Dead Man Docking

by Mary Daheim

  “Did she say anything about Dixie?”

  “No. Rhoda sounded like she was in a big hurry.”

  “Oh.” Judith wondered if the St. Georges knew about the most recent death. Maybe not, she thought. Rhoda—

  and possibly Rick—had been involved with taking

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  Asthma to the vet that afternoon. “Let’s check the news before we go,” Judith said, clicking on the big screen in the living room. Renie had already put on her raincoat, but sat down again.

  “Do you want me to call Fitzroy’s to see if they’ve heard anything about Dixie?”

  “Go ahead,” Judith said. “You phone, I’ll watch.”

  Renie’s call was fruitless. “I got a recording saying that all lines were busy and to leave a message or call back.”

  “They may be overwhelmed,” Judith remarked, waiting out a series of hour-turn TV commercials. “The police, the cruise personnel, the press. Not to mention other guests, who must be asking all kinds of questions.” She ought to know. She sympathized with the Fitzroy’s staff. The headlines had nothing to do with Cruz Cruises, unless, Judith noted, she counted the persistent stories about pollution in the bay. Certainly, she thought, a murder most foul ought to muddy the waters as well. But social issues and city politics were the main topics.

  “We’d better go,” she said at the first commercial break.

  “We have to be back here in time to get dressed for dinner. And for heaven sakes,” she added, noting Renie’s lingering expression of gloom, “stop dwelling on that damned ape!

  You’re driving me crazy!”

  Rain was slanting down across Union Square when the cousins left for the Hyatt. It was only a long block away, but they kept their heads down and their faces shielded from the chilling drops.

  “Why do people who’ve never been to the West Coast assume that California is all sun?” Renie muttered as they entered the sanctuary of the hotel lobby. “And wouldn’t you know, we brought cruise clothes.”

  “San Francisco’s weather is very different from anywhere else on the West Coast. It was about ninety when we came here that first time,” Judith reminded her cousin. “Late September, too.”

  “We wore wool and smelled like sheep.” Renie pointed to 138

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  a sign that informed them of the hotel’s features. “Grandviews is on the top floor.”

  San Franciscans dined late. The restaurant was open, but at five-thirty, it was virtually deserted except for the staff. Judith barely had time to take in the spectacular view of Coit Tower and the Oakland Bay Bridge before a chic and efficient-looking dark-haired woman approached them.

  “I’m confused,” Judith said, and looked it as she fumbled in her purse for the photo of Dixie that Renie had clipped from the cruise brochure. “We’re supposed to meet someone, but . . .” She made a helpless gesture before showing the picture to the woman. “Could she have meant lunch, not dinner? Do you recognize her?”

  The woman put on a pair of half-glasses and gazed at the color reproduction. “Is she from the South?”

  “Yes,” Judith replied eagerly. “She has quite an accent. In fact, her nickname is Dixie.”

  The woman didn’t look as if she approved of nicknames.

  “It would be,” she remarked drily. “No, I don’t remember seeing her.”

  “But . . .” Judith stared as the woman removed her glasses.

  “I thought . . .”

  “I heard her,” the woman interrupted. “She had a very carrying voice, inappropriate for a dining room where guests enjoy quiet conversation. I asked the server to request that she speak more quietly.”

  “Is the server here?” Judith asked.

  The woman shook her head. “Dominic is breakfast and lunch only. But he did ask her to keep her voice down. Apparently, she’d had too much to drink and was quarreling with her companion. Excuse me,” she said abruptly as a distinguished-looking older couple entered from the elevator area. “I’m busy.”

  Renie snatched the cutout picture away from Judith and thrust it in front of the woman. “And she’s dead. Is food poisoning the soup du jour?”

  The woman froze. The couple approached.

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  “Good evening, Amalie,” the silver-haired man said pleasantly. “We’re early. As usual.” He laughed softly. “Did I hear someone mention poisson soup for tonight?”

  “Our usual savory seafood stew,” Amalie replied, managing a ghostly smile. “Delighted to see you both. Would you mind waiting just a moment? Your favorite table isn’t quite ready.”

