Dead Man Docking (11 page)

“Not to my knowledge,” Rhoda replied. “Several unions are represented among the cruise line's employees. Culinary workers, marine engineers, longshoremen—you name it. Thousands of people on land and sea are involved in the cruise line's business. You must remember that the
San Rafael
isn't the only Cruz cruiser.”

Renie nodded. “Of course. There's the
San Miguel,
the
Santa Rita,
and the
San Luis Rey
. I worked on the launch brochure for the
Rey
five years ago. That was my first gig for the line. I understand the ship sails on the Panama Canal voyages.”

“Yes,” Rhoda said, taking a cigarette out of a carved wooden box on the chinoiserie table between the chairs. “In fact, she was due in Miami this morning.”

“Love,” Judith said, not particularly interested in Cruz Cruises' routes. “Jealousy. Those are other good motives.”

Renie and Rhoda both turned toward her. With a vague look of apology for her cousin, Renie agreed. “True. Motives. Murder. Who loves whom? In this group, there seems to be more antipathy than love.”

“I love Ricky,” Rhoda said with a fond expression, placing the cigarette in an ivory holder. “He loves me. We're the only ones I can vouch for. Mags and Connie—yes, probably. Mags and anyone else?” She shrugged in her elegantly nonchalant manner. “Dubious. Connie and another man? Also doubtful, though you never know. Anemone and Jim? I assume they're in love or they wouldn't be engaged. Still, Jim is…well, you know the word.
Poor
. Not,” she continued quickly, “poor in the way really poor people are poor, if you understand what I mean.”

Renie kept a straight face. “Like all those homeless beggars out in the streets?”

“Like that.” Rhoda finished her martini. “Certainly Jim couldn't afford Stanford without Erma's financial aid.”

“They act like they're in love,” Judith noted. “Unless it is an act, perhaps on Jim's part. He
seems
devoted.”

“And,” Rhoda put in, casting a glance at the bar, “she appears smitten. They're very young, of course. I don't think people should get engaged until they're thirty. Ricky and I didn't. We had too many things we wanted to do on our own.”

“I got engaged fairly often,” Renie said. “It got to be sort of a problem. Once, I was engaged to two different men at
the same time, and they were both named Bob. It was very confusing.”

“I should think so,” Rhoda remarked with a wave of her cigarette holder. “Did you marry either of them?”

“No. I went to a psychologist to find out what my problem was,” Renie replied. “He told me I was too independent and a control freak.”

“Obviously,” Rhoda surmised, “he cured you.”

Renie nodded. “He certainly did. I married him.”

“Very wise,” Rhoda said, with another longing glance at the bar.

“We must be keeping you from your daily schedule,” Judith said.
Or at least the drinking part of it,
she thought. “We should go.”

“Please,” Rhoda responded. “I have no fixed schedule. In fact, I was hoping Ricky would get back while you're here.” She looked at her diamond-studded wristwatch. “It's after one. He may have stopped for lunch. I'll call him on his cell phone.”

Before Rhoda could get up, Rick St. George strode into the room. “Well! My beautiful bride is entertaining! But then she always is, even when we're alone.” He smiled wickedly before kissing his wife's cheek. “Could it be,” he said to the cousins with mock severity, “that the inquisitive love of my life has been subjecting you to her clever interrogative skills?”

“We've been throwing around some ideas,” Judith admitted.

“Ah.” Rick poured a drink for his wife and one for himself. “Very sensible. Talent, like knowledge, should be pooled. Ladies?” He tapped the scotch and Canadian whisky bottles. “May I?”

“Just half,” Judith replied, taking the almost empty glasses to the bar.

Rick's idea of “half” was half booze, half ice. Judith didn't quibble. The ice would melt.

“So,” Rhoda said as she accepted her fresh cocktail, “what did you and Biff learn about the jewel heist?”

Rick sat down in the matching lotus chair and carefully checked the pleats of his well-tailored trousers. “The basics. According to our friend Erma, she had Beulah lock the case shortly after midnight. This morning, while the Giddon bunch was preparing to disembark, Erma asked Beulah for her jewels. That was circa eleven-fifteen. Beulah couldn't find the case. Erma had some kind of fit—she insists it was a heart attack, but Dr. Selig disagrees—and once she recovered, she accused Beulah of stealing it and handing the loot over to an accomplice. No doubt, Erma insisted, one of the many ‘coloreds' who are crew members.”

Rhoda sighed. “Naturally.”

