Dead Man Docking

by Mary Daheim

  Momentarily stumped, she suddenly had a wild idea. “Excuse me, Connie,” she said, moving closer to the sofa,

  “would you mind if I went into the bathroom to take some pain medication?”

  Connie gestured with her forefinger. “The guest bathroom is right off the foyer.”

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  “Actually,” Judith said with a little grimace, “I need to lie down for just a couple of minutes. Is there a bathroom near the bedroom?”

  “Of course,” Connie answered graciously. “My bathroom and dressing room adjoin the bedroom. They’re downstairs. Can you manage? Please, take your time. I’m so sorry you’re in pain.”

  “All the walking,” she mumbled, noticing that Paul seemed to tense up while Connie was speaking. “But I can do the stairs,” Judith added quickly.

  That, however, was no easy task. Although the steps were carpeted, the staircase was a spiral. Judith had to hang on for dear life, lest she misjudge her footing and take a header. Double doors opened onto the master suite. The room was divided into three parts—boudoir, dressing room, and a small office. It was the latter that interested Judith most. Judging from the feminine decor, this was not where Magglio Cruz worked when he was home. No doubt his own study or den or office was elsewhere in the spacious condo. Judith had noticed that Connie’s sleek red Cartier shoulder bag was on a table in the living room. No doubt her checkbook was inside. But if Connie had been making withdrawals for the past few months, her less recent bank records might be in the office.

  Connie was organized.

  Judith was thankful for that. She remembered an occasion when Renie and Bill had been out of town. Renie had forgotten one of her credit cards and needed it to make a purchase. She’d told Judith where to find the spare key to let herself in, but wasn’t sure exactly where she’d put the card. “Try the pencil caddy on the dinette table or the drawer by the wine rack or the one by the spice rack,” Renie had said. “If it’s not there, it could be in my spare cosmetic bag on top of the file cabinet by the kitchen table or under the electric can opener on the counter by the microwave.” It had been in none of those places. Judith had never found it. Renie later discovered it had been stuck between the C-major and D-flat keys of her piano.

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  Connie had a well-ordered filing cabinet. Judith easily found the bank statements. There were three accounts in her name—checking, savings, and a money market. Judging from the canceled checks that had been filed, Connie could write on all three. Judith hurriedly flipped through the ones that went back to the first of the year. There weren’t that many. Apparently, all the household bills were paid from a joint account that Mags had probably kept in his own records.

  Indeed, there were no checks made out to anyone whose name Judith recognized. There was a jeweler, an alterations shop, a furrier, a personal trainer, a masseuse, a hairdresser, and various other service and sales persons. The most recent check was dated March 17. It had been made out to CITES

  in the amount of one thousand dollars. The initials meant nothing to Judith.

  She paused, listening for any suspicious sounds. She heard nothing. Opening another drawer, she spotted two bankbooks. The first one she picked up was for Connie’s regular savings account. Since early November, there had been seven withdrawals. Two were in November, in the amounts of thirteen hundred and twenty-one hundred dollars. Gump’s was printed next to the dates. Christmas presents, perhaps, Judith thought. Gump’s was a very expensive store off Union Square. Maybe Connie had bought gifts for Mags. There were also two withdrawals in December: Fifteen hundred dollars for NM. Judith thought through the suspect list. No one had those initials. Maybe the letters stood for Neiman Marcus. But the next and final four withdrawals occurred in December, January, February, and March. They were in the amounts of twenty, forty, fifty, and seventy-five thousand dollars—exactly what Connie was reported to have taken out of her account during that time period. The initials next to those big sums were MBB. Judith frowned. She couldn’t think who that might be. Then it dawned on her. Judith might have known her as Dixie, but her real name was May Belle Beales. 246

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  Had Dixie been blackmailing Connie? It was possible, Judith thought, doing her best to put everything back in order. That might explain why Dixie had sent the note telling the cousins to butt out. But what did Dixie know that was worth so much money that Connie had to buy her silence? A sound from out in the hallway caught Judith’s attention. Swiftly, she shut the desk drawer, hurried out of the office, and fell upon the king-size bed.

