Dead Man Docking (25 page)

“I understand,” Judith said, “that it takes a while for methanol to do its damage. No wonder Dixie seemed drunk when she showed up at Grandviews to meet Ambrose. Instead of liquor, she must have been drinking bottled water all morning. The symptoms of methanol poisoning are the same as those of any kind of excessive alcohol intake—headache, dizziness, upset stomach, the works. Dixie may have attributed her condition to whatever she'd drunk the previous night, coupled with the shock of Mags's murder.”

“Very logical,” Rick remarked with a touch of irony. “You have a logical mind, Judith.”

“She's had it for quite a while,” Renie remarked.

“The question is,” Rhoda said, waving the plastic pick that held the olive from her martini, “why
did
she meet Ambrose for lunch?”

“It was right after Mags was killed,” Judith said. “What's the connection between them?”

Rick shrugged. “Other than casual acquaintances, I don't know.”

Rhoda leaned back in her chair, gazing up as if she could read answers off of the ceiling. “Ambrose is her illegitimate son by Horace Pankhurst. Ambrose is her half brother, abandoned at birth by their hard-drinking Southern belle mama. Ambrose is soliciting money for one of his worthy environmental causes. Ambrose,” she added on a darker note, “is the one who bought the methanol to poison Dixie and thought he'd avoid suspicion by being the last one to see her alive.”

“All possibilities,” Rick remarked airily. “But not terribly plausible, my darling. Except, perhaps, for the last of your bright ideas.”

“Oh, Ricky.” Rhoda sighed. “Do you always have to put a damper on my brainstorms?”

Sitting next to Renie on the sofa, Judith could hear her cousin's stomach growling. It was clear that the St. Georges planned to drink their dinner. Maybe they considered the cocktail olives as a meal. The happily soused couple did, however, recommend several restaurants, including Ozumo in the Embarcadero district. The cousins took a cab.

“We don't have a chauffeur,” Rhoda had said as she showed them to the elevator. “I sometimes wonder why we have a car in this city. Parking costs a fortune and is impossible to find when you go anywhere.”

Arriving at the restaurant without a reservation, Judith and Renie had to wait over half an hour in the bar, but nibbled on sushi and sipped just enough warm saki to make them feel a little giddy.

“How many times have we almost been killed?” Renie inquired idly.

“Offhand, I don't know,” Judith replied. “I'd have to count. It wouldn't come out even, though. I've had more close calls than you.”

“Braggart,” Renie said. “I've got more kids than you. Ha ha.”

“I've got more grandchildren. Double ha ha.”

“We've got Oscar and Clarence. You only have Sweetums.”

“He makes up for any number of animals, real or imaginary.”

“Oscar's real.”

“Is not.”

“Is, too.”

The conversation deteriorated until they were escorted to their table. With a magnificent view of the bay, a Zen-inspired setting, and a tempting menu, Judith and Renie grew more serious.

“You didn't mention the blackmail aspect to Rick and Rhoda,” Renie pointed out after she'd ordered a charcoal-broiled fillet of beef with shiitake mushroom Madeira sauce.

“They know,” said Judith, who had requested the big-eye tuna marinated in a sweet soy herb dressing. “I'll bet the police have discovered that Dixie's bank account—or wherever she put her money—increased dramatically the past few months. The problem is, I'm not entirely convinced that a twenty-year-old racing scandal in France would be worth that much money or that a mention of the horse's name would send Connie into a swoon.”

“It'd make more sense if that other owner—the one with the Irish horse—had been someone involved in this case,” Renie noted.

“But he wasn't.” Judith paused, gazing out onto the bay, where the fog had lifted just enough to see the lights from ships that had dropped anchor for the night. “The cruise might have been fun,” she said wistfully. “A vacation would have been nice.”

“Yes,” Renie agreed. “Instead, we're going to a funeral tomorrow.”

“Why,” Judith asked on a note of resignation, “am I not surprised?”

Renie didn't bother to answer. Judith could only hope that their next close call wouldn't come too soon.

But, she grimly reminded herself, the killer was still out there.

T
HE
C
ATHEDRAL OF
St. Mary of the Assumption was startlingly modern and unconventional in design, an ode not only to God, but to geometry. It reminded Renie of a spaceship. “If this thing took off, would we go straight to heaven?” she asked after the impressive service had finished.