Judith leaned forward on the sofa. “Did Erma leave the bedroom before she asked for her jewels?”

“Of course.” Rick chuckled. “Even Dame Erma has to make use of the facilities now and then. Anemone sleeps in the other bedroom. I suppose there's a separate smaller accommodation for Beulah. Even Erma wouldn't expect her maid to sleep on the floor.”

Rhoda cast her husband a skeptical look. “Don't be too sure of that, darling.”

“Who'd been in the suite that morning?” Judith inquired after a small sip of scotch.

Rick swirled the olive in his martini. “Jim Brooks. Ambrose Everhart. Horace Pankhurst and CeeCee Orr. A crew member who came to repair a leaky faucet in Anemone's bathroom. A waiter with coffee. Oh, and Émile Grenier, making sure that all was right in Giddon world.”

“Which it wasn't,” Rhoda put in.

“Which waiter?” Judith asked.

“I don't recall his name,” Rick replied, “but we're checking him out.” He sounded even more blasé than usual.

“And the plumber?” Renie put in as Asthma shook himself with a mighty clanking sound and made an attempt to get up.

“Ozzie Oakes,” Rick said.

Renie tried to distance herself from Asthma as the dog collapsed again near her feet. “Is anyone a serious suspect?”

Rick was lighting an unfiltered cigarette. “Too soon to say,” he replied a little too casually after exhaling a dark gray cloud of smoke. “Biff will be taking fingerprints.”

“Shouldn't he have done that last night?” Judith asked.

“He did, in a way,” Rick said with an ironic expression. “That is, he had his men take prints off of the cocktail glasses and some other surfaces.”

“Wait a minute,” Renie said, looking very serious. “Are you saying that the prints taken last night can be matched to the drinks each individual had?”

“The
San Rafael
's employees are very good,” Rick explained. “Like any bartender or bar server, they remember who drank what.”

“Of course,” Judith murmured, recalling her working nights at the Meat & Mingle. “It's an integral part of the job.”

Rick nodded. “You drank Glenfiddich, correct?”

“Yes,” Judith replied, anxiety beginning to gnaw at the back of her brain.

He turned to Renie. “Bud Light?” Rick seemed put off by her prosaic choice.

“I didn't actually drink it,” Renie said, “but I ordered a bottle.”

Rick tapped his cigarette into a marble ashtray. “So both of your prints are on record, along with most of the other guests'. Biff will cover everybody else.”

There was a long and—it seemed to Judith—awkward pause. The cousins didn't dare look at each other.

“You see the problem?” Rick finally said.

“Yes,” Judith and Renie replied in unison.

Rick took a final puff from his cigarette and put it out in the ashtray. “I'm sure you can explain everything to Biff. But until you do, I'm afraid you're both at the top of the suspect list. Your prints were found all around the area where the jewel case was kept.”

 

Renie was stuffing her face with dim sum. “Dawishis,” she declared, and swallowed. “I wonder if they serve food like this in prison.”

“The St. Georges aren't serious about us stealing Erma's jewels,” Judith responded, setting down the ladle for her hot-and-sour soup.

“The St. Georges aren't serious about anything,” Renie said.

“Except murder,” Judith murmured. “And jewel heists.”

“Maybe.” Renie attacked more dim sum. The cousins had left the St. Georges' Nob Hill penthouse shortly after Asthma had suffered a respiratory attack and had to be taken to the vet. On the cousins' way out, Rhoda had suggested that they try Brandy Ho's Hunan restaurant on the edge of Chinatown.

“At least,” Judith said, “I found out that the rest of the crew is staying at the Fitzroy Hotel on Post Street. I'd like to talk to Dixie Beales and Émile Grenier. After all, they discovered the body.”

Renie concurred. “Good thinking. Is that our next stop?”

“Yes. I'm certainly not going to confront Erma Giddon just after her jewels have been swiped. Especially,” Judith added, using chopsticks to pluck a strip of beef from her noodle dish, “if she has any suspicions about us being the thieves.”

It was almost two-thirty when Judith and Renie got out of the cab that had taken them from Brandy Ho's. An older, typically narrow San Francisco building, the Fitzroy looked as if it had just been renovated.

Judith snapped her fingers. “I know this place! It's a brand new B&B, only on a much grander scale than Hillside Manor. I got a mailing about it from the California innkeepers association.”

“Maybe you can get a job,” Renie said, pushing Judith along to avoid another mouthy panhandler.

