Dead Man Docking (23 page)

“Oh.” Paul couldn't quite hide his relief. “Connie forgot to mention that the door is tricky to open. It sticks. The last earthquake apparently damaged the alignment.”

“I understand,” Judith said, overemphasizing the difficulty of sitting up. “In fact, we had a small quake at home this morning. Like San Francisco, all of our houses are uneven.”

“Are you rejoining us?” Paul inquired.

“I think so,” Judith said. “I'll walk around just a bit before I attempt the stairs.”

“I'll wait.” Paul's smile was slightly sheepish. “So I can help you,” he added.

“Thanks,” Judith said, dutifully walking to and fro around the boudoir. “By the way, I couldn't help but admire those wonderful horse and racing pictures upstairs. Are the oil paintings of horses that Connie's father trained?”

“Trained
and
owned,” Paul replied. “After many years, he was able to buy some Thoroughbreds of his own.”

“I understood Connie's grandfather was wealthy,” Judith remarked, still walking.

“He was.” Paul, who was usually unflappable, seemed edgy. He centered a tissue box on the nightstand and moved the bedside lamp an inch to the right. “Over the years, Argentina has had so many political shifts. Connie's grandfather lost his estancia—ranch, I should say—during one of the coups.”

“So Connie's father managed to—excuse the expression—recoup his losses?”

“He managed to cut them,” Paul explained, “because Guillermo de Fuentes—Connie's dad—was so successful training racehorses. His first Thoroughbred was a gift from a grateful emir in Dubai.”

“Is that one of the horses in the paintings?” Judith asked, beginning to get tired of her promenade.

“No. The gift horse was put out to stud. He sired Belgrano, Guillermo's first champion.” Paul paused. “Are you better now?”

“Yes,” Judith said. “Going upstairs isn't as scary as coming down.”

Paul stayed directly behind Judith so that he could catch her if she made a misstep. Moments later they'd rejoined Renie and Connie in the living room.

“I thought you'd fallen asleep,” Connie said with a little laugh. “Is your hip less painful?”

“Yes,” Judith replied. “It's just something I've learned to live with. Speaking of ailments, how is your father, Connie? Paul and I were just talking about him.”

“You were?” She shot Paul a sharp look. “My father is not well. He hasn't been for some time. I was telling Serena that I may visit him in Argentina next month. Easter would be a good time to be in Buenos Aires.”

“Is he confined to his home?” Judith inquired, wearing a sympathetic expression.

“Yes,” Connie replied, indicating to Paul that he should open the second wine bottle. “It's very sad.”

“He must miss the racetrack,” Judith said, pretending she didn't notice the sudden frozen expression on Connie's face.
“Our Uncle Al is a serious horseplayer. During the season, he goes to the races almost every day. He loves to hang out around the barns and the paddock. Of course he knows everybody.”

“He insists he gets great tips from his old pals,” Renie put in, picking up on Judith's train of thought. “He certainly seems to win pretty often.”

Paul offered the cousins a refill. Renie declined, but Judith accepted just enough to be sociable. “How long has he been retired?” she asked.

“A few years,” Connie said, her tone distant. She tasted the wine Paul had poured for her. “Do you think this is as good as the first bottle? It seems a little off.”

Paul took a sip. “No, I believe they're comparable.”

Connie shrugged. “It must be me. Goodness knows,” she went on, speaking more rapidly, “I find the Beringer label generally very good. Have you considered taking a vineyard tour while you're in the area?”

“I did that many years ago,” Renie said, “when I was in the city for a graphic-design conference. Everybody ended up drunk as skunks with grape leaves in their hair.”

“I understand that some of the vintages from your own state have gained in reputation,” Paul put in. “I believe Mags recently purchased some very nice whites from up your way.”

It occurred to Judith that like the cousins, Paul and Connie seemed able to keep on the same wavelength. Apparently, the Thoroughbred-racing discussion had come to an abrupt halt, like a horse going lame in the backstretch.

Judith finally guided the conversation back to the matters that were uppermost in her mind. “Some of our wineries are popular places for young couples to get married. I don't suppose that Anemone and Jim have made any concrete plans since their date is so far off in the future.”

“Very far,” Connie said drily, with a quick glance at Paul.

Paul smirked, but didn't respond.

“You sound skeptical,” Renie said bluntly. “What do you figure? Jim will do what so many doctors do, and let wife
number one—or in this case, fiancée number one—put him through medical school and then say, ‘Take two suitcases and
don't
call me in the morning'?”

“Serena,” Connie said with mock severity, “you ask the most embarrassing questions!”

