by Mary Daheim
“She wants to cut a deal,” Renie said.
Flakey looked surprised, a reaction that struck Judith as unusual for him. “What kind of deal?”
“An exchange of information,” Renie said, wearing her boardroom face. “You can write about two terrified tourists’
reactions to the murders—if you don’t use our names. In re-
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turn, you can fill us in on some background that you haven’t put in the newspaper.”
Flakey looked from Renie to Judith and back again. “Why are you so interested?”
“I told you,” Renie said. “I work for Cruz Cruises. I’m involved with their publications. I want to make sure that the company knows all the facts.”
Flakey seemed skeptical. “You’re a writer?”
Renie uttered a little laugh. “Isn’t everybody? Deep down, I mean.”
Flakey shrugged. “Whatever you say, babe. Let’s hear it. What happened at the party when the music stopped?”
“It never started,” Renie replied. “The piano music, I mean. Dixie couldn’t play because the body was stuck inside. When we found out, Judith fainted. She didn’t come to until one of the crew poured a bucket of water over her. I became hysterical and somebody slapped me over and over again. We all ended up in Dixie’s cabin, having palpitations. I’ve never been so terrified in my life. Judith thought the killer was stalking us in the companionway. There were shadows and footsteps everywhere. It was a nightmare. We could actually feel the killer’s cold, clammy hands on our throats and saw our graves open up before us.” Renie paused. “How’s that?”
“Not bad,” Flakey said, only mildly impressed by Renie’s tall tale. “You got a sex angle in there somewhere?”
“Not yet. I was just getting warmed up.”
“I don’t mind writing bull crap, but you gotta put some sex in it. Were you naked?”
“How about somebody savagely ripping off our clothes while we were in Dixie’s cabin? Somebody who leered.”
“That’s better. ‘Love nest’ would help.”
“Be my guest,” Renie said.
“You’re not taking notes,” Judith observed.
“Don’t need to. I’ve got a photographic memory. I’d better get going. I’ve got a deadline for Sunday’s edition.”
“Not so fast,” Renie snapped. “We made a deal, remember? What have you got for us?”
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“Huh?” Briefly, Flakey looked puzzled. “Oh, yeah, right.”
After a pause, he requested another drink. “What did you have in mind?”
“Background,” Judith said, speaking for the first time in several minutes. “That is,” she added with a faintly apologetic smile, “I’m very people-oriented. The relationship between Erma Giddon and Horace Pankhurst fascinates me. Are they somehow related?”
Flakey chuckled. “Only by money.” He handed the waitress his second empty glass and glommed on to the refill.
“Pankhurst’s law firm was founded by his grandfather, way back before the big earthquake and fire. Giddon’s grandfather was his contemporary, involved in real estate. They hooked up early on, and the families have been tight ever since. Old Erma wouldn’t move a finger without Horace to guide her.”
“Hmm,” Judith mused. “We heard they quarreled.”
“Oh, yeah?” Flakey’s face actually seemed to come alive.
“How’s that?”
“I assume you knew Mrs. Giddon resigned from the Cruz Cruises board,” Judith said.
“Right. Our business reporter flashed me that news this morning.” The reporter gripped his drink with both hands and frowned. “So that pissed off Pankhurst. Yeah, okay, that makes sense.”
“It does?” Judith made no effort to hide her curiosity.
“Sure. It throws a spanner into the works as far as Pankhurst is concerned.” Flakey smiled crookedly. “You see, he wanted Erma to take over the company.”
Judith didn’t try to conceal her surprise, either. “Before or after Thursday night?”
“Both,” Flakey said. “You might even say that Erma would have killed to get hold of Cruz Cruises.”
FIFTEEN
A MOMENT LATER, the waitress came by to tell Flakey he was wanted on the phone. Oddly enough, the reporter didn’t carry a cell phone. “I always lose ’em,” he said, excusing himself to take the call at the bar.
“We’ve made a pact with the devil.” Renie moaned.
“Can you imagine what we’re going to sound like in tomorrow’s paper?”
