Dead Man Docking

by Mary Daheim

  “Caroline Halloway, security,” she said in a brusque voice. “Are you the ones who reported the accident?”

  “Accident?” Renie echoed.

  Anticipating hostilities, Judith moved between her cousin and the security woman. “Yes,” she responded, giving her name and Renie’s, along with their home addresses and the hotel where they were staying.

  “Visitors,” the woman said, making rapid notes. “How long were you in here before you noticed the problem?”

  “Problem?” Renie shot back.

  “I wasn’t here,” Judith said, stepping aside. There was no choice but to let Renie talk, since she was the one who’d found Émile.

  “At least five minutes,” Renie said in a less hostile tone.

  “I was trying on clothes.” She swept her hand over the items on the floor and hanging from the pegs. “I got involved. You know how that goes.”

  Caroline apparently did know. Judith figured she must be used to self-absorbed shoppers. “What brought the man’s presence to your attention?”

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  “His shoes,” Renie said. “I didn’t notice them at first. I was carrying so many garments that I couldn’t see over the top of the pile. Then I started trying on the Ellen Tracy separates, but I was looking in the mirror on the other wall. Finally I decided to pick up some of the items I’d let fall to the floor. That’s when I realized that no man should be putting his shoes under my divider.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I figured he was some kind of pervert.” Renie shot the security woman an arch look. “I’m sure you’ve heard about those weirdo types even in a place as high class as this one. I told him to take a hike, but he didn’t react. Then my cousin showed up before I could do anything else. That all happened less than ten minutes ago. I peeked under the divider. My cousin went around to look in the dressing room. The man was definitely dead. That’s it.”

  Caroline’s plain features had remained unchanged, though her voice conveyed a hint of disbelief. “You didn’t scream when you saw the shoes? You didn’t run for help?”

  Judith avoided looking at Renie. For once, it was her cousin’s problem to talk her way out of a mess.

  “There wasn’t time,” Renie replied.

  “So,” Caroline persisted, “you just waited in here for your cousin?” She shot Judith a swift, sidelong look.

  “I told you, my cousin showed up almost immediately,”

  Renie said.

  Caroline’s sharp blue eyes now fixed on Judith. “Is that right?”

  “Yes. We’re probably still in a state of shock.” Judith could hardly admit that after all their misadventures, even

  “surprise” would have been too strong a word.

  “Where had you been while your cousin was in here?”

  “Looking for her.” Judith waited a beat, but Caroline said nothing. “Before that, I was over in suits and dresses.” She wasn’t about to confess that she’d been with Anemone Giddon. Once Émile was officially identified, Caroline might pick up on the link with the dead man. And with Judith. 168

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  The male security employee returned, accompanied by a slightly older man who exuded quiet authority.

  “I understand,” the new arrival said in a sympathetic voice, “that you two ladies have made a very disagreeable discovery.” He put out a hand. “I’m Daniel Goldfarb, the store manager. Would you please join me in my office? You’ll be much more comfortable there and we can get you some water or whatever you’d like. I can’t apologize enough for this unfortunate incident.”

  Judith was torn. Sitting around Daniel Goldfarb’s office sipping Perrier was only a notch better than twiddling her thumbs at the police station. She needed answers, not comfort. But she knew there’d be official hoops to jump through. Renie would have to give the police her story. Apparently Renie was thinking along the same lines.

  “What I’d like is to go back to our hotel and lie down,” she declared, making herself tremble a bit. “I’m exhausted. I wouldn’t want to collapse on your premises. You already have one dead body.” She picked up her big purse and slung it over her shoulder. “You know where to reach us. Thanks for the offer, though.”

  Daniel looked perplexed. Caroline showed no emotion, but her male counterpart was scowling.

  “You have to wait until the police arrive,” he said. “I’m sorry, but we can’t let you leave.”

