Dead Man Docking (22 page)

“I didn't realize there was an environmental problem,” Renie said. “Of course, I probably wouldn't have been informed unless they needed a design for a friendly-looking Mr. Garbage. Maybe that's why Paul Allum and Bill Goetz didn't protest the headquarters move. They're both concerned about our own environment.”

Judith was studying the photo of the protesters. “These people may not be physically violent, but they sure don't look very friendly. Some of those signs are downright vicious. I'm glad they didn't show up for the VIP prelaunch…Hey!” She pointed to a face in the crowd. “Look, coz. Isn't that Ambrose Everhart?”

Renie stared at the four-column picture. “Egad! You're right. And look at that sign he's holding up.”

“I know,” Judith said with a worried expression.

Ambrose's sign read,
SHIPS STINK
!
SINK CRUZ
!
KILL CRUISES
!

The cousins exchanged hard stares.

“Is that a motive for murder?” Renie asked.

Judith again considered the passion on Ambrose's face. He certainly looked like a man on a mission. “It's probably not,” she said, before adding in a forlorn voice, “at least not for a sane person.”

And the more she examined the photo, the more Ambrose Everhart looked unbalanced.

“Y
OU DIDN
'
T HEAR
the latest?” Connie asked in an excited voice as Judith and Renie sat down in the spacious living room of the two-story condo overlooking San Francisco Bay.

“We've spent a quiet Sunday,” Judith said, not untruthfully. “Exactly what happened?”

Connie and Paul were seated on a dark brown leather double sofa that looked out over the view in one direction and into the middle of the room on the other. Judith thought Connie seemed much improved since the debacle of the previous evening. She even apologized for the disarray of the household.

“The housekeeper was supposed to come in after we sailed,” she said with a rueful expression. “I haven't had a chance to reschedule. There's dust everywhere and even a couple of cobwebs on the ceiling. Don't you just hate it when you have to live in the midst of filth?”

Recalling the squalid rental that she and Dan had lived in on Thurlow Street in the city's south end, Judith could only nod.
Filth
was hardly a word she'd use to describe the Cruz condo. And Judith was certain that Connie—unlike the McMonigles—hadn't heard rats doing the mambo inside their bedroom walls.

“Rhoda called less than an hour ago,” Connie explained before interrupting herself to ask Paul to pour some wine for the guests. “You do drink wine, don't you?” she asked the cousins. “Mags always kept a really decent cellar. What would you like?”

Neither Judith nor Renie were wine drinkers, but they wanted to be polite. “You choose,” Judith said.

“Have you got one that tastes like Pepsi?” Renie asked.

Connie laughed. “You
are
a tease, Serena.” She put a hand on Paul's arm. “Let's open that Beringer 1997 private reserve cabernet sauvignon. We can't serve our guests anything but a California label, can we?”

Paul merely smiled and left the room.

“What was I saying?” Connie asked with a frown. Despite the obvious improvement in her manner, she retained her quick, nervous gestures. “Oh. About Rhoda telephoning. She told me how the two of you had actually been taken to police headquarters and questioned about Erma's jewel theft. I couldn't believe it!” She laughed rather unnaturally. “Anyway, it turns out that the jewelry found in your suite was fake!”

“Fake?” Judith echoed. “As in…imitation?”

Connie nodded vigorously. “That's right. Which means, according to Rick, that the robbery had been planned for some time. You can't create imitations of the real thing without having them copied first.”

Renie grinned. “How's Erma taking it?”

“She had a fit,” Connie replied, not without a certain amount of glee. “Of course Erma is always having a fit about something, but this time I suppose you can't blame her.”

Paul had returned with two wine bottles and four glasses. “Shall I act as sommelier?” he inquired.

Connie nodded again. “Of course. You know what you're doing.”

Paul did. He scrutinized the label, expertly opened the bottle, sniffed the cork, gave the wine a moment to breathe, poured an eighth of an inch into one of the glasses, and took
a sip. “Excellent,” he declared. “The cork test is usually a mere formality in restaurants. It's done quickly, because the customers want to start drinking and eating. But a serious connoisseur will take time to make sure the cork has no musty odor. If it does, the wine may be musty, too.”

Connie smiled fondly at Paul. “You see? I told you he knows what he's doing. Paul's so capable. That's why I intend to let him take over the cruise line. I trust him completely.”

“That's probably a wise decision,” Renie said.

“A very generous one,” Paul murmured as he carefully poured from the bottle.