“No worse than I did when I ended up on TV after finding the body in the old apartment house at the bottom of Heraldsgate Hill,” Judith said. “And that time, they used my real name. That’s how I ended up being FATSO
on the Internet.”
“Thank God,” Renie said, “Flakey never asked us to identify ourselves.”
Flakey loped back to the table, but didn’t sit. He swallowed his latest drink in two gulps, announced “breaking news,” belched, and left.
“Émile Grenier?” Judith said after the reporter had gone.
“Probably,” Renie replied. “If Biff knew about the latest murder when he was drinking here, he didn’t tell Flakey. It’s Biff’s partner who’s the blabbermouth.”
As they walked outside, Judith swore that if their hotel 188
Mary Daheim
wasn’t just across the street, they’d have to take a cab. “I’m absolutely exhausted,” she declared. “I haven’t walked this much in years.”
“You’re weak, too,” Renie chided, entering the St. Francis. “You should have ordered one of those wonderfullooking sandwiches at Lefty’s.”
There was no argument from Judith. When they finally reached their room, she collapsed and slept until Renie woke her up shortly before six.
“You have to get dressed,” Renie said. “We’re going to a dinner party at Erma Giddon’s.”
Judith rubbed at her forehead and tried to focus. “Say that again.”
“Anemone called while you were napping,” Renie said, perching on the edge of Judith’s bed. “She wanted to thank you for helping her choose a funeral outfit. She felt she’d been a bit rude.”
“So they’re throwing a party to celebrate mourning?” Judith asked, struggling to sit up. “Or is it a wake?”
“You’re not awake,” Renie retorted. “Go shower. We’ll talk about it later.”
But Judith insisted she was awake—her stomach was growling so loudly that she couldn’t help being alert.
“Okay,” Renie conceded, tucking her feet under her.
“Anemone is repentant. She called to apologize. I said you’d get back to her. Meanwhile, Rhoda telephoned to say that the Giddons—Erma and Anemone—invited them to a small supper party with cocktails at seven. Anemone was feeling very glum and needed cheering up. The St. Georges must be famous for lifting people’s spirits—as well as drinking them. Rhoda suggested that they ask us, too, which apparently led to Anemone thinking she could make it up to you with the invitation.”
“Oh.” Judith’s expression was wry. “I certainly wouldn’t expect Erma to ask us.”
Renie agreed.
But Judith suddenly demurred. “I don’t have anything to
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wear. Everything I packed, including the pantsuit I had on today, is cruise-oriented. I can’t wear what I wore last night. I have no proper San Francisco clothing.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” Renie responded, hopping off the bed and going out into the sitting room. “Here,” she said, hauling along a small caravan of boxes and bags bearing the Saks Fifth Avenue logo. “I was not idle while you slept. I went across the street to Saks and shopped my head off.”
With as much enthusiasm as any huckster, Renie began removing the items from boxes and bags. “A couple of Tahari suits along with a jacket, camisole, and short skirt. A long skirt, slacks, and a
sweater from Dana Buchman. They should fit, unless you’re too damned skinny. May I suggest the pearl-gray pinstripe Tahari pantsuit for tonight?”
Judith stopped gaping and gasping. “How the hell am I going to pay for all this?” she demanded, now glaring at her cousin.
“Everything was on sale,” Renie replied innocently.
“Honest. I charged the stuff to my account. You can pay me when we get home.” She indicated a couple of unopened boxes at the end of the bed. “I bought myself a few things, too. It’s a good thing I didn’t have to walk very far. I could hardly carry it all.”
Judith was still glaring. “I could strangle you.”
“Don’t say that,” Renie said. “Somebody may.”
“You are absolutely impossible!” Judith fumed. Renie shrugged. “When was the last time you bought anything for yourself? Other than the cruise wear, I mean. Frankly, you can probably return most of that. I doubt that we’re going anywhere west of Sausalito.”
The idea was small comfort to Judith. “This trip has been the worst I’ve ever taken,” she grumbled even as she allowed herself to touch the fine fabric of the pinstripe suit. “On top of everything else, I’m going to be impoverished.”