The lobby was small but attractive. A young woman of Asian descent stood behind the desk, eyeing the cousins with polite curiosity. Her name tag identified her as
MIYA
.

“We're booked through tonight and possibly the weekend,” she said before either Judith or Renie could speak.

“We don't need a room,” Judith said, wearing her friendliest smile. “We'd like to see one of your guests, Dixie—that is, May Belle—Beales.”

Miya turned to look at the mailboxes. “Ms. Beales is out,” she said. “Her key is here. Would you care to leave a message?”

Judith was considering the idea when a man wearing an exotic African cap rushed into the lobby. “My taxi! Lady very sick!” he shouted. “I call to 911! She guest here! Come quick!”

Judith and Renie immediately followed the cabdriver outside. His vehicle was double-parked in the narrow street, causing horns to honk and drivers to curse. Renie had to fend off the offensive panhandler a second time.

Judith waited for the driver to open the rear door. “See?” he said. “She pass out. She very sick.”

Leaning into the cab, Judith gently moved a paisley head-scarf away from the woman's face. Recognition struck instantly. Judith felt for a pulse.

Renie had joined Judith and the driver.

“It's Dixie Beales,” Judith said in a stricken voice. “She isn't sick. She's dead.”

T
HE COUSINS COULD
already hear sirens approaching.

“I move taxi,” the driver said.

“No,” Judith responded, closing the cab door. “Ignore the traffic. It's only going to get worse when the emergency vehicles arrive. Here comes an aid car now.”

The driver, who looked Nigerian to Judith, was wringing his hands. “Not my fault! Not my fault! Lady good when she got in taxi!”

Judith cupped her right ear. She could barely hear the agitated man over the din of honking horns, screaming drivers, and shrieking sirens. A crowd was gathering. Even the panhandler seemed curious.

Moving closer to the driver, Judith spoke loudly: “Where did you pick her up?”

“What?”

Judith repeated the question as the aid car came to a stop.

“Neiman Marcus,” he answered. “She have many packages.”

Judith glanced inside the cab. A half-dozen shopping bags bearing the Neiman Marcus logo were stashed on the other side of Dixie's body.

Renie was looking over Judith's shoulder. “I guess she shopped until she dropped.”

“What?” But when Judith turned around, she saw that her cousin's expression was sad. Apparently, the glib remark had just tumbled out.

The driver had taken off his native hat and was holding it out in his hands like a sacrifice. “You see? She dead. Not my fault.”

Judith nodded. “Of course not.”

Renie poked Judith. “I'm going inside to tell the desk clerk.”

“Okay.” Judith watched the EMTs hurry to the cab. At least, she thought, she didn't know this bunch by sight, as so often happened at home. They immediately went to work, though Judith knew there was nothing they could do. After a minute or two had passed, they began questioning the driver, whose first name was Joseph, and whose Nigerian surname Judith couldn't catch.

She did, however, know the drill. The firefighters, the ambulance, and a couple of police cars had just pulled into the crowded intersection. Joseph would be questioned closely and his cab would be impounded. The poor man would probably have to go with the police and wait a couple of days until the vehicle was thoroughly checked. Judith ought to know; it had happened to her. Experience—and her gut feeling—told her that Dixie Beales had not died of natural causes.

The body would be placed on a gurney, put in the ambulance, and driven off to the morgue. A tow truck would arrive for the taxi; the emergency personnel would exchange remarks; the crowd would disperse; the panhandler would resume badgering passersby. There was nothing Judith could accomplish by staying on the sidewalk.

Except, making eye contact with a young police officer, she could ask a question.

“Excuse me,” she called out, “can you tell me something?”

He moved briskly toward her. The young officer had red hair and green eyes. His name tag identified him as
F. X. O'MALLEY.

“Yes?” he said politely.

“Did anyone mention the cause of death?”

“No.”

“A heart attack, perhaps?”

O'Malley shrugged.

“Natural causes, I assume?”

He shrugged again, then eyed Judith more closely. “Did you know the deceased?”

Judith started to say yes, but stopped. “Thank you.”

She walked back into the lobby.

“Miya's throwing up in the bathroom,” Renie announced as Judith approached her by the hotel desk.

“She's that upset?” Judith asked, recalling the first time that a guest had died at Hillside Manor.

“No,” Renie replied. “She's pregnant.”

