Dead Man Docking

by Mary Daheim

  “Ah’d like to take off this evenin’ dress,” she replied in a fretful voice. “Ah feel all damp and clammy, like the very grave itself. There’s a kimono in the wardrobe.”

  After a brief search, Judith found the brightly colored kimono. Dixie had removed her gown and tossed it over a chair. She let Judith help her put the kimono on and then fell back on the bed. Renie returned with aspirin and water.

  “Thank you,” Dixie said in a feeble voice. “Heavens to Betsy, Ah can’t believe what’s happenin’. It feels like a big ol’ nightmare. How in the world did poor Mags end up in that piano?”

  “How he ended up dead in the piano is more to the point,”

  Judith said grimly. She couldn’t resist asking a question.

  “Did you see any blood?”

  Dixie, who was very pale, shuddered. “Ah don’t think so. But all it took was one look, and Ah was . . . gone. Though,”

  she added after a brief pause, “he did look wet.”

  Judith frowned. “Wet? As if water had been poured over him?”

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  “No, not like that,” Dixie replied. “His clothes. At least what Ah could see of them.”

  Judith told herself she had to squelch her natural curiosity. She wasn’t getting mixed up in whatever had happened to Magglio Cruz. Furthermore, her hip was bothering her. She dragged a chair over to the bed and sat down. But she couldn’t resist one last query. “You fainted before you could take his pulse, right?”

  Dixie frowned. “Ah must have.”

  The wind, which could turn a San Francisco spring day into an arctic chill, had risen off the bay. Judith felt the ship move ever so slightly in its moorings. She glanced at Renie, who had sat down in an armchair near a large horizontal porthole. She can take over, Judith thought. It’s her wallet that’s involved.

  As if on cue, Renie spoke. “So who actually discovered Mr. Cruz was dead? Émile? Rick St. George?”

  Dixie shook her head. “Ah don’t recall.”

  “Rick, I’ll bet,” Renie said. “Émile seemed to be helping you. Is that right?”

  Dixie shook her head again, this time with more emphasis. “Ah don’t know. Ah was out cold.”

  Renie made a face. “This is hopeless. We can’t figure anything out until we know what killed Magglio Cruz.”

  “His heart?” Dixie suggested. “People who have heart attacks sweat a whole lot. Maybe that’s why his clothes were wet.”

  Renie looked skeptical. “And in the midst of the heart attack, he jumped into the piano?”

  Judith frowned. “It beats the alternative.”

  The cousins exchanged meaningful glances. “Yes,” Renie said slowly, “it does.”

  Dixie raised her head off the pillow. “What do you mean?”

  Neither Judith nor Renie replied.

  In the moments that followed, all three women remained silent. Judith could hear the slight groan of the ship, as if it

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  were flexing its muscles in the wind. Maybe the San Rafael was anxious to get under way. Maybe the luxury liner was trying to tell them something.

  Eventually, Dixie fell asleep. The cousins tiptoed out of the stateroom, but once they were in the passageway, they weren’t sure what to do next.

  “The saloon?” Renie finally said.

  “I suppose. We’ve done all we can for Dixie. The doctor should be calling on her after he sees Mrs. Cruz.”

  The saloon, which had seemed so glamorous little more than an hour earlier, was now virtually deserted. Dirty dishes and glasses were piled everywhere, the sumptuous buffet had deteriorated, and the pheasant ice sculpture had begun to melt. The only people left were a couple of whitejacketed waiters, Rick St. George, and a burly man in a rumpled raincoat and a battered hat whom the cousins didn’t recognize.

  Rick spotted Judith and Renie right away. “Everyone’s in the Sequoia Bar,” he informed them. “Same deck, turn left on your way out.”

  Renie, however, wasn’t so easily dismissed. “Biff McDougal?” she said, moving toward the man in the raincoat, who was chewing on a toothpick. “My husband has told me so much about you.”

  The toothpick remained in place as Biff’s small brown eyes peered at Renie. “Your husband? Who’s he?” the detective demanded, speaking around the toothpick.