“But well clad,” Renie said cheerfully, unzipping a garment bag. “I think I’ll go with the hot pink Escada suit.”
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“I should go in a barrel,” Judith muttered. But the more she stared at the pearl gray outfit, the more she wanted to try it on. “After all,” she added, more to herself than to Renie,
“it may not fit.”
But it did. Judith tried to tell herself that she didn’t look stunning. “I never buy gray clothes,” she said, “but this doesn’t wash me out.”
“That’s because your hair was so gray before you colored it. You blended.”
In front of the full-length mirror, Judith turned every which way. “It doesn’t seem to need any alterations,” she admitted.
“Of course not. With your height, that type of outfit looks terrific. Besides,” she added, “I have excellent taste. I am an artist, after all.”
“This afternoon, you claimed to be a writer,” Judith remarked drolly.
“So? Over the years, you’ve claimed to be everything from an astronaut to a zookeeper.”
“But always in the search for truth and justice.”
Renie’s eyes twinkled. “Always,” she said. Judging from the age and style of the Giddon home in Pacific Heights, Grandfather Giddon had probably built the place back in the 1880s. In the Victorian Queen Anne style, it was three stories of jutting gables, patterned shingles, angles, curves, and a tower with windows that looked out over the bay. On a clear day, Judith wondered if the Giddons could see halfway to Rarotonga. It was the quintessential San Francisco house, though it sat on a corner lot and there was room for a well-tended garden.
“Four, five million on today’s market for this place?”
Renie said after they’d paid the taxi driver and were standing at the foot of the stone steps that led from the sidewalk.
“At least,” Judith agreed. “I imagine it’s been kept up extremely well, despite all the earthquakes.”
Still, Judith felt there was something gloomy about the
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house. She almost expected to see gaslights and overdone Victorian furnishings inside.
“I never liked this style of architecture,” Renie declared.
“Too ornate, too complicated, too damned ugly.”
“Be sure and tell Erma that,” Judith said sarcastically.
“That’ll make her even happier to see the two of us.”
The door was answered by Chevy Barker-James, in her guise as Beulah. She looked every inch the part with her black dress, white apron, and matching cap.
“I heard you were coming,” she said under her breath.
“Why in the world would you want to?” But Chevy didn’t wait for a response, instead leading the cousins through the foyer and into the drawing room. “Miz Flynn and Miz Jones,” she announced in a deferential tone. Anemone, wearing a very short green-and-white cocktail dress, was the first to greet the cousins. “I’m so glad you could come. I can’t thank you enough for helping me pick out that black suit. Even Mumsy approved of it.”
“I didn’t do that much,” Judith objected as Anemone held her hand in a surprisingly tight grip.
“Oh, but you did,” Anemone asserted, her usually soft voice rising as her mother and Jim Brooks approached. “You spent so much time with me looking at the racks and in the dressing room while I tried things on. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Judith couldn’t see any point in contradicting. She’d have to get Anemone alone to find out why the young woman was lying. At least Judith’s hand had finally been set free. Nor did she have a chance to respond: Erma Giddon was bearing down on her like a D-day landing craft on Omaha Beach.
“Such a sad time for all of us,” she said with about as much emotion as she might lend to the loss of a dead houseplant.
“Scary, too,” Jim Brooks put in. “I’m sure glad they never offered me a summer job on that cruise line.”
“But they did,” Erma said with a dark look at her future sonin-law. “Two years ago. I arranged it. Have you forgotten?”
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Jim’s boyish features looked pained. “You knew I couldn’t take the job. I get seasick.”
“Nonsense,” Erma snapped. “You wanted to go on that field trip to Italy instead.” Perhaps conscious of her duties as a hostess, she patted Jim’s arm. “Never mind, that’s all in the past. It’s the future that counts, isn’t it, dear boy?”
Jim flushed. “Yes, ma’am, yes, sure, it is.”
Judith glanced around the room. The furniture was solid, expensive and unimaginative. Some of it could have come from the Victorian era, but several of the pieces looked like reproductions. The blue velvet drapes were pulled shut against the cold evening fog.
