Dead Man Docking (4 page)

Paul Tanaka

Captain Randolph J. Swafford

May Belle Beales

Émile Grenier

Erma Giddon

Anemone Giddon

James Brooks

Ambrose Everhart

Horace Pankhurst

Carole Cecile Orr

Richard and Rhoda St. George

Serena Jones

Judith Flynn

Judith looked up from the folder. “Are we supposed to be impressed?”

Renie shrugged. “I'm guessing that only a select few from the passenger manifest have been invited to this function. It sounds like some of the ship's crew, a couple of people from the cruise line, and maybe two or three investors. We certainly wouldn't be on it if it weren't for Bub. Almost two thousand people are taking this maiden voyage.”

“Then I
am
impressed,” Judith said. “We're not just getting first-class treatment, presumably we're VIPs.”

Retrieving the folder, Renie looked askance. “Not really. San Francisco high society is as snobbish as New York's. I figure the two Giddon women are mother and daughter or sisters. Captain Swafford is probably our skipper. And May Belle Beales—I know the name…Ah! She's better known as Dixie and is a cruise director for the line. But other than that, I'm guessing.”

“St. George,” Judith murmured. “That name sounds familiar, but I can't think why. What about you?”

Renie shook her head. “Nothing comes to mind.” She stood up. “We'd better get ready. We're time-traveling back to the thirties.”

The old clothes Judith had found in the basement were long on practicality if short on glamour. But Gertrude's wedding dress was perfect. She had been tall and relatively slim in those days. The simplicity of the white satin lines suited her daughter.

Renie looked up from her own toilette. “Does your mother know you're wearing that?” she asked.

“Are you kidding?” Judith responded. “She'd kill me.”

“It's held up pretty well,” Renie remarked, moving closer.

“I found Aunt Ellen's black turban with the rhinestone brooch,” Judith said, holding the item up for her cousin's viewing. “We played dress-up with this stuff. You always made me wear the ugly outfits.”

“That's because I was older and had better taste,” Renie said, slipping into a black crepe evening gown. “How about this?”

“Elegant,” Judith declared.

Renie unzipped a garment bag. “And this?” she asked, putting on a short silver-fox fur jacket. “It belonged to my other grandmother, the one who was nuts about clothes.”

“Wow.” Judith suddenly felt underdressed.

Renie grinned at her. “Granny had more than one evening coat.” She reached into the garment bag again. “Here,” she said, handing Judith an evening wrap that was two shades of red with black fur trim. “It really goes with your new hair color.”

Judith was thrilled. After the drudgery of the past few months and the nerve-racking start to the trip, she was suddenly feeling giddy with excitement. “Oh, coz—I can't believe we're doing this!”

“We are,” Renie affirmed. “Let's go find our chariot.”

The limo was waiting outside. In the twilight, the cousins gawked a bit as they headed for Pier 35. They gawked even more when they caught their first sight of the
San Rafael
. The ship seemed huge, more like a building than a seagoing vessel.

From her work on the original brochure, Renie had memorized the basic facts. “Ninety-one thousand tons, nine hundred and sixty-five feet long, occupancy of seventeen hundred and fifty, cruising speed of twenty-four knots.”

“I won't remember,” Judith said as the chauffeur opened the limo's door.

“You don't need to,” Renie replied. “What I really want to know is, how's the food?”

Judith noticed that the lettering on the ship's stern indicated Mexican registration. Liveried footmen stood at the bottom and top of the flower-festooned gangway. Old ballads from the thirties crooned over the speaker system.

As the cousins reached midship on what Judith calculated was the second deck from the top, two more men awaited them. The lean, handsome man with the dark mustache and sideburns was wearing a single-breasted tuxedo with black piping on the trousers and black patent leather shoes. He
would, Judith thought, have been perfectly cast as a lounge lizard in a Depression-era melodrama. His bearded, heavy-set companion wore a captain's formal dress uniform with enough gold braid to decorate Lord Nelson.

“Serena!” the man in the tuxedo exclaimed, kissing Renie on each cheek. “You look ravishing.
Muy bonita.
” He turned to Judith. “And this must be your charming cousin Señora Flynn.”

“Thank you for letting me join Serena, Mr. Cruz,” Judith said.

Magglio put a finger to his lips. “No, no. You must call me Mags. All of my friends do. And tonight we are all great friends, awaiting the cruise of a lifetime.”

Judith allowed him to kiss her hand. “Please call me Judith. As a matter of fact, I've never been on a cruise of any kind.”

