Dead Man Docking (19 page)

Judith was tempted to reveal her frustrating conversation with Anemone, but held back. If the young woman hadn't killed Émile—and Judith doubted that she had—then there was no point in revealing the episode until the allegedly humiliating reason for Anemone's presence at the store was discovered.

The foursome resumed their places during Beulah's presentation of a crown rib roast of lamb. Erma nodded her regal approbation and allowed Horace the honor of carving the portions. Jim Brooks returned to the table a moment later.

“Anemone's going to take a nap,” he announced.

“Very well,” Erma said. “Tomorrow I shall consult a hypnotist.”

“For Anemone?” Jim asked in surprise.

“No,” Erma replied coldly. “For myself. I've been told that hypnosis is useful in solving crimes. Somewhere in my subconscious I may know who stole my jewels.”

“How about that?” Rick remarked glibly. “I don't suppose your subconscious might reveal who killed Mags, Dixie, and Émile?”

Erma shrugged. “That's not my concern.”

Chevy, moving in a diffident manner, entered the dining room and came up behind Rick's chair. She whispered something into his ear and shuffled away.

“Excuse me,” Rick said, standing up. “I have an urgent phone call. I'll take it in the study, if I may.”

Erma shrugged again. “As you will. While you're there, please don't breathe on my ananas.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” Rick said with a charming smile.

CeeCee looked puzzled as she turned to look at Erma. “I thought you were sitting on it, Mrs. Giddon.”

Erma glared at CeeCee. “An ananas is a houseplant, otherwise known as a pineapple plant. It requires a high amount of humidity.”

“Oh.” CeeCee beamed. “Ain't that something? Growing pineapples in your own house! Got any cantaloupes or kumquats around here?”

“Hardly.” Erma looked as if she could barely endure conversing with CeeCee. “The particular type of pineapple plant I have doesn't produce fruit, only flowers.”

CeeCee blinked a couple of times. “Well, gee, I think I'd rather have one with real pineapples.” She looked across the table to Horace. “Why don't you buy me a banana tree, Panky? I'll bet I could grow one on your roof garden. Or,” she went on, gathering steam, “how about this—you could put all kinds of fruit plants and stuff in the cork-and-sponge museum. Like…what do you call it where there's a glass roof?”

“A greenhouse?” Ambrose suggested.

“An atrium,” Horace replied. The sour expression he'd been wearing disappeared. “That's not a bad idea, CeeCee.”

“All those plants would perk up the sponges,” CeeCee said. “I mean, sponges and corks are really swell and all that, but aren't they mostly brown? You need some green.”

“I do at that,” Horace said, and sighed heavily.

Rick reentered the dining room. “Nothing urgent,” he asserted, sitting down at the table. “By the way, this lamb is delicious.”

“It's from New Zealand,” Erma said. “I had it flown in by New Zealand Airlines.”

“You should've had duck,” CeeCee said. “Then it could have flown in by itself.” She let out a high-pitched giggle.

Judith didn't dare look at Renie. A surreptitious glance around the table caught Horace appearing as if he were on the verge of an anxiety attack; Erma in very high dudgeon; CeeCee apparently oblivious to everything except the mint jelly she was rolling around on her tongue; Ambrose with his head down in deep gloom; and even a silent Rick and Rhoda, who, for once, seemed to be at a loss for words.

But CeeCee certainly wasn't. Seated next to Ambrose, she poked his arm. “You aren't eating. What's up with that?”

“I'm a vegetarian,” Ambrose replied, pulling away from his dinner companion. “I only eat fish and other seafood.”

“Huh.” CeeCee frowned at the secretary. “You don't feel sorry for the poor lobster who gave up his life for your soup? You didn't wince when you thought about him boiling away in a big old pot?”

“That's different,” Ambrose mumbled.

Renie held up her fork from which dangled an asparagus spear. “How do you know that this little guy isn't screaming in pain? Or,” she continued, pointing to Horace's wineglass, “those grapes weren't groaning in agony while they were being stomped?”

Ambrose shuddered. “I don't want to think about it. All living things are precious.”

