Dead Man Docking (24 page)

This time, Renie translated with relative ease. “Émile got really banged up in that fall. This is two weeks later, and he's out of the hospital, but has to retire.”

“He did have a limp,” Judith pointed out. “Maybe the purser job was a consolation prize.”

“Émile earned it,” Renie said. “He broke his leg, his collarbone, and his ankle. Ah! De Fuentes also retired from racing, citing…I can't quite get this quote, but it's something to the effect that he didn't want to endanger his horses and riders any further.”

“That sounds very noble,” Judith said.

“Maybe not.” Renie paused, still translating. “The article states that people in the know believe that de Fuentes may have been involved in—bribes, I guess—with the stewards and other officials. It sounds as if he left the sport under a cloud.”

“Hunh.” Judith leaned against the desk. “Is that blackmail-worthy?”

“Could be,” Renie responded. “It certainly wouldn't be good publicity for Cruz Cruises if it got out that Mrs. Cruz's father is a crook.”

“It's no big secret,” Judith objected. “I mean, here we are, reading all about it on the Internet.”

“True,” Renie agreed. “But how many people have done that?”

“At least one,” Judith said. “Dixie. Is that why she was killed?”

Renie considered. “It'd make sense if Dixie and Émile had been the only victims. They may have been in cahoots. But why murder Mags? There's no mention of his name in these articles, and I'm not even sure if he and Connie were married back then. What's more, I never heard him talk about horses or gambling—except, of course, for the casinos he had on his ships.”

“That's odd,” Judith said in a distant voice.

“What do you mean?”

“Mags's wife had a living room full of horse pictures, yet he never mentioned anything about it?”

Renie shrugged. “I was always at business meetings with him, except for the occasional lunch or cocktail party. The subject probably never came up.”

“Maybe.” Judith sounded vague.

“Well?”

“Nothing,” Judith said, shaking her head. “Nothing important, anyway. Let's get back to basics. Like weapons.”

“I thought we knew what the weapons were,” Renie said, signing out from the Internet. “Knife sharpener, methanol, decorative cord.”

“Two out of three are right.” Judith was pacing, arms folded across her chest. “Either Rick is holding out on us—or Biff's not telling Rick everything he knows. I don't like it.”

“So which of the three weapons is wrong?” Renie inquired, but held up a hand before her cousin could answer.
“The knife sharpener. There can't be any doubt about the poison because of the lab results, and we saw the cord for ourselves. But whatever killed Mags wasn't found.”

Judith nodded. “That's why I think there's something the cops know—and maybe Rick does, too—that we don't.” She sat down on the sofa. “Think back to the cabaret, the cocktail party, everything that led up to Mags's murder. You have a visual memory, what do you see?”

One elbow resting on the desk, Renie closed her eyes. “Food.”

“Naturally.” Judith's tone was dry.

“Beverages, the bar, the buffet, the cigarette and cigar smoke.” She stood up and went to the honor bar. “Which reminds me, I need another Pepsi.” Opening the door of the small fridge, Renie swore. “We're out. They must have forgotten to restock today. I'm going down the hall to the pop machine.”

Judith sighed. “I thought we were sleuthing.”

“Not without Pepsi,” Renie replied, heading out the door.

Judith drummed her nails on the sofa arm. Just when she felt they were getting somewhere, the train of thought had been broken by her cousin's Pepsi addiction. But Renie was back in two minutes, carrying a can of Pepsi and a plastic bucket.

“Ice,” she said. “I have to have ice for my Pepsi.”

“Of course,” Judith said with a tinge of sarcasm. “Okay, where were we?”

Renie, however, had gone back to the honor bar. “Hold on. Let me pour the Pepsi and some ice in a glass like a real person. Then I'm putting the ice in the fridge so it won't melt. I'll have to take out some of these snack foods to make room. Want some pretzels?”

“No, thanks,” Judith snapped. “You're driving me—” She stopped, leaning forward on the sofa and staring at Renie. “That's it! Coz, you're a genius!”

