Dead Man Docking (26 page)

“Lodi!” Anemone squealed. “That's like…nowhere!”

“It's somewhere, all right,” Ambrose said in a sour voice. “They have terrible groundwater problems, despite their best efforts to clean it up.”

“Oh, damn your environmental concerns!” Horace shouted. “Your kind would have stopped progress in 1602!”

Ambrose shook his fist. “And your stupid museum would add pollution in the bay! You plan to build it on the water!”

“Boys!” Rick raised his voice, even though his stance was growing slightly unsteady. “Let's all get along, shall we?” He looked again at Connie, whose sobs had subsided while
she received attention from Dr. Selig. “I'm sorry, Connie, to have brought up painful memories. Believe me, it's better in the long run to get this all out in the open. You weren't to blame for what your father did years ago. But you shouldn't have kept it a secret from Mags.”

Connie looked over the doctor's shoulder. “But I didn't,” she protested. “Mags knew about…the racing accidents.”

“But he didn't know the details about how your father lost his money or that your mother killed herself,” Rick said, allowing Rhoda to fill his glass to the top. “No one did until Flakey did some solid investigative reporting in the past few days.”

“Ah.” Judith's voice was barely audible.

“Flakey's smarter than he looks,” Renie whispered.

“Now,” Rick said, growing solemn though certainly not sober, “we come to the murders. The terrible part is that there was no real motive for the first murder—it was, in fact, an accident. The killer's intended victims were Dixie and Émile, not Magglio Cruz. The entire evening was staged—not just to suit the ship's theme and decor, but also for murder. The killer knew the plans for the event, including the pheasant ice sculpture that adorned the buffet table.”

“Do we have to listen to this?” Jim Brooks asked in a cranky voice. “I should be helping Dr. Selig. I could take everybody's blood pressure. It seems to be running kind of high.”

“Captain Swafford,” Rick said, “you had been given detailed instructions about the event, correct?”

Biff gestured at Swafford, but Rick waved him off.

The captain, however, took umbrage. “Of course. The
San Rafael
is my ship.”

“Yes.” Rick smiled benignly. “You were given command despite your dumping violations in Alaskan waters. Mags was a loyal employer.”

“I'm a bloody good mariner,” the captain averred. “I've been sailing ships for almost forty years. How's an old sea dog like me supposed to keep up with all these damnable new rules and regulations?”

“It's your job, you twit!” Ambrose shouted.

The captain turned on Ambrose, who was standing only a few feet away. “Why, you little…”

“Enough.” Rick's voice remained calm, but the authority in it made Swafford hesitate.

“The murders,” Judith whispered to Renie. “Can't we get back to the murders?”

“Your favorite,” Renie retorted, moving on to the smoked salmon.

“In any event,” Rick continued, “the stage was set—literally and figuratively. Now I must amend the original statement about the weapon.” His gaze moved quickly around the room, though Judith thought it lingered just a second longer on her.

“Initially, there was some confusion,” Rick said, “because a stabbing death suggests a knife or similar sharp instrument.” He paused to hiccup twice. “'Scuse me.” His smile was decidedly off center. “But I—that is, our gallant police—knew the weapon was no ordinary item. I—that is, they—felt it best to mislead everyone, 'specially the killer.”

He paused to sip more of his martini. “Dixie had gone backstage to get ready for her piano performance. The killer waited for that moment, leisurely went behind the buffet, broke off a very sharp tail feather, and followed Dixie. But the first person to show up behind the saloon was Mags. Naturally, he wanted to know why this person was clutching a lethal-looking piece of ice. The killer made a joke. Mags apparently believed it was a harmless prank and turned his back. Panicking, the killer struck—and Mags fell into the piano. There was nothing the killer could do about Dixie now. She would have to be disposed of later. The methanol was originally intended for Émile, but the plan was altered, to be used for Dixie instead. And,” Rick said, lowering his voice slightly, “we know that Ambrose purchased a quantity of methanol earlier in the week. The police have the receipt.”

“Darn tootin',” Biff said, making a move toward Ambrose. “Should I…?”

“No!” Ambrose had turned ashen. “I didn't…I mean, I did…but I bought it for—” He fell facedown on the carpet at Biff's feet.

