Dead Man Docking

by Mary Daheim

  “They pop to mind first,” Judith said as they started down Powell Street’s steep incline. “In fact, why don’t you arrange to meet with your old pal Paul Tanaka?”

  “You mean,” Renie responded, “if he can take time off from his care and feeding of the Widow Cruz?”

  “Yes.” Judith was feeling more purposeful. “Call him. He might be staying at the Cruz residence instead of the Fitzroy, at least until after the funeral tomorrow. Do you know where Connie lives?”

  “Not exactly,” Renie said as they waited for a cable car to rattle by before crossing the street. “I know it’s an expensive condo near the bay, maybe in the Marina district.”

  “Okay,” Judith said, moving more briskly despite her weary hip, “you contact Paul while I finagle a computer out of the front desk. I don’t want to have to use one of the public PCs.”

  “Got it,” Renie replied as they neared the hotel entrance.

  “What about checking out Flakey Smythe in the newspaper archives?”

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  “Good thinking,” Judith said, smiling at the welcoming doorman. “Whatever he got out of Buzz Cochran wouldn’t be in the paper yet, though.”

  “Let’s hope Buzz’s information didn’t include our near arrest,” Renie said, moving toward the elevators. “I’ll try to run down Paul and also make nice with Connie Cruz.”

  Nodding, Judith went to the front desk. A handsome young man of Middle Eastern descent greeted her with a dazzling white smile. Judith went straight for the bald-faced lie.

  “My laptop PC broke,” she declared. “Is there some way I can borrow one to use in our suite?”

  The implication didn’t overtly affect the young man, but he said he’d find out and disappeared through a door behind the front desk. Judith eyed the clocks on the wall, which showed the time in various parts of the world: Sunday, March 23—noon in San Francisco; 3 P.M. in New York; 5 P.M. in Buenos Aires; 8 P.M. in London; 9 A.M. Monday in Tokyo. It had turned from winter to spring since the cousins had left home. Judith hadn’t noticed. So much had happened in the past few days that it seemed to her as if weeks, not days, had gone by. She should call Joe again. And her mother.

  The young man returned with a laptop computer in hand.

  “Do you mind signing for it?” he asked in a diffident voice.

  “Not at all,” Judith said. “I should be done with it this afternoon.”

  She found Renie talking on the phone, presumably to Connie Cruz. “It couldn’t hurt to visit your father in Argentina,” Renie was saying. “The change of scenery might do you good. I’m sure he’d like to see you.” Noting Judith’s arrival, she made a thumbs-up sign. “We can talk about that when we see you this afternoon. Are you sure it’s all right? Okay, two o’clock, then. Bye.” She turned to Judith. “We’re on. Paul’s still there.”

  “Good,” Judith said, putting the laptop down on the mahogany desk. “We’re two for two. And I’ve got plenty of time to do my research.”

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  Renie glanced at the phone. “I’ll call Bill. He won’t answer, but I’ll leave a message telling him we’re still alive. Then,” she continued, grimacing, “I’ll call my mother.”

  Judith nodded. She was already absorbed in getting on the Internet and finding a good search engine. Renie spoke into the receiver: “Cruz dead, cruise canceled. We’ll be home after the funeral. Love you.”

  Judith looked up from the screen, where a story about pollution in local waters was downloading. “That’s terse. Won’t Bill be puzzled?”

  “No,” Renie replied, dialing again. “After all these years, it’s the kind of information he’d expect to get when I’m with you.”

  Judith was still perplexed. “But Bill never uses the phone unless he absolutely has to. Does he know how to retrieve a message?”

  “No.”

  “Oh.” It was pointless to ask Renie any further questions. After so many years, she’d given up trying to figure out how her cousin and her husband ran their household. Stuffed apes, small dolls, a rabbit wearing a tutu—it was beyond even Judith’s superior powers of deduction. She looked back at the screen. She’d started her search for Cruz Cruises from January 1, but drew a blank until February, when rumors surfaced about the company’s move to San Francisco. The change of headquarters was confirmed in early March, with two subsequent articles giving details. But the story that held her attention ran ten days later, on March 11. The California Environmental Protection

  Agency (Cal/EPA) is planning to launch an investigation of Cruz Cruises to learn if the line is in violation of wastewater dumping in San Francisco Bay.