  “Bill Jones—better known to you as William Jones, PhD and criminal psychologist,” Renie replied, putting out her hand. “Didn’t the two of you work together on that serial arsenic-poisoning case in the Embarcadero a few years back?”

  Biff moved his hat and scratched his balding head. “The Embarcadero? Arsenic? Oh!” He slapped his forehead. “You mean the Mission district. It was cyanide, as I recall. Was that Dr. Jones? I thought his name was Smith.”

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  common name,” Renie said, smiling brightly. “If he’d known I was going to run into you, he would’ve sent his best. Bill always told me you knew the best watering holes in San Francisco.”

  “Har har.” Biff chuckled. “You’re darned tootin’. Some of those places are gone now, all this upscale stuff taking over, but in the old days . . .” He chomped away at the toothpick, apparently yearning for the seedy spots of yore. Rick put a firm hand on Biff’s wide shoulder. “Nostalgia has its charms,” he said, “but we’ve got business to do here, remember? And we mustn’t keep Mrs. Jones and her cousin from joining the others. I’m sure their nerves are as shattered as everyone else’s.”

  Rick St. George couldn’t possibly guess that the cousins were too experienced in sudden death to feel only a slight fraying around the edges. “Yes,” Renie seemingly agreed,

  “we must leave you to your investigation. I don’t suppose you’ve had time to figure out how poor Mr. Cruz died?”

  Biff’s smile was crooked, half affable, half sneering, though the toothpick stayed put. “Couldn’t tell you if we knew,” he said. “This is all hush-hush stuff.”

  But Renie looked disturbed. “We’re terribly upset,” she said. “We feel compelled—as ship passengers—to know if Mr. Cruz died of natural causes. And if he did, was it from one of those odd viruses that runs amok on cruises? Of course, there’s always another possibility.” She paused to let her meaning sink in. “What’s our status? Does the San Rafael sail tomorrow? What did Dr. Selig say?”

  “The sawbones is in,” Biff replied, looking uncomfortable. “In Mrs. Cruz’s stateroom, that is. He checked out Mr. Cruz. Let’s just say that even as we speak, the stiff’s going ashore for an autopsy.”

  Rick chuckled. “Oh, come on, Biff, these two aren’t your nickel-and-dime dames. Nobody’s getting off this ship tonight—except for the late Mr. Cruz, of course. Thus, these ladies can figure out for themselves that there must be a suspicion of foul play.”

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  Biff grimaced. “Yeah . . . well . . . the truth is, we can’t be sure yet. Let’s put it this way—we can’t rule out accidental death or”—he sucked in his breath and tucked in his shirt—“homicide.”

  Renie nodded. “I understand.”

  So did Judith. All too well.

  SIX

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE,” Judith said to Renie as they sought out their stateroom, “that you tell even bigger whoppers than I do. Bill as a criminal psychologist? Bill advising the San Francisco Police Department? Bill delving into the mind of a serial poisoner? How did you know they ever had one down here?”

  “I read about it in the newspaper,” Renie replied. “It was years ago, not long after we had the product tampering in the suburbs at home. I just couldn’t remember the details.”

  They had reached the stateroom suites toward the ship’s bow. Judith noticed that each one bore the name of a famous movie star from the 1930s: Clark Gable, Ronald Colman, Claudette Colbert, Marlene Dietrich, Greta Garbo, Errol Flynn, Gary Cooper.

&
nbsp; “You were playing detective,” Judith accused Renie.

  “Of course,” Renie replied. “Somebody has to. I don’t want to lose my link with Cruz Cruises, and thus my income.”

  Judith didn’t respond.

  Guilt was setting in. How many times had she coerced Renie into helping her solve a crime? Oh, her cousin might gripe and argue and be mulish, but basi-

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  cally Renie was a good sport. More than that—Renie had been willing to risk her neck for Judith’s forays into detective work.

  “If you want to try to solve this thing—whatever it may be,” Judith amended, “I won’t hinder you.”

  “Thanks,” Renie said in a sour tone as they reached the door to their stateroom, which was named for Mae West. “Huh. I’m not sure I like being in a suite that’s named for a lifejacket.”

