by Mary Daheim
“if she has any suspicions about us being the thieves.”
It was almost two-thirty when Judith and Renie got out of the cab that had taken them from Brandy Ho’s. An older, typically narrow San Francisco building, the Fitzroy looked as if it had just been renovated.
Judith snapped her fingers. “I know this place! It’s a brand new B&B, only on a much grander scale than Hillside Manor. I got a mailing about it from the California innkeepers association.”
“Maybe you can get a job,” Renie said, pushing Judith along to avoid another mouthy panhandler. The lobby was small but attractive. A young woman of Asian descent stood behind the desk, eyeing the cousins with polite curiosity. Her name tag identified her as MIYA.
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“We’re booked through tonight and possibly the weekend,” she said before either Judith or Renie could speak.
“We don’t need a room,” Judith said, wearing her friendliest smile. “We’d like to see one of your guests, Dixie—that is, May Belle—Beales.”
Miya turned to look at the mailboxes. “Ms. Beales is out,”
she said. “Her key is here. Would you care to leave a message?”
Judith was considering the idea when a man wearing an exotic African cap rushed into the lobby. “My taxi! Lady very sick!” he shouted. “I call to 911! She guest here! Come quick!”
Judith and Renie immediately followed the cabdriver outside. His vehicle was double-parked in the narrow street, causing horns to honk and drivers to curse. Renie had to fend off the offensive panhandler a second time. Judith waited for the driver to open the rear door. “See?”
he said. “She pass out. She very sick.”
Leaning into the cab, Judith gently moved a paisley headscarf away from the woman’s face. Recognition struck instantly. Judith felt for a pulse. Renie had joined Judith and the driver.
“It’s Dixie Beales,” Judith said in a stricken voice. “She isn’t sick. She’s dead.”
TEN
THE COUSINS COULD already hear sirens approaching.
“I move taxi,” the driver said.
“No,” Judith responded, closing the cab door. “Ignore the traffic. It’s only going to get worse when the emergency vehicles arrive. Here comes an aid car now.”
The driver, who looked Nigerian to Judith, was wringing his hands. “Not my fault! Not my fault! Lady good when she got in taxi!”
Judith cupped her right ear. She could barely hear the agitated man over the din of honking horns, screaming drivers, and shrieking sirens. A crowd was gathering. Even the panhandler seemed curious.
Moving closer to the driver, Judith spoke loudly:
“Where did you pick her up?”
“What?”
Judith repeated the question as the aid car came to a stop.
“Neiman Marcus,” he answered. “She have many packages.”
Judith glanced inside the cab. A half-dozen shopping bags bearing the Neiman Marcus logo were stashed on the other side of Dixie’s body.
Renie was looking over Judith’s shoulder. “I guess she shopped until she dropped.”
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“What?” But when Judith turned around, she saw that her cousin’s expression was sad. Apparently, the glib remark had just tumbled out.
The driver had taken off his native hat and was holding it out in his hands like a sacrifice. “You see? She dead. Not my fault.”
Judith nodded. “Of course not.”
Renie poked Judith. “I’m going inside to tell the desk clerk.”
“Okay.” Judith watched the EMTs hurry to the cab. At least, she thought, she didn’t know this bunch by sight, as so often happened at home. They immediately went to work, though Judith knew there was nothing they could do. After a minute or two had passed, they began questioning the driver, whose first name was Joseph, and whose Nigerian surname Judith couldn’t catch.
She did, however, know the drill. The firefighters, the ambulance, and a couple of police cars had just pulled into the crowded intersection. Joseph would be questioned closely and his cab would be impounded. The poor man would probably have to go with the police and wait a couple of days until the vehicle was thoroughly checked. Judith ought to know; it had happened to her. Experience—and her gut feeling—told her that Dixie Beales had not died of natural causes.
