Dead Man Docking

by Mary Daheim

Renie was trying not to grimace as Asthma rubbed his furcovered soup cans against her thighs. Managing to sidestep the dog, she followed Judith and Rhoda into a large sitting room with an Asian theme and a spectacular view of the city.

  “This is lovely,” Judith gushed. “Are these furnishings antiques?”

  “Some of them,” Rhoda replied with a shrug. “The butterfly trunk and the matching chairs with the lotus pattern date back a couple of centuries. The rest of it looks old because of Asthma. He’s a bit clumsy.”

  Judith and Renie sat on a sofa covered in a silk poppy print. Rhoda had gone to the full-service bar. Its dark wood was painted with white peonies. A Chinese vase filled with real peonies sat atop the counter. It struck Judith that Rhoda St. George wore her air of wealth and entitlement the way a river ran to the sea: It was unaffected, it was accepted, it was almost a force of nature.

  “I’m having a martini,” Rhoda said, her long fingernails pointing to a half-filled glass next to the vase. “What may I serve you?”

  “Scotch rocks,” Judith replied. “Water back, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all,” Rhoda replied.

  “Any bourbon or Canadian as long as it’s not Wild Turkey,” Renie said.

  Rhoda arched a perfectly etched eyebrow. “You don’t care for Wild Turkey?”

  “Only when I fly,” Renie replied.

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  “Will Crown Royal do?” Rhoda inquired, unfazed by Renie’s response.

  “Just fine,” Renie said, nodding. “Water and plenty of ice, please.”

  With practiced expertise, Rhoda mixed the two drinks and refreshed her own. “I understand,” she said, seating herself in one of the matching antique chairs, “we may not get out of port until tomorrow.” She glanced inquisitively at the cousins.

  “Because of the murder—or the jewel theft?” Judith responded. Rhoda smiled, arranging the folds of her orange chiffon hostess pajamas. “I was wondering if you knew. I guessed that Biff McDougal may have been interrogating you when the call came through to him. The theft took place aboard the ship, not at Erma Giddon’s home.”

  “That we didn’t know,” Renie said, trying to relax despite the too-close presence of Asthma.

  “Erma discovered that the jewels were missing when she was preparing to leave the San Rafael this morning,” Rhoda explained. “Naturally, she’s blaming Beulah, her maid.”

  “Why?” Renie asked. “Because Beulah is black?”

  “Of course.” Rhoda shook her head. “Erma is such a bigot. You can imagine the unpleasantness she swears she’s had to suffer because San Francisco has become such a mecca for the gay population. And that’s so ridiculous of her because . . . well, just because it is.”

  Judith sensed that Rhoda had been about to say something else but had changed her mind. “Do you know the value of the stolen jewels?” Judith inquired, savoring the scotch, which had to be at least forty years old and probably cost close to a hundred dollars a bottle.

  Rhoda waved a hand. “I can only guess. Rick’s estimate was in the low seven figures.”

  “And more like them at home,” Renie murmured.

  “Oh, definitely,” Rhoda said blithely. “Those were only her cruise baubles. Erma has quite a collection, some family

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  heirlooms, some of them dating back to the Romanovs and the Hanovers—and the Vikings, for all I know. She likes to brag.”

  Judith tried to coax Asthma in her direction. “Did the thief take the case or just the jewels?”

  “Case and all,” Rhoda replied.

  Judith knew the answer, but asked the question anyway:

  “Did Erma always keep it locked?”

  “I’ve no idea,” Rhoda answered.

  “She didn’t,” Renie blurted out, deigning to pat one of Asthma’s soup cans. “We know. We had to sub for Beulah when we called on Erma and company.”

  “Really.” Rhoda’s eyes danced. “Tell me all.”

  Renie did, despite the increased nudging and wheezing from Asthma.

  “That makes sense,” Rhoda said when Renie had finished.

  “If Erma was still wearing some of her trinkets and her maid wasn’t around, she wouldn’t bother locking the case until bedtime. It’s stupid, but then Erma is a rather stupid woman.” She held up her almost empty glass. “Refills?”

