Dead Man Docking (9 page)

Judith grimaced. “I'm afraid so. We've no idea what the motive may be and only a limited knowledge of the method. Thus, I suppose the first thing we should consider is the third factor in any homicide—opportunity. How many people can we rule out because they never left the saloon?”

Looking thoughtful, Renie sipped her tomato juice. “Let's see. We saw Magglio Cruz alive and well when we came on board the ship. Did we see him after that? Other than in the piano, of course.”

“Yes,” Judith replied. “He was at the bar. I don't remember seeing him after that. Later Connie went to look for him. Which means,” Judith added with a frown, “we can't rule out Connie as a suspect.”

“The spouse,” Renie remarked. “Always the prime suspect.”

Judith paused, eating, but not really tasting, her waffle. She was focused on re-creating the saloon party in her mind's eye. “The St. Georges arrived last,” she finally said, “so we don't know where they were before they made their grand entrance. Émile Grenier showed up just before that. We didn't see Dixie Beales until the cabaret section was opened.”

“True,” Renie agreed. “But most of the other guests seemed to have stayed put. Erma, Anemone, Jim, Horace, CeeCee, Paul, Captain Swafford. Admittedly, everyone was milling around.”

“Then there's Ambrose, who claimed he wasn't on board but told Chevy that he was,” Judith reminded her cousin. “That's a real puzzle.”

“It could be a miscommunication,” Renie pointed out, gathering up her tableware and placing it to one side of the portable table. “You didn't eat your egg,” she said, pointing to a small dish that was still covered.

“Egg?” Judith frowned. “I didn't know you ordered one for me.”

Renie bit her lip. “I didn't, come to think of it. I got two, although I ordered only one for myself. Sorry, coz. I
am
a pig.”

“That's okay,” Judith said. “You know I'm watching my cholesterol.” She narrowed her eyes at Renie. “I suppose you want this one, too?”

“No, I do not,” Renie replied in an indignant tone. “I'm a pig, but I'm not a hog. You eat it. You need to put on weight.”

“It's probably cold by now.” Judith lifted the lid.

There was no egg—only a folded piece of paper on the white plate.

“What the heck?” Judith muttered. “Maybe we got a bill after all.” She unfolded the paper. “It's not a bill,” she said grimly, and handed the note to Renie.

The rather small letters had been individually pasted on a sheet from a
San Rafael
memo pad. They read
Butt Out
.

“Good Lord,” Renie gasped. “Who knows you're FATSO?” She referred to the corruption of her cousin's Internet acronym, which actually stood for Female Amateur Sleuth Tracking Offenders.

“Do you think that's what it refers to?” Judith responded, looking worried.

“What else?” Renie studied the message for a few more seconds. “There's something odd about this. The individual letters haven't been cut from a newspaper or a magazine. In fact, the paper they're printed on is quality stuff, too heavy for an ordinary publication.”

Judith took the note and fingered each separate letter. “You're right. I suppose we shouldn't be handling this thing, but I'm willing to bet that there aren't any prints.”

“Rick and Rhoda might know who you are, just as you recognized him as the Gin Man from the amateur sleuth Web site,” Renie suggested.

“That's true. They might want to get all the glory in case they figure out whodunit.” But Judith was dubious. “There's something odd about that waiter. I remember seeing him at the party, and later he delivered Anemone's taco salad. Now he shows up with breakfast.”

Renie's expression was droll. “Gosh, coz, that's what waiters do—they wait on people. Besides, the complete staff wasn't on board last night. They probably haven't come aboard this morning, since our sailing time may be delayed.”

“That's so,” Judith admitted, standing up and slipping the note into her purse's side pocket. “It could have been anyone in the kitchen—or even someone passing through. For all we know, it might have been the captain himself. Come on, you'd better get dressed. I'd like to get off of this ship.”

Judith didn't add that she wanted to get off
alive
.

 

It was overcast in San Francisco that Friday morning as the cousins took a taxi back to their hotel.

“I'd like to find out how many of the guests are staying at the St. Francis besides us,” Judith said as they neared Union Square, where pigeons fought for space on the bronze victory column.