“Doubtful,” Judith said, walking across the broad plaza along with the several hundred other mourners who'd attended the funeral Mass.

Connie had rejected the suggestion to hold a reception at the cathedral. She simply wasn't up to it, according to Rhoda. Since Mags was being cremated, there would be no cortege to the cemetery. Connie couldn't deal with that, either.

Judith felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Rhoda, asking if they'd like a ride to the private reception at the St. Georges' Nob Hill home.

“I promise it won't be like the last ride I offered,” Rhoda said, making a face. “I must warn you, though, Ricky is a terrible driver.”

Rhoda wasn't exaggerating. Rick St. George seemed oblivious to other vehicles, driving their Bentley Arnage as if he were competing in a NASCAR race. Judith barely
had an opportunity to savor the car's quilted leather upholstery or the aura of luxury. Admittedly, it was a smooth, if harrowing, ride as Rick ran through at least three red lights, took an illegal left-hand turn, and circumvented a double-parked van by driving on the sidewalk. Yet fifteen minutes later, they arrived unscathed atop Nob Hill.

“Survival of the fastest,” Rhoda murmured as they got out of the car in the parking garage where Blackie and CeeCee had taken the cousins the previous day.

“We had to get here before our guests arrive,” Rick said breezily. “Let's hope the caterers have everything prepared.”

They did. In fact, Biff McDougal was already sampling the lavish spread that had been set out on a temporary table in the living room. The white linen cloth was covered with every kind of salad, from greens to pasta;
fruits de mer
included oysters, crab, prawns, salmon, lobster, clams, and mussels; the cheeses were too numerous to count, let alone identify by sight; and delectable desserts swam in a sea of calories, with several topped by clotted or Bavarian cream. Judith was overwhelmed; Renie's eyes were enormous.

“Ha!” Biff cried as the cousins and the St. Georges came into the living room. “I beatcha here! I put on the siren.”

“You also left early,” Rick said. “You and Buzz were at the back of the church. We saw you when we came in.”

Buzz was standing away from the table, looking deferential as usual. Renie couldn't keep from ogling the buffet, but Judith put a hand on her arm.

“Hold it,” she whispered to Renie. “Try to control yourself for once. Even Biff can't eat it all at once.”

“He's hogging the lobster,” Renie declared, sounding almost in admiration of his audacity. “Look at him, slathering it in drawn butter.”

Rick had gone behind the bar. “Drinks, anyone?”

Biff mentioned that he was on duty—sort of. With an unconvincing show of reluctance, he accepted a shot of whiskey. Judith and Renie both asked for shooting sherry. It seemed like a proper choice for a postfuneral gathering.

“Good,” Judith said to her cousin. “You're behaving in a civilized manner. Just don't spill. You may keep your consulting fee yet.”

“I'd damned well better,” Renie muttered. “Oh, no—here comes Erma and her crew. You'd better lock me in the linen closet.”

Erma Giddon was draped in a black coat and matching dress. Her only jewelry was a short double strand of pearls, which Judith thought might—or might not—be real. Anemone was wearing one of the black suits Judith had seen at Neiman Marcus. Horace, Jim, and Ambrose were all clad in conservative black suits. To Judith's surprise, Chevy followed them at a discreet distance, attired in her maid's outfit.

“How sweet of you to let us borrow Beulah!” Rhoda exclaimed. “I hated to ask, but my maid is still in Cancún.”

Erma grunted. “Not that Beulah will be much help. These coloreds are so lazy.” She snapped her pudgy fingers. “Come, girl. Get busy. Help serve the buffet.” Her piercing eyes ran the length of the table. “And save me three of those cream puffs,” she added under her breath.

“Yaz'um,” Chevy said, bobbing a little curtsy. “I be workin'.”

“You'd better be,” Erma snapped.

Judith noticed that Horace seemed very subdued. Even if he had set CeeCee up for a fall, he might be suffering from disappointment at her defection. Or loneliness. Indeed, he was eyeing Chevy with a lecherous gaze.

The next to arrive were Captain Swafford and Dr. Selig. Both men looked worried—and weary. Renie, however, barged between the two men, head down and arms folded across her chest as if she were going for the goal line. “Coming through!” she cried, and all but bounced off Biff, who was still barring the way to the buffet. “Move it, flatfoot,” she said. “I know people in high places. Like God.”