“Really?” Renie looked pugnacious. “Then why don't I see anybody lamenting over the corpses that are being stacked up like cordwood around here?”

Erma sucked in her breath. “Mrs. Jones! That's very crude!”

“It's very true,” Renie shot back. “The only person who seems affected by the recent tragedies is Connie Cruz. You act as if human beings are as disposable as paper towels.”

Although Judith agreed with Renie, she motioned for her cousin to shut up. But Erma had hauled herself to her feet and was wagging a pudgy finger.

“You are incredibly ill-mannered!” Erma bellowed. “You and that other person are no longer welcome in this house! Get out!”

“Gladly.” Renie had also stood up. Whether by accident or by design, the damask tablecloth got caught on the big face of her wristwatch. Her own place setting, along with Horace's wineglass and Rhoda's silverware, crashed to the floor.

Erma let out a piercing yelp. Renie yanked the damask cloth away from her watch, tearing a small hole in the fine fabric. “Cheap crap,” she said with a sneer. “I hope
that's
disposable.”

Renie stomped out of the dining room, leaving Judith no choice but to follow. Erma shouted invective after both cousins, but didn't attempt to follow them.

“Coz,” Judith said, aghast, “you shouldn't have done that! Erma will send you a bill for damages.”

“Screw her,” Renie snapped, picking up her handbag in the foyer. “You knew from the moment we met her that I'd do something outrageous. She's exactly the kind of wretched, selfish person who drives me wild.”

“Me, too,” Judith agreed, “but I don't make scenes.”

“Try it sometime,” Renie said with a wicked grin. “It feels great. I'll use my cell phone to call us a taxi.”

Renie was dialing when Chevy appeared in the foyer. “Can I give you a standing ovation?” she asked Renie.

“I wasn't acting,” Renie replied. “I don't see how you can put up with that old bat for five minutes.”

“Acting is all about discipline,” Chevy explained, ignoring Erma's shouts for help.

“You deserve an Academy Award or a Tony or some damned thing,” Renie declared. “Keep in touch. If Erma has a fit and falls in it, I want to be the first to know.”

Judith and Renie waited outside for the taxi. Neither of their new suit jackets could ward off the fog's damp chill. Almost five minutes passed before they heard the front door close behind them. Through the thick gray vapors, Judith could barely make out the forms of Rick and Rhoda St. George.

“The party didn't seem quite as festive without you,” Rick said. “May we share your cab?”

“If it ever comes,” Renie said. “What happened after we left?”

“The maid came to restore order,” Rhoda replied, keeping her champagne-colored Chanel coat wrapped closely over the matching cocktail dress. “Erma announced that dessert would be served in the parlor. That's when we decided to leave. Ricky and I spent a less stressful evening at Candlestick Park during the 'eighty-nine World Series earthquake.”

“We became engaged there,” Rick said, smiling at his wife. “I told her she made the earth move for me.”

“He's so sweet,” Rhoda remarked with an ironic expression. “He'd never have proposed if they'd been able to play the game that night.”

“Of course not,” Rick agreed. “When the series resumed, the Giants ended up getting swept. I would have been glum for days, and not in a marrying mood.”

A few yards down the street, Judith could make out two dim lights. “I think the taxi's finally here,” she said.

“Ah.” Rick nodded. “Before we get in, there's something you should know.”

Renie looked alarmed. “The killer's driving the cab?”

Rick smiled and shook his head. “Doubtful. But the phone call I received during dinner was from Biff McDougal. He wanted to let me know that they've been checking the local bank accounts of everyone involved in the investigation. It seems that on the first of the last four months, Con
nie Cruz made cash withdrawals on a personal account in the amounts of twenty, forty, fifty, and seventy-five thousand dollars.”

The headlights veered close to the curb. The taxi stopped.

“Were there any canceled checks in that amount?” Judith asked.

“No,” Rick replied, moving toward the cab. “Suggestive, though, don't you think?”

“Yes,” Judith said as Rick opened the rear door for the women.

One word had leaped into Judith's mind.

Blackmail.