  Paul Tanaka called from outside the closed double doors.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes,” Judith answered. “Come in.”

  Paul entered the boudoir with a puzzled look on his face.

  “How did you get into the bathroom?”

  “The bathroom?” Judith thought quickly. If Paul had to ask the question, there must be a problem. “I didn’t. Not yet. I thought I’d lie down first. I don’t like to take my pain pills unless I have to. The doctors are so stingy about prescribing very many at one time.”

  “Oh.” Paul couldn’t quite hide his relief. “Connie forgot to mention that the door is tricky to open. It sticks. The last earthquake apparently damaged the alignment.”

  “I understand,” Judith said, overemphasizing the difficulty of sitting up. “In fact, we had a small quake at home this morning. Like San Francisco, all of our houses are uneven.”

  “Are you rejoining us?” Paul inquired.

  “I think so,” Judith said. “I’ll walk around just a bit before I attempt the stairs.”

  “I’ll wait.” Paul’s smile was slightly sheepish. “So I can help you,” he added.

  “Thanks,” Judith said, dutifully walking to and fro around the boudoir. “By the way, I couldn’t help but admire those wonderful horse and racing pictures upstairs. Are the oil paintings of horses that Connie’s father trained?”

  “Trained and owned,” Paul replied. “After many years, he was able to buy some Thoroughbreds of his own.”

  “I understood Connie’s grandfather was wealthy,” Judith remarked, still walking.

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  “He was.” Paul, who was usually unflappable, seemed edgy. He centered a tissue box on the nightstand and moved the bedside lamp an inch to the right. “Over the years, Argentina has had so many political shifts. Connie’s grandfather lost his estancia—ranch, I should say—during one of the coups.”

  “So Connie’s father managed to—excuse the expression—

  recoup his losses?”

  “He managed to cut them,” Paul explained, “because Guillermo de Fuentes—Connie’s dad—was so successful training racehorses. His first Thoroughbred was a gift from a grateful emir in Dubai.”

  “Is that one of the horses in the paintings?” Judith asked, beginning to get tired of her promenade.

  “No. The gift horse was put out to stud. He sired Belgrano, Guillermo’s first champion.” Paul paused. “Are you better now?”

  “Yes,” Judith said. “Going upstairs isn’t as scary as coming down.”

  Paul stayed directly behind Judith so that he could catch her if she made a misstep. Moments later they’d rejoined Renie and Connie in the living room.

  “I thought you’d fallen asleep,” Connie said with a little laugh. “Is your hip less painful?”

  “Yes,” Judith replied. “It’s just something I’ve learned to live with. Speaking of ailments, how is your father, Connie? Paul and I were just talking about him.”

  “You were?” She shot Paul a sharp look. “My father is not well. He hasn’t been for some time. I was telling Serena that I may visit him in Argentina next month. Easter would be a good time to be in Buenos Aires.”

  “Is he confined to his home?” Judith inquired, wearing a sympathetic expression.

  “Yes,” Connie replie
d, indicating to Paul that he should open the second wine bottle. “It’s very sad.”

  “He must miss the racetrack,” Judith said, pretending she didn’t notice the sudden frozen expression on Connie’s face. 248

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  “Our Uncle Al is a serious horseplayer. During the season, he goes to the races almost every day. He loves to hang out around the barns and the paddock. Of course he knows everybody.”

  “He insists he gets great tips from his old pals,” Renie put in, picking up on Judith’s train of thought. “He certainly seems to win pretty often.”

  Paul offered the cousins a refill. Renie declined, but Judith accepted just enough to be sociable. “How long has he been retired?” she asked.

  “A few years,” Connie said, her tone distant. She tasted the wine Paul had poured for her. “Do you think this is as good as the first bottle? It seems a little off.”

  Paul took a sip. “No, I believe they’re comparable.”