“Huh?” Renie, who was on her knees tossing small bags of chips, nuts, and other snacks onto the floor, looked over her shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

“Ice,” Judith said, standing up. “The pheasant ice sculpture with long sharply pointed tail feathers.”

“Oh, come on!” Renie cried, closing the honor bar door and also getting to her feet. “Explain yourself.”

“I will,” Judith said reasonably. “It's been done before, with icicles. The weapon melts and disappears. No fingerprints. That's why the floor around the piano was slippery, why Dixie's bag fell off the bench and skidded. The ship was rocking a bit, remember? The deck couldn't have been even.”

Renie was looking very dubious. “So nobody notices the killer breaking a piece off the ice sculpture?”

“It could be managed,” Judith asserted. “When you're at a buffet, what are you looking at?”

“The food,” Renie admitted. “You're right—nobody has eyes for anything else. But there were servers there.”

“Servers serving very demanding people,” Judith pointed out. “I realize whoever did it had to act fast before the ice melted. But think about it. It's possible.”

“It had to be fast,” Renie allowed, “no matter what the weapon. There must have been people backstage getting ready for Dixie's recital.”

“That's true,” Judith agreed. “Not to mention that you'd have to act fast before the ice began to melt. Now who in that gathering suddenly realized that Mags had to die? And why?” She glanced out the window, noting that the fog was rolling in once more. “My brain's fogged,” she said. “Besides basic information, there's something we're missing.”

“Like Erma's jewels,” Renie said. “I wonder where they are.”

Judith stopped in the middle of the room. “Coz! We've been idiots!”

“What? A minute ago, I was a genius.”

“That was then, this is now,” Judith said in a disgusted voice. “Do you realize that if our fingerprints were on the stuff they found in our safe aboard ship…”

“The ones we looked at in her suite were fake,” Renie finished for her. “Erma never had the jewels in the first place when she was on the
San Rafael
.”

“And we didn't know the difference because we aren't used to diamonds and emeralds and rubies and such.” Judith came to rest on the sofa's arm. “The others might have noticed, but we wouldn't, not even up close.”

“And everybody else was so used to seeing Erma all decked out in her gem-laden glory that they wouldn't pay much attention.” Renie got up from the chair and returned to the honor bar. “I'm hungry. Shall I nibble or should we consider dinner?”

“Only you could think of food at a time like this.” Judith glanced at her watch. “It's not even five-thirty.”

“It's always time to think of food,” Renie grumbled. “I'm going to eat those pretzels.”

“Do that,” Judith said as the phone rang. “Joe?” She moved to the desk and picked up the receiver.

“You must come by for a drink,” Rhoda said in less than her usual nonchalant manner. “Ricky is so brilliant I can hardly stand it. He has news.”

“What is it?” Judith asked.

“I can't tell you over the phone,” Rhoda said. “We'll send a car. You must be absolutely worn out from all those reckless cabdrivers in this town.”

“That's really not necessary,” Judith replied. “It's only a short ride to your place.”

“But it's all uphill,” Rhoda asserted. “I must insist. Is fifteen minutes enough time?”

“Well…yes,” Judith said, glancing at Renie, who was slurping Pepsi and stuffing her face with pretzels. “We'll be out front at”—she checked her watch—“five forty-five.”

“Perfect. See you soon.” Rhoda hung up.

“Do you suppose they'll have hors d'oeuvres?” Renie asked wistfully.

“We can eat dinner afterward,” Judith replied, with an anxious gaze at the phone. “I wish Joe would call back before we leave. I should have told him to reach me on my cell.”

“You never have it on,” Renie said, dropping the empty
pretzel bag into the wastebasket. “I never turn mine on either, unless there's an emergency. It took me three years to memorize my own number.”

“You never were good at numbers,” Judith said absently. Her mind was elsewhere, going over her theory about the weapon that had killed Mags. Surely the forensics experts had figured it out. Maybe that was Rick's big news.

The cousins headed out, arriving at the curb a couple of minutes before the appointed time. Judith, wearing her new gray suit, felt the damp chill through the jacket.

“Don't they ever have spring around here?” Renie demanded. “I was here in June once when it was so foggy I got lost in Maiden Lane, and it's only two blocks long.”