Biff moved.

Judith sidled up to Anemone, who was waiting for Jim to bring her a drink.

“That suit is very becoming,” Judith declared. “It's a shame you had to buy it for such an unhappy occasion.”

“At least,” Anemone said in an unusually waspish tone, “I won't have to go to Dixie and Émile's services. They're being buried back wherever they came from, like maybe in the South and someplace in France. I hate funerals. They're too sad.”

“Yes,” Judith agreed. “That's a good way to describe them.”

“I don't want to be sad anymore,” Anemone asserted. “I want to be happy. I want to get married and have a home and raise babies.”

The fervor in Anemone's voice took Judith by surprise. “I thought you and Jim planned to wait until he finished his schooling.”

“I don't want to wait,” Anemone said flatly.

“How does Jim feel about that?”

Anemone pursed her lips in a manner reminiscent of her mother. “He'll do what I want,” she said. “Now.”

“I wouldn't rush into anything,” Judith cautioned. “You're both very young. Remember, there are worse things than
not
being married.”
I ought to know,
she thought, recalling the bleak years with Dan.

But Anemone didn't seem to hear Judith. The young woman's attention had been diverted by Jim's arrival with two glasses of white wine. Meanwhile, Rick had moved to the fireplace, martini in hand.

He raised his voice to quiet the murmurs among the gathering. “Friends, fellow mourners,” he said in his usual debonair manner. He stopped, his gaze traveling to the entryway between the foyer and the living room. “And the press. Flakey, what are you doing here? This is a private reception.”

“Not anymore,” Flakey replied, a cigarette dangling from his lower lip. “This is news.” He paused. “Isn't it?”

“Why, yes, dear boy,” Rick responded. “You could call it that.”

“Swell,” Flakey said, removing the cigarette and tapping ash into a vase filled with yellow iris. “I'll stick around, then.”

Connie, who was looking pale and tired, sat up straight on the sofa. “Really!” she gasped. “Weren't there enough reporters and such outside of the cathedral? I had to leave the back way.”

“Never too much of a good thing,” Flakey retorted.

Paul, who had been sitting next to Connie, was on his feet. “Do you want me to get rid of him?” he asked her.

Rick interrupted before Connie could reply. “No need for that,” he asserted. “Flakey knows the score. He might as well stay. Have a drink, old boy. And try the Norwegian sardines. We had them flown in this morning.”

Flakey meandered over to the bar. The others watched him for a moment until Biff waved his arms and called for silence. “Rick here has something to say. Everybody gather 'round.” He indicated the seating arrangement that Rhoda had set up earlier in the day. Connie and Paul remained on the sofa with Dr. Selig hovering nearby; Erma headed for the carved emperor's chair as if she felt a place of honor was her due; Horace positioned himself behind her; Anemone and Jim sat in matching side chairs; Ambrose commandeered a footstool; Rhoda leaned against the bar; Captain Swafford remained standing as if at attention by the chinoiserie wall plaques; Biff and Buzz flanked each side of the fireplace; Flakey lingered at the buffet, where Chevy stood ready to help; Judith and Renie stood near the table, too, next to one of the tall windows that looked out over the fog-draped city.

After everyone had assembled with expressions of curiosity, Biff spoke again. “Rick is going to tell us who killed Mags, Dixie, and Émile. Go ahead, Rick. It's all yours.”

“Nonsense!” Erma exclaimed.

“Piffle,” said Horace.

“Is this a joke?” Ambrose inquired.

Rick shook his head. “It's no joke. Murder isn't a laughing matter. The problem with this case,” he began, “is that it
seemed so complicated. It was not just one murder, but three, each with a different method. There was a jewel robbery. There was blackmail.”

Rick didn't seem to notice Connie's shudder, but Judith did. She also saw that Erma was looking indignant. Biff was staring at Connie as if he were about to pounce.

“Easy, Biff,” Rick murmured before taking another sip of his martini. “I've just started. We know now that Erma's real jewels were never stolen, only the imitations.”

“How dare you?” Erma shouted, struggling to rise from her regal chair.