D
ESPITE THE FACT
that their cabdriver didn't seem conversant in English, the foursome spoke only of inconsequential matters during the ride back to the St. Francis.

“Maybe,” Judith suggested as they drove past Union Square, “you should come up for a drink.”

“What a splendid idea!” Rick exclaimed. “I could use a martini about now. It's been minutes since I've had one.”

Upon arriving in the suite, Renie ordered a liter of Tanqueray No. 10, a fifth of Kina Lillet vermouth, and a jar of cocktail olives from room service. The small liquor bottles in the honor bar wouldn't go very far with their guests.

“It might not be blackmail,” Rhoda said while they waited. “It could be gambling debts, or even purchases. You know, like clothes or jewelry that she didn't want Mags to know she was buying.”

Rick looked dubious. “It's the increments and the regularity of dates that bother me. According to Biff, her other finances—as well as Mags's—are in order. So, apparently are those of the cruise line itself.”

Rhoda didn't seem convinced. “Connie has led a blameless life. That is,” she continued with a hint of cynicism in her expression, “as far as I know. I've always
considered us confidantes—up to a point. There are some things women don't even tell their dearest friends.”

“Such as a lover?” Judith put in.

Rhoda looked ambiguous. “Like that.”

“Nominees?” said Renie.

“Oh, dear.” Rhoda pressed a finger to her forehead. “Their circle includes some very charming men.” She shot a glance at Rick. “Not you, darling. That is, you're relentlessly charming, but I'd know if you were straying. Our liquor bills would be lower.”

Room service arrived. Rick insisted on doing the honors, including a hefty tip for the waiter. Judith and Renie, however, both insisted on drinking soda from the honor bar.

“I never could handle gin,” Renie admitted. “Frankly, I hate the taste. It's like drinking a Christmas tree.”

Rick's eyes twinkled. “And to think I thought you were a person of refined taste and habits.”

“Don't get sidetracked, darling,” Rhoda cautioned. “We were speaking of other sins before the gin bin arrived.”

“Speaking as an outsider,” Judith began as she scooped ice cubes out of a silver bucket, “I noticed how solicitous Émile Grenier was of Connie after Mags was killed.”

“Proprietary,” Renie added. “But Paul Tanaka behaved the same way this evening.”

“That's the effect Connie has always had on men,” Rhoda said, accepting a martini from her husband. “Perfect, darling,” she murmured after a first sip. “Connie is the type of woman who appears as if she needs protecting. The male sex has always treated her with the utmost gallantry. When we were younger, I used to find it annoying.”

Rick grinned at his wife. “That's because you look like you can take care of yourself ten times better than any man could.”

“Except for you, darling,” she responded with a semi-sweet smile.

Judith poured Diet 7UP into her glass. “I still have to wonder what caused Connie to faint at the dinner table. Until then, she seemed relatively composed.”

“Was anyone else conversing at the other end of the table?” Renie inquired. “I was way down there sitting by the late Wilbur Giddon's empty chair.”

“No,” Rhoda stated firmly. “You and Rick and I were the only ones talking at that point, except for Horace, who asked about Madame de Montespan. He was on my left, then Connie, with Erma at the head of the table. Ambrose and CeeCee were across from them, and at that point, they were keeping their mouths shut.”

“So was everybody else on my side of the table,” Judith said. “It wasn't what you'd call a lively social gathering.”

Rhoda removed her cigarette case and holder from her evening bag. “Do you mind?”

Both cousins shook their heads. Three lives in three days had been lost through violence; smoking seemed like a minor vice.

“It beats me,” Rick said, gazing out into the foggy night. “If anyone should have passed out during a discussion of courtesans, it'd be CeeCee. But her skin is as thick as it is fair.”

Renie, who was sitting in an armchair with her shoes off, set her Pepsi on a sidetable. “How long has CeeCee been Horace's girlfriend?”

Rick and Rhoda exchanged glances. “A year?” Rhoda offered.

Rick shrugged. “About that. Horace has never married. Over time, he's squired a number of beautiful blondes. As Horace gets older, the women keep getting younger. Some of them have had a bit more class than CeeCee. But not much.”

