Dead Man Docking

by Mary Daheim

  “Connie Cruz collapsed,” Judith concluded. “And Dixie Beales wasn’t in very good shape the last time we saw her.”

  “Poor Mrs. Cruz,” Chevy said with a sad little sigh. “I only met her once, but she seemed like a nice woman—if high-strung. I don’t know Dixie. With a name like that, do I have to like her?”

  “It’s really May Belle,” Renie noted.

  “That’s not much better,” Chevy murmured. “But you can imagine what a load it is being named Chevrolet.” She stood

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  up. “Thanks for the inside story. Mrs. G. wouldn’t deign to tell me what happened, Anemone is a bit of an airhead, and Ambrose is too squeamish to give any gory details.”

  “Plus,” Judith said as the cousins saw Chevy to the door,

  “Ambrose wasn’t there.”

  Chevy gave the cousins a curious look. “But he was. He told me so himself. He saw everything.”

  EIGHT

  “WHY,” JUDITH ASKED after Chevy Barker-James had left, “would Ambrose Everhart, who allegedly had an alibi, tell Chevy he was actually here at the time of the murder?”

  “Beats me,” Renie replied, yawning. “And I’m beat. Not sure I can think very well.”

  “I can’t go to sleep with this question on my mind,” Judith said. “Prop yourself up on this sofa and try to think. It’s as important to you as it is to me.”

  “More so,” Renie agreed, moving away from where she’d been leaning on the bedroom doorframe. “How’s this?” she said, falling onto the sofa next to Judith. “Ambrose is lying.”

  “Why?”

  “Mmm . . .” Renie’s head slumped forward. Judith poked her cousin in the arm. “Hey! Wake up!”

  “Huh?” Renie shook herself. “Oh, sorry. Maybe Ambrose wants to impress Chevy. He might have a thing for her.”

  “That’s possible,” Judith murmured, “though I got the impression he was an admirer of Anemone Giddon. Did you notice how he was trying to curry favor with her?”

  “Umm . . .”

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  “Coz!” Judith stabbed Renie a trifle harder. “Snap to it!”

  “Right.” Renie opened her eyes very wide and blinked several times. “Where were we?”

  “Talking about why Ambrose told Chevy he was on board the ship when he supposedly wasn’t.”

  “Ambrose? Who’s Ambrose?”

  Judith held her head. “You know perfectly well who Ambrose is. Could Chevy have misunderstood what he said?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Then there’s the possibility that Chevy is lying,” Judith pointed out. “She might have a grudge against Ambrose and wants to make him look bad.”

  “Chevy isn’t a liar,” Renie replied, yawning again.

  “You don’t know her that well,” Judith declared. “Still, let’s say she’s telling the truth. Maybe Ambrose was on board at the time of the murder, but isn’t the killer. He doesn’t want to admit he could be a suspect. Perhaps he has a motive for killing Magglio Cruz.”

  “It’s more likely he has a motive for killing Erma Giddon,” Renie said between yawns. “If I had to work . . . for that . . . old . . . bag I’d . . .”

  Judith didn’t try to rouse her cousin again. Her own brain was drained. “Good night,” she whispered, and retreated into the bedroom.

  Five minutes later, Renie staggered in from the sitting room and collapsed on the other bed. Within seconds, Judith could hear her cousin snoring softly.

  Rearranging the pillows, Judith was still wide awake. She felt as if she wasn’t considering suspects in a homicide, but characters in a movie. Part of it, she realized, was the cruise theme. But the caricatures existed: the snobbish dowager; the ingenue daughter; the besotted suitor; the pompous family lawyer; the nervous private secretary; the blond gold digger; the able assistant; the Southern belle; the black maid; the doughty British captain; the snooty French purser; the lunch-bucket cop; and some guy named Blackie, who might or might not be a crook. Of course there were also 90

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  the idle rich sophisticates with their dog that looked like a mop.

  Yet taken one by one, they were not out of place on a luxury cruise ship. Judith rolled over and shut her eyes tight. She was bone tired, having been up for almost twenty straight hours. After what seemed like a long time, she finally slept. But the strange dreams came back. James Cagney was tap-dancing with a machine gun in one hand and a grapefruit in the other. Bette Davis was a Southern belle carrying a wicker basket filled with daggers. Jean Harlow was wearing what looked like Erma Giddon’s corset and playing a Duke Ellington tune on a solid-gold grand piano. It was not a restful night.