  “I suppose,” Judith went on as Renie fumbled with the key card, “you could use me as a sounding board.”

  Renie turned away from the door and looked straight into Judith’s eyes. “Look. If I’d even thought for one second that we’d get mixed up in another mess, I wouldn’t have asked you to come along. In fact, I wouldn’t have come myself. Bill would have had a fit. You know how he dislikes having his routine disrupted.”

  “It’s hardly your fault,” Judith said as Renie reslid the key card through the slot in the door. “If anything,” Judith went on, “I blame myself. I feel like a murder magnet.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” Renie responded. The red light still blinked after the third try. “Whatever happened to Magglio Cruz would have been the same whether you were here or eight hundred miles away at home.”

  “You’re just trying to make me feel—” Judith stopped and snatched the key card from Renie, who had resorted to kicking at the door. “Let me do this. You are utterly inept at this sort of thing.”

  The green light flashed immediately. Judith offered her cousin a small smile; Renie growled in response. But they both gaped in admiration when they turned up the torchère lamps to study their quarters in all its Art Deco elegance. The walls were paneled in golden mahogany; the sleek furniture was accented with gleaming chrome; the separate bedroom’s dressing-table mirror was large and round, its beveled edge made of crystal.

  “Nice,” Renie murmured, going out onto the veranda after inspecting the rooms. “My God, look at the view!”

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  Judith joined her cousin. The ship seemed tucked in between the city’s hills, surrounded by shimmering lights. Although the veranda was enclosed, they could hear the wind and the waves. Judith could smell the salt air, invigorating as nectar. It was easy to imagine that they were already at sea.

  “This would be heaven,” she said as they returned to the sitting room and collapsed on the navy-blue couch, “if Magglio Cruz hadn’t died.”

  Renie studied Judith’s worried face. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that if foul play was involved, we’ll be among the leading suspects?”

  Judith grimaced. “I suppose that’s true. Even counting the crew members, not that many people are on board tonight.”

  “When Joe finds out,” Renie noted, “he’ll pitch a five-star fit.”

  “We’re only speculating about murder.”

  “No matter how discreet,” Renie murmured, “this is bound to leak out to the media. Our mothers will be beside themselves.”

  “There was no shot, no blood that Dixie noticed, probably no obvious wound.”

  “Joe will never let you out of his sight again. You’ll become a virtual prisoner at Hillside Manor.”

  “Was that piano always onstage? Or was it moved there just before we went into the cabaret? And why did Magglio Cruz disappear so quickly after we arrived?”

  “I doubt that Joe will ever let you see me again. That’s an unbearable thought.”

  Judith stared at Renie. “What did you say?”

  “I said that Joe won’t ever—”

  Judith waved a hand. “I know, I know. But I was only half listening. Dammit, you’ve got me going. But I’m not really getting involved.”

  Renie sighed. “I know.”

  “I mean it,” Judith reiterated.

  “I got it,” Renie replied. “I already said I’d do it. It’s my money.”

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  “So you told me.”

  “Stop it!” Judith barked.

  Renie looked at the two clocks on the wall, which displayed only chrome hands and numbers. “I see we’re two hours ahead of the Cook Islands. It’s eight-fifty here and sixfifty there.”

  “So what?”

  “So it’s too soon to go to bed, even if we did get up early,”

  Renie explained, standing up and going to the minibar to check out the supplies. “Besides, I feel kind of wired. Ah, Pepsi. Good.”

  “I feel very tired,” Judith replied. “I wouldn’t mind some of that bottled water, though.”

  Renie removed the bottled water from the small fridge and handed it to Judith. “I think I’ll wander around the ship. You know, check out the spa and the swimming pool and the gym. See you later.”

  “The gym?” Judith knew that Renie’s idea of exercise was elbowing other women out of the way at a Nordquist’s designer sale. “Hold it.” Wearily, she rose from the sofa. “I know what you’re up to, and you aren’t going alone. You know darned well it could be dangerous.”

  Renie smiled. “How sweet of you, coz. Maybe we won’t walk very far. I wonder who these other suites are assigned to? I’ll check the passenger list. There should be one on the table with the menus and other cruise information.”