  The cousins declined. Neither of them had made it even halfway through their own cocktails.

  “I’ll wait, too,” Rhoda said with a touch of regret. “I hope Ricky calls back soon. I suppose Biff is picking my darling husband’s brains. Tell me,” she went on, leaning forward in her chair, “you two must have seen or heard something—

  anything—unusual at the party before Mags was killed. You seem very observant as well as perceptive. We arrived a bit late, you see.”

  Now who’s picking whose brains? Judith thought.

  “To be honest,” she said, “we didn’t notice anything unusual. Has the weapon been found?”

  “No,” Rhoda answered with a frown. “The fatal wound was made by something pointed, slim, and round.” She made a quarter-inch circle with her thumb and index finger.

  “It sounds like a tool, rather than a knife or dagger. Still, there are many kinds of exotic weapons that don’t readily 110

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  come to mind. Ricky guesses that the killer threw it overboard.”

  “That makes sense,” Judith allowed.

  “You know most of the suspects better than we do,” Renie said as Asthma dozed off at her feet. “Can you fill us in? It might help to discover the motive.”

  Rhoda looked amused. “I don’t know where to start. Though money is always a good place, especially when murder is involved. Mags and Connie were never able to have children. They considered adoption, but her family—at least her father—is one of those snobbish Argentinians of Spanish hidalgo descent. God forbid they might have gotten a child who had native Latin American blood. Consequently, everything goes to Connie, since California is a communityproperty state.”

  “And Connie is already rich,” Judith remarked. Rhoda shrugged. “Not rich in the sense of rich—if you understand what I mean. Her father was very successful as a horse trainer and owner, having started out in Dubai working for a couple of emirs. I would say there’s no money motive on her part.”

  “They were happy?” Judith inquired.

  “Yes, I think so,” Rhoda said. “Of course one never knows for certain.”

  Renie edged away from the dog, who was not only wheezing, but also snoring and drooling. “What about the business arrangement? I assumed—not that I ever thought Mags would die young—that being second in command, Paul Tanaka would take over.”

  “The board of directors has to decide that,” Rhoda replied.

  “There are five members, including Erma Giddon and Horace Pankhurst. Two others are from your part of the world—two of those computer kings, Bill Goetz and Paul Allum.”

  “Who’s the fifth one?” Renie asked.

  Rhoda smiled. “Me.”

  Judith smiled back. “The swing vote?”

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  Rhoda inclined her head to one side. “It could be. I seldom agree with Erma and Horace. We all have stock in the company. Your billionaire entrepreneurs are usually sensible people when it comes to voting on issues. Of course,” she added with only a slight suggestion of disparagement, “they do represent ‘new’ money.”

  “But,” Renie pointed out, “they both allowed the line to move its headquarters out of town. Or did they vote against it?”

  “The vote was unanimous,” Rhoda said without expression. Judith was puzzled. It didn’t seem right for Goetz or Allum to deflect tourism from their hometown. They were not only civic leaders, but boosters as well. Both were very smart. They must have had sound reasons to permit the move.

  “So the board can agree on some thin
gs,” Judith remarked.

  “Yes,” Rhoda said, “and of course Mags wanted the move. He lives here—sorry—he lived here most of the time, and Connie has always loved California. She’s still a big Thoroughbred-racing fan, and some of the best tracks are in this state.”

  “Money,” Judith murmured. “It’s such a good motive for murder. But I don’t see who benefits financially from Mags’s death.”

  “Neither do I,” Rhoda agreed. “Erma has all of her family and hangers-on covered. Horace is well off, though he’s sinking a great deal of his own cash into the museum startup. Jim Brooks’s Stanford tuition is being paid by Erma.”

  “That leaves the crew,” Renie said. “Were there union problems?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” Rhoda replied. “Several unions are represented among the cruise line’s employees. Culinary workers, marine engineers, longshoremen—you name it. Thousands of people on land and sea are involved in the cruise line’s business. You must remember that the San Rafael isn’t the only Cruz cruiser.”

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  Renie nodded. “Of course. There’s the San Miguel, the Santa Rita, and the San Luis Rey. I worked on the launch brochure for the Rey five years ago. That was my first gig for the line. I understand the ship sails on the Panama Canal voyages.”