Magglio smiled genially; so did Captain Randolph J. Swafford, who stepped forward to greet the newcomers. The cousins also smiled.

“Believe me, ladies,” the captain said with an English accent, “this will be an unforgettable event in your lives.”

The cousins both froze. How often had they heard similar words, only to discover that they'd much prefer to forget than to remember.

A
RT
D
ECO RULED
the ship's design, from furniture to paneling to floors. Teak and mahogany flowed in clean curves and sleek symmetry. Glass was everywhere—tabletops, doors, wall inserts, and around the saloon where the party was being held.

“Remember,” Renie said as they hesitated in the doorway, “we should get into a thirties mood. Snappy patter, wisecracks, screwball antics.”

“For us, that sounds contemporary,” Judith murmured as an elegant woman in a Grecian gown of flowing white pleats and three-inch gold sandals approached the cousins. Consuela Cruz definitely evoked the gilded edge of the Depression era. She was as lean as her husband, with jet-black hair combed away from a heart-shaped face.

“We're so glad you're here,” she said to Renie. “There must have been a misunderstanding regarding your consulting fees. Mags would never dream of cutting you loose so abruptly.” Consuela pointed at a young man at the bar. “You know Paul Tanaka, of course?”

Renie nodded. “He often sat in for Mags at our design meetings.” She nudged Judith's arm. “My cousin hasn't met him, though.”

“We'll attend to that at once,” Consuela said. “He's standing by the bar with Mrs. Giddon and Mr. Brooks. And do call me Connie.”

Connie Cruz made a graceful gesture with her right hand. “I'll take you both around the room. Almost everyone is here, I think, except the St. Georges and Émile. Of course, Émile is the ship's purser, and may have business to take care of.”

The tall, stout woman with the steel-gray hair swept up on top of her head was indeed imposing, Judith thought. It wasn't just her Amazonian size, but her piercing blue eyes and tight red lips.

“Serena Jones, Judith Flynn,” Connie said, “meet Mrs. George Elwood Giddon.”

Mrs. Giddon studied the cousins through a jewel-studded lorgnette. She was wearing a long, straight gown of black lace over white taffeta. A parure of diamonds and emeralds adorned her ears, neck, and wrists. The grande dame's imposing presence practically overwhelmed Judith. “A pleasure, I'm sure,” Mrs. Giddon proclaimed in a lofty voice. “Who are you?”

“Who—or what?” Renie shot back with a deceptive smile. “The way you're looking through that lorgnette makes me feel like a microbe.”

“I said
who
—not
what,
” Erma Giddon snapped. “Are you anybody I should know?”

Renie gave a languid shrug. “My forebears came over on the
Mayflower
—first class. They were fleeing their bridge debts. Judith's ancestors were the first white settlers in our city, arriving circa 1850. Before that, they founded Philadelphia.”

Mrs. Giddon didn't seem amused. Connie swiftly intervened. “For many years, Serena has been doing the graphic-design work for Mags. Mrs. Flynn is her cousin. Unfortunately, Mr. Jones couldn't get away from his work.”

If Mrs. Giddon gave a damn, she didn't say so. Instead, she turned her back on the cousins and asked a server to fetch her evening wrap.

“It's chilly in here,” Erma declared. “The captain must adjust the temperature before we sail. You know I'm inclined to chest colds, Consuela.”

“Those cold germs must be really tough to get around her chest,” Renie said, lowering her voice a mere notch.

“Coz,”
Judith said in a warning tone.

But Erma had moved her chest and the rest of her away, commanding the youthful blond bartender to mix her a Manhattan.

“Make that Bud in a bottle for me,” Renie called out from behind Mrs. Giddon. “Or mead, if you've got it. My family
really
goes way back.”

Judith winced. She had a feeling that Renie was going to be difficult, at least as far as Mrs. Giddon was concerned.

“Please don't mind Erma,” Connie begged from behind her hand. “She adheres to a very strict social code. Her own family dates back to one of the original San Francisco railroad magnates.”

“Which one?” Renie shot back. “The guy who threw the fusies from the back of the crummy?”

Connie looked pained. “No, a Stanford or a Crocker or a Hopkins or a Huntington. You know—the Big Four.”

“I thought they met at Yalta, not Nob Hill,” Renie muttered. “Or was that just the Big Three?”

Connie's smile was feeble. “Here's Paul Tanaka. I must find Dixie Beales. She's providing a brief entertainment later on.”