“None's my guess,” Renie replied, watching through the window as the usual ragtag-and-bobtail crowd mingled with protesters and supporters of various causes. “Most of the party guests live here, right?”

“Do they?” Judith responded as the turbaned taxi driver double-parked in front of the hotel.

Renie already had her money out. “Keep the change,” she told the driver, handing him two bills and all but shoving Judith out the door.

“Hey, lady!” the driver shouted just as Renie put one foot on the street. “You big cheat! You give me two dollar!”

Renie jerked around to stare at the driver. “What?”

“Two dollar!” he cried, waving a one in each hand. “Ride cost eleven dollar! I call cop, you go to prison! Much torture!”

“Hold on to your hat,” Renie snapped. “I mean, turban.” She dug into her overstuffed wallet. “I meant to give you a five and a ten. Sorry,” she added, tossing the bills into the front of the cab.

“Ah.” The driver smiled broadly. “Have nice day, lady.”

“Nice day, my butt,” Renie muttered, squeezing between two town cars to reach Judith on the sidewalk. “I should have put on my glasses.”

“I don't know why,” Judith said, hurrying her step to avoid a very aggressive panhandler who was hurling verbal abuse in their direction. “The lenses are always so smudged and spotted that you can barely see through them.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Renie grumbled. She pointed to the bar just off the lobby. “Let's have a drink before we go to the room.”

“At eleven-thirty in the morning?” Judith retorted. “Isn't that a bit early?”

“Hey—yesterday I started at four
A.M
.,” Renie reminded
Judith. “Besides, I didn't say a cocktail. I'm considering lemonade. They serve lunch here in the Compass Rose lounge.”

Judith gazed at the bar area, which was raised a few steps up from the lobby itself. Several tables were already occupied. The place looked comfortable and quiet.

“Sure, let's do it,” Judith agreed. “We can leave our carry-ons with the bellman.”

“We can take them with us,” Renie said, already climbing the carpeted stairs. “They're
carry-ons,
remember?”

They had just gotten seated when they heard a piano playing softly behind them. Judith turned around to look. “I hope there's no corpse in that one,” she said grimly.

The cousins both ordered lemonades. Renie fingered the lunch menu. “We can eat here, too,” she said.

“We just did, barely more than an hour ago,” Judith pointed out.

“So?”

Judith didn't argue. The server took their beverage order before she spoke again. “You're probably right about the other party attendees. I assume the Cruzes live here as well.”

“They always did,” Renie replied, “though they maintained a pied-à-terre, a condo downtown, not far from Heraldsgate Hill. Paul Tanaka never lived in the Bay Area. He was over in the Eastside suburbs. I don't know if he's moved down here or not.”

“What about Captain Swafford and Émile Grenier?” Judith asked. “Oh, and Dixie Beales.”

Renie paused as a trio of Japanese businessmen seated themselves at the next table. The bar was beginning to fill up. “Since they're all part of the crew,” she said, “I assume they were based out of the headquarters at home. It's possible they've been put up at a hotel—not to mention Dr. Selig—though I doubt they're staying anywhere as lavish as the St. Francis.”

The lemonades arrived. Renie informed the server that they'd be ordering food a bit later.

“I'd like to know,” Judith said as four very chic matrons passed by, “what, if anything, Rick and Rhoda St. George have found out. We should compare notes. Do you think they'd be in the phone book?”

“Possibly,” Renie replied, wincing. “Unfortunately, here comes someone who could tell us.”

Judith looked around Renie to see Biff McDougal huffing up the short staircase. He looked as out of place in the Compass Rose as Saddam Hussein at a Baptist picnic.

“Hey, there,” Biff called out, making several well-coiffed heads turn. “I gotta talk to you two.”

Clumsily, Biff pulled up an empty chair from a nearby table and plopped himself down. He didn't remove his hat, which evoked disapproving stares from the elegant matrons and the Japanese businessmen.

“Shoulda questioned you while you were still on the boat,” Biff said, talking around the ever-present toothpick. “Too many witnesses, couldn't catch up with 'em all.”

“But you're making progress?” Judith asked innocently.

“Huh?” The toothpick dangled from Biff's lower lip. “Oh, well, sure, but it's only been…what? Twelve hours or so?”