A Lincoln Town Car glided out of the fog and was forced to double-park in front of the busy hotel. Judith could see the driver inside and motioned for him to stay put. The cousins hurried to get inside.

“Hi,” Judith said, noting the chauffeur's cap on the man at the wheel. “I assume you're the St. Georges' driver.”

The man nodded.

“I knew they had a maid,” Renie noted. “Rhoda mentioned that they'd sent her on vacation because they expected to be gone on the cruise.”

“Like Connie's housekeeper,” Judith remarked as they climbed up Nob Hill. She was thankful that the ride was much smoother than their nerve-jarring trip from the Marina district.

The chauffeur pulled the Town Car into the garage of the St. Georges' building and parked in a reserved space. The cousins got out before he could assist them. Wordlessly, he led them to an elevator.

“I'm anxious to hear what Rick has to say,” Judith said as they waited. “He and Biff must have come up with something.”

The elevator doors slid open; the cousins stepped inside. The driver followed, backing in and pushing the button for the penthouse. He was still turned away from Judith and
Renie. Suddenly curious, Judith moved forward just enough to see the man's profile. Under the cap, all she could glimpse was a sharp nose and a graying goatee. But as the elevator moved directly to the top floor, she realized that he looked familiar.

“Have you worked very long for the St. Georges?” Judith asked.

The man nodded.

“How long?” Judith inquired as the car slid slowly to a stop.

“Two years,” the man replied.

Judith knew that voice. She'd heard it somewhere, but couldn't place it. She was concentrating so hard on trying to remember that she almost tripped getting out of the elevator.

Rhoda wasn't in the foyer to greet them. But as soon as the cousins and their driver walked into the living room, they saw their hostess sitting in a chair that looked as if it had been occupied by a Chinese emperor. Judith didn't remember the elaborate piece of furniture, which was in front of the closed draperies.

“My dears!” Rhoda exclaimed, still not sounding like her usual self. She wasn't acting like the Rhoda they'd come to know, either: There was no martini at hand. “Come in,” she urged, “sit down.”

Judith and Renie obliged. The chauffeur remained in the doorway between the foyer and the living room.

“Where's Rick?” Judith asked.

“Rick's not here at the moment,” Rhoda replied. “Unfortunately.”

“For you,” the chauffeur said loudly, startling Judith.

The voice.
Judith knew it, but still couldn't place it with a face. At that moment, the man came into the middle of the living room and took off his chauffeur's cap, tossing it across the room, where it landed on a Chinese marble horse head.

His head was shaved. Judith recognized him at once. So did Renie.

“Hey!” Renie cried. “You're the waiter dink who wouldn't bring me a taco salad! What's going on?”

“We want what you've got,” the man said, jabbing a finger at the cousins. “Old Lady Giddon's jewels.”

Judith stared at the man. She hadn't put face and voice together because she'd never heard him speak—not when she could see him. But she had listened to him talk aboard ship. It was the conversation she'd overheard from the gangway between Biff McDougal and a man called Blackie.

In shock, Judith looked beyond him to Rhoda. “I don't understand. Rhoda, you know we didn't steal the jewels! How could you let this happen?”

Rhoda sighed. “It wasn't easy. But I can always be persuaded at gunpoint.”

Judith gaped as the draperies rustled behind Rhoda's chair and CeeCee Orr slipped out from behind them holding a very shiny revolver.

“I
TRIED
TO
tell them you didn't steal the jewels,” Rhoda said in a plaintive voice, “but they wouldn't listen. I'm so sorry I had to lure you up here, but I didn't have much choice. I think they really would have shot me, and the idea of being dead isn't terribly appealing. It's even worse than the prospect of inedible hospital food.”

“You talk too much,” CeeCee said, her features hardening as she moved farther into the room and kept the gun aimed at Rhoda. “Keep your trap shut and let these other two dames tell us how they switched the loot and where the real stuff is now.”

“You mean,” Judith blurted, “you two stole Erma's jewels?”

