Dead Man Docking

by Mary Daheim

  “That’s the effect Connie has always had on men,” Rhoda said, accepting a martini from her husband. “Perfect, darling,” she murmured after a first sip. “Connie is the type of woman who appears as if she needs protecting. The male sex has always treated her with the utmost gallantry. When we were younger, I used to find it annoying.”

  Rick grinned at his wife. “That’s because you look like you can take care of yourself ten times better than any man could.”

  “Except for you, darling,” she responded with a semisweet smile. Judith poured Diet 7UP into her glass. “I still have to wonder what caused Connie to faint at the dinner table. Until then, she seemed relatively composed.”

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  “Was anyone else conversing at the other end of the table?” Renie inquired. “I was way down there sitting by the late Wilbur Giddon’s empty chair.”

  “No,” Rhoda stated firmly. “You and Rick and I were the only ones talking at that point, except for Horace, who asked about Madame de Montespan. He was on my left, then Connie, with Erma at the head of the table. Ambrose and CeeCee were across from them, and at that point, they were keeping their mouths shut.”

  “So was everybody else on my side of the table,” Judith said. “It wasn’t what you’d call a lively social gathering.”

  Rhoda removed her cigarette case and holder from her evening bag. “Do you mind?”

  Both cousins shook their heads. Three lives in three days had been lost through violence; smoking seemed like a minor vice.

  “It beats me,” Rick said, gazing out into the foggy night.

  “If anyone should have passed out during a discussion of courtesans, it’d be CeeCee. But her skin is as thick as it is fair.”

  Renie, who was sitting in an armchair with her shoes off, set her Pepsi on a sidetable. “How long has CeeCee been Horace’s girlfriend?”

  Rick and Rhoda exchanged glances. “A year?” Rhoda offered.

  Rick shrugged. “About that. Horace has never married. Over time, he’s squired a number of beautiful blondes. As Horace gets older, the women keep getting younger. Some of them have had a bit more class than CeeCee. But not much.”

  “What does he do?” Renie asked. “Pay them off when they get tiresome?”

  “It’s more the other way ’round,” Rhoda said, using a small porcelain dish as an ashtray. “The girls get tired of Horace. Of course they accumulate enough jewelry and cash or whatever before they pack up and leave. And in some cases, he’s acted as a sort of marriage broker.”

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  Judith frowned. “How do you mean?”

  Rhoda laughed carelessly. “Think about it, my dear. In today’s world, few women want to be kept by a rich sugar daddy. If Horace doesn’t choose independent career girls—

  or should I say they don’t choose him?—they at least want legal and financial security. It isn’t difficult for him to find one of his cronies a second or third bride, particularly of the trophy-wife variety.”

  “In fact,” Rick put in, “Horace has made a couple of matches for younger men who have—old-fashioned as it may sound—fallen in love with the ladies in question—or, if you will, questionable ladies.”

  “Why,” Renie murmured, “do I feel as if I’m out of this league?”

  “Because you are,” Rhoda said kindly. “And I think it’s terribly refreshing.”

  Judith felt equally at sea. “Is Horace recompensed for making these marital arrangements?”

  Rick turned away from the window and winked. “In his own way. Financial advice, shall we say.”

  “You mean stock tips?” Judith responded. “Inside-trader kind of information?”

  “Whatever the market will stand,” Rick answered blandly.

  “Horace is generous with his ladies, but he’s not rich in the way of really rich people. If you know what I mean.”

  “We don’t,” Renie replied.

  “We really don’t,” Judith emphasized.

  “It’s like . . .” Rhoda looked at Rick. “You explain, darling.”

  Rick blew a couple of smoke rings. “A rich person might decide to take off tomorrow for the islands—Hawaii, Tahiti, the Bahamas. A really rich person might fly to an island, too—but he or she would probably own it.”

  “Oh,” Renie said. “But,” she went on, “Horace is rich enough to sink his money into corks and sponges.”

  Rick’s expression didn’t change. “Perhaps.”