  “Yes,” Rhoda said, taking a cigarette out of a carved wooden box on the chinoiserie table between the chairs. “In fact, she was due in Miami this morning.”

  “Love,” Judith said, not particularly interested in Cruz Cruises’ routes. “Jealousy. Those are other good motives.”

  Renie and Rhoda both turned toward her. With a vague look of apology for her cousin, Renie agreed. “True. Motives. Murder. Who loves whom? In this group, there seems to be more antipathy than love.”

  “I love Ricky,” Rhoda said with a fond expression, placing the cigarette in an ivory holder. “He loves me. We’re the only ones I can vouch for. Mags and Connie—yes, probably. Mags and anyone else?” She shrugged in her elegantly nonchalant manner. “Dubious. Connie and another man? Also doubtful, though you never know. Anemone and Jim? I assume they’re in love or they wouldn’t be engaged. Still, Jim is . . . well, you know the word. Poor. Not,” she continued quickly, “poor in the way really poor people are poor, if you understand what I mean.”

  Renie kept a straight face. “Like all those homeless beggars out in the streets?”

  “Like that.” Rhoda finished her martini. “Certainly Jim couldn’t afford Stanford without Erma’s financial aid.”

  “They act like they’re in love,” Judith noted. “Unless it is an act, perhaps on Jim’s part. He seems devoted.”

  “And,” Rhoda put in, casting a glance at the bar, “she appears smitten. They’re very young, of course. I don’t think people should get engaged until they’re thirty. Ricky and I didn’t. We had too many things we wanted to do on our own.”

  “I got engaged fairly often,” Renie said. “It got to be sort of a problem. Once, I was engaged to two different men at

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  the same time, and they were both named Bob. It was very confusing.”

  “I should think so,” Rhoda remarked with a wave of her cigarette holder. “Did you marry either of them?”

  “No. I went to a psychologist to find out what my problem was,” Renie replied. “He told me I was too independent and a control freak.”

  “Obviously,” Rhoda surmised, “he cured you.”

  Renie nodded. “He certainly did. I married him.”

  “Very wise,” Rhoda said, with another longing glance at the bar.

  “We must be keeping you from your daily schedule,” Judith said. Or at least the drinking part of it, she thought. “We should go.”

  “Please,” Rhoda responded. “I have no fixed schedule. In fact, I was hoping Ricky would get back while you’re here.”

  She looked at her diamond-studded wristwatch. “It’s after one. He may have stopped for lunch. I’ll call him on his cell phone.”

  Before Rhoda could get up, Rick St. George strode into the room. “Well! My beautiful bride is entertaining! But then she always is, even when we’re alone.” He smiled wickedly before kissing his wife’s cheek. “Could it be,” he said to the cousins with mock severity, “that the inquisitive love of my life has been subjecting you to her clever interrogative skills?”

  “We’ve been throwing around some ideas,” Judith admitted.

  “Ah.” Rick poured a drink for his wife and one for himself.

  “Very sensible. Talent, like knowledge, should be pooled. Ladies?” He tapped the scotch and Canadian whisky bottles.

  “May I?”

  “Just half,” Judith replied, taking the almost empty glasses to the bar.

  Rick’s idea of “half” was half booze, half ice. Judith didn’t quibble. The ice would melt.

  “So,” Rhoda said as she accepted her fresh cocktail, “what did you and Biff learn about the jewel heist?”

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  Rick sat down in the matching lotus chair and carefully checked the pleats of his well-tailored trousers. “The basics. According to our friend Erma, she had Beulah lock the case shortly after midnight. This morning, while the Giddon bunch was preparing to disembark, Erma asked Beulah for her jewels. That was circa eleven-fifteen. Beulah couldn’t find the case. Erma had some kind of fit—

  she insists it was a heart attack, but Dr. Selig disagrees—and once she recovered, she accused Beulah of stealing it and handing the loot over to an accomplice. No doubt, Erma insisted, one of the many ‘coloreds’ who are crew members.”

  Rhoda sighed. “Naturally.”