Paul smiled ruefully. “She does that at business meetings, too.”

Renie shrugged. “Well? My cousin and I sense trouble in paradise.”

“Really?” Connie frowned. “I didn't think it showed that much.”

“Show and tell,” Renie said.

“Really?”
Connie leaned forward on the sofa. “Such as what?”

Renie looked at Judith, urging her to take up the tale. But Judith refused to betray Anemone's confidence. “Let's merely say that we suspect there's Someone Else.”

Paul tipped his head to one side. “Ah.”

Connie took a deep sip of wine. “You're right. There is.”

“That's not surprising,” Judith said. “Anemone and Jim are very young. She's been so sheltered. It's only natural that her first real love wouldn't turn out to be the man she marries.”

Connie stared at Judith. “Are you suggesting that Anemone isn't in love with Jim?”

Judith was taken aback. All along she'd assumed that Anemone was meeting another man at Neiman Marcus, even if it hadn't turned out to be Ambrose Everhart. “Well…I mean, if she hasn't dated much—” She stopped, realizing that she was mistaken and unwilling to say more.

Connie laughed shrilly. “No, no! It's Jim who isn't in love with his betrothed. He's fallen head over heels for CeeCee Orr. Anemone suspects the truth, and if Erma finds out she'll kill him.” Wide-eyed, she put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God! What am I saying?”

Not another corpse
was what Connie meant—but Judith wasn't going to say that out loud, either.

“J
IM
'
S AN IDIOT
,” Renie declared as the cousins rode home in a taxi from the Marina district. “Not only is he risking his expensive education, but can you imagine CeeCee at an AMA convention? The only socializing she could manage would be
playing
doctor, not behaving like the wife of a real one.”

“I don't know about that,” Judith said, “but it makes sense. Not the falling-for-CeeCee part, but what Anemone was doing skulking around Neiman Marcus. We know CeeCee was there that day because she bought the red dress I saw in the salon. I'll bet CeeCee may have gone there with Jim, or else planned to meet him after she finished shopping. No wonder Anemone was too embarrassed to tell me.”

“So which one of them killed Émile Grenier?” Renie asked, keeping her voice down, just in case the uncommunicative Turkish cabdriver could understand them. “Anemone? CeeCee? Jim? Or somebody else?”

The taxi rocketed along Lombard and zoomed down Van Ness as if the driver had a date with destiny. He wove in and out of traffic, honking the horn and making the occasional obscene gesture. The cousins stopped talking, certain that they were going to meet their own kismet.
There was construction on California Street, and although no one was working on a Sunday, there were several traffic barriers. The cab ran them like an obstacle course before starting the steep—and swift—descent on Powell. Pedestrians scattered; a double-parked limo was missed by less than an inch; a U-Haul truck barely escaped collision. By the time the driver screeched to a halt in front of the St. Francis, Judith had turned white and Renie had dug her fingernails into her hands so hard that she broke the skin.

“Thanks,” Judith gasped, not bothering to look at the meter. She yanked a bill out of her wallet and dropped it onto the front seat.

“That was a fifty,” Renie said as they reeled into the hotel. “Are you nuts?”

“A fifty?” Judith grimaced. “Oh, well. At least we arrived alive.”

“Good point,” Renie agreed. “What's our next move?”

Judith poked the elevator button. “Rest. Think. And call Joe. Maybe that's first.”

Upon arriving in their suite, Judith noticed that the message light was blinking on their phone. There were three calls: Rhoda St. George, Flakey Smythe—and Joe, whose message had been recorded at two fifty-six.

“You haven't checked out,” he said in an irritated tone, “and the yahoo at the desk told me the cruise was canceled. When the hell are you coming home? My cold's worse. The trial starts tomorrow, so I can't pick you up at the airport if you're flying during the day. By the way, we had an earthquake. Sweetums is still hiding under the dining-room table and your mother's card table collapsed. Unfortunately, she wasn't under it. Call me.”

“Joe's mad,” Judith said, dialing the number of Hillside Manor. “I don't know what to tell him.”

“How about the truth?” Renie suggested, removing a Pepsi from the honor bar. “Or part of it, like having to attend the funeral for Mags tomorrow. Blame it on me, I worked with him.”

Joe didn't answer. Instead, she heard her own voice on the answering machine. Judith winced and collected her wits. “Hi, Joe,” she began in something less than her normal manner. “One of the reasons the cruise was canceled was due to Magglio's ill health.” She winced again. “That is, he…died. Renie feels we should go to the funeral tomorrow. In fact,” she went on, sounding more like herself, “we just came from visiting his widow, Connie.” She paused, seeing her cousin drawing dollar signs in the air and pointing to her purse. “Renie wants to stay an extra day or so to see if she can help. We should be back Wednesday, if we can get a decently priced flight. Of course I'm not sure what to do about the original return tickets. I'll keep you posted. I love you.”