  Judith was startled awake shortly before nine by a voice that seemed to come from nowhere. It took her several moments to orient herself, realize that an announcement was being made over the ship’s loudspeaker, and that it informed the passengers they were free to leave the San Rafael until further notice. Getting out of bed, she went over to the still unconscious Renie. “Hey,” Judith called, giving her cousin a slight shake,

  “wake up. There’s news.”

  “ ’S’alwaysis,” Renie mumbled, pulling the covers over her head. “G’way.”

  “It’s nine o’clock,” Judith declared, trying to pull the blanket and sheet off of Renie. “You’ve slept over nine hours. At home, you stay up past midnight. Adjust, become alert before your usual ten A.M. awakening.”

  “Damn.” Renie rolled over and exhaled deeply. “I’ll get up if you order breakfast in bed for me.”

  “You’re a brat,” Judith accused. “They’re telling us we can get off the ship. I doubt they’re serving breakfast.”

  Renie tossed the covers aside and leaped up. “They damned well better serve breakfast! First, they try to take away my livelihood, now they want to starve me to death!

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  That does it!” She grabbed the phone from the dressing table and dialed the galley.

  Judith decided to seek sanctuary in the shower. The warm water brought her fully awake. Her mental processes shifted into gear as she scrubbed her body with a bar of rich oatmeal soap. Sleeping till nine. No rush to feed guests breakfast. No lip from Gertrude. No coping with Phyliss. No ringing phones or demanding faxes. No Joe. That was the bad part. She already missed him. But she wasn’t sorry that he hadn’t been with her when Magglio Cruz was murdered. While getting dressed, Judith decided she’d call Joe when they got back to the hotel. He should be at home, since the trial didn’t start until Monday. But if she phoned now, she’d have to fib about the previous evening’s dire events.

  Still in a quandary, she found Renie in the living room, attired in her wild tiger ensemble and watching the local news.

  “Nothing so far,” Renie said before Judith could ask the question. “It’s all about pollution and city-hall politics and gay marriage. I’m thinking that if they broaden the description of what constitutes a marriage, and something—God forbid—ever happens to Bill, I’ll marry Clarence.”

  “Your bunny?” Judith frowned. “Why not marry Oscar?”

  “No,” Renie replied. “I’d want a real change. Bill and Oscar have too many similar traits. Besides, I’d like to actually use the TV remote. Clarence doesn’t care for television. By the way, breakfast is coming. I ordered waffles for both of us.”

  Judith was relieved, not just because Renie had ordered food, but because she had changed the subject. Sometimes the Joneses’ ménage was hard to comprehend.

  “I thought you were going to have breakfast in bed,” Judith remarked. “Why are you out here?”

  “Breakfast in bed is merely an expression,” Renie explained. “Not that I don’t actually do that sometimes, but it usually ends up kind of messy, bedclothes-wise.”

  “Yes,” Judith murmured, “I suppose sleeping on a fried egg can be an unpleasant experience.”

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  “Funny, coz,” Renie muttered. As a knock sounded at the door, she jumped up. “Ah! That was quick.”

  But it wasn’t breakfast that had arrived. It was CeeCee Orr, looking very nautical in a white sailor dress with navyblue piping.

  “Oh, hi there,” she said in a breathy voice. “Have we met? I’m—”

  “We know,” Judith said with a smile, ushering the young woman inside. “I’m Judith Flynn and this is my cousin Serena Jones.”

  “A pleasure, I’m sure,” CeeCee replied, showing perfect white teeth and a trace of a New York accent. “Could I borrow a whiff of Opium?”

  Judith couldn’t help but gape. “Uh . . . I’m afraid we don’t have any. Maybe you could try Chinatown when you go back on shore.”

  Hands pressed against her deep cleavage, CeeCee laughed merrily. “Oh, how stupid of me! I’m not talking about drugs, I mean her, her, her.” She pointed a finger at Renie. “Your perfume, Ms. Jones. You wear Yves SaintLaurent’s Opium. I smelled it last night at the party. It’s my favorite, too, but I’m out, out, out.”