The body would be placed on a gurney, put in the ambulance, and driven off to the morgue. A tow truck would arrive for the taxi; the emergency personnel would exchange remarks; the crowd would disperse; the panhandler would resume badgering passersby. There was nothing Judith could accomplish by staying on the sidewalk. Except, making eye contact with a young police officer, she could ask a question.
“Excuse me,” she called out, “can you tell me something?”
He moved briskly toward her. The young officer had red hair and green eyes. His name tag identified him as F. X. O’MALLEY.
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“Yes?” he said politely.
“Did anyone mention the cause of death?”
“No.”
“A heart attack, perhaps?”
O’Malley shrugged.
“Natural causes, I assume?”
He shrugged again, then eyed Judith more closely. “Did you know the deceased?”
Judith started to say yes, but stopped. “Thank you.”
She walked back into the lobby.
“Miya’s throwing up in the bathroom,” Renie announced as Judith approached her by the hotel desk.
“She’s that upset?” Judith asked, recalling the first time that a guest had died at Hillside Manor.
“No,” Renie replied. “She’s pregnant.”
A couple of good-looking young men got out of the elevator. They placed their key on the desk and left. No one else seemed to be in the small lobby. Judith went around to the other side of the desk, put the key in the proper slot, and checked the guest register.
“Captain Swafford’s here,” she noted. “He should be informed at once.” But a glance at the key in the captain’s mailbox told her that Swafford was out. “Drat,” she muttered. “Where’re Émile Grenier and Paul Tanaka? They should be staying here, too. Ah. Here they are, in Rooms Twenty-five and Thirty-one.”
But their keys were also in their slots. Judith was about to surrender when Émile Grenier himself entered the lobby, looking as self-important as ever.
“You are not Mademoiselle Miya,” he accused Judith. The purser scrutinized her more closely. “But I know you. You are perhaps the maid most incompetent?”
“No,” Judith replied, taking advantage of Émile’s faulty memory. “I’m filling in for Miya. She isn’t feeling well. I also own a B&B.”
Émile looked as if he didn’t think Judith was qualified to run a washing machine. “Eh bien.” He gestured in the di-
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rection of the street. “Why this commotion? Is there a fire?”
“No,” Judith replied, noting that Renie had turned her back and seemed absorbed in studying a framed photograph of the original building. “One of the guests has expired. A Ms. Beales. Were you acquainted with the poor lady?”
“Mon Dieu!” Émile slapped a hand to his forehead and had to prop himself up against the desk. “Madame Beales!
Non, non! Quelle horreur! What happened to la pauvre femme?”
“I’ve no idea,” Judith answered. “Apparently she became ill in a taxi on her way back from shopping. Were you close to her?”
The query seemed to catch Émile off guard. “Close?” He hesitated while resuming his usual erect posture. “We worked together. This is terrible news. Excuse me, I must make a telephone call from my room. My key, s’il vous plaît. ”
With professional aplomb, Judith reached for the key to Room Twenty-five. “My condolences,” she murmured.
“Merci, merci,” Émile responded before limping off to the e
levator.
As soon as the purser had disappeared, Renie rejoined Judith. “I thought if he saw us together, he might remember who you really are,” she said. “It’s best when I let you lie on your own.”
“I didn’t exactly lie,” Judith said. “I do own a B&B.”
Renie leaned an elbow on the polished mahogany counter.
“Was there blood?”
“Not that I could see,” Judith replied, both cousins keeping their voices down in case someone entered the lobby. “I only got a glimpse. The most I could tell—besides recognizing Dixie—was that her face seemed discolored and she looked far from serene.”
“As if death hadn’t been pleasant,” Renie mused. “But you don’t suspect the driver?”
Judith shook her head. “If he could act that well, he’d 122
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have left Nigeria for Hollywood, not San Francisco. His shock seemed genuine.” Abruptly, she turned to face the mailboxes. “Damn! We should use Dixie’s key to check out her room. How long is Miya going to be gone?”
“Who knows?”