“What does he do?” Renie asked. “Pay them off when they get tiresome?”

“It's more the other way 'round,” Rhoda said, using a small porcelain dish as an ashtray. “The girls get tired of Horace. Of course they accumulate enough jewelry and cash or whatever before they pack up and leave. And in some cases, he's acted as a sort of marriage broker.”

Judith frowned. “How do you mean?”

Rhoda laughed carelessly. “Think about it, my dear. In today's world, few women want to be kept by a rich sugar daddy. If Horace doesn't choose independent career girls—or should I say they don't choose him?—they at least want legal and financial security. It isn't difficult for him to find one of his cronies a second or third bride, particularly of the trophy-wife variety.”

“In fact,” Rick put in, “Horace has made a couple of matches for younger men who have—old-fashioned as it may sound—fallen in love with the ladies in question—or, if you will, questionable ladies.”

“Why,” Renie murmured, “do I feel as if I'm out of this league?”

“Because you are,” Rhoda said kindly. “And I think it's terribly refreshing.”

Judith felt equally at sea. “Is Horace recompensed for making these marital arrangements?”

Rick turned away from the window and winked. “In his own way. Financial advice, shall we say.”

“You mean stock tips?” Judith responded. “Inside-trader kind of information?”

“Whatever the market will stand,” Rick answered blandly. “Horace is generous with his ladies, but he's not rich in the way of really rich people. If you know what I mean.”

“We don't,” Renie replied.

“We
really
don't,” Judith emphasized.

“It's like…” Rhoda looked at Rick. “You explain, darling.”

Rick blew a couple of smoke rings. “A rich person might decide to take off tomorrow for the islands—Hawaii, Tahiti, the Bahamas. A really rich person might fly to an island, too—but he or she would probably own it.”

“Oh,” Renie said. “But,” she went on, “Horace is rich enough to sink his money into corks and sponges.”

Rick's expression didn't change. “Perhaps.”

“I find this all really creepy,” Renie declared. “Or maybe I should say sordid. How does a seemingly gentle
soul like Anemone Giddon float through these polluted waters?”

“Erma's very protective,” Rhoda replied. “Anemone has gone to private schools, would-be suitors are thoroughly investigated, and she rarely goes anywhere without her mother. You can imagine what Jim Brooks has endured.”

Judith poured more soda into her glass. “I gather that Jim isn't from a wealthy family. How did he make the cut?”

“A good question,” Rhoda said. “Jim's family used to be moderately well off. Unfortunately, they made some foolish investments in Silicon Valley-dot.com stocks that collapsed about four years ago. His father died not long after that, and his mother is a victim of early Alzheimer's disease. She's in a home near Walnut Creek. Jim had always wanted to be a doctor, but the money simply wasn't there. About that time he met Anemone at the wedding of mutual friends. They began seeing each other and eventually became engaged.”

“But, I assume,” Judith interjected, “only after Erma had thoroughly investigated him.”

“That's right,” Rhoda affirmed. “Erma didn't like the idea that Jim's family had become poor because of bad judgment, but she tried not to hold the sins of the father against the son. She agreed to pay Jim's way through Stanford, but only on the understanding that the couple wouldn't marry until he finished medical school.”

“An offer Jim couldn't refuse,” Rick remarked.

Judith nodded. “I assume that Jim and Anemone are deeply in love?”

Rhoda was quick to catch the skepticism in Judith's voice. “You think not?”

But Judith merely shrugged. “These people seem more motivated by money than emotion.”

Rick chuckled. “I was motivated by both. I certainly wouldn't have married Rhoda if she'd been—excuse the expression—
poor
.”

Judith glanced at Rhoda to see if she'd taken offense. But she hadn't.

“Of course not, darling,” she said. “If I'd been poor, I'd have been a completely different person. Not to mention that I wouldn't have looked half so enticing. Money may not buy beauty, but it certainly can enhance one's natural endowments.”

Again, Judith considered telling the St. Georges about Anemone's strange request for an alibi. And again she decided not to say anything until she knew the reason for the young woman's behavior. Instead, she asked about Ambrose Everhart's background.