  Judith started to read aloud, but her cousin was already talking on the phone, presumably to Aunt Deb. “Not exactly a problem . . . I’m not sure when we’ll get home. We have 236

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  to check with the airlines . . . Of course it’s windy . . . No, I absolutely refuse to put weights on my feet to prevent getting blown away . . .”

  Current regulations require a limit on the amount of waste dumped by ships with as

  many as 5,000 passengers and crew.

  “ . . . Not a contagious disease . . . Mr. Cruz had what you might call a shipboard accident . . . We won’t be going back on the ship, Mom. How can I fall overboard if I’m on dry land? . . . Hey, do I wear a miner’s lamp on my head in the fog at home?”

  Cruise-line owner Magglio Cruz, who recently moved his company headquarters to San

  Francisco, denies that his ships, including the new San Rafael, qualify as “behemoth ocean liners. Even the largest,” Cruz said yesterday,

  “including our new flagship, will carry fewer than 3,000 people.”

  “ . . . Not a tremor . . . Yes, I know, stand in a doorway or get under a sturdy man . . . What? No, I didn’t say

  ‘man.’ At least I didn’t mean to say that. I meant table.”

  Renie seemed rattled.

  Environmentalists claim that the numbers for passengers and crew are not only much higher, but that Cruz has been in violation of wastewater regulations in Alaskan waters. A demonstration is planned at Cruz headquarters tomorrow at 10 A.M. Several hundred protesters are expected to be on hand. Judith finished the article and turned to watch Renie more closely. Her cousin suddenly looked alarmed. “What? You

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  did? How high on the Richter scale? . . . That’s high enough. Are you okay? . . . Oh, that’s too bad, but I’m sure Mrs. Parker will find him . . . Hey, I’ve got to go. Judith needs me . . . No, she’s not sick . . . yes, she’s being careful of her hip . . . No, we haven’t lost our mittens. I’ll see you soon, Mom . . . Yes, very soon . . . As soon as we can get there . . . Soon.”

  Renie hung up. “They had a five-point-six earthquake at home this morning. Mrs. Parker’s wretched poodle is missing. No serious damage except for the usual broken crockery and stuff falling off of shelves.”

  Judith couldn’t help but feel some concern. “I must call home. I’ve got my heirloom items on the plate rail in the living room, not to mention Grandma Grover’s breakfront with the family china.”

  “You’ve never lost much of it yet,” Renie said with a shrug.

  “If you live in earthquake country like we do on the West Coast, you expect to get a few things trashed now and then.”

  “I know,” Judith agreed, “but I’m still going to call Joe as soon as I finish this search.” She moved on to the next story covering the protest at Cruz headquarters, which, judging from the Ferry Terminal Building in the background of the accompanying photo, seemed to be near the bay.

  “Cruz had—or has—a problem with dumping wastewater,” Judith explained. “Cal/EPA was starting an investigation about two weeks ago.” She scanned the protest article. Almost three hundred protesters had turned out, but there had been no violence. There were a couple of quotes from both sides, including a brief statement from Pau
l Tanaka, asserting that the cruise line was in compliance with state regulations.

  “I didn’t realize there was an environmental problem,”

  Renie said. “Of course, I probably wouldn’t have been informed unless they needed a design for a friendly-looking Mr. Garbage. Maybe that’s why Paul Allum and Bill Goetz didn’t protest the headquarters move. They’re both concerned about our own environment.”

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  Judith was studying the photo of the protesters. “These people may not be physically violent, but they sure don’t look very friendly. Some of those signs are downright vicious. I’m glad they didn’t show up for the VIP

  prelaunch . . . Hey!” She pointed to a face in the crowd.

  “Look, coz. Isn’t that Ambrose Everhart?”

  Renie stared at the four-column picture. “Egad! You’re right. And look at that sign he’s holding up.”

  “I know,” Judith said with a worried expression. Ambrose’s sign read, SHIPS STINK! SINK CRUZ! KILL

  CRUISES!