A couple of good-looking young men got out of the elevator. They placed their key on the desk and left. No one else seemed to be in the small lobby. Judith went around to the other side of the desk, put the key in the proper slot, and checked the guest register.

“Captain Swafford's here,” she noted. “He should be informed at once.” But a glance at the key in the captain's mailbox told her that Swafford was out. “Drat,” she muttered. “Where're Émile Grenier and Paul Tanaka? They should be staying here, too. Ah. Here they are, in Rooms Twenty-five and Thirty-one.”

But their keys were also in their slots. Judith was about to surrender when Émile Grenier himself entered the lobby, looking as self-important as ever.

“You are not Mademoiselle Miya,” he accused Judith. The purser scrutinized her more closely. “But I know you. You are perhaps the maid most incompetent?”

“No,” Judith replied, taking advantage of Émile's faulty memory. “I'm filling in for Miya. She isn't feeling well. I also own a B&B.”

Émile looked as if he didn't think Judith was qualified to run a washing machine.
“Eh bien.”
He gestured in the di
rection of the street. “Why this commotion? Is there a fire?”

“No,” Judith replied, noting that Renie had turned her back and seemed absorbed in studying a framed photograph of the original building. “One of the guests has expired. A Ms. Beales. Were you acquainted with the poor lady?”

“Mon Dieu!”
Émile slapped a hand to his forehead and had to prop himself up against the desk. “Madame Beales!
Non, non! Quelle horreur!
What happened to
la pauvre femme
?”

“I've no idea,” Judith answered. “Apparently she became ill in a taxi on her way back from shopping. Were you close to her?”

The query seemed to catch Émile off guard. “Close?” He hesitated while resuming his usual erect posture. “We worked together. This is terrible news. Excuse me, I must make a telephone call from my room. My key,
s'il vous plaît.
”

With professional aplomb, Judith reached for the key to Room Twenty-five. “My condolences,” she murmured.

“Merci, merci,”
Émile responded before limping off to the elevator.

As soon as the purser had disappeared, Renie rejoined Judith. “I thought if he saw us together, he might remember who you really are,” she said. “It's best when I let you lie on your own.”

“I didn't exactly lie,” Judith said. “I
do
own a B&B.”

Renie leaned an elbow on the polished mahogany counter. “Was there blood?”

“Not that I could see,” Judith replied, both cousins keeping their voices down in case someone entered the lobby. “I only got a glimpse. The most I could tell—besides recognizing Dixie—was that her face seemed discolored and she looked far from serene.”

“As if death hadn't been pleasant,” Renie mused. “But you don't suspect the driver?”

Judith shook her head. “If he could act that well, he'd
have left Nigeria for Hollywood, not San Francisco. His shock seemed genuine.” Abruptly, she turned to face the mailboxes. “Damn! We should use Dixie's key to check out her room. How long is Miya going to be gone?”

“Who knows?”

But Miya was already coming out of a door at the end of the lobby. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Jones,” she said. “I feel much better. For now.” She looked curiously at Judith. “You're Mrs. Flynn?”

“Yes.” Judith felt a bit embarrassed. “Mr. Grenier needed his key.” Briefly, she explained that she, too, ran a B&B. “It was second nature to help him,” she added with a lame little laugh.

Miya and Judith exchanged places. “That's okay. I'm just upset—not only because the baby makes me throw up, but because I suppose the police will come around here asking a lot of questions. That isn't good for business.”

“Um…” Judith grimaced. “Over the years, I've had a similar problem or two.” Or three or four or five…Judith stopped counting the times that the police had come calling at Hillside Manor. “Don't worry about it. Would you mind if we took a look in Ms. Beales's room? Dixie would probably want us to do that for her.”

Miya frowned. “Is that…I mean…maybe I'd better call the manager.”

“You should,” Judith agreed. “Is he or she on the premises?”

Miya looked pained. “He's my husband. He's at the gym. He should be back anytime.”

“You take it easy,” Judith insisted as a lanky middle-aged man in a short, weather-beaten raincoat entered the lobby. “We'll take a peek in Dixie's room and be on our way.”

Miya also saw the man approaching. His gait was none too steady, and he wore a world-weary smile. “This isn't a guest,” she murmured. “Could he be a policeman?”

“Doubtful,” Judith said, casting a sidelong glance at the newcomer. “Press, maybe.”

“Oh, dear.” Miya moved away from the desk, apparently in an effort to forestall the newcomer.

Judith moved swiftly, nipping around to the mailboxes and taking Dixie's key. Motioning to Renie, she hurried toward the elevator.