  Judith leaned forward on the sofa. “Did Erma leave the bedroom before she asked for her jewels?”

  “Of course.” Rick chuckled. “Even Dame Erma has to make use of the facilities now and then. Anemone sleeps in the other bedroom. I suppose there’s a separate smaller accommodation for Beulah. Even Erma wouldn’t expect her maid to sleep on the floor.”

  Rhoda cast her husband a skeptical look. “Don’t be too sure of that, darling.”

  “Who’d been in the suite that morning?” Judith inquired after a small sip of scotch.

  Rick swirled the olive in his martini. “Jim Brooks. Ambrose Everhart. Horace Pankhurst and CeeCee Orr. A crew member who came to repair a leaky faucet in Anemone’s bathroom. A waiter with coffee. Oh, and Émile Grenier, making sure that all was right in Giddon world.”

  “Which it wasn’t,” Rhoda put in.

  “Which waiter?” Judith asked.

  “I don’t recall his name,” Rick replied, “but we’re checking him out.” He sounded even more blasé than usual.

  “And the plumber?” Renie put in as Asthma shook himself with a mighty clanking sound and made an attempt to get up.

  “Ozzie Oakes,” Rick said.

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  Renie tried to distance herself from Asthma as the dog collapsed again near her feet. “Is anyone a serious suspect?”

  Rick was lighting an unfiltered cigarette. “Too soon to say,” he replied a little too casually after exhaling a dark gray cloud of smoke. “Biff will be taking fingerprints.”

  “Shouldn’t he have done that last night?” Judith asked.

  “He did, in a way,” Rick said with an ironic expression.

  “That is, he had his men take prints off of the cocktail glasses and some other surfaces.”

  “Wait a minute,” Renie said, looking very serious. “Are you saying that the prints taken last night can be matched to the drinks each individual had?”

  “The San Rafael’s employees are very good,” Rick explained. “Like any bartender or bar server, they remember who drank what.”

  “Of course,” Judith murmured, recalling her working nights at the Meat & Mingle. “It’s an integral part of the job.”

  Rick nodded. “You drank Glenfiddich, correct?”r />
  “Yes,” Judith replied, anxiety beginning to gnaw at the back of her brain.

  He turned to Renie. “Bud Light?” Rick seemed put off by her prosaic choice.

  “I didn’t actually drink it,” Renie said, “but I ordered a bottle.”

  Rick tapped his cigarette into a marble ashtray. “So both of your prints are on record, along with most of the other guests’. Biff will cover everybody else.”

  There was a long and—it seemed to Judith—awkward pause. The cousins didn’t dare look at each other.

  “You see the problem?” Rick finally said.

  “Yes,” Judith and Renie replied in unison. Rick took a final puff from his cigarette and put it out in the ashtray. “I’m sure you can explain everything to Biff. But until you do, I’m afraid you’re both at the top of the suspect list. Your prints were found all around the area where the jewel case was kept.”

  *

  *

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  Renie was stuffing her face with dim sum. “Dawishis,”

  she declared, and swallowed. “I wonder if they serve food like this in prison.”

  “The St. Georges aren’t serious about us stealing Erma’s jewels,” Judith responded, setting down the ladle for her hotand-sour soup.

  “The St. Georges aren’t serious about anything,” Renie said.

  “Except murder,” Judith murmured. “And jewel heists.”

  “Maybe.” Renie attacked more dim sum. The cousins had left the St. Georges’ Nob Hill penthouse shortly after Asthma had suffered a respiratory attack and had to be taken to the vet. On the cousins’ way out, Rhoda had suggested that they try Brandy Ho’s Hunan restaurant on the edge of Chinatown.

  “At least,” Judith said, “I found out that the rest of the crew is staying at the Fitzroy Hotel on Post Street. I’d like to talk to Dixie Beales and Émile Grenier. After all, they discovered the body.”

  Renie concurred. “Good thinking. Is that our next stop?”

  “Yes. I’m certainly not going to confront Erma Giddon just after her jewels have been swiped. Especially,” Judith added, using chopsticks to pluck a strip of beef from her noodle dish,