Dead Man Docking

by Mary Daheim

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  Mary Daheim

  “It looks like they’ve been everywhere,” Judith remarked, handing Renie a small snifter of Drambuie.

  “And done everything, I should imagine,” Renie replied.

  “I wish we’d sent our bags ahead,” Judith said, adding a dash of water to her scotch rocks. “We’ll have to sleep in what we’ve got on.”

  “You’re right.” Renie tasted her Drambuie as Rhoda emerged from the adjoining suite.

  “Asthma is tucked in,” she informed the cousins, finally removing her hat and her bejeweled jacket. “Ah.” She saw the martini glass on the bar. “Thank you. This has been a really tiring event. By the way, did I overhear you mention not having any essentials on board?”

  “Unfortunately,” Renie replied, “we don’t. We didn’t expect to spend the night here.”

  Rhoda picked up the ship’s phone. “I can fix that. Will carry-ons do or would you prefer all of it?”

  Judith had to admit to herself that Rhoda was not only friendly—if almost as goofy as Renie—but also helpful.

  “Yes, the carry-ons are fine. We both keep what we need most in case the airline loses the rest of our baggage.”

  Rhoda nodded. “The St. Francis?”

  Judith confirmed that they were staying there. Rhoda keyed in a number and made the request. “There you go. It shouldn’t take long for the bags to arrive.”

  The three women seated themselves in a trio of dark red armless chairs placed in a semicircle around a glass and chrome coffee table.

  “Did you know Mr. Cruz very well?” Renie inquired. Rhoda slipped a cigarette into her silver holder. “Yes. I met him years ago in Los Angeles. He was just starting out with a small sightseeing line out of San Pedro. Actually,” she went on, reaching for a cigarette lighter that matched the holder, “I met Connie first, before either of us was married. I’d come out from New York with my father to watch one of his horses run in the Santa Anita Handicap. Connie’s father was a well-known owner and trainer. Two of his Thorough-

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  breds finished in the money at Belmont and several others were big winners in Europe, especially at Longchamps, outside of Paris. Connie had seen quite a bit of the world and was quite sophisticated. We found we had a great deal in common.”

  “So the two of you hit it off,” Judith remarked, telling herself that she wasn’t sleuthing, merely displaying her natural interest in other people.

  Rhoda nodded. “By background, Connie was a California girl who knew all the best shops and restaurants. We kept in touch over the years, which wasn’t that difficult, since she often accompanied her father to the East Coast and European tracks. I was a bridesmaid at her wedding to Mags. He began to expand his business, and had just moved up your way when Rick and I were married.” Again, Rhoda paused. For a brief instant Judith thought she noticed the glimmer of tears in the other woman’s eyes. But Rhoda blinked several times, pressed her lips together, and turned to Renie. “You’re a graphic-design consultant to Cruz Cruises, correct?”

  Maybe, Judith thought, the rich really are different. They keep tight rein on both their money and their emotions. Renie was answering the query. “I’ve worked with them for almost four years.”

  “And still do?” Rhoda asked in an artless manner. 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. 70

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  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.”

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  “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 mirthfilled 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.”

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  “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

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  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 jigsawpuzzle 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.”

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  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 smartmouth. Was there ever any doubt?”

  Renie grinned. “Of course not.”

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

  SEVEN

  THE 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—

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  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.

  “Eve
rhart,” 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

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  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.”