  “I find this all really creepy,” Renie declared. “Or maybe I should say sordid. How does a seemingly gentle

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  soul like Anemone Giddon float through these polluted waters?”

  “Erma’s very protective,” Rhoda replied. “Anemone has gone to private schools, would-be suitors are thoroughly investigated, and she rarely goes anywhere without her mother. You can imagine what Jim Brooks has endured.”

  Judith poured more soda into her glass. “I gather that Jim isn’t from a wealthy family. How did he make the cut?”

  “A good question,” Rhoda said. “Jim’s family used to be moderately well off. Unfortunately, they made some foolish investments in Silicon Valley-dot.com stocks that collapsed about four years ago. His father died not long after that, and his mother is a victim of early Alzheimer’s disease. She’s in a home near Walnut Creek. Jim had always wanted to be a doctor, but the money simply wasn’t there. About that time he met Anemone at the wedding of mutual friends. They began seeing each other and eventually became engaged.”

  “But, I assume,” Judith interjected, “only after Erma had thoroughly investigated him.”

  “That’s right,” Rhoda affirmed. “Erma didn’t like the idea that Jim’s family had become poor because of bad judgment, but she tried not to hold the sins of the father against the son. She agreed to pay Jim’s way through Stanford, but only on the understanding that the couple wouldn’t marry until he finished medical school.”

  “An offer Jim couldn’t refuse,” Rick remarked. Judith nodded. “I assume that Jim and Anemone are deeply in love?”

  Rhoda was quick to catch the skepticism in Judith’s voice.

  “You think not?”

  But Judith merely shrugged. “These people seem more motivated by money than emotion.”

  Rick chuckled. “I was motivated by both. I certainly wouldn’t have married Rhoda if she’d been—excuse the expression—

  poor.”

  Judith glanced at Rhoda to see if she’d taken offense. But she hadn’t.

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  “Of course not, darling,” she said. “If I’d been poor, I’d have been a completely different person. Not to mention that I wouldn’t have looked half so enticing. Money may not buy beauty, but it certainly can enhance one’s natural endowments.”

  Again, Judith considered telling the St. Georges about Anemone’s strange request for an alibi. And again she decided not to say anything until she knew the reason for the young woman’s behavior. Instead, she asked about Ambrose Everhart’s background. Rhoda responded, but only after allowing Rick to refresh her cocktail. “As you can imagine, Erma has had problems keeping hired help. She pays fairly well, but she’s so hard to please. Ambrose has been her secretary for about a year. Previously, he’d been working for some environmental agency. I understand he wasn’t keen on leaving that job because he’s very conscientious about the environment, but such organizations have to keep a lid on salaries. The money tempted him, and because of Erma’s social and civic obligations, Ambrose has sufficient spare time to still take part in issue-oriented concerns.”

  “Does he have a social life?” Renie asked.

  “Not much time for that,” Rick said, between puffs on his cigarette. He blew a few more smoke rings. Rhoda waited a moment, and then did the same. Her smaller rings drifted through Rick’s larger ones. It was obviously a trick they had taught themselves by long practic
e. It occurred to Judith that there was something romantic—if unhealthful—about the stunt. The St. Georges seemed to be perfectly attuned to each other.

  For a moment, Judith reflected on a different domestic situation, the more dysfunctional relationships inside the Pacific Heights mansion. “Propinquity,” she finally murmured.

  “Is it possible that Ambrose might have fallen in love with Anemone? Or vice versa?”

  Rick cocked his head to one side. “I don’t doubt Anemone’s feelings for Jim. But I would say that Ambrose

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  may have his eye on someone else in the Giddon household.”

  “Beulah?” Renie blurted in surprise.

  Rick shook his head. “No. He may have fallen for Jim. You see, Ambrose is gay.”

  After the St. Georges had left, Judith kicked herself. “I should have guessed. It’s not as if we don’t have a sizable gay community at home.”

  “Your gaydar must have gotten lost in the fog,” Renie suggested.

