Dead Man Docking

by Mary Daheim

  “Not what?” Renie shot back. “Have a drink or behave in a—oh, never mind!” She waved her hands in disgust. Biff, however, was watching Judith remove the expensive liter of gin from the armoire. “Well . . . I don’t usually drink on duty, but it’s kinda late, and I could use a little pick-meup. How about you, Buzzy?”

  Buzz Cochran, who looked as if he’d be more comfortable in the frosh section of a Cal–Stanford football game, shook his head. “You know I don’t drink. Sir, ” he added in a deferential tone.

  “That’s because you’re probably not of legal age yet,” Biff muttered. “You got a lot to learn, kid.”

  Biff looked not at Judith but at the gin bottle. “On the rocks,” he said.

  The captain let out a heavy sigh. “I daresay I could use a jot of brandy, if you have it.”

  “A Coke, please?” Buzz said in a small voice.

  “Sure,” Judith responded, opening the honor bar. “Coz?”

  “There’s Drambuie in there,” Renie said. “Let’s split it.”

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  Judith didn’t argue.

  “I thought you were gonna change your clothes,” Biff said as Judith poured the drinks into every available clean glass.

  “You mean,” Judith said, handing Biff his gin rocks, “we still have to go to the station?”

  “It’s only three minutes away,” Biff replied, sniffing at his glass. “Hey, this is really good stuff. Go ahead, put on your duds. We won’t use the cuffs, but we gotta follow procedure.” He turned to Buzz. “Take a note, kid. This is how a real cop works.”

  “You mean,” Buzz said, aghast, “I have to drink gin?”

  “Nah,” Biff responded with an avuncular expression, “but it sure helps.”

  “Good grief,” Judith muttered, warily checking Renie’s reaction.

  Renie, however, stood up. “Why not? What would a trip to San Francisco be like without getting arrested? In my day, it was a badge of honor.” She downed the Drambuie in one swig and sashayed into the bedroom. Judith followed with a less flamboyant gait.

  As soon as the bedroom door was closed, Renie began to choke. “My God, that stuff’s strong!” she gasped, clutching her throat. “I’d forgotten why you’re supposed to sip it!”

  “Show-off,” Judith chided. “Honestly, this is ridiculous!”

  “Of course it is,” Renie responded. “That’s why we’re not wearing our new clothes. We’ll wear the comfortable yet tasteful outfits we wore on the plane—sweats and slacks. Can you imagine what the central police station is like on a Saturday night?”

  “Good Lord,” Judith groaned. “I can. But I don’t want to dwell on it.”

  Five minutes later, Judith and Renie presented themselves to Biff, Buzz, and the captain. Swafford announced that his responsibilities were done for the time being, but he’d keep in touch with the police. Meanwhile, he had to pay a call on Erma Giddon. Doffing his braided cap, he left the hotel suite.

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  “Jail,” Renie murmured as they walked to the elevator, “or Erma? Which is worse?”

  Judith merely shook her head. “At least we’re not in handcuffs,” she said. Buzz drove the unmarked police car as carefully as if he were pushing a baby buggy. They practically crawled through the Stockton Street Tunnel, even though traffic was comparatively light so close to midnight. The cousins, sitting in the backseat, didn’t speak until after they’d reached the station on Vallejo Street. The only sounds inside the vehicle were the frequent belches of Biff McDougal and a couple of fruitless pleas for Buzz to drive faster. But if the ride had been slow, central booking was a frenzy. Every race, religion, and lifestyle seemed represented in the crowded station. A cacophony of languages assaulted their ears, along with a number of obscenities the cousins understood all too well. The air reeked of booze, marijuana, sweat, and more putrid odors that Judith didn’t want to define.

  “The best-dressed people here are the transvestites,”

  Renie noted. “I wonder where the . . . person by the desk got that emerald-green ball gown?”

  “Don’t ask, don’t tell,” Judith murmured. “And watch out for that guy with the dreadlocks and the oversize baseball cap. He’s coming right for you.”