  The couple nodded affably and withdrew a few paces. The woman called Amalie moved out of the newcomers’ line of sight. “Is this extortion?” she demanded in a low, angry voice. “Explain yourselves, or I’m calling the police.”

  “They’re already involved,” Judith said quietly. “All we want to know is who Dixie—Ms. Beales—was with today.”

  Amalie looked Judith straight in the eye. “I don’t know. Dominic mentioned it was a young—and attractive—man. They had a disagreement. They left. I’d appreciate it if you’d do the same.”

  A pair of waiters and a man in a dinner jacket had appeared behind Amalie. None of them, especially the formally clad man, looked friendly. Judith knew when she was about to get the bum’s rush.

  “Thanks,” she said, and started out of the restaurant.

  “Thanks?” Renie repeated, trailing behind Judith. “For what? Being almost no help?”

  “This is a very nice establishment,” Judith declared, pressing the elevator button. “We intruded.”

  “We usually do,” Renie noted.

  “This is different,” Judith said, entering the elevator. “It’s not only that this city is much more formal and less relaxed. We’re not at home. We’re not comfortable in this environment. People here have standards. Or something.”

  Renie sighed as the express car took them straight to the lobby. “I’ve rarely seen you give up so fast.”

  “I’m not giving up,” Judith countered with a sly little smile. “Of course I want to know who lunched with Dixie Beales. And why they had a quarrel.”

  “So?”

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  The cousins had exited the hotel, once again facing the blustery wind and rain. “This isn’t our town. This isn’t our style.” She leaned forward into the elements. “This is a job for Rick and Rhoda St. George.”

  The difference in style was evident when Judith and Renie met the St. Georges at Farallon: Judith had brought along a navy-blue shirtwaist dress for the cruise; Renie relied on sleeveless basic black. Rhoda swept into the restaurant wearing a green silk georgette evening gown with spaghetti straps and a swath of white fox fur draped over her arms. At first glimpse, Judith thought she was wearing the dog.

  “This,” said Rick, whose dark suit might have come from London’s Savile Row, “is the next best thing to being at sea. How do you like the ocean theme? The restaurant’s named for some islands just off the coast.”

  Judith had admired the blue glass sculptures and the mosaic tiles upon their arrival. They were now seated in the vaulted dining room, which was indeed above the Elks Club swimming pool. It wasn’t hard to imagine that they were on a ship.

  “It’s lovely,” she said, though the decor wasn’t uppermost in her mind. “I hear you have news. So do we.”

  “All in good time,” Rick said, summoning a waiter. “The usual for us, Marco. Ladies?”

  After the cocktail orders had been taken, Rick offered advice about the menu. “Definitely the seafood,” he asserted.

  “There’s a touch of French in the edibles, but mainly this is a place to let your palate explore.”

  “Yes,” Judith said tersely. “We’ll do that.” She offered Rhoda an encouraging look. “You told Serena you’d discovered what weapon was used to kill Magglio Cruz.”

 
Rhoda cast a smile in her husband’s direction. “That was Ricky’s doing. Oh—here come the drinks. A toast, darling,”

  she said. “You do the honors.”

  Rick raised his double martini. “To new friends from the woodsy world of the great Northwest.” The foursome

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  clicked glasses. “To old friends who have sailed beyond the bar. Poor devils.” They clicked again.

  If there was supposed to be a moment of silence, Renie broke it: “Are you including Dixie Beales in that toast? Because she is—toast, I mean.”

  Rhoda looked a bit wistful. Rick inclined his head to one side. “Yes, I suppose I am,” he said quietly. “Poor woman. There’s no autopsy report as yet. I heard you were actually at the Fitzroy when she arrived.”

  “She’d already departed,” Renie put in.

  Rick chuckled. “Well put. Biff questioned the hotel staff late this afternoon. Dr. Selig will keep us informed as to cause of death as soon as he finds out.”

  Rhoda was shaking her head. “Such a waste.”

  Judith’s expression was sad. “Yes. She must have been quite talented.”