Rhoda responded, but only after allowing Rick to refresh her cocktail. “As you can imagine, Erma has had problems keeping hired help. She pays fairly well, but she's so hard to please. Ambrose has been her secretary for about a year. Previously, he'd been working for some environmental agency. I understand he wasn't keen on leaving that job because he's very conscientious about the environment, but such organizations have to keep a lid on salaries. The money tempted him, and because of Erma's social and civic obligations, Ambrose has sufficient spare time to still take part in issue-oriented concerns.”

“Does he have a social life?” Renie asked.

“Not much time for that,” Rick said, between puffs on his cigarette. He blew a few more smoke rings. Rhoda waited a moment, and then did the same. Her smaller rings drifted through Rick's larger ones. It was obviously a trick they had taught themselves by long practice. It occurred to Judith that there was something romantic—if unhealthful—about the stunt. The St. Georges seemed to be perfectly attuned to each other.

For a moment, Judith reflected on a different domestic situation, the more dysfunctional relationships inside the Pacific Heights mansion. “Propinquity,” she finally murmured. “Is it possible that Ambrose might have fallen in love with Anemone? Or vice versa?”

Rick cocked his head to one side. “I don't doubt Anemone's feelings for Jim. But I would say that Ambrose
may have his eye on someone else in the Giddon household.”

“Beulah?” Renie blurted in surprise.

Rick shook his head. “No. He may have fallen for Jim. You see, Ambrose is gay.”

 

After the St. Georges had left, Judith kicked herself. “I should have guessed. It's not as if we don't have a sizable gay community at home.”

“Your gaydar must have gotten lost in the fog,” Renie suggested.

“Until now,” Judith said as the cousins began to get ready for bed, “I thought maybe Anemone was meeting Ambrose at Neiman Marcus and that's why she was so embarrassed.
Humiliated
was the word she used. Obviously, I was on the wrong track.”

“We're assuming Jim is straight?”

Judith threw up her hands. “Who knows? The only thing I can believe about him is that he fell into a sweet deal when he hooked up with Anemone. Of course he seems to be someone Erma can control. Having his way paid through Stanford medical school isn't exactly a token bribe.”

“If he makes it,” Renie noted. “Jim doesn't strike me as the sharpest blade in the butcher block.”

“True enough,” Judith allowed, carefully hanging up her new suit. “On the other hand, he may be one of those people whose brains are science-oriented, but don't cope well with everyday matters.”

“He may also be Anemone's first love,” Renie pointed out. “They're both very young. She's led a sheltered life. And the wedding isn't supposed to take place until after he's out of med school. That'll take years. A lot can happen between now and then.”

Wrapping the plush terry-cloth hotel robe around her tired body, Judith sat down on the bed. “We're not looking at any of this in the right way. Let's go back to the beginning.”

“You mean to Magglio Cruz's murder?” Renie asked, sitting down opposite Judith.

“Right. What's the one thing about all these deaths that's the same and yet different?”

Renie thought for a moment. “The manner thereof. Mags was stabbed, Dixie was poisoned, and Émile was strangled.”

“Exactly.” Judith smiled her approval. “The weapon used to kill Mags was something at hand, and possibly not premeditated. That suggests an argument, a sudden burst of violence. It could also indicate that the killer panicked.”

Renie frowned. “Not enough to keep him or her from getting rid of the weapon. Or, for that matter, to let that panic show after the crime was committed.”

“Which indicates the killer has a certain amount of self-control or is used to working under pressure,” Judith pointed out.

“I'm not sure that description lets us eliminate anybody involved,” Renie said after a brief pause. “Every one of the suspects we know is either obnoxiously up-front—like Erma—or may have a hidden agenda—like CeeCee. Furthermore, they all live in a pressure-cooker kind of world. Not to mention that someone of this ilk who has just committed murder—especially under volatile circumstances—usually has strong survival instincts. Even a frail flower like Anemone would hardly walk out into the middle of the ship's saloon and announce, ‘I done it.'”