by Mary Daheim
“He’s . . . big,” Renie said. “He must weigh over a hundred pounds.”
Rick St. George finally managed to get the dog to move off of Renie’s feet. “Yes,” he agreed. “Asthma weighs in at a hundred and twenty, or, according to my darling wife, ten pounds more than she does. Good boy!” he said, patting the animal.
Feeling left out, Judith introduced herself. “I’m Serena’s cousin.”
Both St. Georges expressed their delight, and sounded almost sincere. They were immediately pounced upon by Captain Swafford.
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Mary Daheim
Finally able to put in her drink request, Judith ordered a scotch rocks from Ray the bartender, whose smile was that of a young man eager to please. “Will Glenfiddich do?”
“Definitely,” Judith responded.
But there was no Pepsi for Renie, Ray informed her in an apologetic tone. Would a Coke be acceptable? It would, Renie said, between mouthfuls of marinated chicken. A gong sounded and a sliding door opened at the far end of the room. A golden-haired middle-aged woman wearing a black and red gown that evoked the Orient, held out both arms.
Renie spoke softly in Judith’s ear. “May Belle Beales, cruise director—better known as Dixie,” Renie said to Judith. “I recognize her from the brochure photos.”
“Good evenin’, honored guests,” Dixie said in a soft Southern drawl. “It’s mah pleasure to welcome y’all to an interlude of piano music from that long-ago era of the 1930s. Durin’ the cruise itself, we’ll have a big band—a verra big band—to play for your listenin’ and dancin’ enjoyment. Tonight is just a li’l ol’ sample, courtesy of mah meager talents. Please join me in the other half of the saloon.” With a gracious gesture, Dixie signaled for everyone to join her.
The cousins fell in behind Jim Brooks and Anemone Giddon. The ethereal-looking young woman glanced over her shoulder. “Hi,” she said in a breathy voice. “I’m Anemone. Jim says you’re the Cousins.”
Renie grimaced. “You make us sound like a rock band.”
Anemone giggled. “It’s how I remember people. I can’t ever recall anybody’s name, so I give them a description.” She pointed up ahead to the St. Georges. “They’re the Dipsos, the captain is the Captain, Émile Whoozits is the Purser, my mother’s lawyer is—”
“We get it,” Renie broke in. “The Cousins get it.”
The other half of the saloon was lighted only by micashaded wall sconces. Comfortable armchairs had been placed at small round tables. As her eyes adjusted to the
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demilight, Judith could make out a black grand piano on a cabaret-type stage.
“Sorry about this,” Renie whispered in apology. “I didn’t know there’d be entertainment that we’ll have to pretend to enjoy even if we’d rather be hung from the yardarm.”
“That’s okay,” Judith said, scanning the short program that had been left at each table. “She’s going to play just six pieces. Piano arrangements inspired by Duke Ellington, Tommy Dorsey, Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, and Artie Shaw.”
Dixie Beales had arranged herself on the bench. She gazed at the sheet music, flexed her fingers, and scowled. Getting up, she moved to the edge of the stage and spoke to Émile Grenier. He stood up and limped to the rear of the piano.
“A moment only,” Dixie announced. “The piano lid hasn’t been fully raised.”
Anemone and Jim were sitting at the table next to Judith and Renie. “The Fun Lady,” Anemone remarked from behind her hand. “I bet she’s wearing a wig.”
Judith smiled politely. Renie remained immobile. Dixie had moved to assist Émile. Their efforts were obscured from the audience by the piano itself.
“The lid must be stuck,” Jim Brooks said. “Maybe I should help. Émile doesn’t look like the strongest guy in the world.”
“The purser’s small but wiry,” Anemone asserted, looking pleased with herself for making the observation. “Though he has a bad leg.”
“I’d like to hear some Cole Porter,” said Horace Pankhurst at the table adjoining the engaged couple. The big man used a cocktail napkin to pat at perspiration on his thick neck.
“Cold what?” his blond companion asked. “You mean Coldplay? They’re a great band. They’re Brits, you know.”
Horace looked as if he didn’t know. “Oh? Well, whatever the music, it’s taking long enough to get that piano open. Somebody ought to take a crowbar to it.”