  The cousins exchanged hard stares.

  “Is that a motive for murder?” Renie asked. Judith again considered the passion on Ambrose’s face. He certainly looked like a man on a mission. “It’s probably not,” she said, before adding in a forlorn voice, “at least not for a sane person.”

  And the more she examined the photo, the more Ambrose Everhart looked unbalanced.

  NINETEEN

  “YOU DIDN’T HEAR the latest?” Connie asked in an excited voice as Judith and Renie sat down in the spacious living room of the two-story condo overlooking San Francisco Bay.

  “We’ve spent a quiet Sunday,” Judith said, not untruthfully. “Exactly what happened?”

  Connie and Paul were seated on a dark brown leather double sofa that looked out over the view in one direction and into the middle of the room on the other. Judith thought Connie seemed much improved since the debacle of the previous evening. She even apologized for the disarray of the household.

  “The housekeeper was supposed to come in after we sailed,” she said with a rueful expression. “I haven’t had a chance to reschedule. There’s dust everywhere and even a couple of cobwebs on the ceiling. Don’t you just hate it when you have to live in the midst of filth?”

  Recalling the squalid rental that she and Dan had lived in on Thurlow Street in the city’s south end, Judith could only nod. Filth was hardly a word she’d use to describe the Cruz condo. And Judith was certain that Connie—

  unlike the McMonigles—hadn’t heard rats doing the mambo inside their bedroom walls.

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  “Rhoda called less than an hour ago,” Connie explained before interrupting herself to ask Paul to pour some wine for the guests. “You do drink wine, don’t you?” she asked the cousins. “Mags always kept a really decent cellar. What would you like?”

  Neither Judith nor Renie were wine drinkers, but they wanted to be polite. “You choose,” Judith said.

  “Have you got one that tastes like Pepsi?” Renie asked. Connie laughed. “You are a tease, Serena.” She put a hand on Paul’s arm. “Let’s open that Beringer 1997 private reserve cabernet sauvignon. We can’t serve our guests anything but a California label, can we?”

  Paul merely smiled and left the room.

  “What was I saying?” Connie asked with a frown. Despite the obvious improvement in her manner, she retained her quick, nervous gestures. “Oh. About Rhoda telephoning. She told me how the two of you had actually been taken to police headquarters and questioned about Erma’s jewel theft. I couldn’t believe it!” She laughed rather unnaturally.

  “Anyway, it turns out that the jewelry found in your suite was fake!”

  “Fake?” Judith echoed. “As in . . . imitation?”

  Connie nodded vigorously. “That’s right. Which means, according to Rick, that the robbery had been planned for some time. You can’t create imitations of the real thing without having them copied first.”

  Renie grinned. “How’s Erma taking it?”

  “She had a fit,” Connie replied, not without a certain amount of glee. “Of course Erma is always having a fit about something, but this time I suppose you can’t blame her.”

  Paul had returned with two wine bottles and four glasses.

  “Shall I act as sommelier?” he inquired.

  Connie nodded again. “Of course. You know what you’re doing.”

  Paul did. He scrutinized the label, expertly opened the bottle, sniffed the cork, gave the wine a moment to breathe, poured an eighth of an inch into one of the glasses, and took

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  a sip. “Excellent,” he declared. “The cork test is usually a mere formality in restaurants. It’s done quickly, because the customers want to start drinking and eating. But a serious connoisseur will take time to make sure the cork has no musty odor. If it does, the wine may be musty, too.”

  Connie smiled fondly at Paul. “You see? I told you he knows what he’s doing. Paul’s so capable. That’s why I intend to let him take over the cruise line. I trust him completely.”

  “That’s probably a wise decision,” Renie said.

  “A very generous one,” Paul murmured as he carefully poured from the bottle.

  “But deserved,” Connie insisted. “The board of directors will have to approve, of course. But I have the majority of shares in the line. Besides, with Erma’s departure, there shouldn’t be so many obstacles. I’m afraid Erma likes to create problems where none actually exist.”

  “So her jewels are still missing,” Judith said, accepting a glass of wine from Paul.

  “Yes.” Connie smiled again at Paul as he sat down beside her. “I wonder if they were real to begin with.”