  “Yo!” cried the young man, who was built like a bull and covered in tattoos, “who you think you are, struttin’ aroun’

  in that damn Sea Auk sweatshirt? This is Raider country, mama. Yo’ football team sucks soup cans!”

  “Yo’ mama sucks everything!” Renie shot back. “That’s

  ’cause she got no damn teeth! Like these!” She bared her formidable prominent front fangs. “Yo’ don’t be givin’ me no sass! Are you the homey who boosted my do-rag? Why, yo’ mama’s so fat that—”

  “Hey!” Biff grabbed Renie’s arm and hauled her out of the way before the startled young man could react. “Watch it. You can get hurt around here.”

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  “Raider thug,” Renie muttered.

  Buzz coughed slightly as the cousins were whisked down a busy hallway. “Actually,” he said, “that Oakland Raider fan is one of ours. He’s an undercover policeman.”

  “He’s still a Raider fan,” Renie snarled. “Just like Cleo, our foulmouthed doll.”

  Judith was relieved when Buzz made no comment. She didn’t need any more of Renie’s fantasies. Reality was grim enough.

  Years ago, when Joe was still working, he’d given Judith a tour of police headquarters. He had shown her the interrogation areas, which looked more spartan than some of the sets she’d seen in movies and on TV. The room into which the cousins were ushered simply looked bleak: a Formica-topped table, straight-backed chairs, a clock, and a window with one-way glass.

  “You could do something with this place,” Renie said to Biff. “Some Erté Art Deco posters, an oval rug, maybe a couple of candlesticks. A window that looked outside would be nice.”

  Biff grunted. “Funny lady. Take a seat. Buzz, you listen up. See how the big boys do this.”

  “You mean like scratching myself in strange places the way you’re doing now?” Buzz inquired in a puzzled voice. Biff scowled and put his hands behind his back. “Don’t get smart with me, sonny. I mean, like professional police interrogators.”

  “When are they coming?” Renie asked.

  “Hey!” Biff glared at Renie. “You’ve got a big mouth, sister. I’m beginning to think you made up that story about your old man helping me out on that serial-poisoning case.”

  Renie glared right back. “Did you check your case files?”

  Biff yanked off his hat and slammed it down on the table.

  “Hell, no! When do you think I have time to do stuff like that? Now sit down and shut up, both of you.”

  “Yes,” Buzz said in a small voice. “Please.”

  Judith and Renie sat. The chair was hard, a sure sign that 228

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  Judith’s back and hip would begin to ache momentarily. Buzz remained standing, looking distinctly ill at ease.

  “Okay,” Biff said, dropping his voice while keeping the toothpick in place. The chair creaked under him as he rocked back and forth. “How’d your fingerprints get on Mrs. Giddon’s jewelry and the case?”

  Judith began to speak before Renie could say anything that might further exacerbate the situation. “It happened after Mr. Cruz’s murder when we went to see how the Giddons were doing,” she said. In a few brief sentences, she recounted how Erma had put them to work, and in the process, the cousins had seen the jewelry and taken a peek.

  “That’s it,” she concluded. “As to how the stolen goods ended up in our suite’s safe, I’ve no idea. We never used it.”

  Biff didn’t look convinced. He glanced at Buzz. “You hear that? What do you make of it?”

  “Um . . .” Buzz fidgeted with the ballpoint pen he’d been holding. “I guess I don’t see why they’d hide the jewels
in their own safe. I mean, there must be all sorts of other places they could’ve put them. That is, if they knew they had to leave the ship, why would . . . er . . . ah . . .” He grimaced and dropped the pen.

  “Because,” Biff barked, “that’s what they want us to think! Holy moley, it’s a trick!”

  “Some trick,” Renie said. “Why didn’t we just wear them and parade around Union Square like the rest of the nuts?”

  “Hey!” Biff shouted. “Lay off the locals! Aren’t you the creeps who got all the serial killers?”

  “Not quite all,” Judith said. “With three murders in three days, you seem to have one of your own.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe,” Biff mumbled. “How do we know you two didn’t do those jobs yourself?”

  Renie held up a finger. “Motive, anyone?”