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Mary Daheim
“You wouldn’t want to use a crowbar on an expensive piano,” Renie noted. “My good friend Melissa Bargroom, who just happens to be our newspaper’s music critic, says that an instrument like that costs—”
A loud, piercing shriek from Dixie Beales cut through Renie’s words. Both cousins stared at the stage. Dixie had disappeared, apparently having fallen to the floor. Émile suddenly went out of sight, too, presumably coming to the cruise director’s aid.
Captain Swafford was on his feet. So was Rick St. George. A sense of apprehension engulfed the saloon.
“Stay put, everybody,” Rick said in a loud if somewhat slurred voice. “I’ll see what’s going on.”
The other guests seemed to defer to Rick, who bounded onstage, martini glass still in hand. Rick also disappeared behind the piano, but almost immediately resurfaced along with Émile Grenier.
“Is there a doctor in the house?” Rick asked, his speech no longer slurred.
Rhoda St. George burst into derisive laughter. “Oh, Ricky, can’t you find a better line than that old cliché?”
But her husband looked serious and ignored the remark, casting his eyes around the room.
Jim stiffened in his chair before looking every which way.
“Ah . . .” he began, awkwardly shifting his lanky frame into a standing position. “Um . . . I’m a medical student at Stanford.”
“Then you’d better get up here, kiddo,” Rick said. “Dixie Beales has passed out.” He paused while Jim came forward.
“Unfortunately, there’s nothing you can do for the corpse in the piano.”
FIVE
DAMNED FUNNY, ST. George!” Horace Pankhurst shouted, slapping his thick thigh. “I should’ve brought my harmonica as a backup!”
Judith, however, didn’t believe that Rick St. George was trying to be funny. He certainly didn’t look it, judging from the worried creases in his forehead. Apparently Consuela Cruz didn’t see any humor in the situation, either. She was on her feet, slim body trembling. Captain Swafford tried to calm her, but she broke free of his restraining hands and staggered toward the stage.
“Is it Mags?” she cried. “Is it Mags?”
Judith and Renie held back as the others—except for Erma Giddon—stampeded up to the piano. Captain Swafford, who was hurrying to join Rick, intervened.
“Hold on!” he shouted. “Stand back! Please!”
Renie glared at Judith. “I don’t believe this. Maybe it’s really an act.”
Erma Giddon was fanning herself with a lace-edged handkerchief. “Trouble follows Rick and Rhoda St. George just like their loathsome dog,” she said, without making eye contact with the cousins. “They’re like characters out of a 1930s detective movie. Why everyone makes such a fuss over that pair, I’ll never know.”
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“I like them,” Renie declared, at her most contrary. Still not looking at the cousins, Erma sniffed. “They’re frivolous, shallow dilettantes.”
Renie pulled Judith out of Erma’s hearing range. “Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to find out what’s going on?”
Judith shook her head. “The less I know, the better. In fact, I think we ought to get off this ship. Now. ”
“I can’t.” Renie’s expression was bleak.
Angrily, Judith grabbed her cousin’s arm. “What do you mean, you can’t? We’ve got to leave while everyone is distracted.”
“I mean,” Renie said grimly, “that I have to know who’s i
n that piano. It could affect my livelihood.”
Judith noted that a half-dozen white-coated waiters had surrounded the piano to keep the guests at bay. The cabaret was cloudy with cigarette and cigar smoke, as if the city’s famous fog had crept inside the ship. Rick St. George was holding a hysterical Connie Cruz in his arms. “I’m afraid,”
Rick said, “that Magglio Cruz is dead.”
Gasps went up from the other guests. Judith started for the cloakroom. “That’s it. We’re out of here.”
Renie, looking grim, didn’t budge. “I knew it. There goes my retainer.”
“Coz!” Judith exclaimed. “Don’t say things like that!”
Renie shrugged. “We need the money. We have children, remember?”
“Fine,” Judith snapped. “You stay. I go.” She kept moving. Captain Swafford’s voice boomed out: “No one leaves the premises! No one leaves the ship! I’m posting a senior officer at the gangplank in case anyone tries to disembark. This is a serious matter.”