“I can handle this one!” Jim cried, rushing to the fallen man's side.

“Never mind,” grumbled Dr. Selig. “I'll do it.”

“Brandy,” Rhoda murmured, going back to the bar.

Ambrose was already coming around. “Relax, my young friend,” Rick said, motioning for Biff to back off. “I know you didn't buy it for yourself. You got it for Connie so she could make her own perfume. She's always done that because of her allergy to commercial scents. Isn't that so, Dr. Selig?”

“Certainly,” the doctor replied, forcing Ambrose to look him straight in the eye. “You'll be fine. Have some brandy.”

“Maybe,” Jim said in a sullen voice, “I should forget Stanford and just go to bartending school.”

Anemone threw her arms around him. “Oh, do that, Jimmy! Then we can get married much sooner! You'll get lots of tips working in a bar.”

“I didn't,” Judith muttered. “Dan's regular bartender was skimming. His girlfriend even stole my wallet.”

Rick had resumed speaking. “Yes, the methanol was purchased by Ambrose for Connie. She asked him to do the favor because he'd been lobbying her for a donation to one of his causes. She agreed to help save the black-footed ferrets or the Big Bear Valley sandwort or whatever is currently endangered. Naturally, he was happy to oblige her.”

Judith leaned toward Renie. “I'll bet that was Connie's check for a grand she wrote to something called CITES. I should have twigged to that. I saw the entry in her regular checking account.”

“Oh—right. It stands for something-or-other about endangered flora and fauna.”

“So,” Rick went on, “Ambrose acted innocently in buying the methanol. He couldn't have known its fatal consequences.”

Paul leaped from his seat. “All right! I did it! I killed Mags! I poisoned Dixie! I strangled Émile! I confess everything!” Swiftly, he moved over to where a befuddled Biff was standing. “Arrest me. Take me away.”

Puzzled, Judith poked Renie. “What's going on? This doesn't make sense.”

“Sure doesn't,” Renie replied. “Try the clam dip.”

“Hold on, Biff,” Rick called to the policeman. “Paul, please sit down. I know you didn't kill anyone. You're covering for the person you think may have done it. Please let me continue.” As Paul reluctantly took a couple of steps backward, Rick grew rather unsteady. “I go by my hunches in solving a case,” he asserted, holding on to the mantelpiece for support. “All along…I've had one about the killer…” He hiccuped again and dropped his empty glass, which bounced harmlessly into the kindling box on the hearth. “The killer is—” Rick gasped, hiccuped, and reeled into Rhoda's arms.

“I think he's passed out!” she exclaimed, staggering under her husband's weight.

Captain Swafford and Dr. Selig hurried to help her. They eased Rick onto the floor.

“S'all right,” Rick mumbled as the guests began to stir uneasily. He cocked his head and half opened his eyes. “You f'nish, Mish Flynn.”

Startled, Judith began to protest, but Renie gave her a shove. “You're on, coz. Go.”

“I'm embarrassed,” she announced while the others began to grow quiet and give her their anxious attention. “I'm not in the same league as Rick.”

Asthma had crept out from under the buffet table and was licking his master's face. “But you're not drunk as a skunk,” Rhoda said pleasantly, kneeling at Rick's side. “Please enlighten us, dear Judith.”

Judith grimaced. “I must give you my reasons for coming to certain conclusions. I realize that Connie never wanted to bring shame to Mags because of her father's misdeeds. I'm
aware that she didn't display Señor de Fuentes's racing-career photos until after Mags had died.” Judith turned a pained face toward Connie. “I suppose that after the blackmail threat ended with Dixie and Émile's deaths, it was a show of bravado on your part, to keep up the pretense that your father wasn't a ruined man and hadn't destroyed your family.”

“My God!” Connie exclaimed. “How do you know that?”

“Because you—like Rhoda—had sent the domestic help away. Yet the table where you placed the racing photographs was not only dust-free but gleamed as if it had just been polished.”

“Oh!” Connie raised a limp hand. “Those old photos were a comfort, especially after having just lost Mags. They reminded me of happier times. You were clever to figure that out.”

“Just logical,” Judith said modestly. “I also knew that Ambrose had been on board the
San Rafael
the night of Mags's murder. He had confided as much in…Beulah, the Giddons' maid.” She shot Chevy a quick glance. Chevy didn't even blink. For once, Ambrose kept quiet.