  “Yes, you can,” Renie asserted, reaching in her purse and taking out her wallet. “You have no legal grounds to keep us here. If you want to argue the point, here’s my lawyer’s name and number.” She handed a business card to the security man and stomped out of the dressing room.

  “She hasn’t been well,” Judith murmured, squeezing her way past the trio. “I must go take care of her.”

  Two uniformed officers were going up the escalator as Judith and Renie were going down. A squad car pulled up as the cousins exited the store. They kept moving without a backward glance.

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  “Do you think they’ll actually call Bub?” Judith asked as they reached the main floor.

  “Of course not,” Renie said, briskly walking past handbags and leather goods. “I don’t carry Bub’s cards with me. The one I gave them was for Jerry, the window cleaner.”

  Judith realized that her cousin was leading them out of a different entrance from the one where they’d entered the store. “Where are we?” she asked, looking around at the immediate unfamiliar sights.

  “We need a drink,” Renie said after they’d walked half a block. “And lunch. Now we’re back on Stockton.”

  “So why are we going uphill?”

  Renie pointed straight ahead. “Do you want the cops following us back to the St. Francis right now? The RitzCarlton’s close by. I’d like to get as far away from the scene of the latest crime as possible.”

  “You’re in the wrong place for it,” Judith said, puffing a bit and pointing to a street sign on their left. “See that?”

  Renie grinned. “Oh, yes. I’ve seen that sign before. Dashiell Hammett lived in that building during the twenties. That part of Monroe Street’s named in his honor. I guess he lived in a lot of other places, too, while he was writing The Maltese Falcon and The Thin Man and some of his other novels.”

  “Even famous people have to walk up these hills,” Judith said, looking grim. “How far is the Ritz? My hip’s hurting.”

  “Straight ahead. It’s that neoclassical building that looks like a museum. I’ll bet they can provide for our every need.”

  “What I need is information,” Judith mumbled. “I’m not hungry.”

  “I have some information,” Renie said as they approached the hotel steps. “It’s a nice day. We can eat outside in the Terrace Restaurant.”

  “Do you refer to your endless knowledge of local food vendors,” Judith inquired as they passed through the elegantly appointed lobby to the elevators, “or something more pertinent to the latest body count?”

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  “The latter,” Renie said. “I’ll tell you as soon as we’re seated.”

  The rooftop restaurant was busy, but the cousins didn’t have to wait for a table. Briefly, Judith paused to admire the garden setting, complete with large trees and a splendid view of the city. But her mind remained on murder.

  “Okay, let’s hear your information,” Judith urged after they’d both ordered Rusty Nails from the bar. Renie smirked. “And you thought all I was doing was shopping. Tsk, tsk.”

  “Coz . . .”

  “Okay, okay. It was Olga. She’d waited on Dixie yesterday morning.”

  “Ah!” Judith made the exclamation just as their drinks arrived. The server apparently thought she was reacting to her cocktail.

  “Thirsty, are we?” he said with a grin.

  “Huh?” Judith blinked at the young man. “Oh—right. Thanks.”
>
  Renie didn’t resume speaking until the server was out of earshot. “Olga was working in the department next to sportswear Friday. She’s a floater. Naturally, she remembered Dixie because she not only bought a couple of grand’s worth of clothes, but Olga had a hard time understanding her. Moving here from the Ukraine, Olga’s not used to American Southern accents.”

  “Go on,” Judith said as Renie was momentarily distracted by the dishes being served at the adjacent table.

  “French onion soup,” Renie murmured. “I can’t resist.”

  She turned back to Judith. “Where was I? Oh, Dixie was telling Olga that she needed a completely new wardrobe because she was moving back to South Carolina.”

  “What? You mean she was quitting her job?”

  Renie shrugged. “That’s what it sounded like. In fact, Olga thought she might be in love and planning to get married. Dixie mentioned something about meeting—let me get this right—her ‘shugah.’ Olga wasn’t certain what a

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  ‘shugah’ was, but I explained to her that it was Southern talk for sugar, meaning a sweetheart.”