  “Until now,” Judith said as the cousins began to get ready for bed, “I thought maybe Anemone was meeting Ambrose at Neiman Marcus and that’s why she was so embarrassed. Humiliated was the word she used. Obviously, I was on the wrong track.”

  “We’re assuming Jim is straight?”

  Judith threw up her hands. “Who knows? The only thing I can believe about him is that he fell into a sweet deal when he hooked up with Anemone. Of course he seems to be someone Erma can control. Having his way paid through Stanford medical school isn’t exactly a token bribe.”

  “If he makes it,” Renie noted. “Jim doesn’t strike me as the sharpest blade in the butcher block.”

  “True enough,” Judith allowed, carefully hanging up her new suit. “On the other hand, he may be one of those people whose brains are science-oriented, but don’t cope well with everyday matters.”

  “He may also be Anemone’s first love,” Renie pointed out. “They’re both very young. She’s led a sheltered life. And the wedding isn’t supposed to take place until after he’s out of med school. That’ll take years. A lot can happen between now and then.”

  Wrapping the plush terry-cloth hotel robe around her tired body, Judith sat down on the bed. “We’re not looking at any of this in the right way. Let’s go back to the beginning.”

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  “You mean to Magglio Cruz’s murder?” Renie asked, sitting down opposite Judith.

  “Right. What’s the one thing about all these deaths that’s the same and yet different?”

  Renie thought for a moment. “The manner thereof. Mags was stabbed, Dixie was poisoned, and Émile was strangled.”

  “Exactly.” Judith smiled her approval. “The weapon used to kill Mags was something at hand, and possibly not premeditated. That suggests an argument, a sudden burst of violence. It could also indicate that the killer panicked.”

  Renie frowned. “Not enough to keep him or her from getting rid of the weapon. Or, for that matter, to let that panic show after the crime was committed.”

  “Which indicates the killer has a certain amount of selfcontrol or is used to working under pressure,” Judith pointed out.

  “I’m not sure that description lets us eliminate anybody involved,” Renie said after a brief pause. “Every one of the suspects we know is either obnoxiously up-front—like Erma—or may have a hidden agenda—like CeeCee. Furthermore, they all live in a pressure-cooker kind of world. Not to mention that someone of this ilk who has just committed murder—especially under volatile circumstances—

  usually has strong survival instincts. Even a frail flower like Anemone would hardly walk out into the middle of the ship’s saloon and announce, ‘I done it.’ ”

  Judith nodded. “But I’m also referring to the kind of panic that doesn’t show but stays inside and eats away at the person who did do it. Given that Dixie and Émile were the first to discover Mags’s body, why then did they become the next victims? I still think they saw something or someone that would’ve given the killer away. If they didn’t name names, then it had to be a thing, not a person.”

  Again, Renie paused before responding. “Did Mags fall or was he pushed into the piano?”

  Judith shook her head. “It could have happened either way, though pushed—or should I say stuffed?—seems more

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  likely. He was a slender man, but it strikes me as peculiar that he would have landed in such a way.”

  “On the other hand,” Renie pointed out, “you never saw enough of his body to tell what might have happened.”

  “That’s true,” Judith admitted. “Biff McDougal must know. So should Rick and Rhoda. Unless Biff’s withholding some of the facts even from them.”

  “That doesn’t seem likely—” Renie stopped as the phone rang on the bedside table. “Now what?” she muttered, picking up the receiver. Judith watched her cousin’s expression become perplexed. “It’s kind of late. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

  Renie said. “No? Okay, come on up.”

  “Who was that?” Judith asked as Renie replaced the receiver.

  “Captain Swafford. He says he has to see us immediately,” Renie replied. “Jeez, it’s going on eleven o’clock. He called from the lobby. We’re going to have to hold court in our bathrobes. What could be so important?”

  “Any number of things,” Judith murmured, “but not anything serious that involves us. I mean, if the cruise has been canceled, why not say so over the phone?”