“But deserved,” Connie insisted. “The board of directors will have to approve, of course. But I have the majority of shares in the line. Besides, with Erma's departure, there shouldn't be so many obstacles. I'm afraid Erma likes to create problems where none actually exist.”

“So her jewels are still missing,” Judith said, accepting a glass of wine from Paul.

“Yes.” Connie smiled again at Paul as he sat down beside her. “I wonder if they were real to begin with.”

Judith couldn't keep her eyes from wandering around the room. Not only was the view spectacular, but the walls were covered with paintings. Except for a couple of country scenes, the rest featured horses: horses racing around the track; horses in the paddock, horses in their stalls; horses in the field; horses posing with jockeys. Quickly, she counted fourteen such pictures.

There were also a number of photographs displayed on the gleaming cherrywood table next to her chair. More horses, with not only jockeys, but presumably owners and trainers. In one photo, a very young Connie stood next to a black filly in the doorway of a barn. A slightly older Connie—early teens, Judith figured—sat astride a piebald colt while a distinguished-looking older man held the reins. Maybe it was Connie's father. Another picture showed the same man standing next to a jockey at a racecourse. The jockey was small, lean, and mud-spattered. He reminded Judith of so
many of the riders she'd seen over the years at the local track. They were always small and lean, of course. But there was something familiar about this particular jockey. Judith wondered if she'd actually seen him ride in the days when she went with Dan so that he could blow the grocery money on a long shot. It was possible. Jockeys moved from city to city, following the best mounts they could find.

“Do you mean,” Renie was asking, “Erma never had the real thing or that she'd sold the pieces and replaced them with paste?”

“Oh,” Connie replied, “originally she had the authentic goods. Some were heirlooms, handed down through several generations. Mags told me…” Connie paused, her face sobering. “Damn. I still can't believe…” She raised her head, closed her eyes for a moment, and cleared her throat. “Anyway—Mags thought Erma had been hard hit by the post–9/11 recession. She'd always had her money invested in thoroughly stable companies and bonds and such, but someone—Horace, no doubt—had urged her to buy Silicon Valley stock and make some very speculative investments. Between the dot-com fiasco and 9/11, Mags figured she lost a bundle.” Connie turned to Paul. “Isn't that right?”

He nodded. “Mags told me the same thing. Erma also loaned Horace—assuming it was a loan and not a gift—a big chunk of money for his cork-and-sponge museum. Unfortunately, she seems to have relied on him for all her financial advice since Wilbur died.”

“It seems to me,” Judith put in, “that to Erma, Wilbur
hasn't
died. She behaves as if he's still alive.”

“A quirk,” Connie said.

“A delusion,” Renie asserted. “Not a good sign about Erma's mental state. What did she mean aboard ship about Wilbur being…what was it? Missing?”

“His urn,” Paul replied. “She takes his ashes everywhere.”

“Did he ever turn up?” Renie asked.

Connie shrugged. “I've no idea.”

Judith had made the mistake of sitting in a zebra-stripe
chair with a deceptively hard seat and back. Maybe zebras were more thin-skinned than they looked. She was forced to stand up and relieve the discomfort in her hip.

“Sorry,” she apologized. “I have an artificial hip. I think I've done too much walking since we came to San Francisco, especially with all these hills. They're much steeper—and there seem to be more of them—than at home.”

“You're right,” Connie agreed. “I've noticed the difference myself. Is there something I can do to make you more comfortable?”

“No, thank you,” Judith said with a grateful smile. “I'll see if I can loosen up a bit.”

She strolled around the room, admiring the view and then the paintings. Renie, Connie, and Paul were talking about the future of the cruise line. A replacement for Erma on the board of directors sounded like the top priority. Several names were mentioned, but they meant nothing to Judith.

Four of the oil paintings seemed to have been done by the same artist. Small brass plates attached to the frames were etched with the horses' names. A handsome chestnut standing proudly in his stall was called Tierra del Fuego. A powerful bay named Belgrano charged across the finish line. Beau Noire, an imperious black stallion, stood in the winner's circle wearing a mantle of red roses. Lastly, grazing in an emerald green field, was a beautiful milk-white mare. Judith stared at the name on the brass plate:
MONTESPAN
.

She peered at the painting's background, where she could see an old windmill and, beyond that, the spires of a Romanesque church. The scene had a European feel to it. The picture had been signed—they all had—but Judith couldn't read the artist's signature.