  Connie shrugged. “It must be me. Goodness knows,” she went on, speaking more rapidly, “I find the Beringer label generally very good. Have you considered taking a vineyard tour while you’re in the area?”

  “I did that many years ago,” Renie said, “when I was in the city for a graphic-design conference. Everybody ended up drunk as skunks with grape leaves in their hair.”

  “I understand that some of the vintages from your own state have gained in reputation,” Paul put in. “I believe Mags recently purchased some very nice whites from up your way.”

  It occurred to Judith that like the cousins, Paul and Connie seemed able to keep on the same wavelength. Apparently, the Thoroughbred-racing discussion had come to an abrupt halt, like a horse going lame in the backstretch. Judith finally guided the conversation back to the matters that were uppermost in her mind. “Some of our wineries are popular places for young couples to get married. I don’t suppose that Anemone and Jim have made any concrete plans since their date is so far off in the future.”

  “Very far,” Connie said drily, with a quick glance at Paul. Paul smirked, but didn’t respond.

  “You sound skeptical,” Renie said bluntly. “What do you figure? Jim will do what so many doctors do, and let wife

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  number one—or in this case, fiancée number one—put him through medical school and then say, ‘Take two suitcases and don’t call me in the morning’?”

  “Serena,” Connie said with mock severity, “you ask the most embarrassing questions!”

  Paul smiled ruefully. “She does that at business meetings, too.”

  Renie shrugged. “Well? My cousin and I sense trouble in paradise.”

  “Really?” Connie frowned. “I didn’t think it showed that much.”

  “Show and tell,” Renie said.

  “Really?” Connie leaned forward on the sofa. “Such as what?”

  Renie looked at Judith, urging her to take up the tale. But Judith refused to betray Anemone’s confidence. “Let’s merely say that we suspect there’s Someone Else.”

  Paul tipped his head to one side. “Ah.”

  Connie took a deep sip of wine. “You’re right. There is.”

  “That’s not surprising,” Judith said. “Anemone and Jim are very young. She’s been so sheltered. It’s only natural that her first real love wouldn’t turn out to be the man she marries.”

  Connie stared at Judith. “Are you suggesting that Anemone isn’t in love with Jim?”

  Judith was taken aback. All along she’d assumed that Anemone was meeting another man at Neiman Marcus, even if it hadn’t turned out to be Ambrose Everhart.

  “Well . . . I mean, if she hasn’t dated much—” She stopped, realizing that she was mistaken and unwilling to say more. Connie laughed shrilly. “No, no! It’s Jim who isn’t in love with his betrothed. He’s fallen head over heels for CeeCee Orr. Anemone suspects the truth, and if Erma finds out she’ll kill him.” Wide-eyed, she put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God! What am I saying?”

  Not another corpse was what Connie meant—but Judith wasn’t going to say that out loud, either.

  TWENTY

  “JIM’S AN IDIOT,” Renie declared as the cousins rode home in a taxi from the Marina district. “Not only is he risking his expensive education, but can you imagine CeeCee at an AMA convention? The only socializing she could manage would be playing doctor, not behaving like the wife of a real one.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Judith said, “but it makes sense. Not the falling-for-CeeCee part, but what Anemone was doing skulking around Neiman Marcus. We know CeeCee was there that day because she bought the red dress I saw in the salon. I’ll bet CeeCee may have gone there with Jim, or else planned to meet him after she finished shopping. No wonder Anemone was too embarrassed to tell me.”

  “So which one of them killed Émile Grenier?” Renie asked, keeping her voice down, just in case the uncommunicative Turkish cabdriver could understand them.

  “Anemone? CeeCee? Jim? Or somebody else?”

  The taxi rocketed along Lombard and zoomed down Van Ness as if the driver had a date with destiny. He wove in and out of traffic, honking the horn and making the occasional obscene gesture. The cousins stopped talking, certain that they were going to meet their own kismet.

