Dead Man Docking (16 page)

Renie was rubbernecking again. “Did you see that chilled lobster salad on the serving cart? Am I drooling?”

“No. Yes.” Judith was thinking. “We have to assume Émile was killed in the dressing room. The cord-and-tassel thing that was used to strangle him looked similar to the ones on the sale rack items.”

Renie's attention had turned back to the murder at hand. “So somebody—presumably a woman—lured him into the dressing room and killed him? Wouldn't she have to be strong as an ox?”

“Émile wasn't a very big man,” Judith pointed out. “I doubt that he was much taller than you. If you know how to strangle someone, you can do it quickly and efficiently—especially if you catch the victim by surprise.”

Renie feigned a shudder. “Sometimes you scare me. Maybe I should behave myself better when I'm with you.”

“If,” Judith said drily, “I haven't killed you by now, I probably won't. And stop ogling the poached halibut.”

“Sorry.” Renie was silent for a moment, eyes riveted on her cousin. “He must have been killed before I went into the dressing room.”

Judith nodded. “His feet were already under the divider. You didn't notice because you're too short to see over a mound of clothes. I wonder…Did he go with someone else or did he plan to meet someone?”

“He certainly wasn't alone when he died,” Renie pointed out.

Judith shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “No. The problem is, the only woman who we know was on-site is Anemone Giddon.”

“But you were probably with her when Émile was killed,” Renie reminded Judith.

Judith made a face. “Was I?” She thought back to how Anemone had dismissed her before taking the black suit to the other dressing room area. Judith had gone to designer sportswear, browsing for about five minutes. But Renie was already in the dressing-room next to the scene of the latest crime. The timing was wrong—unless Émile had been killed before Judith and Renie had run into the young woman. But Anemone was the most fragile of the suspects. Or so she seemed.

“Adrenaline,” Renie said after Judith had put her thoughts into words. “If you're pumped enough, you can do anything.”

“But why?” Judith's expression was bleak. “If all these murders are connected—and they must be—what would set Anemone off on a killing spree? There's no apparent motive, no sense to it, no
logic
.”

“Because,” Renie replied, beckoning at their server, “as my husband would put it in clinical terms, she's mad as a hatter?”

Judith glanced at the menu. She still wasn't hungry. “I'll have your classic Caesar salad, please.”

“And after that?” the server prodded gently.

“That's it. Thank you.”

He turned a hopeful face to Renie. She did not disappoint. “I'll have the artichoke-mushroom gratin, tomato tartare, caper red onion jus for my entrée. But first, I'd like some French onion soup.”

“Excellent choices, madam.” He smiled kindly at Renie and moved away.

“Pig,” Judith murmured. “Do you even
know
what's in your entrée? It sounds pretty exotic to me.”

“I'll find out,” Renie retorted.

“It'd serve you right if you got a stomach—wait.” Judith placed both hands on the table. “There
is
logic in these murders. Magglio Cruz gets killed at the cocktail party. But who were the first two people to find the body? Dixie and Émile. Did they see the killer? Did they see something that told them who the killer was? Or did they see something and not realize it, but the murderer thought they did—or that they would remember later?”

Renie sighed. “All possibilities. But if Dixie or Émile saw something or somebody, wouldn't they have told the police?”

Judith waited for Renie to exult over the thick crusty soup that had just been placed in front of her. “As I said, they might not have realized what they saw. Or,” she added after the server had once again left them, “there's always blackmail.”

Renie's eyes were closed. She was taking deep sniffs of the onions, Gruyère cheese, and toasted croutons, waving her soup spoon as if it were a weapon. “Ahhh.” She opened her eyes. “Blackmail? Now there's a thought.” The spoon engaged the soup.

“Certainly the list of suspects has some people with enough wealth to pay a blackmailer,” Judith mused. “Almost everyone involved is rich.”

“So's this soup. It's terrific.” The battle was now underway; Renie had cheese on her chin, crouton crumbs on her bosom, and a puddle of broth next to the bowl. Her slurping noises sounded not unlike a combat zone. “Want a taste?”

“No thanks. After you've gotten hold of it, I don't know where it's been.”

“Jim Brooks isn't rich,” Renie pointed out, dusting off her chest. “Ambrose Everhart isn't. CeeCee Orr is rich only in the way that women like her are rich.” She paused to slurp and chew. “You're right about the others, though. Unless you're counting crew members.”