“Sure,” CeeCee replied. “It was a cinch. The old broad was so damned careless. Blackie and I had it all set up beforehand. After he delivered Anemone's salad, he told me to go get Horace out of the Giddon suite. You two were gone by then, so I made an excuse to use Erma's powder room and swiped the case. The next morning, I hid the jewels in your safe while you two were in the bedroom getting perfume. I left just after Blackie brought your food, and told him it was done. I knew you'd never look in your safe—you didn't seem like the type who'd own
anything worth stealing. You never even bothered to open the thing. The key was still in the lock.”

“We never did touch that safe,” Judith said hotly. “The one place the police
didn't
find our fingerprints was there.” Biff had never told them so, but it was true. “We never knew the jewels were in there. The items you stole were fake from the get-go.”

“That's crap,” Blackie retorted. “You think we wouldn't know what was fake and what was the real deal?”

“I think
you
would,” Judith said. “I'm not sure about CeeCee.”

CeeCee shot Blackie a sharp look. “What's she talking about?”

“Damned if I know,” Blackie growled.

“We both know real goods,” CeeCee asserted. “We've done this before, back in the Big Apple. We can't be conned.”

“Yes, you can,” Judith insisted. “You're too vain to wear glasses, and maybe you can't use contact lenses. I'm positive you couldn't read the ingredients on my bottle of Red Door perfume. And I'm certain that you couldn't tell glass from my…from diamonds,” she amended.

“I'm telling you,” CeeCee began angrily, “Blackie here knows—”

“Yes, he does,” Judith broke in. She smiled in a pitying manner. “Let's end this farce. Blackie, tell CeeCee to put the gun down. I know you're an undercover cop.”

“That's bull!” CeeCee cried. The gun wavered in her hand. Blackie dove for her, but she fired twice. One bullet hit him in the shoulder. The other went right between the cousins into the sofa.

Blackie reeled in front of CeeCee. She was panting and staring at his writhing body. Rhoda leaped out of the chair from behind, grabbed the martini shaker from the bar, and smacked the heavy silver jug against CeeCee's blond head. The gun dropped to the floor. CeeCee fell on top of Blackie.

“Good Lord,” Rhoda said under her breath. “We must call for help.”

Judith was already picking up the receiver from the end table
by the sofa. Renie had gone to assist Rhoda, who was trying to pull the unconscious CeeCee off of Blackie. The wounded man was holding his shoulder as blood spread over his gray jacket.

“Do be careful of the carpet,” Rhoda cautioned as she and Renie succeeded in rolling CeeCee away. “It cost the earth, and bloodstains are so difficult to remove.” She put an arm around Blackie to help him sit up straight. “Serena, could you please get some sheets—not the Egyptian cotton, but the cheaper ones—from the linen closet in the hall?”

Judith finished her call, having given the 911 operator the necessary information. She used a cocktail napkin to pick up the revolver and place it in her purse.

Despite his obvious pain, Blackie was cursing a blue streak. “Women's intuition!” he finally gasped, looking at Judith. “You got me shot!”

“It was hardly intuition, womanly or otherwise.” Judith made a self-deprecating gesture. “We didn't steal the jewels, so we realized later that they must have been fake when we saw them in Erma's stateroom. If you were a real jewel thief, you'd have known that, too. CeeCee wouldn't because her eyesight isn't very good, especially up close. But you did know, didn't you? I wondered about you—except that I only knew the name, not the face. I overheard you talking to Biff on the ship and then I happened to catch part of a conversation between Biff and Rick St. George. I wasn't sure if you were a good or a bad guy, but it dawned on me tonight that you must be working with the police.” She saw Blackie nod. “So what were you doing? Trying to figure out what happened to Erma's real jewels?”

Renie returned with the sheets. A staggering, wheezing Asthma was right behind her. “He was locked in the linen closet,” Renie said.

Rhoda rushed to the dog. “Baby! I've been so worried! I wondered what CeeCee had done with you!” Rhoda buried her face in the animal's ropelike fur. “Komondors are so loyal. CeeCee must have known he'd defend me to the death. If he didn't collapse first, of course.”

