure what you mean,” Renie replied, watching Judith unlock the door.

“They claim to be amateur sleuths—or at least Rick does,” Judith responded, sitting down on the sofa. “But their methods seem like guesswork.”

“Yours don't?” Renie retorted.

“Sometimes I guess,” Judith replied. “But my guesses are usually based on certain facts. You know how my logical mind works. Not to mention that I prefer merely talking to people. They tend to confide in me. They also let things slip out in casual conversation. That makes it easier to pick up on motivation as well as basic facts.”

“Certainly you've had your successes,” Renie remarked in a noncommittal voice as she poured two glasses of ice water. “Here,” she said, handing Judith one of the glasses. “Take your meds. I noticed just now that you were walking as if your hip hurts.”

With a grateful smile, Judith set the water down and reached for the pill case in her purse. “It does. So does my head. I was tired before this trip, and I still am. It's been a very long day.”

Renie agreed. “It's not ten o'clock, but I could drop off right now.”

“Mmm.” Judith swallowed her tablets. “We have to wait for our carry-ons. Why don't you start getting ready for bed? I'll stay until the bags come.”

Renie eyed her cousin curiously. “You're the one who's hurting. I'll wait. Besides, I'm not sure how well I'll sleep, being so worried about my financial future.”

Judith didn't say anything for a few moments, and when she did, it was not of sleep that she spoke. “When is a weapon not a weapon?”

“Huh?”

“Rick had at least one good idea when he mentioned the heel of a woman's shoe,” Judith explained. “Stiletto shoes are called that because they have a thin steel rod to support the foot. But I don't think he's right about the weapon disappearing because it could be identified with the killer. Why not just toss it overboard? And what would be at hand in these circumstances? Cutlery, an ice pick, even some part of the decor. It may or may not have been premeditated, so we have to figure out if the murderer was prepared or had to use whatever was at hand.”

Renie's expression was sardonic. “‘We'?”

Judith looked away from her cousin. “Don't be a smart-mouth. Was there ever any doubt?”

Renie grinned. “Of course not.”

Judith didn't smile back. “But,” she said grimly, “there
is
competition.”

T
HE COUSINS WERE
still making conjectures about the weapon when they heard a knock on their door. Judith watched as Renie greeted a youngish man dressed in a dark suit and muted tie.

“Mrs. Flynn?” he said, holding out the carry-on bags for inspection.

“I'm Mrs. Jones,” Renie said. “That's Mrs. Flynn on the sofa. Thanks very much. Wait. I must give you something for your trouble.”

“No, no, no,” the flustered young man replied. “I'm not a crew member. I'm Ambrose Everhart, Mrs. Giddon's secretary. I had to come aboard tonight to assist her in this time of travail.”

“Oh.” Renie smiled as Ambrose entered the stateroom and placed the bags next to the sofa. “You missed the party.”

“Yes.” Ambrose looked upset. He was of medium height with thinning blond hair and glasses. “It's probably a good thing that I did. How very sad.”

“You knew Mr. Cruz quite well?” Judith asked, getting up to shake the newcomer's hand.

Ambrose cleared his throat. “Well…no, not particularly. But I'd had dealings—professional, of course—
with him upon occasion, such as arranging for Mrs. Giddon and her daughter to go on this cruise.”

Renie moved to the bar. “Let us at least thank you with a glass of…whatever you like to put in a glass.”

“I don't drink,” Ambrose replied primly. “Really, I should be on my way. Mrs. Giddon requires my services.”

“As a matter of fact,” Judith said, “my cousin and I were just about to call on Mrs. Giddon. We wanted to make sure she was all right. Mrs. Cruz and Ms. Beales seemed to require all of Dr. Selig's attention. Why don't we go with you?”

Ambrose seemed taken aback. “Well…of course Jim Brooks fancies himself a doctor. But,” he went on with a somber expression, “he isn't. Yet. Yes, why not join me? I must warn you, though—Mrs. Giddon's undoubtedly distraught.”

“That's understandable,” Judith said, though she remembered that Mrs. Giddon had seemed more annoyed than upset over Magglio Cruz's death.

The trio went down the passageway to the W. C. Fields suite. Ambrose Everhart knocked discreetly on the door. “I've always wondered,” he murmured, “what the
W.C.
stood for?”

“Water closet,” Renie retorted as Horace Pankhurst opened the door.

“Everhart,” he growled. “It's about time.”

“I had a very important meeting that I had to attend before we left town,” Ambrose said stiffly.

Jim Brooks was sitting next to Anemone on a circular sofa. “The Cal alumni association?” He sneered.

“Oh, please don't start in on that, Jimmy,” Anemone begged. She was wearing an emerald-green satin bathrobe and held an ice bag to her head. “I'm glad I went to Mills. We never had silly college rivalries like Cal-Berkeley and Stanford do.”