  “Oh—sure,” Renie said. “I’ll get it for you.” She headed for the bedroom.

  “I simply can’t bear to start the day without my Opium,”

  CeeCee declared, jiggling her Louis Vuitton handbag and various parts of her body. “It’s so”—she paused, shut her eyes tight, and ran her hands over her voluptuous curves—“sensual.”

  “I’m a Red Door person,” Judith replied. “I like a floral scent. For years, I wore White Shoulders.”

  “Red Door, huh?” CeeCee looked ingenuous. “Gosh, I’ve never used that. What’s it like?”

  “I’ll let you try it,” Judith said, going into the bedroom. Renie was rummaging in her suitcase. “Where’d I put the damned stuff? I wore it last night. Oh—here it is, in the side pocket. What’re you doing?”

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  “Being gracious,” Judith replied, wrestling with the zipper of her cosmetic case. “This thing sticks. I’ve been meaning to buy a new one, but I didn’t have time before we left on such short notice.”

  “Is CeeCee as ditzy as she acts?”

  Judith shrugged. “I don’t know. That act isn’t easy to do.”

  The zipper finally relented; the bottle of Red Door was extracted. When the cousins returned to the sitting room, CeeCee was humming Cole Porter’s “Begin the Beguine.”

  Judith sprayed a whiff of her own perfume on her wrist and let CeeCee sniff.

  “Nice,” she said. “Kind of floral. What’s in it?”

  “Several ingredients,” Judith replied, handing over the bottle. “Too many to remember. Jasmine, wild orchid—see for yourself.”

  CeeCee squinted at the small print. “Gee, what a combo!

  Did you know that Connie Cruz makes her own perfume? She’s allergic to most of the stuff they sell in stores. Connie always smells like lilies.” She took another sniff of Red Door, and shook her head. “I still like Opium better.” She returned the bottle to Judith. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “Here,” Renie said, handing her own brand to CeeCee.

  “Squirt away.”

  “Mmm.” CeeCee closed her eyes again, purring softly as she applied the scent to her cleavage, her throat, and her wrists. “Now,” she said softly, “I can face the day.”

  Renie accepted the perfume bottle and set it on a side table. “Good. Frankly, I wear that stuff only in the evening. It’s a bit overpowering for daytime use.”

  CeeCee’s big brown eyes opened wide. “Really? Usually, I bathe in it. But I didn’t bring all my fragrances with me yesterday.”

  “You’re going ashore?” Judith asked in a casual voice. CeeCee shrugged. “I guess. Racey says there’s no telling when we’ll sail.”

  Judith was puzzled. “ ‘Racey’?”

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  CeeCee laughed. “That’s what I call Horace. Sometimes I call him ‘Panky.’ As in ‘Hanky-Panky.’ ” She winked. “It all depends.”

  “Yes,” Judith said in a noncommittal voice. “Do you live in San Francisco?”

  Mischief still danced in CeeCee’s eyes. “Most of the time.”

  Judith smiled in her friendliest manner. “I thought I heard a hint of the East Coast in your speech.”

  CeeCee laughed again. “Ain’t it da troot?” she replied, exaggerating her accent. “I’m originally from Brooklyn. Brooklyn Heights, that is.”

  Judith wasn’t skeptical about CeeCee’s Brooklyn origins, but she was dubious about her claim to the fashionable—and expensive—Brooklyn Heights neighborhood.

  The conversation was interrupted by yet another knock. In a swirl of tiger stripes, Renie got up to answer. Halfway to the door, she tripped over the hem of her robe and fell flat on her face.

  “Coz!” Judith cried. “Are you okay?”

  The response was a stream of profanity, befitting a seafaring man’s daughter.

  “I’ll see who it is,” CeeCee called out over the earthy din. Judith did her best to haul Renie to her feet. “That tiger costume’s too long for you. No wonder you tripped.”

  “Oh, shut up!” Renie collapsed back onto the sofa. “I got it on sale at Nordquist’s and I’ll be damned if I’ll pay for alterations on a markdown. Besides, Bill hates it.”

  “No wonder,” Judith remarked. “It looks like you’re trying out for the cover of National Geographic.”

  CeeCee had admitted the waiter with the shaved head and goatee. She stepped aside as he wheeled the table in front of the sofa and began to uncover the various dishes.