  Judith rested her chin on her hands. “A mystery lover. Who?”

  “Isn’t that up to Rick and Rhoda to find out? They were having breakfast at the Hyatt this morning. It’ll be interesting to hear if they learned anything.”

  “Yes.” Judith fingered the menu. The aroma of fennel and curry and dill masked the exhaust fumes from the street below.

  “I suppose the St. Georges know about Émile Grenier. Or will, very soon. Biff would be quick to pass that along. How the heck did Émile get into the women’s dressing-room area in the first place? Don’t they have security cameras in those places?”

  “I never saw anyone in that part of the store except Olga,”

  Renie asserted. “There were a couple of other customers—

  both women—browsing. Unlike some places where the employees check to see what you’re taking into a dressing room or stand guard to make sure you don’t try to wear six outfits at once and leave without paying—there was none of that. Neiman Marcus has a higher class of clientele. They don’t harass their customers.”

  “The chairs,” Judith said suddenly. “Employees and customers are used to seeing men waiting in those chairs by the dressing rooms. Émile or any other guy might go unnoticed.”

  Renie was rubbernecking again. “Did you see that chilled lobster salad on the serving cart? Am I drooling?”

  “No. Yes.” Judith was thinking. “We have to assume Émile was killed in the dressing room. The cord-and-tassel thing that was used to strangle him looked similar to the ones on the sale rack items.”

  Renie’s attention had turned back to the murder at hand.

  “So somebody—presumably a woman—lured him into the dressing room and killed him? Wouldn’t she have to be strong as an ox?”

  “Émile wasn’t a very big man,” Judith pointed out. “I doubt that he was much taller than you. If you know how to strangle someone, you can do it quickly and efficiently—

  especially if you catch the victim by surprise.”

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  Renie feigned a shudder. “Sometimes you scare me. Maybe I should behave myself better when I’m with you.”

  “If,” Judith said drily, “I haven’t killed you by now, I probably won’t. And stop ogling the poached halibut.”

  “Sorry.” Renie was silent for a moment, eyes riveted on her cousin. “He must have been killed before I went into the dressing room.”

  Judith nodded. “His feet were already under the divider. You didn’t notice because you’re too short to see over a mound of clothes. I wonder . . . Did he go with someone else or did he plan to meet someone?”

  “He certainly wasn’t alone when he died,” Renie pointed out. Judith shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “No. The problem is, the only woman who we know was on-site is Anemone Giddon.”

  “But you were probably with her when Émile was killed,”

  Renie reminded Judith.

  Judith made a face. “Was I?” She thought back to how Anemone had dismissed her before taking the black suit to the other dressing room area. Judith had gone to designer sportswear, browsing for about five minutes. But Renie was already in the dressing-room next to the scene of the latest crime. The timing was wrong—unless Émile had been killed before Judith and Renie had run into the young woman. But Anemone was the most fragile of the suspects. Or so she seemed.

  “Adrenaline,” Renie said after Judith had put her thoughts into words. “If you’re pumped enough, you can do anything.”

  “But why?” Judith’s expression was bleak. “If all these murders are connected—and they must be—what would set Anemone off on a killing spree? There’s no apparent motive, no sense to it, no logic.”

  “Because,” Renie replied, beckoning at their server, “as my husband would put it in clinical terms, she’s mad as a hatter?”

  Judith glanced at the menu. She still wasn’t hungry. “I’ll have your classic Caesar salad, please.”

  “And after that?” the server prodded gently.

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  “That’s it. Thank you.”

  He turned a hopeful face to Renie. She did not disappoint.

  “I’ll have the artichoke-mushroom gratin, tomato tartare, caper red onion jus for my entrée. But first, I’d like some French onion soup.”

  “Excellent choices, madam.” He smiled kindly at Renie and moved away.

  “Pig,” Judith murmured. “Do you even know what’s in your entrée? It sounds pretty exotic to me.”