“Ambrose had received a call from the ship to bring the methanol,” Judith explained. “He hadn't yet delivered it to Connie because of all the precruise preparations. But he was told that she had to have it right away. It wasn't Connie who called him, which is what made him suspicious, especially after he found out that Mags had been murdered. That's why he told Beulah he'd been on the ship.” Again, she looked at Chevy. “He also told you when he went to the
San Rafael,
didn't he?”

“Yes, he made a point of mentioning that—” Chevy began. “I mean—yaz'um. He sho' did. Ten o'clock.”

Judith nodded. “Everyone remembers the decor,” she continued, “but I also recall the temperature. It was smoky, but very cool in the saloon. Yet one person was sweating—or so I thought. Later I realized it wasn't perspiration. The person was
wet,
just as Mags's tuxedo jacket and the floor were
wet. The ice that had been used to stab Mags had melted just enough to dampen the killer as well.”

Judith paused, not daring to look at the person she suspected of being a triple murderer. “Mags's death wasn't premeditated, but his presence ruined the original plan to kill Dixie. After she'd been disposed of, the killer arranged a meeting with Émile while CeeCee Orr was buying a dress in the designer boutique. The women's dressing rooms may be off-limits, but men often sit by the entrance to wait for their wives and girlfriends. A male presence wouldn't rouse suspicion.”

Judith stopped to catch her breath, but still avoided eye contact with her audience. “I believe that Connie wasn't the only blackmail victim. The blackmailers had something on another person, and they were greedy. They knew about their other prey's involvement in many illegal dealings, including embezzlement. They also realized that their new victim was obsessed with creating an image, with becoming an immortal San Francisco icon like Stanford and Crocker and the rest of the great ones. Dixie and Ambrose touched on this matter at lunch the day she died. Dominic, the waiter, overheard them talking about greed, liars, sycophants—and spongers.” Judith took a deep breath. “I think Dominic mistook that last word—it was
sponges,
not
spongers.
A museum often bears the name of its founder, thus lending an aura of great civic accomplishment. And,” she added, running out of steam, “only one person here paid CeeCee's dress bills. You'll find his signature on the Neiman Marcus receipt. That's why I'm certain that the killer is Horace Pankhurst.”

 

As Judith spoke his name, Horace made a dash for the elevator and pushed the button. The car, which must have been resting on the top floor, obligingly opened its doors. Biff and Buzz gave chase. Asthma left his post at Rick's side and loped toward the fleeing man. The dog put his bulk in front of Horace, tripping him. He fell a few inches away from the
elevator. Asthma put his forepaws on the fallen man's back and barked twice.

“You can't pin this on me!” Horace yelled, writhing under the big dog. “I'm innocent, I tell you!”

Rhoda called Asthma off. “Good doggie,” she said. “Have some salmon.”

Biff and Buzz managed to haul their furious suspect to his feet and deposit him on the foyer floor.

“Cuff him,” Biff ordered his subordinate.

“Great stuff!” Flakey Smythe declared, taking pictures. “I should get a Pulitzer for this one!”

“Wretch!” Erma screamed, now on her feet and waving a fist at Horace. “My poor jewels! You might as well have stolen them! No wonder I seem to be…” Her tight little mouth formed the word
poor,
but she couldn't say it aloud.

“Good,” Anemone said, linking arms with Jim. “If Mumsy doesn't have any money, we can elope.”

As soon as Horace had been handcuffed, Biff turned to Rick, who had gotten to his feet. “Hey—wait a minute, Rick,” he said, motioning at Judith. “Is this dame right?”

Rick, who didn't seem quite so drunk anymore, nodded. “Of course.” He turned around and looked at Judith, who was still standing in the middle of the room. “Nice work,” he remarked, strolling to her side. “I wondered if you'd figured it out.”

“What?” Judith stared at Rick.

“Mmm.” Rick paused to accept a fresh martini from Rhoda. “Incidentally, Mrs. Flynn,” he said with a disarming smile, “you don't look at all like someone who'd ever be known as FATSO. In fact, you could use some weight. Shall we eat, drink, and be merry?”