She clicked off, but kept hold of the receiver. “I'd better call Mother. I hope the card table isn't broken. That's her primary source of life.”

As usual, Gertrude didn't pick up the phone until the tenth ring. “Why are you calling me?” she rasped. “Are you seasick? It'd serve you right. All this highfalutin gadabout showing off! The only boat trip I ever took was in a canoe with your uncle Cliff, and it sank.”

“We never…” Judith interrupted.

But Gertrude wasn't in a listening mood. “You ought to see the mess I was in this morning. Deb told me she'd heard from
her
idiot daughter, so you know about the earthquake. In fact, Deb's called about six times.” The old lady stopped. “Come to think of it, she said you two nitwits were still in Frisco. How come?”

“The cruise was canceled,” Judith said. “We'll be home in a couple of days. Where were you when the card table collapsed?”

“In bed,” Gertrude replied. “It happened around six. I was awake, though. That crummy bed you bought me shimmied all over the place. What's it made of—twigs?”

“It's quite solid,” Judith insisted. “Will you have to get a new card table?”

“No,” Gertrude retorted. “Arlene fixed it. The legs just went out from under it, that's all. By the way, since you were too addled to do it before you ran off to Frisco, I had her cash that movie check for me.”

“Oh! Good!” Judith exclaimed. “I was worried about leaving it around the toolshed for so long. I'm glad it's safe in the bank. Twenty grand is a large check to leave sitting around. Now you can earn interest on it.”

“It's not in the bank,” Gertrude replied. “I said I had her
cash
it, not put it in the bank.”

“What do you mean?” Judith asked, startled.

“I mean I wanted the money, dummy,” Gertrude snapped.

“For what?” Judith asked, starting to worry anew.

“None of your beeswax. I'm hanging up now. Arlene and Carl are coming to play gin rummy with me.” Gertrude banged down the phone.

Renie eyed Judith with sympathy. “What did she do, cash the check and send the money out to the track with Uncle Al?”

“She cashed it all right,” Judith said angrily. “But she won't tell me what she's doing with it.”

“Humor her,” Renie soothed. “Maybe she just wants to count it. You know how people of her generation are. They still have that Depression-era mentality. Some of them don't trust banks because so many failed back then and their customers lost all their money.”

“Mother's not that nutty,” Judith replied. “She's got something up the sleeve of her housecoat. Damn, I hope she isn't being victimized by some scam artist.”

“
Your
mother?” Renie laughed. “Neither of our mothers are sucker bait. Maybe she wants to buy some things. Like a new card table.”

“Maybe.” Judith gave herself a good shake. “There's nothing I can do about it from here. I'd better check those other messages.”

Flakey Smythe informed the cousins that the interview he'd done with them wouldn't run for a day or so, probably not until after Magglio Cruz's funeral. He also wanted to do
a follow-up—a sidebar, he called it—about their interview with the police.

“Double damn!” Judith swore. “I was afraid of that! We won't talk to him again. Maybe he'll forget about the whole thing if we stall.”

“Don't count on it,” Renie said. “Would you rather he made up something?”

Judith didn't respond. Instead, she listened to Rhoda's message. “We must compare notes. Dinner? I'm feeling Italian. Ricky's feeling—stop that, darling!” A giggle interrupted the message. “Ricky has a yen for Japanese, excuse the pun. Call us.”

Judith dialed the St. Georges' number. Once again, it was Rhoda who answered. “Oh, Judith,” she said in a forlorn voice, “we can't do dinner after all. Rick is sleuthing in a most serious way. Methanol and all that scientific mumbo jumbo I don't pretend to understand. I'm even surprised that he knows about more than one kind of alcohol.”

“You mean the poison that was used to kill Dixie?” Judith asked.

“Yes,” Rhoda replied. “Lab alcohol. It sounds so crude. Whatever happened to classics like arsenic and cyanide?”

“I assume,” Judith said, “that they're harder to obtain. Can't you buy methanol without raising suspicion?”

“That's what Ricky tells me,” Rhoda said. “He's with Biff right now, checking recent sales from local chemical companies. Honestly, I can't remember when Biff worked on a weekend. In fact, I can barely remember Biff working.” She laughed. “Oh, I shouldn't say that. He
does
work, in his own peculiar fashion. It's just that Ricky has to prod him. Do you know anything we don't?”