Erma Giddon sat like an empress in a capacious purple armchair. She wore a robe that looked like gold damask and
a pair of pearl earrings the size of quail eggs. Judith felt that the only thing missing was a tiara.

“This is no time for petty arguments,” Erma asserted. “Really, Ambrose, you should have skipped your meeting. You missed a very nice party. That is, until Mr. Cruz died. It went downhill after that.”

“I'm so sorry, Mrs. Giddon,” Ambrose apologized, busily collecting dirty glassware, crumpled napkins, and other discards from various surfaces. “If you'd tell me where the proper recycling receptacles are…?”

Jim pointed to the bar. “They're under there. For God's sake,” he went on with a sarcastic expression, “don't make a mistake and put paper with aluminum.”

Ambrose was affronted. “You know I'd never do such a thing.”

Erma acted as if she'd just noticed Judith and Renie. “Excuse me, is there something we can do for you two?”

Judith's manner was sympathetic. “We thought we might be able to be of some assistance.”

“Such as what?” Erma huffed. “My maid, Beulah, will be joining us when we sail. Naturally, she didn't come to the party, being a servant as well as colored.”

“Colored what?” Renie said.

Erma looked at Renie as if she should have been put in the recycling bin along with the rest of the garbage. But Anemone spoke first, her voice high and jagged.

“I'm hungry. Do you think I could get something to eat? The stateroom fridge has only snack food.”

Jim seemed offended. “Why didn't you say so, love biscuit? I could've done that.”

“I can, too,” Ambrose said eagerly. “Now that I'm here.”

Horace Pankhurst, who had been pacing the room, stopped in his tracks. “Come, come. You should leave such things to me. I wield a great amount of influence with Captain Swafford and his crew.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Horace,” Erma put in. “I'm her mother, I can feed my own child.”

Renie, however, had already picked up the phone. She turned to Anemone. “What appeals to you?”

“A taco salad,” Anemone replied, her voice reverting to its usual softness. “With chicken.”

Renie dialed the galley's number and placed the order. Apparently, there were obstacles. “Good grief,” Renie barked, “can't somebody do takeout? I'm not asking for a six-course meal.” She shut up as the response came back. “Good,” she said, “and make it snappy.”

With limpid blue eyes, Anemone expressed her thanks to Renie. Her mother, however, glowered.

“You might have asked if you could use our telephone,” Erma grumbled.

“It's a pay phone?” Renie shot back. “There wasn't time. Your daughter was about to expire from starvation.”

“Hardly,” Erma retorted. “But as long as you two are here, and Beulah isn't, you could render a service. Please hang up our evening gowns. They're in the boudoir on one of the beds. Or perhaps the floor.”

“Hey,” Renie began, “we're guests, and—”

“We'd be delighted,” Judith broke in. “That's why,” she went on, flashing her cousin a warning glance, “we came here.” With a shove at Renie's back, she headed through the open door on their left.

“You're forgetting the first rule of sleuthing,” Judith said after she'd closed the door behind them. “Never overlook an opportunity to snoop.”

“You're absolutely right,” Renie said, picking up Anemone's lavender organza gown from the floor. “I'm not as experienced as you in such matters, but for the sake of my money, I'd search for secret panels and trapdoors.” She nodded at the large studio portrait of W. C. Fields on the opposite wall. “The safe's probably behind that picture. Mae West is hiding it in our bedroom.” Renie moved the picture a couple of inches. “Yep, there it is. I'm going to leave W. C. Fields tilted. If ever someone could drive a person to drink, it'd be Erma Giddon. What was that Fields quote when the
doctor told him he'd have to quit drinking or he'd lose his hearing? Fields said he wouldn't quit because he liked what he drank a lot more than what he heard.”

“Unfortunately, that can make perfect sense,” Judith said, carefully placing Erma's capacious lace and taffeta dress on a satin-covered hanger.

“Wow—that's what I call a corset!” Renie exclaimed, holding up Erma's foundation garment. “This looks like it was engineered by NASA.”

“Erma is a very large woman,” Judith said. “It's a good thing Anemone doesn't seem to have inherited her genes. Mr. Giddon must have been slim. I'd describe their daughter as almost wispy.”

“It looks as if they've brought most of their luggage,” Renie remarked, surveying the various sizes of suitcases stacked in a corner. “Of course it hasn't been unpacked,” she added with obvious sarcasm, “since Beulah is colored and therefore not allowed on board until the cruise gets under way.”

“I wonder,” Judith mused, “how Erma got on with the other ethnic types at the party, including Magglio Cruz. Given her bigotry, I marvel that they're friends, or at least acquaintances.”

“She probably considers him another servant, if of a higher class,” Renie said, tossing lingerie into a laundry hamper. “Not to mention that money erases color lines.”

“I suppose,” Judith said in a detached voice. She was staring at a black velvet case on the dressing table. “This looks like a jewel box. The key is lying next to it.” She couldn't resist taking a peek. “Good Lord,” she said softly, “have a look.”

