Dead Man Docking

by Mary Daheim

  “That’s why I can’t tell you my reason for . . .” Anemone’s head drooped. “It’s just too embarrassing. But it has nothing to do with Émile or anybody else getting killed.”

  “You may be wrong,” Judith contended, “even if you didn’t kill them yourself. You—and I—were in the store when Émile was murdered. You may have seen someone who was connected with his death.” She paused, trying to determine if her words were having any effect. But Anemone continued to hang her head, refusing to look Judith in the eye.

  “Okay.” Speaking sharply, Judith stood up. “As my Grandma Grover used to say, ‘If you’re not going to help, don’t hinder.’

  You obviously went to Neiman Marcus to meet someone. Who was it? Émile Grenier? Or CeeCee Orr?”

  Anemone’s head snapped up. Her blue eyes were filled with tears. “I told you, I hardly knew Mr. Grenier! And I certainly didn’t go there to meet a tart like CeeCee! Please, stop badgering me!” Seemingly on the verge of hysterics, Anemone suddenly seemed to get a hold on her emotions.

  “How did you know CeeCee was there?”

  Judith decided to be cagey. “I know a lot of things. But I

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  can’t help you unless you tell the truth and get me off the hook with your phony alibi.”

  “It’s not phony,” Anemone asserted in a miserable voice.

  “Besides, I haven’t talked to the police. But I can’t tell you anything more. Please.”

  Anemone wasn’t worried about being interrogated by Biff McDougal. Judith realized this as she contemplated the young woman’s obvious agony. That meant Anemone was afraid of someone other than the authorities. That someone could only be her mother, Erma Giddon. Dinner continued despite the disruptions. The salad course had followed, but by the time Judith left Anemone in her bedroom and arrived downstairs, only Erma, Horace, CeeCee, and Ambrose remained at the table. Presumably the others, including Renie, were in the living room with Connie Cruz. Upon seeing Judith, Jim rushed up to her. “How’s Anemone? Is she okay? Should I take her pulse?”

  “She’s upset, that’s all.” Judith glanced into the living room. A balding man with wire-rimmed spectacles was hovering over Connie, who was lying on the sofa. “Is that Dr. Selig?”

  Jim nodded. “He’s pretty good. Heck, he sure knows a lot of stuff about medicine.”

  “That’s helpful,” Judith said, keeping a straight face, “especially for a doctor.”

  “Maybe,” Jim said, frowning, “I should go see Anemone.”

  Judith made no comment. Jim stood on one foot and then the other. Finally, he headed for the staircase. Renie was nowhere to be seen. Rick and Rhoda had taken their salad plates to an Italianate credenza that stood within convenient reach of the glass-fronted liquor cabinet. Paul was standing guard by the sofa where Connie lay with her eyes half closed.

  Dr. Selig stood up straight and removed his spectacles.

  “I’m prescribing a higher dosage of Valium,” he said. “Your 206

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  pharmacy will deliver it tonight. You must have complete rest until the funeral services Monday. Your nerves are completely shattered.” He turned to Paul. “You will see that she follows my instructions, won’t you, Mr. Tanaka?”

  “To the letter,” Paul said grimly.

  “Well, then,” Dr. Selig responded, closing his black case with the Cruz Cruise line logo embossed on the leather exterior, “take the lady home. She should never have ventured out this evening. I warned her about overdoing it the other night after the . . . tragedy aboard ship.”

  Connie opened her eyes. “I couldn’t stand it, Doctor. I felt as if I were going crazy in that big condo without Mags.”

  “Understandable,” Dr. Selig said, “but unwise. You need to recover your strength, physically and emotionally.”

  Judith had moved over to where the St. Georges were drinking martinis and nibbling on baby spinach leaves.

  “What set Connie off?” she whispered.

  “Courtesans,” Rhoda replied with a shrug. “What else? That’s what we were talking about.”

  “Power,” Rick said softly. “We were also talking about robber barons and kings and things.”

  Connie was being helped to her feet by Paul and Dr. Selig. Chevy had appeared from the foyer with coats and Connie’s handbag. Renie was right behind her.