“We can't
not
count them,” Judith declared. “If the original murder weapon was cutlery, one of the chefs or servers would have the easiest access.”

“Surely the police are investigating everyone thoroughly,” Renie contended. “Biff may seem a bit bumbling, but I'll bet that when he's in his own element—that is, not interviewing the rich and the really rich—he handles himself pretty well.”

“You may be right,” Judith said. “I wonder if Rick and Rhoda have tried to reach us at the hotel. If only we could talk to someone at police headquarters. It's well and good for Rick to have an in there, but we don't. I trust the St. Georges, but that doesn't mean they wouldn't leave out certain things. Especially Rick. Men don't listen the way women do.”

“No ear for the ephemeral,” Renie remarked.

“Exactly. But I don't want to step on Rick's toes by contacting Biff or—” Judith stopped as their server delivered her Caesar salad. To allow him more foot room, she moved her purse closer to the chair. “Thank you. It looks lovely.”

Instead of picking up her fork, Judith reached into her purse. “I forgot about the newspaper article. You should read it.”

Finishing the soup, Renie wiped cheese off of her chin. “Now?”

Judith nodded and handed the paper to her cousin. “Yes. Because we're going to talk to Flakey Smythe.”

“To…?” Renie frowned. “Oh. The reporter,” she murmured, scanning the byline and the lead. “Why?”

The server had returned, this time to remove Renie's bowl and present her entrée. He started to describe the ingredients, but she waved him off. “Never mind. It looks great.”

“Then may I sponge madam down?” he inquired, pointing to a damp towel on the serving stand.

Renie narrowed her eyes. “Only if you have a hose.”

The server's smile was fixed. “Not at hand, madam. I apologize.” He left.

“Read the story,” Judith ordered Renie. “I'm going to check to see if we have any calls at the hotel.”

There was only one, but it was from Rhoda St. George. “Breakfast at Grandviews was delightful,” her recorded voice said, “as well as informative. Call me when you have the opportunity.”

Judith dialed the St. Georges' number at once. Rhoda answered on the third ring. “You caught me just in time. The weather's so pleasant. I was about to take Asthma for a walk. He still hasn't dried out from his last shampoo.”

“Have you heard about Émile Grenier?”

“Just. Rick has gone to see Biff. I wonder what Émile was trying on in that dressing room? He would have looked nice in puce.”

“Actually, that was the color of his face,” Judith said.

“I don't want to think about that part,” Rhoda replied. “Really, I'm not a ghoul. I must say, you and Serena have an absolute penchant for finding dead people.”

“Unfortunately,” Judith admitted, “that seems to be true. Can you tell me about Dixie and Grandviews?”

“I can tell you about the poison,” Rhoda answered in her customary calm, cultured voice. “It was methanol.”

Judith searched her memory. In their younger, more foolish years, one of Renie's fiancés had been a chemist. He'd frequently bring a form of alcohol home from work to use as a punch base. The cousins and their circle of friends had been lucky that they hadn't been punched out permanently.

“You mean lab alcohol?” Judith responded.

“The very thing,” said Rhoda. “What moonshiners still use in the less civilized parts of this country.”

“Not that difficult to obtain,” Judith reflected aloud. “Vir
tually undetectable in a cocktail. How did Dixie ingest the poison?”

“You name it,” Rhoda said. “Possibly in Harvey Wall-bangers. In addition to the orange juice and the vodka, the Galliano sweetness would mask any unusual taste.”

The next question was even more important to Judith. “So who did she lunch with?”

Rhoda laughed softly. “It wasn't easy getting Dominic to describe Dixie's male companion. He took umbrage when Ricky remarked that his eyesight wasn't all it could be if only he'd wear glasses. But Dominic's hearing is decent, and he's not above listening in on conversations. That is,” Rhoda added quickly, “he doesn't eavesdrop, but while hovering and serving, he pays attention to what his customers are saying to each other.”

Judith's patience was thinning. “Yes?”

“Sorry, dear Judith,” Rhoda apologized. “I merely wanted to set the scene. Dominic's physical description of the young man was vague. But he did hear Dixie call him by name, and it was unmistakable as well as—I suppose—unforgettable. Her luncheon companion was Ambrose Everhart.”