Momentarily stumped, she suddenly had a wild idea. “Excuse me, Connie,” she said, moving closer to the sofa, “would you mind if I went into the bathroom to take some pain medication?”

Connie gestured with her forefinger. “The guest bathroom is right off the foyer.”

“Actually,” Judith said with a little grimace, “I need to lie down for just a couple of minutes. Is there a bathroom near the bedroom?”

“Of course,” Connie answered graciously. “My bathroom and dressing room adjoin the bedroom. They're downstairs. Can you manage? Please, take your time. I'm so sorry you're in pain.”

“All the walking,” she mumbled, noticing that Paul seemed to tense up while Connie was speaking. “But I can do the stairs,” Judith added quickly.

That, however, was no easy task. Although the steps were carpeted, the staircase was a spiral. Judith had to hang on for dear life, lest she misjudge her footing and take a header.

Double doors opened onto the master suite. The room was divided into three parts—boudoir, dressing room, and a small office. It was the latter that interested Judith most. Judging from the feminine decor, this was not where Magglio Cruz worked when he was home. No doubt his own study or den or office was elsewhere in the spacious condo. Judith had noticed that Connie's sleek red Cartier shoulder bag was on a table in the living room. No doubt her checkbook was inside. But if Connie had been making withdrawals for the past few months, her less recent bank records might be in the office.

Connie was organized.

Judith was thankful for that. She remembered an occasion when Renie and Bill had been out of town. Renie had forgotten one of her credit cards and needed it to make a purchase. She'd told Judith where to find the spare key to let herself in, but wasn't sure exactly where she'd put the card. “Try the pencil caddy on the dinette table or the drawer by the wine rack or the one by the spice rack,” Renie had said. “If it's not there, it could be in my spare cosmetic bag on top of the file cabinet by the kitchen table or under the electric can opener on the counter by the microwave.” It had been in none of those places. Judith had never found it. Renie later discovered it had been stuck between the C-major and D-flat keys of her piano.

Connie had a well-ordered filing cabinet. Judith easily found the bank statements. There were three accounts in her name—checking, savings, and a money market. Judging from the canceled checks that had been filed, Connie could write on all three. Judith hurriedly flipped through the ones that went back to the first of the year. There weren't that many. Apparently, all the household bills were paid from a joint account that Mags had probably kept in his own records.

Indeed, there were no checks made out to anyone whose name Judith recognized. There was a jeweler, an alterations shop, a furrier, a personal trainer, a masseuse, a hairdresser, and various other service and sales persons. The most recent check was dated March 17. It had been made out to CITES in the amount of one thousand dollars. The initials meant nothing to Judith.

She paused, listening for any suspicious sounds. She heard nothing. Opening another drawer, she spotted two bank-books. The first one she picked up was for Connie's regular savings account. Since early November, there had been seven withdrawals. Two were in November, in the amounts of thirteen hundred and twenty-one hundred dollars. Gump's was printed next to the dates. Christmas presents, perhaps, Judith thought. Gump's was a very expensive store off Union Square. Maybe Connie had bought gifts for Mags.

There were also two withdrawals in December: Fifteen hundred dollars for
NM
. Judith thought through the suspect list. No one had those initials. Maybe the letters stood for Neiman Marcus. But the next and final four withdrawals occurred in December, January, February, and March. They were in the amounts of twenty, forty, fifty, and seventy-five thousand dollars—exactly what Connie was reported to have taken out of her account during that time period.

The initials next to those big sums were
MBB
.

Judith frowned. She couldn't think who that might be.

Then it dawned on her. Judith might have known her as Dixie, but her real name was May Belle Beales.

Had Dixie been blackmailing Connie? It was possible, Judith thought, doing her best to put everything back in order. That might explain why Dixie had sent the note telling the cousins to butt out. But what did Dixie know that was worth so much money that Connie had to buy her silence?

A sound from out in the hallway caught Judith's attention. Swiftly, she shut the desk drawer, hurried out of the office, and fell upon the king-size bed.

Paul Tanaka called from outside the closed double doors. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Judith answered. “Come in.”

Paul entered the boudoir with a puzzled look on his face. “How did you get into the bathroom?”

“The bathroom?” Judith thought quickly. If Paul had to ask the question, there must be a problem. “I didn't. Not yet. I thought I'd lie down first. I don't like to take my pain pills unless I have to. The doctors are so stingy about prescribing very many at one time.”