“You'll get Miya into trouble,” Renie warned Judith after the door slid closed and the small elevator creaked upward.

Judith shook her head. “If Biff's put on this case—and don't tell me that if Dixie was murdered, there's no connection with Magglio Cruz's death—then I'll tell him to blame me, not Miya. Honestly, this trip has turned into the worst nightmare ever!”

“Aren't you used to it?” Renie asked wryly as the car stopped at the fourth floor.

“I never get used to it,” Judith asserted. “How can you get used to murder?”

Renie had nothing to say.

 

At first, Judith thought that Dixie's room had been ransacked. But upon closer inspection, she realized that the dead woman was simply untidy.

“What are we looking for?” Renie asked, her eyes scanning lingerie, shoes, and other belongings strewn about the floor and furniture.

“I don't know,” Judith answered. “A note, maybe, to see if she was meeting anyone.”

There was no note, nor was there a notepad. The only items on the bedside table were the telephone, a lamp, and a small pile of leftover invitations to the VIP party. “Coz,” Renie said plaintively, “the cops could be along any minute. You aren't touching anything, are you? I don't want our fingerprints found here, too.”

“I'm being careful,” Judith insisted, peering into the bathroom and the closet. “We should be wearing gloves. I remember the first time we came to San Francisco with Cousin Sue, all the women wore gloves. We looked like country bumpkins.”

“We still do,” Renie said, “compared to the way they dress here. We are from the Land of Plod.”

“Nothing,” Judith said after moving some of the scattered items aside with her foot. She glanced at the party invitations on the bedside table. “I want a souvenir,” she said, carefully picking up the top three from the pile and putting them in her purse. “I think I threw mine out. Nobody will miss these, and they're so elegant that I can file them for future special events at the B&B. Otherwise, we're done here. Unless…” She spotted an open phone book half hidden under the bed. “You bend. I shouldn't. I think it's the restaurant section.”

After putting on her murky glasses, Renie got down on her hands and knees. “You're right. It's open to the
G
s. There's something written in the margin.” Without touching the directory with her fingers, she managed to shove it out from under the bed. “It says ‘1
P.M
.—GH.'”

“Shall we assume Dixie made that notation?”

“Somebody did,” Renie said, standing up and removing her glasses.

“There must be tons of restaurants in San Francisco that begin with
G,
” Judith mused.

“There are,” Renie said. “I looked. But maybe not
GH
. Unless it's the initials of a person instead of a place.”

“We can check our own hotel directory,” Judith said. “Let's go. Dixie must have taken her other personal effects with her.”

As the elevator door opened onto the lobby, Judith espied not only the man who looked like a reporter, but Captain Swafford and a couple of uniformed police officers. Quickly, she pushed the button for the basement.

After a few more creaks of the cable, the elevator opened onto a small foyer with a large sign that read
GUEST PARKING ONLY
. Paul Tanaka stood in front of them, looking as surprised to see the cousins as they were to see him.

“Serena! What are you doing here?” he asked, remaining in place.

Judith and Renie emerged from the elevator just as the doors began to automatically close again.

“It's a long story,” Renie said with a sigh. “Maybe we should talk.”

“Ah…” Paul looked uncomfortable. “Shall we go up to my room? I just heard about Dixie. Isn't it terrible? Captain Swafford says it may have been food poisoning.”

“Really?” Renie sounded unconvinced. “How does he know? It happened less than half an hour ago.”

“It must be a preliminary diagnosis,” Paul said as the elevator doors opened once more and the trio entered. “I believe he's been in contact with the hospital. He also sent Dr. Selig to where they took her…body. The ship's physician is required to attend to such matters involving crew.”

On the third floor, Paul led the way. While the decor was similar to that of Dixie's lodgings, the room itself was much neater. File folders were stacked on the small desk next to a laptop, and no personal belongings had been carelessly left about.

“Have you been out?” Judith asked casually, remembering that Paul's key had been in his mailbox when she was in the lobby.

He nodded as he checked for messages. “I had lunch with some old college friends.” Paul scowled as he listened to the recording. “Excuse me,” he said. “Connie Cruz called an hour ago. I should ring her back.”

Except for the bathroom, there was nowhere Paul could go for privacy. Judith and Renie discreetly turned away.

“Really,” Judith whispered, “I should phone Joe. I can tell him now that a crew member had an accident and delayed our departure. You should let Bill know, too.”