CeeCee was moaning, her eyes still closed, but turning
her head and attempting to grope her skull. “Where am I? What happened?” she gasped.

“Where've I heard that before?” Renie muttered. She went to CeeCee and put a foot on the dazed woman's stomach. “Be thankful I'm not wearing spike heels,” she said.

CeeCee slowly opened her eyes. She looked up at Renie and began calling her a colorful variety of obscene names.

“Hey!” Renie shouted, applying more pressure with her foot. “I can outcuss you any day! My father was a seafaring man.”

CeeCee shut up. Judith could hear sirens, but that didn't mean they were headed for the St. Georges' address. Sirens in San Francisco seemed almost routine.

She watched Rhoda deftly minister to Blackie, despite Asthma's licking of his mistress's face. “It's not too bad,” Rhoda declared. “You'll definitely live. By the way, did you used to be a crook?”

“Yeah,” Blackie replied, his voice a bit stronger. “That dame's right,” he said, nodding weakly at CeeCee. “We worked together eight, nine years ago. Not long after a job we pulled on Central Park West, I got caught going solo. I tried to cut a deal with the cops while I was in prison. When I came up for parole, I offered them my services. They laughed their heads off, so I moved out here. I met a guy in a bar who worked as a consultant for the local boys in blue. I told him my idea. He liked it, and I got hired on a year ago.”

“Really. How nice for you.” Rhoda finished her task, giving Blackie a gentle pat on his good shoulder. “And who might that consultant be?”

Blackie laughed, though it obviously hurt. “You ought to know. It was your old man, Rick St. George.”

 

“Ricky,” Rhoda said in a severe tone, “doesn't always tell me everything.” She'd poured herself a martini and asked the cousins to help themselves. “So why the farce?”

“It was CeeCee's idea,” Blackie said. “She was sure those two”—he pointed at Judith and Renie—“really had the jewels. I had to play along or blow my cover.”

CeeCee was still on the floor, though Renie no longer held her down. “If they didn't do it, then that old bat Erma must have hocked them!” CeeCee railed. “Nasty old bitch! Why doesn't somebody bump
her
off?”

“Why would she pawn her precious jewels?” Judith inquired, now hearing sirens very close by.

“Because Racey—” CeeCee stopped and made a disgusted face. “That jerk of a Horace has blown all his money on his stupid cork-and-sponge museum, that's why. He's in debt to his eyeballs. If you ask me, he's bringing Erma down with him. Serves her right for hanging out with that old creep. If he'd set me up the way I wanted, I wouldn't have had to steal anything. But the SOB can't afford me.” She waved a finger at Blackie. “And you! I'm not sorry I shot you, you double-crosser! All you guys are a bunch of lying, cheating, cheap bastards! I hate men!” CeeCee burst into blubbering tears just as Rick arrived with the cops.

 

An hour later everyone, including the EMTs and the firefighters, had left except for the cousins and the St. Georges. Seemingly unruffled, Rick and Rhoda were sipping martinis. Calming their own nerves, Judith cradled a stiff scotch while Renie sipped Canadian whiskey and tried to ward off Asthma's nuzzling advances.

“Really, darling,” Rhoda said, pretending to pout, “you might have told me about Blackie. This entire charade could have been avoided.”

Rick shrugged. “Sorry, sugar. But I'd promised Biff—and Blackie—to keep mum. It was a police matter. I can't violate their trust.”

Rhoda blew Rick a kiss. “I forgive you. But next time, consider the possible consequences of leaving me in the dark.”

“Ah,” Rick said in a seductive tone, “but that's where I like to find you.”

Rhoda seemed appeased. Judith, however, had a different kind of question for Rick. “Do you really think Erma pawned her jewelry?”

“I think she sold it in some underhanded manner,” Rick said. “We've been getting reports of a couple of pieces showing up in some very odd places, including Hong Kong and Bangkok. I suspect Horace has been acting as her go-between.”

“So,” Rhoda remarked, “Erma intended to cash in on the insurance money?”

Rick nodded. “Horace knew more than he let on about CeeCee's background. He chose her, not the other way around. Horace knew that sooner or later, temptation would get the best of CeeCee.”