Incredulous voices broke out in the saloon. One of them was Judith’s. “Damn!” She grabbed Renie by the arm. “It’s your fault! If you’d come with me a few minutes ago, we could’ve escaped!”
“If Bill had come with me, you wouldn’t be here acting
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like a twit!” Renie shot back. “Bill knows the importance of making a buck!”
Judith forced herself to simmer down. Briefly, she glanced toward the stage. Connie had collapsed in Rick’s arms and was being carried to a divan at the far side of the room. Dixie was on her feet, walking to the same divan with the aid of Jim Brooks. Captain Swafford, Rick, and Émile were conferring near the piano.
“Okay,” Judith said in a reasonably calm voice, “your father was a seagoing man. Is there a way to get off of a ship other than via the main gangplank?”
“Sure,” Renie retorted. “Jump and swim. Or would you prefer lowering a lifeboat?”
Judith’s expression turned sour. “You can’t swim.”
“So? I’m not leaving.”
Frustrated, Judith gazed around the cabaret. Anemone clung to her mother; Horace Pankhurst was sweating more profusely; Paul Tanaka looked utterly stunned. Between sips of her martini, Rhoda St. George offered words of encouragement—or condolence. CeeCee Orr had lighted two cigarettes at once and was drinking out of a fifth of vodka. Maybe, Judith thought unkindly, she’d pass out, too. Renie was moving slowly toward the stage. Reluctantly, Judith followed.
“Look, Skipper,” Rick was saying, “I know one of the big wheels at police headquarters. Biff McDougal is tops when it comes to discreet investigations. With his help we can avoid damaging publicity.”
Horace Pankhurst spoke up from the stage’s edge. “As an attorney, I must advise you, Captain, to take all precautions against lawsuits that might arise from this unfortunate accident. It is an accident, isn’t it?”
An accident, Judith thought. That would be good. Except, she realized, not for Magglio Cruz.
“We’ve called in the ship’s doctor,” Swafford replied.
“We’ll wait for him to announce the cause of Mr. Cruz’s death.”
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“That’s why we’re leaving him in the piano,” Rick said as he looked down at his wife, who was scratching Asthma’s curly head. “Rhoda, be an angel and call Biff McDougal. He’s probably at home.” He winked.
“Right, darling,” Rhoda replied, winking back as she opened her bejeweled evening bag to get her cell phone.
“Just a moment, Mr. St. George,” Erma Giddon said in her loud contralto, “who, may I ask, is in charge here?”
With an ingenuous expression, Rick gazed around the room. “Who else but Captain Swafford? I’m merely an innocent bystander.” His hazel eyes shifted to the sliding doors, which were still closed. Rick, mouthing what appeared to be the word booze, looked questioningly at the captain. Swafford nodded consent. “Ray,” Rick said to the bartender, “would you mind opening the bar? I believe Mrs. Cruz and Ms. Beales could use some brandy. And I could certainly do with another martini.”
Some of the guests, including the Giddon women, Horace, and a wobbly CeeCee Orr hurried out of the cabaret section. Others lingered: Jim Brooks was still tending to Connie and Dixie on the divan. Émile Grenier hovered over the trio. Rhoda hauled Asthma to an upright position. Captain Swafford stood erect by the stage, as if he were willing to go down with his ship.
“Who is this St. George anyway?” Renie demanded of Paul.
Paul looked sheepish. “He’s what you might call a manabout-town. Rich beautiful wife, social entrées everywhere, amusing company even when he—and she—are somewhat blotto. He also considers himself something of a sleuth.”
Judith snapped her fingers. “That’s where I’ve heard the name! Isn’t he known as the Gin Man?”
Paul nodded. “For obvious reasons. How did you come across him?”
“I saw his name on a Web site for amateur sleuths,” Judith started to explain. “I’d cross-referenced my . . . ah . . .”
Judith was rescued from explaining her own Internet sta-
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tus as “FATSO” by a shout from Émile Grenier. “We need help with les dames here,” he said in his French-accented voice. “Madame Cruz wishes to lie down in her stateroom, and Madame Beales refuses to remain with the . . . piano any longer.”
“When’s the doctor coming?” Paul inquired, going to the divan. “That is, the . . . real doctor.”
Jim flushed. “Hey, I’ll be a real doctor in three years.”