Judith didn't correct him. “Roughly,” she said, remembering Joe's adage that if progress wasn't made in the first twenty-four hours of a homicide case, the trail quickly turned cold.

The server was moving toward Biff, but the detective waved him away. “Let's start with you, Mrs. Jones, seeing as how I worked with your hubby awhile back.”

For an instant, Renie looked puzzled. “My…? Oh!” she said with a little laugh, recalling the tall tale she'd given to Biff. “Yes, yes. I thought you said ‘Bubby.' That's my brother-in-law.”

“Yeah, right.” Biff rearranged the rumpled folds of his raincoat. “So how well did you know the vic?”

“The…?” Again, Renie seemed briefly befuddled. “You mean, the victim, Magglio Cruz?”

“Har har.” Biff chuckled. “Who'dya think I mean, Barry Bonds?”

Renie's expression was arch. “No. I thought you meant his father, Bobby.”

Biff looked surprised. “You a baseball fan?”

Renie nodded. “You want stats or do you want to catch a killer?”

“Yeah, right,” Biff mumbled. “Where was I?”

“Back in Candlestick Park forty years ago,” Renie said drily. “You asked how well I knew Magglio Cruz. The answer is fairly well, but in a working relationship. I was the graphic-design artist for most of the cruise line's publications.”

“Oh, yeah?” Biff tried to look as if he knew what Renie was talking about. “I heard you had a row with Cruz when he moved the company down here. You made some threats, too.”

“Of a legal nature,” Renie replied, wearing the serious expression that Judith called her cousin's “boardroom face.”

Biff rolled the toothpick around his mouth. “You patched things up?”

“Yes. We came to a satisfactory agreement.”

“Like a bribe, with this free cruise and fancy digs?” He waved a hand, presumably taking in the entire hotel.

“It wasn't a bribe,” Renie declared. “It was compensation for any misunderstanding between us. I'm still a consultant to the Cruz line.”

“Oh?” Biff's small eyes got even smaller. “You sure? Now that Cruz is a goner, I mean.”

“There's hardly been time to discuss business,” Renie asserted in her haughtiest tone.

“Huh.” Biff paused. “So Cruz getting whacked wasn't good news for you, right?”

“Of course not. Aside from the work connection, I liked him.”

The detective went silent again before turning to Judith. “How about you, toots?”

“Toots?”
Judith scowled at Biff. “Only my mother is permitted to call me toots. You may address me as Mrs. Flynn.”

Biff shrugged. “Sure, why not? Okay, Mrs. Flynn, how well did you know the stiff?”

Fleetingly, Judith wondered if Joe had ever been so crass when dealing with a suspect. Maybe he had. The rough armor worn by cops was an occupational necessity.

“I'd never met him before in my life,” she stated.

“So how come you're on this cruise?”

“Because my cousin, Mrs. Jones, invited me,” Judith explained. “Her husband wasn't able to join her.”

“Hunh.” Biff studied both women as if he were trying to see behind what appeared to be innocent facades. “Let's get back to the murder,” he finally said. “Notice anything suspicious?”

The question seemed to be directed at Renie. “You mean like a dead body?”

Before Biff could reply, Judith spoke up: “I only glimpsed the body when I went to find Dixie Beales's evening bag. My cousin never saw it at all. Captain Swafford and his crew kept everyone away from the piano. It was Émile Grenier who found Mr. Cruz.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know that,” Biff retorted as a cell phone rang. “I've questioned most of the rest of that hoity-toity crowd.” The cell kept ringing. It sounded very close to the cousins. “Did either of you see anybody acting strange?”

“They're all a little strange,” Renie replied as the phone rang again. “Say, is that your cell?” she asked Biff.

“My…?” Biff looked around, perhaps expecting to see a phone floating in the air. “Oh!” He reached inside his raincoat. “You're right.” Fumbling with the cell's buttons, he shook his head. “Whatever happened to dials? I can't stand these newfangled…McDougal here,” he said into the receiver.

Judith and Renie exchanged bemused glances.

“The note?” Judith mouthed, discreetly nodding at Biff.