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  There was construction on California Street, and although no one was working on a Sunday, there were several traffic barriers. The cab ran them like an obstacle course before starting the steep—and swift—descent on Powell. Pedestrians scattered; a double-parked limo was missed by less than an inch; a U-Haul truck barely escaped collision. By the time the driver screeched to a halt in front of the St. Francis, Judith had turned white and Renie had dug her fingernails into her hands so hard that she broke the skin.

  “Thanks,” Judith gasped, not bothering to look at the meter. She yanked a bill out of her wallet and dropped it onto the front seat.

  “That was a fifty,” Renie said as they reeled into the hotel.

  “Are you nuts?”

  “A fifty?” Judith grimaced. “Oh, well. At least we arrived alive.”

  “Good point,” Renie agreed. “What’s our next move?”

  Judith poked the elevator button. “Rest. Think. And call Joe. Maybe that’s first.”

  Upon arriving in their suite, Judith noticed that the message light was blinking on their phone. There were three calls: Rhoda St. George, Flakey Smythe—and Joe, whose message had been recorded at two fifty-six.

  “You haven’t checked out,” he said in an irritated tone,

  “and the yahoo at the desk told me the cruise was canceled. When the hell are you coming home? My cold’s worse. The trial starts tomorrow, so I can’t pick you up at the airport if you’re flying during the day. By the way, we had an earthquake. Sweetums is still hiding under the dining-room table and your mother’s card table collapsed. Unfortunately, she wasn’t under it. Call me.”

  “Joe’s mad,” Judith said, dialing the number of Hillside Manor. “I don’t know what to tell him.”

  “How about the truth?” Renie suggested, removing a Pepsi from the honor bar. “Or part of it, like having to attend the funeral for Mags tomorrow. Blame it on me, I worked with him.”

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  Joe didn’t answer. Instead, she heard her own voice on the answering machine. Judith winced and collected her wits. “Hi, Joe,” she began in something less than her normal manner. “One of the reasons the cruise was canceled was due to Magglio’s ill health.” She winced again. “That is, he . . . died. Renie feels we should go to the funeral tomorrow. In fact,” she went on, sounding more like herself, “we just came from visiting his widow, Connie.” She paused, seeing her cousin drawing dollar signs in the air and pointing to her purse. “Renie wants to stay an extra day or so to see if she can help. We should be back Wednesday, if we can get a decently priced flight. Of course I’m not sure
what to do about the original return tickets. I’ll keep you posted. I love you.”

  She clicked off, but kept hold of the receiver. “I’d better call Mother. I hope the card table isn’t broken. That’s her primary source of life.”

  As usual, Gertrude didn’t pick up the phone until the tenth ring. “Why are you calling me?” she rasped. “Are you seasick? It’d serve you right. All this highfalutin gadabout showing off! The only boat trip I ever took was in a canoe with your uncle Cliff, and it sank.”

  “We never . . .” Judith interrupted.

  But Gertrude wasn’t in a listening mood. “You ought to see the mess I was in this morning. Deb told me she’d heard from her idiot daughter, so you know about the earthquake. In fact, Deb’s called about six times.” The old lady stopped.

  “Come to think of it, she said you two nitwits were still in Frisco. How come?”

  “The cruise was canceled,” Judith said. “We’ll be home in a couple of days. Where were you when the card table collapsed?”

  “In bed,” Gertrude replied. “It happened around six. I was awake, though. That crummy bed you bought me shimmied all over the place. What’s it made of—twigs?”

  “It’s quite solid,” Judith insisted. “Will you have to get a new card table?”

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  “No,” Gertrude retorted. “Arlene fixed it. The legs just went out from under it, that’s all. By the way, since you were too addled to do it before you ran off to Frisco, I had her cash that movie check for me.”

  “Oh! Good!” Judith exclaimed. “I was worried about leaving it around the toolshed for so long. I’m glad it’s safe in the bank. Twenty grand is a large check to leave sitting around. Now you can earn interest on it.”