Judith recapitulated the visit with Connie and Paul. “They seem very comfortable together,” she added. “I mean, it's nice that she has someone she can rely on now that Mags is dead.”

“Lie and re-lie on?” Rhoda remarked in a provocative tone.

“I wondered,” Judith said.

“So have we,” Rhoda responded. “The fact is, I don't think they're lovers. Connie was crazy about Mags, and vice versa. But Paul has always been the faithful puppy type. I think he adores her. But he was very loyal to Mags in every way.”

From embarrassment, Judith held back about going through Connie's bank accounts. But she no longer felt obligated to keep Anemone's secret, since Jim's obsession with CeeCee was known at least to some of the others involved.

Rhoda, however, professed mild surprise. “I've noticed that Jimmy has trouble keeping his eyes off of CeeCee, but most men do. Maybe it's not as serious as it seems. Poor Anemone. She's definitely the jealous type.”

“So I gathered,” Judith said, hearing Asthma bark in the background. “What do you make of Anemone, CeeCee, and perhaps Jim being at Neiman Marcus when Émile was strangled?”

“A quartet became a trio,” Rhoda murmured. “It's even possible that they weren't the only ones. Horace may have accompanied CeeCee. Erma might have been lurking in Large Sizes. Ambrose may be stalking Jim. You see how my devious mind works?”

“Yes,” Judith said. “Mine works the same way.”

 

“I'm glad I didn't return that laptop when we left to see Connie,” Judith said, booting up the PC. “I'm going to research horse racing.”

“Starting with Montespan?” Renie inquired, leaning over Judith's shoulder.

“Exactly.” The first screen of listings all referred to the famous courtesan, Françoise-Athénaïs de Montespan, Louis XIV's brilliant and beautiful mistress. On the second and hird screens, there were more references. On the fourth try, portraits of the lady commingled with china, flowers, and even furniture named for her. But no horses.

“I'll try Thoroughbreds,” Judith said.

“Or try another search engine,” Renie suggested, stretching out on the sofa.

“I'll do both.” Judith stared in confusion as the first results came up. There were too many sites from too many sources. Trusting to luck—which was usually the way she bet the ponies—she typed in
Montespan
again.

Three references came up—all in French. “You'd better take a look at this, coz. I think there are mentions of Montespan in some newspaper articles, but they're from
Le Monde
and Agence France-Presse.”

Renie took Judith's place at the computer. “Too bad we don't have a printer,” she said. “I hope I can translate this accurately, but I'm not making any promises. My Spanish is better than my French.” She clicked on the first article, dated some twenty years earlier. “Ah! You can read this headline as well as I can.”

Judith peered over her cousin's shoulder.
“Scandale,”
she said. “Coupled with Montespan. What do you make of it?”

For several moments, Renie didn't speak. Slowly, she scrolled through the article, occasionally shaking her head. “It's about a big-stakes race for fillies and mares that Montespan was in. She won the race, but there was an inquiry. I think her jockey was accused of bumping another horse. Apparently, this wasn't the first time that a Guillermo de Fuentes horse—Connie's dad—had been involved in that kind of incident. But the inquiry was disallowed.” She kept reading. Suddenly she gasped. “Good grief! The jockey was Émile Grenier!”

“Émile!” Judith practically fell on top of Renie as she saw his name at the bottom of the screen. “It makes sense, though. He was built like a jockey. In fact,” she added in a rush, “he was in one of those photographs at Connie's place. I thought he looked familiar just because…well…”

“All jockeys look alike?” Renie nodded. “They do from a distance unless you know them really well. They have to stay so lean, and their caps hide their faces.”

“So how did Émile go from jockey to purser?” Judith mused.

“Maybe we can find out,” Renie said, moving on to the next story.

Judith noted the date, which was a week later than the first article. There was nothing in the headline about a scandal. “What does it say?” she asked her cousin, who was scratching her head and grimacing.

“I'm kind of rusty,” Renie confessed. “Montespan was in the race at Longchamps but didn't finish because—” She shut up and concentrated. “There was an accident on the rail,” Renie finally said. “Montespan threw her rider—Émile—who was badly injured. Montespan was disqualified, and there was another objection, this time from de Fuentes—I think—but that was overruled, too. The winning horse was owned by the same person who'd been edged out in the stakes race. The owner was somebody named Liam Ford Mackey, with a horse called Green Colleen. The trainer was L. C. O'Leary.”

“A grudge match?” Judith suggested.

“Could be,” Renie said. “Mackey may have thought he'd been screwed in the previous race, which was for some big bucks. Let's look at that last story.”