  “Because I work for the line as a consultant?” Renie suggested in a dubious tone. The cousins returned to the sitting room. Judith attempted to open a window to air out the cigarette smoke, but the casements were sealed shut. Unable to sit still, she put the half-empty liter of gin and the bottle of vermouth away in the armoire that held the TV set.

  “I was going to watch the news,” Judith said, shutting the armoire’s doors. “I guess I won’t now. I assume Émile’s murder will be one of the big stories.”

  “Nobody can keep a lid on a triple murder when they all seem to be connected,” Renie pointed out. A knock sounded on their door. Both cousins turned at the same time and bumped into each other.

  “Sorry,” Judith murmured.

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  “I’m okay if you’re okay,” Renie said, reaching the door first.

  Wearing his regulation uniform instead of his muchdecorated formal attire, Captain Swafford still managed to look imposing. Indeed, he looked severe. Judith resisted an impulse to salute.

  “Come in,” Renie said, though by the time she got the words out, the captain was halfway across the sitting room. He didn’t speak right away, but clasped his hands behind his back and gazed first at Renie and then at Judith.

  “I have significant news, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Flynn,” he announced in his deep British-accented voice. “Perhaps you should sit down.”

  The cousins both sat on the sofa. Swafford remained standing. He cleared his throat before speaking again.

  “First—and least important—is that the San Rafael’s maiden voyage has been postponed until an unspecified date in April. The reason we are giving is that certain minor technical adjustments need to be made.”

  Like removing the crime scene tape, Judith thought to herself. But she was too cowed to say anything out loud. The captain was only of average height, but he was broad and bearded, a looming authoritative figure who somehow evoked Holbein’s portraits of Henry VIII.

  “The other matter,” Swafford continued, “is much more grave. A complete search has been made of the ship during the past two days. Mrs. Giddon’s stolen jewels were found this evening.”

  “So?” Renie said, her manner indifferent. The captain glowered at her. “So indeed, as far as you’re concerned, madam. They were discovered aboard ship in the safe of your Mae West suite. Biff McDougal should be here any moment to arrest you both.”<
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  “HOLD IT!” RENIE cried. “Are you crazy? We didn’t steal the old bat’s jewels!”

  “I’m afraid,” Captain Swafford said solemnly, “that your fingerprints were all over the case as well as on some of the individual pieces. Can you deny that you handled Mrs. Giddon’s stolen property?”

  Before Renie or Judith could answer, they heard a heavy pounding on the door. Captain Swafford moved briskly to let in Biff McDougal. He was accompanied by a pale young man with a crew cut so blond that it was almost white. Judith assumed that the newcomer must be Buzz Cochran, Biff’s temporary partner.

  “I see you beat us to the punch, Skipper,” Biff said to the captain before gesturing at Judith and Renie. “Any trouble with these two?”

  “They deny having stolen the jewels, of course,” Captain Swafford replied.

  “Open-and-shut case,” Biff declared, rolling the everpresent toothpick around his mouth. “Let’s go, ladies.”

  “Let’s not,” Renie retorted, folding her arms across her chest and planting her bare feet firmly on the floor. “This is stupid. Furthermore, I don’t go anywhere in a hotel bathrobe. And I’m not responsible for our daughter Anne 224

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  shopping at Falstaff’s Market in her jammies. We didn’t raise her that way.”

  “Huh?” Biff looked puzzled.

  “My cousin’s right,” Judith said, although she got to her feet. “If you’re serious about going to headquarters, you’ll have to let us change clothes. If you merely want to question us, please sit down so we can have a conversation.” She looked Biff right in the eye. “My husband’s a retired policeman. I know the drill, and I doubt that you have any real evidence other than some fingerprints, which we can easily explain.”

  “So start by explaining how the jewels got in your safe?”

  Biff demanded.

  “Obviously,” Judith said, keeping her voice calm, “we can’t.” She had gone over to the honor bar next to the armoire. “Shall we behave in a civilized manner and have a drink?”

  Captain Swafford’s expression was stolid. “Certainly not.”