  “What?” Rhoda seemed taken aback. “Oh—yes, I suppose. I mean to waste all those clothes she’d bought at Neiman Marcus. Of course, Dixie’s taste was a bit florid.”

  “To get back to the weapon,” Judith began, turning to Rick, “what was it?”

  Marco returned, sliding up to the table as smoothly as olive oil on a baguette. “May I recommend the crab with cardoons?” he inquired.

  “Cartoons?” Renie said. “Are they animated? How about Donald Duck or Porky Pig?”

  Rick smiled in his urbane manner. “I recall advising the seafood.”

  “Cardoons are similar to artichokes,” Marco explained, managing to look as if he didn’t believe Renie was an outof-town idiot. Renie was undaunted. “Is the crab Dungeness?”

  Marco didn’t even blink. “Of course.”

  “Okay,” Renie said. “Sounds good to me.”

  At Rhoda’s urging, Judith selected sea urchin custard with caviar. The St. Georges settled on lobster-and-scallop stew—along with another round of martinis. 142

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  Judith was in a stew of her own. But as soon as Rick had his second drink in hand, he picked up his table knife.

  “Items such as this should be dismissed immediately as the weapon. Dr. Selig informs me that Mags was stabbed to death, but not with a knife of any kind. Rather, it was a puncture wound. Quite deep, and in a vital spot, which I won’t detail because we’re at dinner. Suffice to say that death came quickly.” He paused to sip his fresh drink. Judith had long ago stopped being squeamish. “Did he bleed out or was it internal?”

  Rick raised an eyebrow. “My, my. That sounds like the voice of a hardened expert.”

  “My husband is a retired policeman,” Judith said in a noncommittal tone. “Homicide, in fact. I’ve heard stories.”

  “Ah.” Rick smiled again. “The answer is internal bleeding.”

  “Gruesome,” Rhoda murmured, though she seemed unfazed.

  “But tidy,” Rick remarked. “So we eliminate the usual type of weapon associated with stab wounds. We also must consider what was at hand.”

  “You mean as a weapon?” Judith put in.

  Rick nodded. “Think back to the party. There were other means.”

  “Like part of the decor?” Renie offered.

  Rick’s expression was droll. “If you’re referring to someone dismantling the ship, no. Nothing was found to be out of place, missing, or damaged. The solution is quite simple. Think beef.”

  “Darling,” Rhoda said in a reproachful voice, “you’re being obscure. You already ruled out knives.”

  “But, my dove,” Rick inquired with a twinkle in his eye,

  “what do you use to make those knives work?”

  Rhoda snapped her fingers. “A sharpener! Of course!

  They’re long, pointed, and can be very dangerous.”

  “That’s right,” Judith agreed. “I often plunge the sharpener into a roast to remove it from the oven. Those things are extremely strong.”

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  “Gack,” said Renie.

  “The carving sets were right in plain sight,” Judith declared. “I remember watching one of the servers slice the roast beef. I assume there was more than one set. Has the sharpener that killed Magglio Cruz been found?”

  Rick shook his head. “Too easy to toss overboard. An inventory of the galley has been taken, but frankly, it’s not exact. Carving sets, even standard ones such as they use on the cruise line, come in all kinds of assortments—carver, slicer, fork, sharpener, and variations thereof.”

  “But,” Judith persisted, “the medical examiner is sure that was the weapon?”

  “It has to be,” Rick replied. “I figure Mags’s murder wasn’t premeditated. The killer used whatever was at hand—

  in this case, a knife sharpener. It would be easy to hide under clothing, and not missed right away as a knife would be.”

  Rhoda was applauding. “Fantastic, darling. You’ve done it again!”

  Rick, however, didn’t seem that pleased. “We know how, but we don’t know why—and more importantly, we don’t know who.”

  The appetizers arrived. Judith had never eaten sea urchin, and wasn’t sure she wanted to now. But the custard presentation was invitingly nestled in an eggshell. To her delight, the taste was delicious.

  “Is there anything new on Mrs. Giddon’s jewel robbery?”