  “How do we pay?” Judith asked as Renie surveyed the food with an eagle eye.

  “He said you don’t,” CeeCee replied. “Everything for you guys is free. Lucky stiffs!”

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  “Let’s not talk about ‘stiffs,’ ” Judith said. “Surely we can offer a gratuity.”

  But the waiter smiled slightly and shook his head. CeeCee walked him back to the door.

  “Is he a mute?” Judith whispered, pulling a chair up to the other side of the table.

  Renie was spreading soft butter on her waffle. “Huh? No, I think he’s talking to CeeCee in the passageway.”

  Judith glanced up. The waiter was leaving; CeeCee remained on the threshold.

  “Gotta run,” she said. “Racey will think I’ve been kidnapped. He worries, worries, worries. Thanks for the perfume.” CeeCee closed the door behind her.

  “Hunh,” Renie said after devouring half of a pork sausage, “she may be what we thought she was. What you see is what you get?”

  “Perhaps,” Judith responded.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You know. It takes some digging to find the real person underneath the facade. How many times have we been fooled by appearances?”

  “True,” Renie allowed, wiping syrup off of her chest. “Especially by seemingly ordinary people who turned out to be heartless killers. Which, I assume, is what we have among us.”

  Judith grimaced. “I’m afraid so. We’ve no idea what the motive may be and only a limited knowledge of the method. Thus, I suppose the first thing we should consider is the third factor in any homicide—opportunity. How many people can we rule out because they never left the saloon?”

  Looking thoughtful, Renie sipped her tomato juice. “Let’s see. We saw Magglio Cruz alive and well when we came on board the ship. Did we see him after that? Other than in the piano, of course.”

  “Yes,” Judith replied. “He was at the bar. I don’t remember seeing him after that. Later Connie went to look for him. Which means,” Judith added with a frown, “we can’t rule out Connie as a suspect.”

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  “The spouse,” Renie remarked. “Always the prime suspect.”

  Judith paused, eating, but not really tasting, her waffle. She was focused on re-creating the saloon party in her m
ind’s eye. “The St. Georges arrived last,” she finally said,

  “so we don’t know where they were before they made their grand entrance. Émile Grenier showed up just before that. We didn’t see Dixie Beales until the cabaret section was opened.”

  “True,” Renie agreed. “But most of the other guests seemed to have stayed put. Erma, Anemone, Jim, Horace, CeeCee, Paul, Captain Swafford. Admittedly, everyone was milling around.”

  “Then there’s Ambrose, who claimed he wasn’t on board but told Chevy that he was,” Judith reminded her cousin.

  “That’s a real puzzle.”

  “It could be a miscommunication,” Renie pointed out, gathering up her tableware and placing it to one side of the portable table. “You didn’t eat your egg,” she said, pointing to a small dish that was still covered.

  “Egg?” Judith frowned. “I didn’t know you ordered one for me.”

  Renie bit her lip. “I didn’t, come to think of it. I got two, although I ordered only one for myself. Sorry, coz. I am a pig.”

  “That’s okay,” Judith said. “You know I’m watching my cholesterol.” She narrowed her eyes at Renie. “I suppose you want this one, too?”

  “No, I do not,” Renie replied in an indignant tone. “I’m a pig, but I’m not a hog. You eat it. You need to put on weight.”

  “It’s probably cold by now.” Judith lifted the lid. There was no egg—only a folded piece of paper on the white plate.

  “What the heck?” Judith muttered. “Maybe we got a bill after all.” She unfolded the paper. “It’s not a bill,” she said grimly, and handed the note to Renie.

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  The rather small letters had been individually pasted on a sheet from a San Rafael memo pad. They read Butt Out.

  “Good Lord,” Renie gasped. “Who knows you’re FATSO?” She referred to the corruption of her cousin’s Internet acronym, which actually stood for Female Amateur Sleuth Tracking Offenders.

  “Do you think that’s what it refers to?” Judith responded, looking worried.

  “What else?” Renie studied the message for a few more seconds. “There’s something odd about this. The individual letters haven’t been cut from a newspaper or a magazine. In fact, the paper they’re printed on is quality stuff, too heavy for an ordinary publication.”