Dead Man Docking

by Mary Daheim

  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.”

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  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

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  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.”

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  “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

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  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!”

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  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.”

  The cousins stood quietly in the passageway. Judith distinguished two men, arguing. “There’s nobody in sight. They can’t be in the staterooms. I don’t think their voices would carry out here.”

  “A stairway?” Renie offered.

  “Could be. But where? We took the elevator.”

  “Amidships, at least. There must be more, though. How about toward the bow? That’d be closer.”

  Judith didn’t argue. Renie, after all, was the daughter of a seafaring man, and knew more about ships than which side was port and which was starboard. The cousins trudged back the way they’d come from the Giddon suite. The voices grew closer.

  “One of them is Biff McDougal,” Judith whispered as they slowed their pace. “I don’t recognize the other one.”

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  Judith and Renie stopped just short of the stairway. The men were no longer shouting, but Biff still sounded angry.

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “But one step out of line, and you’re in the hoosegow for good, Blackie.”

  “I’m telling ya,” the man called Blackie replied, “I’ve gone straight. Ask Mr. St. George.”

  “Yeah, right, sure,” Biff replied, lowering his voice to a mutter as they continued up the companionway. “If you even look cross-eyed, I’m going to Captain Swafford and let him . . .”

  The next words were inaudible. Judith and Renie stared at each other.

  “Blackie?” Renie said.

  “Blackie. By the way, you have sour cream on your chin.”

  Haphazardly, Renie rubbed at her chin. “Why the warning? McDougal makes Blackie sound like a crook. Isn’t all this a bit unreal?”

  Judith paused halfway to their suite and gave her cousin a hard look. “You’re not suggesting that it’s staged, are you? We’ve traveled that route before.”

  “No, no,” Renie asserted. “That couldn’t happen to us twice. It’s the atmosphere, I guess. All this thirties stuff makes me feel as if I’m time-traveling or in an old movie.”

  “You’re right,” Judith said, opening the stateroom door.

  “We may not have been around during that era, but we’ve seen so much of it in movies and on TV that it’s very familiar. Let’s face it, Cruz Cruises has chosen an evocative theme for its new ship.”

  “True,” Renie agreed, unzipping her carry-on bag.

  “They’re not the only ones. I understand the new Queen Mary is bringing back the decor from the thirties. I frequently run across that concept these days in design work. It was such a period of contradictions. On the one hand, you had the nightmare of the Great Depression. On the other hand, you had people knocking themselves out to have a good time. Prohibition ended, all of the arts were exploding with new ideas, technology was rapidly improving—and over it all loomed the prospect of war.”

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  “Serena Jones, historian,” Judith teased. “You still have sour cream on your chin.”

  “Hunh,” Renie muttered, looking in the mirrored glass on the coffee table. “I might as well cleanse myself completely by taking a bath. I assume you’ll use the shower in the morning.”

  “Yes,” Judith said. She preferred showers since she’d had the hip replacement. Getting in and out of a tub was difficult—and dangerous.

  Judith was sipping ice water and sorting through her carry-on bag when a knock sounded at the door. A glance at the chrome hands of the clock informed her it was exactly eleven. Wearily, she went to see who was calling at such a late hour.

  A pretty, petite young black woman in a maid’s costume looked as surprised to see Judith as Judith was to see her.

  “Oooh-ah!” the young woman exclaimed. “Mah mistake.

  ’Scuse me, ma’am.” She bobbed a curtsy.

  Judith didn’t know whether to smile or wince. “Are you—

  um—Beulah?”

  The new arrival blinked twice before replying. “Yas’um. Ah’s workin’ fo’ Miz Giddon.”

  Another source, Judith thought, putting out her hand and introducing herself. “Could you please come in for just a minute? I’d like you to meet my cousin. She’ll be coming out of the bathroom any minute.”

  “Miz Giddon tol’ me to hustle mah bustle on down,” the maid replied. “But if Ah can help some way . . .” She shrugged. “Promise you won’t tell on me, Miz Flynn.”

  “I promise,” Judith assured the maid. “Your mistress is just a few steps away, in the W. C. Fields suite,” she added, offering a chair.

  “That’s mighty kindly of you,” Beulah said as she sat down and crossed shapely legs. “Ah guess Ah got Dubbyacee and Miz West all mixed up inside mah po’ addled head.”

  “That’s understandable,” Judith replied, also sitting down.

  “They made films together many years ago.”

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  “Befo’ mah time, Ah expect,” Beulah murmured, looking away in a deferential manner.

  “Yes, even before my time,” Judith replied, growing distressed by Beulah’s subservient manner. She waited for a response, but apparently the maid spoke only when spoken to. The awkward silence was broken by Renie, who entered the sitting room wearing a tiger-striped negligee and matching robe trimmed with marabou. Renie did a double take when she saw Beulah; Judith did a double take when she saw Renie.

  “Did you escape from the zoo?” Judith asked. “You’ll frighten our guest away.”

  Renie ignored the barb. Her eyes were fixed on the maid.

  “Chevy? What in the world are you doing here in that rig?”

  “Whoa!” the woman known to Judith as Beulah exclaimed. “Don’t freak out and blow my cover, Serena!”

  Both women started to laugh while a mystified Judith stared at them. “What’s going on here?” she demanded. Renie and “Beulah” hugged. “This,” Renie said, “is Chevy Barker-James. She was our product model at the KitchenSink exhibit booth I designed for the home-improvement show last summer.”

  Judith shook her head. “I should have guessed it was an act.”

  “But was it convinci
ng?” Chevy asked eagerly. “I’m studying to be an actress.”

  “Very,” Judith said. “How about a drink while you explain why you’re Beulah? Not to mention Chevy. That’s an unusual name.”

  “I’d better skip the liquor,” Chevy replied, sitting down again. “My parents were saving up to buy a new Chevrolet. But my mother got pregnant with me and they had to forgo the new car. So they named me after it instead.”

  “And ‘Beulah’?” Judith inquired.

  Chevy sighed. “I have to pay bills between acting jobs. Mrs. Giddon had fired her French maid, the latest, I heard, in a long line of foreign servants. I applied, thinking it might be a hoot. Not to mention I could practice my acting by be-86 Mary Daheim

  having like those caricature black maids in the old movies. So I called myself Beulah and the old bat—excuse me, Miz Giddon—bought it. I think she really believes a black maid should talk like that.”

  Judith laughed. “She’s living in a time warp. How do you stand working for her?”

  Chevy turned serious. “Good question. I’m also practicing patience. But the hours are good for auditions and even for taping commercials. Mrs. G. is gone a lot during the day—

  committee meetings, lunch out, playing bridge—all the stuff older rich women seem to do. I check her schedule—

  Ambrose Everhart is meticulous about times and places—

  and I plan my real career around it. I’d rather be Beulah than drive a cab or wait tables.”

  “I can’t believe,” Renie said with a grin, “that I ran into you again. We had such a good time at the homeimprovement show.”

  Chevy gave the cousins her dazzling smile. “I can’t believe it, either. I checked the guest list and saw your name, Serena. As I came on board tonight, I thought it might be wise to find out if you knew anything about poor Magglio Cruz’s death. I was totally shocked when Ambrose told me about it and said he felt Mrs. G. needed me tonight.”

  “That’s probably because my cousin and I failed to meet your high standards performing maid duties,” Renie said. Chevy had turned serious. “So was it really murder?”

  As concisely as possible, Judith and Renie related what they’d seen and heard.