  “Mags was a self-made man, but he wasn’t exactly a robber baron,” Rhoda said, still keeping her voice down. Nodding farewell at Connie, Paul, and the doctor, Renie crossed the room to join Judith and the St. Georges.

  “Mmm,” she murmured, studying the salad plates, “any crab or shrimp in there?”

  Rhoda shook her head. “Mainly greens. But the vinaigrette dressing is nice.”

  Renie seemed to lose interest. “I’ll wait for the next course.”

  With long years of practice, Rick wielded the martini shaker. “May I refresh your cocktail?” he asked his wife.

  “Of course, darling,” Rhoda replied. “Thank you. We

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  should go back to the dining room, though it’s really too, too grim. Why did we come?”

  “To sleuth, my dove, to sleuth.” Rick poured out fresh drinks for his wife and himself. “Ladies?” he said to Judith and Renie.

  They declined.

  “One thing,” Renie said as the St. Georges picked up their salad plates. “CeeCee Orr was at Neiman Marcus yesterday when Émile was murdered.”

  Judith stared at her cousin. “I wondered. How can you be sure?”

  “I decided to help . . . Beulah gather up Connie and Paul’s belongings. We all left our purses in the foyer, right? I figured CeeCee for the red Kate Spade handbag because it matched her dress. A dress, by the way, I’d noticed at the store.”

  Judith nodded. “So did I. It’s my favorite color,” she added for the benefit of Rick and Rhoda.

  “Mine, too,” Renie said. “Anyway, I thought she might have kept the receipt in her purse. She had, and the time of purchase was listed. It was twenty minutes before I spotted Émile’s body.”

  Rick whistled softly. “Bravo!”

  Rhoda smiled her approval. “Very nice work.”

  Judith was tempted to reveal her frustrating conversation with Anemone, but held back. If the young woman hadn’t killed Émile—and Judith doubted that she had—then there was no point in revealing the episode until the allegedly humiliating reason for Anemone’s presence at the store was discovered.

  The foursome resumed their places during Beulah’s presentation of a crown rib roast of lamb. Erma nodded her regal approbation and allowed Horace the honor of carving the portions. Jim Brooks returned to the table a moment later.

  “Anemone’s going to take a nap,” he announced.

  “Very well,” Erma said. “Tomorrow I shall consult a hypnotist.”

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  “For Anemone?” Jim asked in surprise.

  “No,” Erma replied coldly. “For myself. I’ve been told that hypnosis is useful in solving crimes. Somewhere in my subconscious I may know who stole my jewels.”

  “How about that?” Rick remarked glibly. “I don’t suppose your subconscious might reveal who killed Mags, Dixie, and Émile?”

  Erma shrugged. “That’s not my concern.”

  Chevy, moving in a diffident manner, entered the dining room and came up behind Rick’s chair. She whispered something into his ear and shuffled away.

  “Excuse me,” Rick said, standing up. “I have an urgent phone call. I’ll take it in the study, if I may.”

  Erma shrugged again. “As you will. While you’re there, please don’t breathe on my ananas.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Rick said with a charming smile. CeeCee looked puzzled as she turned to look at Erma. “I thought you were sitting on it, Mrs. Giddon.”

  Erma glared at CeeCee. “An ananas is a houseplant, otherwise known as
a pineapple plant. It requires a high amount of humidity.”

  “Oh.” CeeCee beamed. “Ain’t that something? Growing pineapples in your own house! Got any cantaloupes or kumquats around here?”

  “Hardly.” Erma looked as if she could barely endure conversing with CeeCee. “The particular type of pineapple plant I have doesn’t produce fruit, only flowers.”

  CeeCee blinked a couple of times. “Well, gee, I think I’d rather have one with real pineapples.” She looked across the table to Horace. “Why don’t you buy me a banana tree, Panky? I’ll bet I could grow one on your roof garden. Or,” she went on, gathering steam, “how about this—you could put all kinds of fruit plants and stuff in the cork-and-sponge museum. Like . . . what do you call it where there’s a glass roof?”

  “A greenhouse?” Ambrose suggested.

  “An atrium,” Horace replied. The sour expression he’d been wearing disappeared. “That’s not a bad idea, CeeCee.”