The parure of diamonds and emeralds lay on top, but underneath were ruby necklaces, pearl ropes, and more diamonds.

“There must be a fortune in here,” Renie said in an awed voice. “Why isn't this case in the safe? We don't have anything to hide in ours unless you count chewing gum and breath mints.”

“Because Erma's wearing those big pearl earrings?” Judith guessed. “She hasn't finished flashing her gewgaws yet.”

“Very impressive,” Renie said as Judith closed the case and locked it. “I'll bet she left a bunch more at home.”

“Anemone doesn't seem to be into jewels,” Judith remarked. “She didn't wear any tonight except for her engagement ring. It's a very simple, small diamond set in white gold. I'm not interested in Erma's gems or Anemone's lack thereof. I'm intrigued by the personalities that make people behave as they do. For example, Erma has a large appetite—for food, for jewels, for everything she can buy to fill up the emptiness inside. Anemone—perhaps learning how
not
to live from her mother—has chosen a simpler lifestyle. Is it because she knows her mother is wrong—or because she somehow feels guilty about the old girl's excesses and is depriving herself to make amends?”

“Anemone didn't deprive herself of a taco salad,” Renie noted.

“That's my point,” Judith said, sliding the closet doors shut. “She wasn't going to gorge, she was only satisfying her hunger. Really, aside from you, I didn't notice anybody overloading their appetizer plates.”

“Let's not talk about me,” Renie said, attempting to look innocent. “In fact, did you notice the dresser set in here?”

“You mean the very long nail file with the crystal handle? Yes. We have one in our stateroom. There's also a long, sharp letter opener next to the stationery and postcards.”

“Weapons galore,” Renie murmured.

“But not the kind you'd take to a cocktail party,” Judith noted. “We'd better get out of here. We've done everything that needs to be done. Erma will wonder what's keeping us.”

Renie followed. “Maybe they'll let us swab the deck.”

But the cousins' return went unnoticed. Erma was holding court, pounding her strong fists against the sides of her chair. “Really, Ambrose, you are so careless! You know I never go anywhere without Wilbur!”

“Please,” the secretary beseeched his employer, “I
arranged for Wilbur to be brought on board first thing tomorrow morning along with the rest of the baggage.”

Erma began to shake with anger. “Do not ever refer to my husband as baggage! He was a very great man! If we weren't about to leave the city, I'd fire you on the spot!”

“Now, now,” Horace began, but was cut short by an imperious wave of Erma's hand.

“Oh, Mumsy, do calm yourself,” Anemone urged, visibly upset. “Popsy will be with us. He always is,” she added in a voice that was a trifle gloomy.

A knock sounded at the door. None of the Giddon entourage seemed inclined to respond, though Erma was regaining control of her emotions.

“The trouble with you, Ambrose,” she said stiffly, “is that you aren't focused. You have outside interests, and they interfere with your job. You must decide what's more important—your so-called causes or your paycheck.”

The knock sounded again. “Keep your shirt on! I'm coming!” Renie shouted, startling the others.

The waiter with the shaved head and goatee was holding a tray with a large and inviting taco salad. “Thanks,” Renie said. “Say—could you find another one of those for me?”

The waiter shrugged.

“Anybody else?” Renie called over her shoulder.

No one answered, though Erma glared.

“Never mind,” Renie told the waiter. “I'll chew on the furniture.”

“I'll share,” Anemone offered. “I can't eat all this. It's enormous.”

“Thanks,” Renie said. “I'll get another fork from the bar.”

Horace was scowling. “You didn't tip the waiter,” he said to Renie. “Now the gratuity will appear on Mrs. Giddon's cruise bill. It's an automatic eighteen percent, plus a courtesy tip.”

“That sounds very civilized,” Renie said, purposely making a loud clatter by dropping several forks. “Whoa! Just like pickup sticks!”

Judith wondered if it wouldn't be better if Renie took a portion of the salad back to their own stateroom. Her headache was abating, but her hip still hurt.

She was about to make the suggestion when Jim Brooks produced a stethoscope from a black leather case. “It might be a good idea if I checked everyone's vitals. Obviously, Dr. Selig doesn't have time to tend to everyone's needs.”

Anemone looked up from her taco salad. “Oh, Sir Hugsalot, what a terrific idea! Me first!”

“Thanks,” Judith said, motioning for Renie to follow her, “but all we need is some sleep. Good night, everyone.”

Renie stuffed a large forkful of lettuce, avocado, and chicken in her mouth before reluctantly taking her leave. “You might have given me a couple more minutes,” she groused on the way back to their suite. “I'd have had free rein on that salad while Anemone let Jim find out if she has a pulse.”

Loud voices startled Judith as she was sliding the key card through its slot. “Where's that coming from?” she asked, turning in all directions.

“The Giddon menagerie?” Renie suggested.

Judith shook her head and withdrew the key card. “I don't think so. Listen.”