  “Not to mention,” Judith put in, “why would we steal Mrs. Giddon’s jewelry? I assume you’ve checked to see if either of us has a rap sheet.”

  “Don’t mean a thing,” Biff declared. “You could have

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  stolen somebody else’s identity. Happens all the time these days. You’re the perfect types for a jewel heist—muddleheaded middle-aged dames who may seem harmless, but are really a pair of smart crooks, fooling your victims with the old housewife-and-mother act. Besides, you don’t fit in with the rest of the snooty crowd who were at the boat party. I figure you finagled your way into that bunch to get at the jewels.” Biff pointed his stubby thumb at Renie. “The original invite was for a Mr. and Mrs. William Jones. If that’s not a phony name, I don’t know what is.” He swung his thumb in Judith’s direction. “And you don’t look like Mister Jones to me. Though,” he added, more to himself than to the cousins,

  “around this place, sometimes it’s hard to tell.”

  Renie sighed. “We’ve been through this before. My husband couldn’t come on the cruise. My cousin came instead. And I work—worked—for Mr. Cruz. Mrs. Cruz and Paul Tanaka can vouch for me.”

  “Sez you.” A tap on the window caused Biff to give a start. “Buzzy, see who that is.”

  Buzz went to the door, immediately admitting Rick St. George.

  “Good Lord,” Rick said to Biff, “can I ever leave you alone for five minutes? What are you doing here with poor Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Flynn?”

  Biff struggled to his feet. “The loot was in their safe on the ship. Their fingerprints were all over the—”

  “Calm down, old son,” Rick urged. “I think you jumped the gun. I can assure you, these ladies are above reproach.”

  He turned just enough to smile reassuringly at Judith and Renie.

  Biff’s face was getting very red. “Yeah, well, maybe, but evidence is evidence. And if they didn’t stash the jewels in the safe, who did?”

  “An excellent question,” Rick responded, “and one, I might add, that perhaps I can answer for you quite soon.” He chuckled and tapped his temple. “I have a hunch who really stole Mrs. Giddon’s glittering glory.”

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  “No kidding!” Biff exclaimed. “Who?”

  “Not yet, not yet,” Rick replied with a wink. “We’ll get together for a drink in a day or so. For now, let me escort Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Flynn back to their hotel. They must be very tired. First, though, I’m sure you want to apologize to them for the inconvenience.”

  “Uh . . .” Warily, Biff peered at the cousins, who were already on their feet. “Sorry. Anybody can make a mistake. In fact,” he continued, raising his voice and looking over to the place where Buzz had been standing, “this goes to show that good police work requires you to eliminate suspects before—hey! Where’s Buzz?”

  Judith had noticed that Buzz had left as soon as Rick entered.

  “I believe,” Rick said in his casual manner, “your partner departed.”

  “Oh.” Biff shrugged, obviously relieved that the junior officer hadn’t witnessed the recent turn of events. “Just as well.”

  “Shall we?” Rick said to Judith and Renie.

  “We shall,” Judith said. “Good night, Detective.”

  Biff didn’t respond.

  “We’ll go out the back way and miss the riffraff,” Rick said after they’d entered the corridor. “It’s a good thing I called Captain Swafford to see how the search for the jewels was going. I was able to reach him while he was on his way to the Giddon residence. He told me that Biff had brought you in.”

  “We should sue,” Renie muttered as they reached a rear exit.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Judith retorted. “Your legal threats are what got us into this in the first place.”

  “Don’t you start in on that again,” Renie said as they walked out into the cool, damp night.

  Judith let the subject drop. The air might be chilly, but it smelled fresh after the dank odors of the police station. The fog had lifted a bit, and Judith could see several yards down to the far end of the alley.

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  But she didn’t like what she saw.

  Two men stood at the corner of the building. A streetlight shined down on them, making recognition easy. They were in deep conversation, paying no attention to the trio about to head in the opposite direction.

  The men were Buzz Cochran and Flakey Smythe.

  “I don’t speak French,” Judith insisted the next morning when Renie finished consulting the Mass schedules at nearby Catholic churches. “Why do we have to go to a service in French?”