  “I’ll find out,” Renie retorted.

  “It’d serve you right if you got a stomach—wait.” Judith placed both hands on the table. “There is logic in these murders. Magglio Cruz gets killed at the cocktail party. But who were the first two people to find the body? Dixie and Émile. Did they see the killer? Did they see something that told them who the killer was? Or did they see something and not realize it, but the murderer thought they did—or that they would remember later?”

  Renie sighed. “All possibilities. But if Dixie or Émile saw something or somebody, wouldn’t they have told the police?”

  Judith waited for Renie to exult over the thick crusty soup that had just been placed in front of her. “As I said, they might not have realized what they saw. Or,” she added after the server had once again left them, “there’s always blackmail.”

  Renie’s eyes were closed. She was taking deep sniffs of the onions, Gruyère cheese, and toasted croutons, waving her soup spoon as if it were a weapon. “Ahhh.” She opened her eyes. “Blackmail? Now there’s a thought.” The spoon engaged the soup.

  “Certainly the list of suspects has some people with enough wealth to pay a blackmailer,” Judith mused. “Almost everyone involved is rich.”

  “So’s this soup. It’s terrific.” The battle was now underway; Renie had cheese on her chin, crouton crumbs on her bosom, and a puddle of broth next to the bowl. Her slurping noises sounded not unlike a combat zone. “Want a taste?”

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  “No thanks. After you’ve gotten hold of it, I don’t know where it’s been.”

  “Jim Brooks isn’t rich,” Renie pointed out, dusting off her chest. “Ambrose Everhart isn’t. CeeCee Orr is rich only in the way that women like her are rich.” She paused to slurp and chew. “You’re right about the others, though. Unless you’re counting crew members.”

  “We can’t not count them,” Judith declared. “If the original murder weapon was cutlery, one of the chefs or servers would have the easiest access.”

  “Surely the police are investigating everyone thoroughly,” Renie contended. “Biff may seem a bit bumbling, but I’ll bet that when he’s in his own element—that is, not interviewing the rich and the really rich—he handles himself pretty well.”

  “You may be
right,” Judith said. “I wonder if Rick and Rhoda have tried to reach us at the hotel. If only we could talk to someone at police headquarters. It’s well and good for Rick to have an in there, but we don’t. I trust the St. Georges, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t leave out certain things. Especially Rick. Men don’t listen the way women do.”

  “No ear for the ephemeral,” Renie remarked.

  “Exactly. But I don’t want to step on Rick’s toes by contacting Biff or—” Judith stopped as their server delivered her Caesar salad. To allow him more foot room, she moved her purse closer to the chair. “Thank you. It looks lovely.”

  Instead of picking up her fork, Judith reached into her purse.

  “I forgot about the newspaper article. You should read it.”

  Finishing the soup, Renie wiped cheese off of her chin.

  “Now?”

  Judith nodded and handed the paper to her cousin. “Yes. Because we’re going to talk to Flakey Smythe.”

  “To . . . ?” Renie frowned. “Oh. The reporter,” she murmured, scanning the byline and the lead. “Why?”

  The server had returned, this time to remove Renie’s bowl and present her entrée. He started to describe the ingredients, but she waved him off. “Never mind. It looks great.”

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  “Then may I sponge madam down?” he inquired, pointing to a damp towel on the serving stand. Renie narrowed her eyes. “Only if you have a hose.”

  The server’s smile was fixed. “Not at hand, madam. I apologize.” He left.

  “Read the story,” Judith ordered Renie. “I’m going to check to see if we have any calls at the hotel.”

  There was only one, but it was from Rhoda St. George.

  “Breakfast at Grandviews was delightful,” her recorded voice said, “as well as informative. Call me when you have the opportunity.”

  Judith dialed the St. Georges’ number at once. Rhoda answered on the third ring. “You caught me just in time. The weather’s so pleasant. I was about to take Asthma for a walk. He still hasn’t dried out from his last shampoo.”