Paul greeted Renie with a hug. He was a squarely built young man, part Japanese and part African-American. The handshake he offered Judith was firm and the big smile seemed genuine.

“You're Bill's stand-in, I hear,” he said. Like the other men, except for the captain, he was wearing a tuxedo with thirties styling. And like several of the other guests, he was smoking. “What happened to him?”

Renie explained, stopping when the other young man who'd been at the bar came forward with a bottle of Bud
weiser. “I'm Jim Brooks,” he said by way of introduction. “I'm attending medical school at Stanford.”

“Congratulations,” Judith said, releasing Jim's clammy hand. “I gather it's difficult to get accepted there.”

Jim flushed slightly. “Yes…but sometimes knowing the right people helps.” He gave Judith a sheepish look and nodded at a lithe blonde who was talking to Captain Swafford. “I'm engaged to Anemone Giddon. Isn't she beautiful?”

Even from a distance, Judith could see that Mrs. Giddon's daughter was a winsome, lovely creature. In a lavender floral gown made of organza, she looked like a breath of spring.

“Is her father still living?” Judith inquired.

Jim shook his head. “He passed away from a heart attack almost ten years ago.”

“Then,” Judith asked, “who's the older bald man that just joined Mrs. Giddon?”

Jim Brooks snickered, a reaction befitting his boyish manner. “The great Horace Pankhurst,” he replied. “Like Mrs. Giddon, he owns shares in the cruise line. He's also Erma's financial and legal adviser. Excuse me, I must see how Anemone's doing. The bartender asked me to deliver the beer to you, Mrs. Jones.”

“Thanks,” Renie said without enthusiasm.

Another member of the party had entered, surveying the gathering over a tall vase filled with calla lilies. He was small and spare, with a goatee and a slight limp.

“Émile Grenier,” Paul informed the cousins as he followed their gaze to the newcomer. “He's the purser, and he's French. Ergo, he's the biggest snob of all.”

“Quite a mixed background for these people,” Judith remarked as Renie drifted toward the buffet, with its ice sculpture of a pheasant with a gold ring around its neck and a spray of frozen tail feathers. “Was Mr. Cruz born in Mexico?”

Paul nodded. “But his parents moved—or should I say swam—to the United States when he was a baby.”

“A self-made man,” Judith observed. “I have the greatest admiration for that type of person. Bloodlines don't impress me.”

Paul smirked. “It also helps to marry the granddaughter of a wealthy ranchero from Argentina.”

Judith's gaze shifted to the direction that Connie Cruz had taken upon leaving the little group. But their hostess was nowhere in sight. At that moment, the double doors opened to frame a striking couple with a large white dog. The trio stood very still for just a moment or two, giving the impression that they were striking a pose.

Judith gaped. “The St. Georges?”

Paul nodded. He, too, was looking at the handsome pair. Indeed, everyone was staring with the exception of Erma Giddon, who was fidgeting with an earring. Richard St. George wore a double-breasted midnight-blue tuxedo with silk piping and a gardenia in the left lapel. Slowly, deliberately, he removed his homburg hat, which matched his suit. His manner was casual, his mustache impeccable, and his expression was one of perpetual amusement.

By contrast, Rhoda St. George seemed indifferent to the stares. She was the epitome of thirties chic in a theater suit featuring a black velvet jacket lavishly embroidered with gold thread and the occasional small ruby, topaz, and seed pearl. The long skirt was dark green, gathered around the hips. But it was the hat that drew all eyes: black satin fitted to the head like a skullcap with two long, wide matching streamers, black veiling from hairline to neckline, and a golden rose nestled on top. Rhoda looked wonderfully selfconfident. Judith couldn't blame her—any woman who could carry off such an ensemble deserved a medal that matched the gold and jewels on her jacket.

Yet in the end, it was the dog that evoked Renie's comment. “Sugliesmutievasa,” she declared, returning from the buffet with her mouth full of shrimp.

Judith had grown accustomed to translating Renie's food-marred speech. “He's certainly an unusual dog, though not necessarily ugly. I don't think I've seen that breed before.”

“It's not a breed,” Renie asserted after swallowing the shrimp, “it's a conglomeration. It's got dreadlocks and no feet. It's a dog on wheels.”

“The feet must be under all that curling fur,” Judith said as the dog glided across the floor.