But Miya was already coming out of a door at the end of the lobby. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Jones,” she said. “I feel much better. For now.” She looked curiously at Judith.
“You’re Mrs. Flynn?”
“Yes.” Judith felt a bit embarrassed. “Mr. Grenier needed his key.” Briefly, she explained that she, too, ran a B&B. “It was second nature to help him,” she added with a lame little laugh.
Miya and Judith exchanged places. “That’s okay. I’m just upset—not only because the baby makes me throw up, but because I suppose the police will come around here asking a lot of questions. That isn’t good for business.”
“Um . . .” Judith grimaced. “Over the years, I’ve had a similar problem or two.” Or three or four or five . . . Judith stopped counting the times that the police had come calling at Hillside Manor. “Don’t worry about it. Would you mind if we took a look in Ms. Beales’s room? Dixie would probably want us to do that for her.”
Miya frowned. “Is that . . . I mean . . . maybe I’d better call the manager.”
“You should,” Judith agreed. “Is he or she on the premises?”
Miya looked pained. “He’s my husband. He’s at the gym. He should be back anytime.”
“You take it easy,” Judith insisted as a lanky middle-aged man in a short, weather-beaten raincoat entered the lobby.
“We’ll take a peek in Dixie’s room and be on our way.”
Miya also saw the man approaching. His gait was none too steady, and he wore a world-weary smile. “This isn’t a guest,” she murmured. “Could he be a policeman?”
“Doubtful,” Judith said, casting a sidelong glance at the newcomer. “Press, maybe.”
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“Oh, dear.” Miya moved away from the desk, apparently in an effort to forestall the newcomer.
Judith moved swiftly, nipping around to the mailboxes and taking Dixie’s key. Motioning to Renie, she hurried toward the elevator.
“You’ll get Miya into trouble,” Renie warned Judith after the door slid closed and the small elevator creaked upward. Judith shook her head. “If Biff’s put on this case—and don’t tell me that if Dixie was murdered, there’s no connection with Magglio Cruz’s death—then I’ll tell him to blame me, not Miya. Honestly, this trip has turned into the worst nightmare ever!”
“Aren’t you used to it?” Renie asked wryly as the car stopped at the fourth floor.
“I never get used to it,” Judith asserted. “How can you get used to murder?”
Renie had nothing to say.
At first, Judith thought that Dixie’s room had been ransacked. But upon closer inspection, she realized that the dead woman was simply untidy.
“What are we looking for?” Renie asked, her eyes scanning lingerie, shoes, and other belongings strewn about the floor and furniture.
“I don’t know,” Judith answered. “A note, maybe, to see if she was meeting anyone.”
There was no note, nor was there a notepad. The only items on the bedside table were the telephone, a lamp, and a small pile of leftover invitations to the VIP party. “Coz,”
Renie said plaintively, “the cops could be along any minute. You aren’t touching anything, are you? I don’t want our fingerprints found here, too.”
“I’m being careful,” Judith insisted, peering into the bathroom and the closet. “We should be wearing gloves. I remember the first time we came to San Francisco with Cousin Sue, all the women wore gloves. We looked like country bumpkins.”
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“We still do,” Renie said, “compared to the way they dress here. We are from the Land of Plod.”
“Nothing,” Judith said after moving some of the scattered items aside with her foot. She glanced at the party invitations on the bedside table. “I want a souvenir,” she said, carefully picking up the top three from the pile and putting them in her purse. “I think I threw mine out. Nobody will miss these, and they’re so elegant that I can file them for future special events at the B&B. Otherwise, we’re done here. Unless . . .” She spotted an open phone book half hidden under the bed. “You bend. I shouldn’t. I think it’s the restaurant section.”
After putting on her murky glasses, Renie got down on her hands and knees. “You’re right. It’s open to the G s. There’s something written in the margin.” Without touching the directory with her fingers, she managed to shove it out from under the bed. “It says ‘1 P.M.—GH.’ ”
“Shall we assume Dixie made that notation?”