  Judith couldn’t keep her eyes from wandering around the room. Not only was the view spectacular, but the walls were covered with paintings. Except for a couple of country scenes, the rest featured horses: horses racing around the track; horses in the paddock, horses in their stalls; horses in the field; horses posing with jockeys. Quickly, she counted fourteen such pictures.

  There were also a number of photographs displayed on the gleaming cherrywood table next to her chair. More horses, with not only jockeys, but presumably owners and trainers. In one photo, a very young Connie stood next to a black filly in the doorway of a barn. A slightly older Connie—early teens, Judith figured—sat astride a piebald colt while a distinguished-looking older man held the reins. Maybe it was Connie’s father. Another picture showed the same man standing next to a jockey at a racecourse. The jockey was small, lean, and mud-spattered. He reminded Judith of so 242

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  many of the riders she’d seen over the years at the local track. They were always small and lean, of course. But there was something familiar about this particular jockey. Judith wondered if she’d actually seen him ride in the days when she went with Dan so that he could blow the grocery money on a long shot. It was possible. Jockeys moved from city to city, following the best mounts they could find.

  “Do you mean,” Renie was asking, “Erma never had the real thing or that she’d sold the pieces and replaced them with paste?”

  “Oh,” Connie replied, “originally she had the authentic goods. Some were heirlooms, handed down through several generations. Mags told me . . .” Connie paused, her face sobering. “Damn. I still can’t believe . . .” She raised her head, closed her eyes for a moment, and cleared her throat.

  “Anyway—Mags thought Erma had been hard hit by the post–9/11 recession. She’d always had her money invested in thoroughly stable companies and bonds and such, but someone—Horace, no doubt—had urged her to buy Silicon Valley stock and make some very speculative investments. Between the dot-com fiasco and 9/11, Mags figured she lost a bundle.” Connie turned to Paul. “Isn’t that right?”

  He nodded. “Mags told me the same thing. Erma also loaned Horace—assuming it was a loan an
d not a gift—a big chunk of money for his cork-and-sponge museum. Unfortunately, she seems to have relied on him for all her financial advice since Wilbur died.”

  “It seems to me,” Judith put in, “that to Erma, Wilbur hasn’t died. She behaves as if he’s still alive.”

  “A quirk,” Connie said.

  “A delusion,” Renie asserted. “Not a good sign about Erma’s mental state. What did she mean aboard ship about Wilbur being . . . what was it? Missing?”

  “His urn,” Paul replied. “She takes his ashes everywhere.”

  “Did he ever turn up?” Renie asked.

  Connie shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”

  Judith had made the mistake of sitting in a zebra-stripe

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  chair with a deceptively hard seat and back. Maybe zebras were more thin-skinned than they looked. She was forced to stand up and relieve the discomfort in her hip.

  “Sorry,” she apologized. “I have an artificial hip. I think I’ve done too much walking since we came to San Francisco, especially with all these hills. They’re much steeper—

  and there seem to be more of them—than at home.”

  “You’re right,” Connie agreed. “I’ve noticed the difference myself. Is there something I can do to make you more comfortable?”

  “No, thank you,” Judith said with a grateful smile. “I’ll see if I can loosen up a bit.”

  She strolled around the room, admiring the view and then the paintings. Renie, Connie, and Paul were talking about the future of the cruise line. A replacement for Erma on the board of directors sounded like the top priority. Several names were mentioned, but they meant nothing to Judith. Four of the oil paintings seemed to have been done by the same artist. Small brass plates attached to the frames were etched with the horses’ names. A handsome chestnut standing proudly in his stall was called Tierra del Fuego. A powerful bay named Belgrano charged across the finish line. Beau Noire, an imperious black stallion, stood in the winner’s circle wearing a mantle of red roses. Lastly, grazing in an emerald green field, was a beautiful milk-white mare. Judith stared at the name on the brass plate: MONTESPAN. She peered at the painting’s background, where she could see an old windmill and, beyond that, the spires of a Romanesque church. The scene had a European feel to it. The picture had been signed—they all had—but Judith couldn’t read the artist’s signature.