  Judith asked after savoring the first few bites.

  “Not yet,” Rick replied. “Erma would have insisted on arresting Beulah, but the old girl relies on her so much that she’d have to post immediate bail. Frankly, I have some other ideas about that.”

  “Such as?” Judith asked.

  Rick chuckled. “Let’s say we could round up the usual suspects.” He stopped as Renie rose from the table. “Don’t you like your crab and cardoons?”

  “Yes,” Renie replied, “but my appetite is off. I have to make a phone call. I’ll finish when I come back.”

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  Rhoda’s eyes followed Renie out of the dining room.

  “She seems a bit upset. Is it because of the murders?”

  “Ah . . . yes and no.” Judith didn’t feel up to explaining the Joneses’ domestic situation. “There’s a small crisis on the home front. I believe she went to call her husband.”

  Rick gazed at Judith over the rim of his martini glass.

  “The shrink?”

  “Why, yes,” she replied, surprised. “How did you know?”

  “Biff told me,” Rick said. “Apparently, Dr. Jones worked with him on a poisoning case years ago.”

  Judith had forgotten about Renie’s tall tale. “Yes,” she said, and quickly changed the subject. “Is there any word of when we sail?”

  Rick shook his head. “The skipper’s fit to be keel-hauled. All of the senior crew members are lodged at the Fitzroy. Naturally, they’re agog. Or aghast. Some of them are getting a persecution complex. Maybe your cousin’s other half could help them out. If he happened to be here.”

  Judith’s eyes strayed around the restaurant as it began to fill with affluent customers of every nationality, some wearing their finest native garb. San Francisco had always been the gateway to the Orient, but in later years, the city on the hill had welcomed visitors from all over the world. Judith tried not to gawk even as she posed a question. “Are you saying that the crew believes they’re being targeted by a killer?”

  Rhoda nodded. “First Mags, then Dixie. Who’s next? At least that’s how Émile and Paul and the others feel, from the boardroom to the engine room.”

  “That might indicate a grudge against the company,” Judith reasoned.

  “Possibly,” Rick allowed. “More remote—but still worthy of consideration—is an effort to put Cru
z out of business.”

  “But who benefits?” Judith queried.

  “Only rival cruise lines,” Rick said. “But no reputable outfit would dream of such a thing. They’d offer a buyout first.”

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  “Which,” Rhoda noted, “no one has done.”

  “Not to mention,” Judith said, “there must be ways of causing a business to fail that don’t involve cold-blooded murder.” She glanced from one St. George to the other. “You do think Dixie was murdered, don’t you?”

  Rick looked resigned. “Probably.”

  Judith took the opportunity to tell Rick and Rhoda about the frustrating visit to Grandviews. “Amalie and her colleagues thought we were a couple of snoopy rubes,” she said in summing up. “Which, I guess, we are. But if you—”

  She stopped as Marco approached with menus—and Ambrose Everhart.

  “Excuse me, Mr. St. George,” Marco said, bending to speak into Rick’s ear, “but this young gentleman says he knows you. Is it all right?”

  “Of course, of course,” Rick said genially. “Ambrose, my lad, pull up a chair.”

  Marco was swift to comply. “Would the gentleman care for a beverage?” the waiter asked.

  “Just water, please,” Ambrose said, picking up Renie’s napkin and wiping small beads of perspiration from his forehead. “I didn’t mean to break in like this, but Mrs. Giddon insisted I find you. I’ve already been to five other restaurants around here.”

  “You’ve struck gold,” Rick said. “Here we are, along with the charming Mrs. Flynn and her cousin—wherever she may be.”

  Ambrose didn’t look as if he knew Judith or cared if her cousin was lying at the bottom of the Elks Club swimming pool. Suddenly realizing that the napkin had been well used by Renie, he fastidiously placed it on the vacant chair. “Mrs. Giddon put in an insurance claim this afternoon, and she’s going to sue the cruise line. She says her late husband would never forgive her for letting those jewels get stolen. Some of them had been handed down in his family for five generations. She’s really beside herself.”