“Ambrose!” Judith gasped. “Well—why not? I mean, he's part of the mix. But it's hard to think of him as a mass murderer.”

“Is it?” Rhoda sounded as if she were giving the statement due consideration. “It's not hard to think of anyone in that way if he or she has sufficient reason to kill people. But there is a problem.”

“What is that?”

“Dixie was definitely drunk,” Rhoda said. “But she only had two drinks at lunch. Methanol works slowly, according to what Dr. Selig told Ricky. Thus, Dixie must have been drinking before she got to Grandviews. In fact,” she added in a voice that had suddenly grown tense, “she may have been poisoned the night before—possibly right after Magglio Cruz was murdered.”

B
Y THE TIME
Judith got back to the table at the Terrace, Renie had finished eating.

“I'm not sure what it was,” Renie said, gesturing at her empty plate, “but it was certainly delicious.” She saw her cousin's solemn expression and sat very still. “Okay, tell me all.”

Judith did exactly that. She began to eat her salad only after she'd finished relaying Rhoda's information. “Maybe Dixie had a drinking problem, maybe she started early in the day. Dominic insisted that she was inebriated before she finished her first of the two cocktails at Grandviews. He didn't know her, so he couldn't be positive. But he told Rick that she acted quite drunk before the meal with Ambrose was over.”

“Meal?” Renie looked quizzical. “I thought she didn't eat much.”

“She ordered some food, but barely touched it,” Judith said, recalling Rhoda's report from Rick. “Did you ever get sick when we used to drink lab alcohol?”

Renie grimaced. “Once. I threw up in Whazizname's car. That's when we became unengaged.”

“I thought I remembered that the stuff could upset your stomach,” Judith remarked.

“Not to mention make you go blind and also die.” Renie shook her head. “I can't believe we were that stupid. And cheap. Of course none of us had much money in those days.”

Briefly, the cousins pondered their youthful recklessness. “We thought we were immortal,” Judith remarked.

“I never thought that,” Renie said. “I was always sure that within twenty-four hours I'd be run over by a bus. Or something.”

Judith smiled wistfully. “How many times have we come face-to-face with mortality in the last few years? Not just our own, but far too many others?”

“It's been gruesome,” Renie allowed with a shake of her head. “Sometimes I feel like we're soldiers, growing accustomed to falling over dead people.”

“I've never gotten accustomed to that,” Judith asserted. “I've simply accepted that death is part of life. And somehow I've managed to get involved in more than my share of violent deaths. It sounds silly, but once in a while I wonder if my mission in life is to seek justice.” She watched closely to see if her cousin's expression suggested cynicism. But Renie was looking equally somber. “Remember how I wanted to be a nurse when I was a kid?” Judith went on. “But I couldn't pass chemistry. That was when I decided to become a librarian instead. Books had answers. Writers search for truth. I couldn't heal bodies, but I could certainly find them. And then I realized that if I put my mind to it, I could—” She broke off, feeling foolish.

“Jeez,” Renie murmured, “what's in that salad?”

Judith pressed her hands over her eyes. “I sound pretentious—or nuts. I guess this time there are too damned many bodies. I may have become unhinged.”

“You've never been pretentious, and you don't sound like you're nuts,” Renie assured her. “You're making perfect sense. I'm just a little overwhelmed. And guilty. If it hadn't been for me, you wouldn't be here. To think I thought I was doing you a favor!” Incredulous, she shook her head. “Instead of giving you a rest, I've managed to mire you in murder.”

“That's not your fault,” Judith insisted. “All of this would have happened if we were here or not. How would you and Bill have coped?”

Renie thought for a moment. “Bill would have said, ‘We're outta here.' He'd have packed us up and come home. He doesn't like glitches when we travel.”

“That's a sensible reaction, I suppose,” Judith said as the server arrived to remove Renie's plate.

He glanced at Judith. At least two-thirds of the Caesar remained uneaten. “Is your salad satisfactory?”

Judith's smile was feeble as well as apologetic. “Yes, it's fine—I'm just not hungry. You can take my things, too.”

A hint of disappointment appeared on his face, but he complied. “Could I tempt you ladies with dessert such as the chocolate profiteroles with vanilla ice cream and a luscious chocolate sauce?”

Both cousins declined. “Did Rhoda say what Dixie and Ambrose were quarreling about?” Renie asked as they waited for the bill. “Assuming that they were, that is.”