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  “All those plants would perk up the sponges,” CeeCee said. “I mean, sponges and corks are really swell and all that, but aren’t they mostly brown? You need some green.”

  “I do at that,” Horace said, and sighed heavily. Rick reentered the dining room. “Nothing urgent,” he asserted, sitting down at the table. “By the way, this lamb is delicious.”

  “It’s from New Zealand,” Erma said. “I had it flown in by New Zealand Airlines.”

  “You should’ve had duck,” CeeCee said. “Then it could have flown in by itself.” She let out a high-pitched giggle. Judith didn’t dare look at Renie. A surreptitious glance around the table caught Horace appearing as if he were on the verge of an anxiety attack; Erma in very high dudgeon; CeeCee apparently oblivious to everything except the mint jelly she was rolling around on her tongue; Ambrose with his head down in deep gloom; and even a silent Rick and Rhoda, who, for once, seemed to be at a loss for words. But CeeCee certainly wasn’t. Seated next to Ambrose, she poked his arm. “You aren’t eating. What’s up with that?”

  “I’m a vegetarian,” Ambrose replied, pulling away from his dinner companion. “I only eat fish and other seafood.”

  “Huh.” CeeCee frowned at the secretary. “You don’t feel sorry for the poor lobster who gave up his life for your soup? You didn’t wince when you thought about him boiling away in a big old pot?”

  “That’s different,” Ambrose mumbled.

  Renie held up her fork from which dangled an asparagus spear. “How do you know that this little guy isn’t screaming in pain? Or,” she continued, pointing to Horace’s wineglass,

  “those grapes weren’t groaning in agony while they were being stomped?”

  Ambrose shuddered. “I don’t want to think about it. All living things are precious.”

  “Really?” Renie looked pugnacious. “Then why don’t I see anybody lamenting over the corpses that are being stacked up like cordwood around here?”

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  Erma sucked in her breath. “Mrs. Jones! That’s very crude!”

  “It’s very true,” Renie shot back. “The only person who seems affected by the recent tragedies is Connie Cruz. You act as if human beings are as disposable as paper towels.”

  Although Judith agreed with Renie, she motioned for her cousin to shut up. But Erma had hauled herself to her feet and was wagging a pudgy finger.

  “You are incredibly ill-mannered!” Erma bellowed. “You and that other person are no longer welcome in this house!

  Get out!”

  “Gladly.” Renie had also stood up. Whether by accident or by design, the damask tablecloth got caught on the big face of her wristwatch. Her own place setting, along with Horace’s wineglass and Rhoda’s silverware, crashed to the floor. Erma let out a piercing yelp. Renie yanked the damask cloth away from her watch, tearing a small hole in the fine fabric. “Cheap crap,” she said with a sneer. “I hope that’s disposable.”

  Renie stomped out of the dining room, leaving Judith no choice but to follow. Erma shouted invective after both cousins, but didn’t attempt to follow them.

  “Coz,” Judith said, aghast, “you shouldn’t have done that!

  Erma will send you a bill for damages.”

  “Screw her,” Renie snapped, picking up her handbag in the foyer. “You knew from the moment we met her that I’d do something outrageous. She’s exactly the kind of wretched, selfish person who drives me wild.”

  “Me, too,” Judith agreed, “but I don’t make scenes.”

  “Try it sometime,” Renie said with a wicked grin. “It feels great. I’ll use my cell phone to call us a taxi.”

  Renie was dialing when Chevy appeared in the foyer.

  “Can I give you a standing ovation?” she asked Renie.

  “I wasn’t acting,” Renie replied. “I don’t see how you can put up with that old bat for five minutes.”

  “Acting is all about discipline,” Chevy explained, ignoring Erma’s shouts for help.

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  “You deserve an Academy Award or a Tony or some damned thing,” Renie declared. “Keep in touch. If Erma has a fit and falls in it, I want to be the first to know.”

  Judith and Renie waited outside for the taxi. Neither of their new suit jackets could ward off the fog’s damp chill. Almost five minutes passed before they heard the front door close behind them. Through the thick gray vapors, Judith could barely make out the forms of Rick and Rhoda St. George.