“They probably can’t wait that long,” Renie put in. “The commencement ceremony would take too much out of them.”
“Dr. Selig is on his way?” Connie bit her lower lip. “I forgot about him. He should have been invited tonight.” She put both hands to her head. “Oh, what am I saying? How can I be concerned with social gaffes when my poor husband is dead?”
Judith figured that as long as she and Renie were stuck aboard the ship, they might as well make themselves useful.
“Can we help?” she asked, moving closer to the divan. Connie and Dixie both stared at Judith as if they’d never seen her before. Indeed, Judith realized that Dixie Beales hadn’t met her or Renie. “I’m Judith Flynn,” she said quietly. “This is my cousin Serena. We can help you get settled in your staterooms if you’d like.”
Recognition dawned on Connie. “Would you?”
Émile, however, intervened, drawing himself up to his full height, but not tall enough to meet Judith eye to eye. “I shall take care of Madame Cruz,” he declared. “You may tend to Madame Beales.”
“Okay,” Judith said, noting the apologetic expression on Connie’s face. “We’ll do that.”
Émile and Paul helped the distraught women to their feet.
“What can I do to be of help?” Paul inquired of the purser.
“Nothing,” Émile replied, putting a supporting arm around Connie’s slim waist. “I’m a crew member, reporting to le capitaine. You, Monsieur Tanaka, are support staff.”
Paul’s dark skin turned even darker. “Is that so? You seem 56
Mary Daheim
to forget that I’m Magglio Cruz’s second in command. Unless the board of directors say otherwise, I’m in charge of this whole operation.”
“We shall see,” Émile retorted. “The board members—
including Madame Giddon and Monsieur Pankhurst—may have other ideas.”
“For God’s sake!” Connie cried. “Shut the hell up and get me out of here!”
“Bien sûr, madame!” Emile said, snapping the fingers of his free hand. “Eh bien, to your stateroom!”
Judith offered Dixie her arm. “Just tell us where to go,”
she murmured.
“Mah evenin’ bag,” Dixie gasped. “Please, would y’all get it? Ah left it on the piano bench.”
Judith nodded, heading b
ack toward the raised platform. Captain Swafford stopped her as soon as she approached the piano. “Please, madam. You can’t come any further.”
Judith glanced around the captain’s imposing form. There was nothing on the bench. “Dixie left her evening bag up here. Do you see it?”
The captain scowled at Judith, but looked around the immediate area. “Perhaps it fell under the piano,” he said impatiently. “We can find it later.”
Judith had moved a few paces. She could see the piano from the side. To her dismay, she could also see part of Magglio Cruz’s body. The black tuxedo seemed to shine like onyx. But she spotted something else: A beaded evening bag lay a few feet from the piano. “Captain,” she called. “I see it. Come over here.”
With a heavy sigh, Swafford trudged to the place where Judith was pointing. His sturdy form wobbled slightly as he bent down to pick up the mislaid bag and tossed it at Judith.
“Here,” he said gruffly. “Now please move away.”
Judith caught the bag, but it slipped out of her fingers. Gingerly, she bent down to collect the blue-beaded purse. She wanted to linger, but a crew member motioned for her to leave. Reluctantly, Judith rejoined Renie and Dixie.
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“Oh, thank you!” Dixie exclaimed. “Mah best lipstick and powder are inside. Oops!” She, too, dropped the bag.
“Allow me,” Renie said, snatching the elusive purse off the floor. “This thing’s kind of slippery. It feels like it’s got some kind of goop on it.”
“Ah’ll worry about that later,” Dixie said wearily. “Right now, Ah just want to col- lapse.”
Dixie, in fact, could barely walk, forcing the cousins to half carry her out of the saloon and down the companionway.
“Two decks down, aft,” Dixie finally said as they found an elevator toward the stern.
None of the women spoke again until they reached the small but well-appointed stateroom. Dixie lay down on the bed and kicked off her shoes. “Ah have aspirin in mah cosmetic case. It should be in the lavatory. There’s bottled water in the itsy-bitsy fridge.”
Renie went to fetch the pills and a glass for the bottled water. Judith asked if she could do anything to make Dixie more comfortable.