Except for Ambrose Everhart, fidgeting with some papers by a floor lamp with a beaded shade, no one seemed to be in attendance. Apparently, peace had not been made between Erma and Horace. The St. Georges would probably make their usual slightly tardy entrance. But surely, Judith thought, the Giddons must have an intimate circle of friends that didn’t include people connected to Cruz Cruises. Chevy sidled up to the cousins. “What may Ah fetch y’all?”
“You’re good,” Renie said under her breath. “Too bad this isn’t an audition.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Chevy replied with a bright smile. “It shore is.”
The cousins both requested screwdrivers. “How about pliers and an ax?” Chevy murmured. “Or,” she added, as Rhoda and Rick St. George entered in the company of Horace Pankhurst and CeeCee Orr, “a hatchet to bury?”
“My, yes,” Renie said softly. “What now?”
Expecting fireworks, Judith tensed. But Horace lumbered over to Erma and kissed her cheek.
“In the face of these senseless tragedies,” he stated, as much for everyone’s benefit as for Erma’s, “we must present a united front. Rhoda and Rick insisted that we come and bring you a peace offering.”
Warily, Erma eyed Horace. “Such as what?”
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Horace spread his hands. “Such as my unswerving loyalty. My years of devotion. My services, as always.”
“Circling the wagons,” Judith said to Renie. Erma pursed her lips and shook her head. “Oh, Horace!”
She leaned forward and let him kiss her other cheek. “What would I do without you, now that Wilbur is missing?”
“Aww . . .” CeeCee said with a big smile, “ain’t that sweet? I could just bawl!”
“I’ll bet she could,” Renie muttered.
But Judith was staring at CeeCee’s ruffled red dress. It was the same daring cocktail outfit she’d seen at Neiman Marcus.
&n
bsp; Before Judith could say anything to Renie, Beulah showed in Consuela Cruz and Paul Tanaka. The newly made widow was very pale and leaned on Paul’s arm as if it were her only means of support.
“Consuela,” Erma said in a low, incredulous voice.
“Erma,” said Connie, her state of mourning emphasized by a black ribbed jersey dress. Docilely, she allowed Paul to lead her forward.
Rhoda stepped in between the two women. “Ricky and I couldn’t bear to think of Connie being alone. We knew you wouldn’t mind if we mentioned your generous hospitality to her. And Paul has been such a help.”
“Not to mention,” Rick said, removing his gold cigarette case from his suit jacket, “that it seems like a good idea to stick together. Our numbers seem to be dwindling, wouldn’t you say?” He paused to light his cigarette. “Oh—the captain sends his regrets. I understand he was invited, too.”
Erma shot Ambrose a sharp look. “Captain Swafford received an invitation?”
Ambrose had dithered his way toward the little gathering.
“Why, yes—I thought—that is, it seemed—I mean . . .” His voice trailed off helplessly.
“Ambrose,” Erma said, her jaw taut, “you’re a nincompoop.”
Ambrose reddened and stammered. But CeeCee inter-194 Mary Daheim
vened. “Well, I think he’s cute.” She slung an arm over the secretary’s shoulder. “Honest, Mrs. Giddon, Ambrose is a real peach. You know he’s always trying his best to please you.”
She glanced up at Horace from under her impossibly long eyelashes. “Just like Panky here. When did he ever do anything but what you asked him?”
“Excuse me,” Paul Tanaka said, clearly impatient. “Could Mrs. Cruz sit down? She’s feeling very shaky.”
“I should never have come,” Connie said in a faint voice.
“I should be saving my strength for the funeral Monday.”
Erma motioned at a beechwood sofa with toile cushions.
“Yes, do sit. Beulah will serve you something.” She snapped her fingers. “Beulah! Attend Mrs. Cruz.”
“Yaz’um,” Chevy replied, juggling the tray that held the cousins’ drinks.
Judith moved quickly to relieve the ersatz maid. “Go ahead, we’re fine.”