Biff jabbed a thumb at the angry woman and looked inquiringly at Rick, who shook his head.

“Calm down, Erma,” Rick said with a droll expression. “You remain a victim, in a way. I'm not suggesting that you stole your own jewels. You sold them, perhaps not illegally. The insurance claim is a fraud, of course. But you were coerced—and fleeced—by Horace.”

Judith noticed that Horace had gotten very red in the face. She was certain that he was apoplectic. It was, she thought, a good thing that a doctor was in attendance. Once again, Biff looked questioningly at Rick; once again, Rick shook his head—and polished off his drink.

“Liar!” shouted Horace. “Why, you—”

“Please,” Rick said calmly as Rhoda brought her husband another martini. “Let me finish. You were in a bind, Horace. The post–9/11 era hasn't treated you kindly. It's adversely affected Erma, too. You were both strapped for ready cash. That was especially unfortunate for you, Horace, because you had deadlines to meet for the construction of your sponge-and-cork museum. Contractors and subcontractors like to get paid. You had to come up with some money fast. They can be tough customers, and at least one of them made some nasty threats.”

“I can handle them,” Horace growled.

“I could handle some more liver pâté,” Renie whispered, edging Flakey out of the way.

“I doubt you could handle a couple of those contractors' goons, old boy,” Rick said. “But the jewel heist had nothing in and of itself to do with the murders. The blackmail, however, is another matter.” He cast a glance at Connie, who was cowering next to Paul. “My dear, I know you were victimized by a pair of ruthless crooks. Dixie Beales and Émile Grenier intended to soak you for a big wad of dough. You're rich, but not rich in the way that really…” He feigned embarrassment and downed more gin. “Well, you all know what I mean. Mags was very successful, but the
San Rafael
cost a bundle to build. The cruise business has also suffered since 9/11, though it's been improving. But other problems persist, including a fight with the state and city over dumping in the bay, the need for a new pier in at least two ports of call, additional security, and general updating of the already existing fleet. Mags gave you a hefty allowance, but that was your only personal source of income. Money from your father dried up years ago.”

“That's not true!” Connie wailed. “Paul,” she cried, starting to sob, “tell them it's not true! Papa's rich! Like really rich people are—” She broke off, overcome by convulsive weeping.

Paul remained silent, his dark features a mask of pain. He could do nothing except take Connie in his arms and try to comfort her. Rhoda went to the bar, poured out some brandy, and glided across the room.

“Drink this, my dear,” she urged. “It can't hurt and it may help. Though,” she added in an aside to Paul, “I doubt it.”

“So far,” Judith said under her breath, “Rick's on the mark.”

“And the sauce,” said Renie, devouring liver pâté and crackers.

“It's sad,” Rick remarked, motioning at Rhoda to bring him yet another martini, “but Guillermo de Fuentes lost his fortune years ago, only a short time after you married Mags. Your husband got no help from the de Fuentes family fortune. By then it had evaporated. Your father not only used
dirty tricks to win races, but he bribed judges and stewards. These matters were well publicized at the time. One incident crippled Émile Grenier, who was de Fuentes's jockey.”

Still holding Connie, Paul finally spoke up. “Mags gave Émile a good job. Señor de Fuentes saw to it that Émile could study accounting and other courses to prepare him for his career as a ship's steward.”

Rick nodded. “Very kind. Yet it wasn't the accident that spurred—excuse the expression—Émile and Dixie to blackmail poor Connie. Somehow, her father wiggled out of that jam. But he wasn't content to use time-honored—if disreputable—methods to win races. In Dubai, he had the electronic starting gate rigged to shock his own horse—a notoriously slow starter named Nieves—into a quick sprint at the beginning of the race. There was a tragic miscalculation, however. All the horses were electrocuted, and several of the riders were badly injured. That sort of thing might not make the hometown gazette, but it certainly offended the local emirs and other horse-loving pooh-bahs. De Fuentes was forced to pay damages, and it ruined him financially and emotionally. His wife, Elena, committed suicide.” Rick paused to glance at Connie, whose slim figure lay convulsed in Paul's arms. “I'm sorry, my dear,” Rick said softly. “The scandal destroyed her, too. And your father isn't living the high life in Buenos Aires. He's confined to a nursing home in Lodi, California.”