“Dominic described it to Rhoda as a ‘heated discussion,'” Judith replied. “He picked up only the occasional word, like
greedy, sycophant, liar,
and
sponger.
Unfortunately, those words could apply to any number of our suspects.”

“Not helpful,” Renie noted. “So how do we get hold of Flakey?”

“Through the newspaper office, I suppose.” Judith paused; her face fell as she looked at the bill. “Do you realize you spent over fifty bucks on lunch?”

Renie shrugged. “It's San Francisco. Good food doesn't come cheap.”

“And I thought prices at home were outrageous,” Judith muttered.

“They are,” Renie conceded. “It's the West Coast. All that money spent on shipping things around the Horn. Don't worry,” she added, flipping her AmEx card onto the table. “I'm paying for this. I'll charge it to Cruz Cruises.”

Judith glowered at Renie. “What if they go out of busi
ness? Who'll pick up the tab then? And don't tell me you're charging them for your new shoes!”

“I thought about it,” Renie admitted. “I wouldn't have bought them if I hadn't come to San Francisco.”

The cousins retreated to the lobby. Flakefield Smythe had a phone number as well as an e-mail address in the newspaper.

“We'll call first,” Judith said. “He may be at work if he's covering this case.”

Flakey's voice mail informed Judith that he was away from his desk, but that in cases of emergency he could be reached at another number.

“We'll try that one,” Judith said to Renie, who was lolling against the wall next to the row of pay phones.

A live male voice answered on the second ring. “Lefty O'Doul's. How can I help you?”

Surprised, Judith hesitated. “Is Flakey around?” she finally asked.

“Sure,” the man responded. “Can I tell him who's calling?”

“Never mind. We'll be there in person.” Judith hung up and looked at Renie. “Isn't Lefty O'Doul's bar right by the St. Francis?”

“Yes, on Geary. We went there years ago.”

“Then,” Judith said, starting for the hotel exit, “we're going there again.”

 

Lefty's hadn't changed much in over forty years. It was basic American bar & grill, befitting its founder, a former Major League Baseball player and longtime manager of the old Pacific Coast League's San Francisco Seals.

“Time warp,” Judith said under her breath, scanning the long bar, the solid tables with their arrowback chairs, and the baseball memorabilia that covered the walls. She was so tired from walking the six blocks between the Ritz-Carlton and Lefty's that she had to lean against the door for a moment. But as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim lighting, she spotted her prey: The reporter she'd seen in the Fitzroy's
lobby was sitting halfway down the bar. He was with another man whom Judith also recognized: Biff McDougal.

“This is trickier than I thought,” she said to Renie.

“Yes,” Renie agreed. “And only one space open on Flakey's other side. Now what?”

Judith was still staring. “I'd forgotten—all the barstool legs are made out of baseball bats.”

Renie smiled. “So they are. Well?”

“We sit,” Judith said, leading the way. “There's an open table not that far from where Flakey and Biff are having a quaff. Let's wait and see what happens.”

“What happens,” Renie grumbled, “is that we're going to have to order drinks. I'm afraid we'll pickle our livers before this trip is over.”

“We can nurse the drinks,” Judith said, breathing in the aroma from the nearby steam table where cooks prepared huge hot beef and turkey sandwiches. “Now I
am
getting hungry.” But unlike Renie, Judith could ignore her hunger pangs. “How long has it been since we picked up guys in bars?”

Renie made a face. “I don't think I ever did. I was always too busy mopping myself up. Besides,” she went on with a sideways glance at the bar, “one of our marks is leaving.”

“Biff,” Judith said under her breath. “I'll bet he got the call to meet Rick St. George. In fact, I wonder why Biff isn't at the scene of the crime already?”

“Maybe he's come and gone,” Renie suggested. “We left the store well over an hour ago. It's going on two o'clock.”

A waitress came to take the cousins' orders. Judith asked for a scotch rocks; Renie requested a Henry Weinhard root beer. “Make that a float, if you can,” Renie added. “With hard ice cream.”

Acting as if it were an afterthought, Judith held up a hand and smiled at the waitress. “Would you buy the man in the raincoat at the bar a drink on me? Thank you.”

The waitress was young, but not naive. Still, she hesitated a split second, looking at Judith and then glancing toward the bar. “Sure,” she said, and moved off.