  “The party didn’t seem quite as festive without you,” Rick said. “May we share your cab?”

  “If it ever comes,” Renie said. “What happened after we left?”

  “The maid came to restore order,” Rhoda replied, keeping her champagne-colored Chanel coat wrapped closely over the matching cocktail dress. “Erma announced that dessert would be served in the parlor. That’s when we decided to leave. Ricky and I spent a less stressful evening at Candlestick Park during the ’eighty-nine World Series earthquake.”

  “We became engaged there,” Rick said, smiling at his wife. “I told her she made the earth move for me.”

  “He’s so sweet,” Rhoda remarked with an ironic expression. “He’d never have proposed if they’d been able to play the game that night.”

  “Of course not,” Rick agreed. “When the series resumed, the Giants ended up getting swept. I would have been glum for days, and not in a marrying mood.”

  A few yards down the street, Judith could make out two dim lights. “I think the taxi’s finally here,” she said.

  “Ah.” Rick nodded. “Before we get in, there’s something you should know.”

  Renie looked alarmed. “The killer’s driving the cab?”

  Rick smiled and shook his head. “Doubtful. But the phone call I received during dinner was from Biff McDougal. He wanted to let me know that they’ve been checking the local bank accounts of everyone involved in the investigation. It seems that on the first of the last four months, Con-212 Mary Daheim

  nie Cruz made cash withdrawals on a personal account in the amounts of twenty, forty, fifty, and seventy-five thousand dollars.”

  The headlights veered close to the curb. The taxi stopped.

  “Were there any canceled checks in that amount?” Judith asked.

  “No,” Rick replied, moving toward the cab. “Suggestive, though, don’t you think?”

  “Yes,” Judith said as Rick opened the rear door for the women.

  One word had leaped into Judith’s mind.

  Blackmail.

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  DESPITE THE FACT that their cabdriver didn’t seem conversant in English, the foursome spoke only of inconsequential matters during the ride back to the St. Francis.

  “Maybe,” Judith suggested as they drove past Union Square, “you should come up for a drink.”

  “What a splendid idea!” Rick exclaimed. “I could use a martini about now. It’s been minutes since I’ve had one.�
��

  Upon arriving in the suite, Renie ordered a liter of Tanqueray No. 10, a fifth of Kina Lillet vermouth, and a jar of cocktail olives from room service. The small liquor bottles in the honor bar wouldn’t go very far with their guests.

  “It might not be blackmail,” Rhoda said while they waited. “It could be gambling debts, or even purchases. You know, like clothes or jewelry that she didn’t want Mags to know she was buying.”

  Rick looked dubious. “It’s the increments and the regularity of dates that bother me. According to Biff, her other finances—as well as Mags’s—are in order. So, apparently are those of the cruise line itself.”

  Rhoda didn’t seem convinced. “Connie has led a blameless life. That is,” she continued with a hint of cynicism in her expression, “as far as I know. I’ve always 214

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  considered us confidantes—up to a point. There are some things women don’t even tell their dearest friends.”

  “Such as a lover?” Judith put in.

  Rhoda looked ambiguous. “Like that.”

  “Nominees?” said Renie.

  “Oh, dear.” Rhoda pressed a finger to her forehead. “Their circle includes some very charming men.” She shot a glance at Rick. “Not you, darling. That is, you’re relentlessly charming, but I’d know if you were straying. Our liquor bills would be lower.”

  Room service arrived. Rick insisted on doing the honors, including a hefty tip for the waiter. Judith and Renie, however, both insisted on drinking soda from the honor bar.

  “I never could handle gin,” Renie admitted. “Frankly, I hate the taste. It’s like drinking a Christmas tree.”

  Rick’s eyes twinkled. “And to think I thought you were a person of refined taste and habits.”

  “Don’t get sidetracked, darling,” Rhoda cautioned. “We were speaking of other sins before the gin bin arrived.”

  “Speaking as an outsider,” Judith began as she scooped ice cubes out of a silver bucket, “I noticed how solicitous Émile Grenier was of Connie after Mags was killed.”

  “Proprietary,” Renie added. “But Paul Tanaka behaved the same way this evening.”