“Somebody did,” Renie said, standing up and removing her glasses.
“There must be tons of restaurants in San Francisco that begin with G, ” Judith mused.
“There are,” Renie said. “I looked. But maybe not GH. Unless it’s the initials of a person instead of a place.”
“We can check our own hotel directory,” Judith said.
“Let’s go. Dixie must have taken her other personal effects with her.”
As the elevator door opened onto the lobby, Judith espied not only the man who looked like a reporter, but Captain Swafford and a couple of uniformed police officers. Quickly, she pushed the button for the basement. After a few more creaks of the cable, the elevator opened onto a small foyer with a large sign that read GUEST PARKING ONLY. Paul Tanaka stood in front of them, looking as surprised to see the cousins as they were to see him.
“Serena! What are you doing here?” he asked, remaining in place.
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Judith and Renie emerged from the elevator just as the doors began to automatically close again.
“It’s a long story,” Renie said with a sigh. “Maybe we should talk.”
“Ah . . .” Paul looked uncomfortable. “Shall we go up to my room? I just heard about Dixie. Isn’t it terrible? Captain Swafford says it may have been food poisoning.”
“Really?” Renie sounded unconvinced. “How does he know? It happened less than half an hour ago.”
“It must be a preliminary diagnosis,” Paul said as the elevator doors opened once more and the trio entered. “I believe he’s been in contact with the hospital. He also sent Dr. Selig to where they took her . . . body. The ship’s physician is required to attend to such matters involving crew.”
On the third floor, Paul led the way. While the decor was similar to that of Dixie’s lodgings, the room itself was much neater. File folders were stacked on the small desk next to a laptop, and no personal belongings had been carelessly left about.
“Have you been out?” Judith asked casually, remembering that Paul’s key had been in his mailbox when she was in the lobby.
He nodded as he checked for messages. “I had lunch with some old college friends.” Paul scowled as he listened to the recording. “Excuse me,” he said. “Connie Cruz called an hour ago. I should ring her back.”
&nb
sp; Except for the bathroom, there was nowhere Paul could go for privacy. Judith and Renie discreetly turned away.
“Really,” Judith whispered, “I should phone Joe. I can tell him now that a crew member had an accident and delayed our departure. You should let Bill know, too.”
“Not to mention our mothers,” Renie said without enthusiasm. “If a reporter is down in the lobby, I’ll bet this whole damned story has broken.”
“Not necessarily at home.” Judith pointed to a folded copy of the San Francisco Chronicle that Paul had left on the desk. “Look. That headline is about pollution in the Bay Area.”
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“The bays here certainly are a different color,” Renie allowed. “Both San Francisco and Oakland’s bays look really dirty.”
“We’ve got our own problems,” Judith said. “In more ways than one.”
A few words of Paul’s soft-spoken conversation filtered through: “. . . Not to worry . . . Must rest . . . Arrangements are under way . . . Yes, I’ll check her file . . .”
With a sad shake of his head, Paul rang off. “Poor Connie. She’s had more than she can bear. She really should have complete rest, but that’s not her nature. I’m doing my best to take whatever load I can off her shoulders, but she insists on taking part.”
Judith hazarded a guess. “You mean about her husband’s services?”
“Partly.” Paul turned on his laptop. “I’m sorry, I should check my e-mail, too.”
“There can’t be a funeral until the autopsy is complete,”
Judith said. “That is, so I understand.”
“True.” Paul was still studying the computer screen. “My God, nothing but trouble. The passengers are getting impatient to sail. I don’t blame them.”
Renie had wandered over to the window, which looked out onto a now relatively calm Post Street. “Will you cancel the cruise?”
“That’s not up to me,” Paul replied, closing the laptop with an almost defiant click. “Captain Swafford and Connie and maybe even the board of directors will have to make that decision. They’d better act soon. This is a publicity nightmare. I already had to dodge some creep from one of the papers in the hotel lobby.”