Their own beverages arrived first. A moment later, Flakey Smythe shifted his lanky frame around on the bar stool. Judith didn't try to be discreet. The bartender had obviously fingered her as the “seductress.” If Flakey was disappointed because she wasn't a nubile young love goddess, he didn't show it. His cynical demeanor indicated that he took his pleasures where he found them, and was damned grateful to get any at all.

Fresh drink in hand, Flakey removed his sweat-stained fedora hat and clumsily got off the stool. “Hi, ladies, new in town?”

Renie, who looked as if she wanted to crawl under the table and hide, clamped her lips shut.

“Just…visiting,” Judith replied, surprised when her voice cracked between words. “Have a seat.”

Flakey sat. His brown eyes were bloodshot, the lines in his long face were deep, and his nose had probably not always been so red or so bulbous. Still, there was something astute about his gaze, like the blurred lens of an old Speed-Graphic camera that could still record if not always keep focus. Flakey seemed to be taking Judith's measure, including her mental as well as her physical assets. She guessed he could be anywhere between forty and sixty-five.

“You look familiar,” he said, holding his glass in a grip that indicated he was afraid somebody might take it away. “You sure you don't live around here?”

“Of course.” Judith tried to remember how to smile coquettishly. She was also trying to figure out if it wouldn't be easier to level with Flakey. “You write for one of the papers, don't you?”

“Yeah.” He squinted at Judith. “So?”

“I read your story today.” Judith would've taken the newspaper out of her purse, but she couldn't reach it without imperiling her artificial hip.
Some siren,
she thought.
I don't need a drink, I need a Percocet and a nap.
“It must be thrilling to write about murder among the rich and famous.”

Flakey shrugged. “It's a job.”

“You must be very good at it. Tell me”—Judith simpered,
forcing herself to lean closer while trying to ignore the noises Renie was making with the straw in the root-beer float—“do you ever try to figure out whodunit?”

The shrewd, if bloodshot, eyes regarded Judith with suspicion. “You were at the Fitzroy. You work for Cruz Cruises.”

“No,” Judith said quickly in her normal voice. “I mean, I don't work for them. Never. Not at all.”

“But you were at the Fitzroy yesterday when the Beales broad showed up dead,” Flakey persisted. “If you weren't staying there with the rest of the crew, who the hell are you?”

Renie held up a hand. “I work for Cruz Cruises.”

The reporter stared at Renie as if seeing her for the first time. “What are you—the stooge?”

“Pretty much,” Renie replied, after removing the straw that had gotten stuck to her palm.

Judith decided to give Flakey a partial explanation. He'd downed his bourbon by the time she finished. “So,” he said, signaling for another shot, “you two ended up on this cruise and smack in the middle of a bunch of murders. What were you doing at the Fitzroy?”

“Visiting Dixie Beales,” Judith fibbed. “She'd been so upset the night before—when Mags was killed.”

“You knew her before this trip?”

“No,” Judith admitted, “but we volunteered to sit with her after she got back to her cabin. We felt obligated to see how she was doing.”

“She was doing pretty well if she went shopping and out to lunch,” Flakey remarked drily.

“Women have amazing recuperative powers,” Renie pointed out.

“Neither of you seem much the worse for wear,” Flakey noted. “Tell me, how does it feel to be off on a carefree vacation and suddenly find yourselves menaced by murder?”

Judith could already see the headline:

CRUISE CURSED FOR
COWERING COUSINS

“Naturally,” Judith said carefully, “the tragedies have altered our plans.”

Flakey narrowed his eyes. “C'mon, you can do better than that. Were you there when they found Mags's body in the piano? Did you see the taxi arrive with the dead Dixie inside?”

Judith realized that Flakey hadn't mentioned Émile Grenier. Maybe he didn't know about the third death. Maybe Biff—despite the hobnobbing at the bar—had kept his mouth shut.

But that wasn't what bothered Judith most. Not only didn't she want to become a sensational human-interest story, but Flakey Smythe was interrogating
her,
rather than the other way around.

“You know,” Judith said, suddenly looking vague, “our role in all this is strictly peripheral. What's much more interesting is your investigative prowess as a journalist.”

“That's what I'm doing,” Flakey said. “Investigating. How did you react when you found out Magglio Cruz had been murdered almost before your very eyes?”