“How,” Judith inquired, “did Horace get the jewelry out of the country?”

Rick smiled in his devilish manner. “I believe Wilbur was his unwitting accomplice.”

Judith gaped. “You mean…?”

Rick nodded. “The urn. Horace probably dumped poor old Wilbur into the landfill somewhere and shipped the urn off for burial abroad. There'd be records. Biff's checking on that.”

Rhoda raised her glass. “To my adorable, clever Ricky.”

The cousins joined the toast. Asthma barfed on the carpet.

“Oh, no!” Rhoda jumped from her chair. “Poor doggie, he must still be upset. Excuse me while I clean up after him. Come, Asthma, follow Mommy.” The dog stumbled and wheezed after his mistress.

“At least he missed my shoes,” Renie noted.

Judith, however, was still considering crime. “But CeeCee didn't kill Mags or Dixie or Émile, right?”

Rick was busy with the cocktail shaker. “No. It's a wonder she didn't kill Horace, though. And a damned good thing she didn't shoot either of you or my darling wife,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

“Yes,” Renie said drily, “I hate it when my new Chetta B outfit from Saks gets riddled with bullets.”

“Speaking of weapons,” Judith put in, her mind far from fashion, “are you and Biff still certain that a knife sharpener was used to kill Mags?”

For just a brief moment, Rick's hand froze on the cocktail
shaker. “Why, yes.” He undid the stopper and began to refill his glass. “You ask because…?”

“Because…I just wondered.” Judith's smile wasn't quite convincing, and she knew it. “That is, it seems like an odd weapon if the killer was a woman. It would be hard to hide, given the simplicity of those thirties evening gowns.”

“But not impossible,” Rhoda said, returning with rags, a pail, and a spray bottle of carpet cleaner. “For example, I could have hidden it under my jacket. There was so much padding at the shoulders.”

“But you didn't, did you, darling?” Rick asked.

Rhoda, who was wearing something elegant in green and pink that might have come from Versace, was scrubbing the rug on her hands and knees. Judith thought it was a little like watching Marie Antoinette clean house at the Petit Trianon.

“Ricky,” Rhoda said without looking up, “why on earth would I want to kill poor Mags? Frankly, I can't think why anyone would.”

“Stop worrying your beautiful head about that,” Rick said, sitting down again. “After the funeral tomorrow, I intend to reveal all.”

Rhoda glanced at Rick; Judith gazed at him with curiosity; Renie was staring in the direction of the kitchen, apparently wondering if appetizers were available.

“Is that why we offered to hold the funeral reception here?” Rhoda asked.

“Of course.” Rick twirled his glass. “You can wait that long, can't you? Certain facts need to be verified.”

“Facts?” Rhoda tossed the rags into the bucket and stood up. “Since when did you rely on facts, darling? It's your hunches that usually pinpoint the killer.”

“True enough,” Rick conceded. “Yet it's wondrously strange how bringing people together and discussing the crime can force the guilty party to spill the beans.”

Renie looked puzzled. “Does it really work that way?”

“It can,” Rick replied. “It has. It might.”

Judith's expression was noncommittal. “Let's hope so.”
She savored the expensive scotch before posing the question she'd wanted to ask ever since relative peace had broken out. “Did Biff track down that methanol sale?”

“Yes, finally,” Rick replied. “Only chemical companies sell it, and there are several in the Bay Area.
Denatured alcohol
is another term for it, with all kinds of purposes other than poisoning people. It's perfectly legal.”

“And?” Judith prodded.

Rick lighted a cigarette in a leisurely manner. “The methanol receipt was signed by Ambrose Everhart.”

“Ambrose!” Judith exclaimed. “Why?”

Rick shrugged. “Good question. He's at a Save City Hall Plaza rally, so we can't talk to him until the demonstration breaks up. But the other thing we learned was that the methanol—I'm not saying Ambrose did it—was put in Dixie's bottled water, possibly on the ship. It seems Dixie liked freebies—she took all the bar and snack items with her when she went ashore.”