The St. Georges proceeded into the saloon, where they were effusively greeted by Émile Grenier, Paul Tanaka, Horace Pankhurst, and a platinum-haired beauty in a silver satin evening gown that clung to her curvaceous body like melted cheese on hot toast.

Renie leaned closer to Judith. “Where'd
she
come from?”

Judith shrugged. “The powder room, maybe. She's certainly a Jean Harlow look-alike. I'm beginning to feel like somebody's dowdy maid in Mother's old wedding dress.”

“You look fine,” Renie assured her. “Come on, get something to eat. You need to put on some pounds.”

The cousins made their way to the buffet. Judith paused to admire the pheasant ice sculpture, which was holding up remarkably well.

“The caviar's great,” Renie said, swiftly refilling her plate. “So are the wontons with crab and the oysters and the gravlax and—”

“I get the picture,” Judith broke in. “It's a good thing you're wearing black. Your spillage doesn't show up very much.”

“Huh?” Renie stared down at her bosom. “Oh. Right—it blends.”

Connie Cruz had returned, looking a trifle worried. “Everyone, please enjoy the food and make sure you visit the bar in the next few minutes. Our cruise director, Dixie Beales, is going to play some of the great old songs from the thirties in the next room at seven o'clock.”

“I never did get a cocktail,” Judith noted, carefully choosing a selection of vegetables cut into exotic shapes. “Where's your beer?”

“In that potted palm by the model of the ship,” Renie replied. “You know I hate beer. I just wanted to be annoying.
Oh, for heaven's sake!” she cried, looking at her cousin's plate. “You're grazing, not eating. Here, have some smoked sockeye salmon
en croûte
and crab dumplings and anything else that might be considered real food. Get the servers to slice off a piece of rare Kobe beef from Japan. I intend to fatten you up.”

“Well…” Watching a bearded young man wield a gleaming carving knife through a juicy roast tempted Judith. Somehow, she resisted. The cousins had, after all, eaten a late lunch. “Okay, I'll try a couple of dumplings,” she said, allowing a waiter with a shaved head and a graying goatee to serve her. “Then we'd better get our drinks before the piano recital starts.”

“I'm drinking Pepsi,” Renie declared. “I can't bear the thought of alcohol after this morning.”

“I don't blame you,” Judith said drily. “Uh-oh,” she whispered, “here come the St. Georges with Fido.”

Richard St. George nodded at the cousins; Rhoda had lifted her veil and was smoking a cigarette through a silver holder. He ordered two double martinis; so did she. The big white dog with the long curls of fur stopped by the cousins and wheezed at Renie's hem.

“Nice doggie,” Renie murmured, trying to disguise her antipathy for canines.

But the large animal moved closer, shedding white fur on Renie's black gown. “Beat it,” Renie muttered, holding her hors d'oeuvres plate out of reach.

Wheezing and panting, the dog sat down on Renie's feet. “Excuse me,” she said to Rhoda St. George, “would you please make your dog move? I'm immobilized by his very large—yet unusual—body.”

Rhoda had just accepted two martini glasses. “Oh, don't mind Asthma,” she said with a little laugh. “He's absolutely harmless. In fact, he has respiratory problems. I think he likes you. Or else he's collapsed.” His mistress didn't seem particularly distressed by the idea.

Richard St. George, who also had both hands full of mar
tinis, nudged Rhoda with his elbow. “Who's the blond dame with Pankhurst?”

“His latest trollop, darling,” his wife replied. “Carole or Cecile or maybe both. I believe she's called CeeCee. Judging from her bust, DeeDee would be more…fitting.” Rhoda turned back to the cousins. “I'm sorry, we haven't met. I'm Rhoda St. George and this is my slightly inebriated husband, Rick.”

Rick had almost finished his first martini. “Swell,” he said sarcastically. “You're giving me a poor send-off.”

“Don't worry, darling,” Rhoda replied. “These ladies have eyes.”

“And feet,” Renie put in. “I'm Serena Jones and I'd like to move mine. Feet, that is.”

“Oh.” Rhoda looked down at Asthma, who appeared to have fallen asleep, though it was hard to tell with all the long curls covering not only his body but his face. “Do move him, Ricky,” she implored. “Otherwise, Ms. Jones is going to charge him rent.”

Setting his now-empty glass on the bar, Rick searched through the fur around the dog's neck, presumably for a collar. “He's a Komondor,” Rick said, “a guardian breed, and sometimes considered a working dog. Except I'm afraid he doesn't work very well anymore, poor fellow. Come on, Asthma, strut what's left of your stuff.”