  “You don’t speak Latin, either,” Renie pointed out, “and for the first twenty-odd years of your life, that was the language of the liturgy. Besides, you can doze off during the sermon. If we hurry, we can just make the ten-thirty at Notre Dame des Victoires. It’s a beautiful church just a few blocks away, originally built to serve the large French-speaking community.”

  “Fine.” Judith reached into her purse to get out her lipstick. It wasn’t in the side pocket, so she felt for it at the bottom of the bag.

  “Come on,” Renie urged, standing at the door. “It’s tentwenty.”

  “I’m coming!” Judith snapped as she began to toss items out of her purse. Among them were the three VIP party invitations she’d filched from Dixie’s hotel room. “I don’t know why I kept those damned things anyway. I’m hardly going to forget—”

  She stopped and stared at the elegant invitations, which lay scattered on the carpet. One of them had small holes cut in it.

  “Hold on,” she said, picking up the damaged invitation.

  “Let me check something.” She reached into her purse again, this time pulling out the note that had appeared under the covered dish aboard ship. “I thought so!” she breathed.

  “Dixie must be the person who told us to butt out!”

  Renie, who’d been looking annoyed, stepped back from the door. “What do you mean?”

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  “Look.” Judith pointed to the carefully clipped holes.

  “The capital B is missing from Beales, the lower case u’s are cut from Pankhurst and Cruz, the o is gone from Magglio, and the two t’s are from Everhart and Pankhurst. Taken together, they spell this.” She held the note out to Renie.

  “You’re right.” Renie grimaced. “I should have realized that. I knew the note’s type font looked familiar. But why would Dixie threaten us? We hardly knew her.”

  Judith put the invitations and the note into a hotel envelope. “Now we do have something to hide in a safe. I’m locking these up.” She opened the armoire and found the key inserted in the lock. “We can only assume it was Dixie who sent the note. But you’re right—I can’t imagine why.”

  “You can mull during the French sermon,” Renie said.

  “I’ll be trying to translate it. Or some of it. Maybe.”

  The eighty-year-old church with its twin towers and stained-glass windows was indeed beautiful. Judith had no trouble following the familiar li
turgy, though her mind did wander during the readings and the homily. And in every direction that her thoughts traveled, they arrived at Dixie Beales.

  Had Dixie killed Magglio Cruz? Had she been poisoned in revenge? What would have motivated her to send a warning note to the cousins? Or had someone else on board the ship sent the note and somehow the invitations had ended up in Dixie’s hotel room?

  The Mass ended; the priest and the acolytes processed back down the aisle. Judith hastily crossed herself and said a very quick Act of Contrition. She felt that for the past hour the world had been too much with her.

  As they made their way out of the church, Renie was shaking her head. “The priest was a visiting missionary who spent twenty years in Africa. He thinks he’s still there.”

  “He looked sort of old,” Judith said.

  “He is sort of old, like eighty- cinq. Or eighty- sept, I forget. I’m not good at numbers in any language,” Renie admitted. “In fact, I couldn’t catch all of the words, but he

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  seemed to be warning us to stay in le patolin—the village—

  and not go off to find temptation in Bafoussam.”

  “Maybe it’s just as well I missed it,” Judith remarked. “I don’t know where Bafoussam is.”

  “In Cameroon, Africa,” Renie replied as they stepped outside into an overcast day. “Okay, what’s your game plan?”

  “I’m not sure,” Judith admitted. “Research, maybe. I’d like to know what—if anything—has appeared recently in the newspapers about Cruz Cruises. We have a computer setup in our suite. I can go online and check.”

  “Are you thinking about the blackmail possibility?” Renie asked as they started walking along Bush Street.

  “I don’t know what I’m thinking of,” Judith admitted.

  “We don’t have access to very many facts. If Connie was withdrawing increasingly large amounts from her personal account, where did the money go? Is Biff a complete bungler or is he holding back? And if it’s the latter, why? Because pressure is being put on him?”

  “By Erma or Horace?”