  Sure enough, the passenger manifest was included with a ship diagram, safety regulations, navigational charts, and other helpful data.

  “Erma and Anemone Giddon are in the W. C. Fields suite,” Renie noted. “Jim Brooks and Horace Pankhurst are across the way in the Ronald Colman and the Marx Brothers suites. Let’s start with the Giddons.”

  But the moment the cousins entered the passageway, they saw Rhoda St. George, urging her wheezing Komondor to keep moving.

  “Is that dog okay?” Judith asked.

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  Despite all the commotion, Rhoda’s stunning ensemble was impeccable, including the veiled hat, which remained firmly in place. “No, actually,” she said, with a fond glance at Asthma. “He was born with a respiratory condition. That’s why we could never show him—not that we really wanted to. It’s such a bother. Unfortunately, this breed is prone to allergies. They also have hip problems.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Judith murmured.

  Rhoda looked curious. “You do?”

  Judith nodded. “I’ve had a hip replacement.”

  “You move quite naturally,” Rhoda said. “Asthma will have to get two hip replacements after we return from this cruise. Are you a dog owner?”

  “No,” Judith replied. “We have a cat.”

  “Cats are very lovable,” Rhoda remarked. “And so affectionate. You must enjoy spending time relaxing with your pet curled up on your lap.”

  “Ah . . .” Judith winced. “Our cat’s not exactly like that. He’s . . . independent.” As well as ornery, bad-tempered, and more self-centered than most of his breed.

  “Oh.” Rhoda’s amber eyes danced. “I understand.” She turned to Renie. “And you?”

  “We have a Holland dwarf lop named Clarence. He’s adorable. And cuddly. Clarence has quite an extensive wardrobe. In fact, he has his own cruise wear, including a small Speedo.”

  “Really.” Rhoda arched her perfect eyebrows. She actually seemed intrigued. “Does he enjoy wearing clothes?”

  “In a way,” Renie hedged. “Often, he prefers to eat them.”

  “Yes,” Rhoda said thoughtfully. “But every animal has its own flaw—or fetish. Asthma, for instance, can be very impatient when we have to curl his fur. That cordlike effect is achieved by u
sing soup cans. The poor darling only cooperates if we use beef noodle.”

  Renie nodded solemnly. “Clarence is opposed to any kind of grooming. He tends to hide behind the furnace on his little deck chair.”

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  Rhoda leaned forward. “While wearing his Speedo?”

  “No. Actually, the swimsuit was completely consumed last summer.”

  Judith felt like screaming. The growing bond between Renie and Rhoda was making her fractious. Usually, it was Judith who chatted amiably with possible suspects and witnesses while Renie kept to the background. There was a pause before Rhoda spoke again. “I must get Asthma settled for the night. Why don’t you come into our suite and have a drink? We’re just a couple of doors down. Actually, we have two suites—one for us and one for Asthma.” She continued walking, urging the dog along.

  “We’re in the William Powell and Myrna Loy suites, just beyond yours.”

  “That figures,” Renie whispered to Judith as they followed Rhoda at a short distance. “They remind me of Nick and Nora Charles from the old Thin Man movies.”

  “Do they?” Judith was looking grim. “I never liked those films. Their solutions were too glib.”

  “That was because they were really screwball comedies,”

  Renie replied.

  “Whatever,” said Judith.

  The St. Georges’ suite was similar in style and layout to Judith and Renie’s. Rhoda urged the cousins to make themselves a drink—along with a martini for her.

  “Maybe,” Renie said as Judith revived her old skills from her bartending job at the Meat & Mingle, “I could bear a sip of Drambuie.”

  “They’ve got everything,” Judith replied, studying the mirrored shelves above the teak bar. “Especially gin. I’ll stick to scotch.” Maybe a stiff drink would improve her disposition. The St. Georges also had plenty of luggage, some of which was piled in a corner of the sitting room. Two large steamer trunks with shiny brass studs on hand-tooled leather boasted travel stickers from New York, Paris, London, Sydney, Hong Kong, Singapore, St. Petersburg, Buenos Aires, Capetown, and other foreign cities.