Dead Man Docking (10 page)

“The one on the plate?” Renie whispered.

“Should I mention it?” Judith asked in a low voice as Biff jabbered into the phone.

“Your call,” Renie said.

Judith grew thoughtful. Anonymous notes connected to a
murder were sinister, even when they only said
Butt Out
. On the other hand, she didn't want to explain that the sender might know about her guise as FATSO. Biff, however, was clearly preoccupied.

“Holy cow!” he shouted, again drawing attention from the other customers. “Be right there!” He dropped the phone, groped under the table, shoved Judith's carry-on bag out of the way, and grabbed Renie's shoe.

“Hey!” Renie snapped. “Keep your hands to yourself!”

“Huh?” The detective looked up. “Oh—sorry.” He ducked under the table again.

Judith felt the phone next to her own foot. Gently, she moved it out onto the carpet. “It's right there. See it?”

Biff spotted his prey and snatched it up. “Gotta run,” he said, almost knocking over his chair. “Big jewel heist!”

“Hold it!” Renie had slid down in her seat and put out a leg to block Biff's progress. “Whose jewels?”

Red in the face and looking annoyed, Biff staggered around Renie's outstretched leg. “The old Giddon broad. How crazy can this case get?”

Judith wondered, too.

“I
T FIGURES
,” R
ENIE
said as notes from the Compass Rose piano filtered through the hotel's civilized air. “Murder, jewel theft—when do we find out who's being blackmailed?”

“That's not impossible,” Judith said. “As far as Magglio Cruz's death is concerned, we didn't learn one thing from Biff McDougal.”

“Except that Biff's incompetent?”

“He
seems
to be,” Judith allowed. “He reminds me of one of the cops who was involved in that case last spring. What was his name?”

“His nickname was Trash,” Renie recalled. “It suited him. He spent more time eating than working.”

“You're not one to complain about that,” Judith said with a little smile. “Speaking of which, let's not. Eat, I mean. I'm honestly not hungry and we, too, have work to do.”

Renie gazed at the menu as if she were bidding farewell to a long-lost love. “You're right. I'll sign the bill on our way out.”

Back in their suite, Judith got out the phone book. “Ah. The St. Georges
are
listed. They live on Sacramento Street.” She wrote the number and address down on a
piece of hotel notepaper and showed it to Renie, who was more familiar with the city.

“That's a Nob Hill address,” Renie said. “It figures—they're rich, and housing there is sky-high in more ways than one.”

Dialing the number, Judith really didn't expect that the St. Georges would be home. But Rhoda answered on the second ring.

“Judith—how nice to hear from you,” she said in that cultured yet nonchalant tone. “Did you make it back to the hotel without getting pistol-whipped?”

“Yes,” Judith replied with a thumbs-up sign for Renie. “But as soon as we got here, Biff McDougal paid us a visit.”

“Biff.” Rhoda sounded amused. “Ricky likes him, probably because he's such a suggestible kind of policeman. And he
is
discreet when it comes to publicity because he despises the media. Years ago, one of the newspapers—I can't remember if it was the
Chronicle
or the
Examiner
—poked fun at him. They called him a ‘relic from the past,' and implied that he was inept. But his closure rate is very good, especially with homicides.”

Judith wondered if that was partly due to Rick St. George's help. Maybe Rick and Biff were a successful combination of brain and brawn. “Biff doesn't work with a partner?” Judith inquired.

“Usually,” Rhoda answered, “but Willie—William Jackson—broke his leg skiing at Lake Tahoe last week. He won't be back on the job until the end of April. Willie's young, eager, and reasonably bright. I believe another rookie has been assigned as a temporary partner—Buzz Something-or-other—but he showed up late last night. By the way, how was Biff when you saw him?

Judith frowned. “How?”

Rhoda laughed. “I mean, was he in a hurry?”

“Let's say he left in a rush,” Judith hedged.

There was a momentary silence on the other end of the line. “I see. Why don't you and your cousin come by for a
drink? We're only a few blocks up from the St. Francis. You can take a taxi or ride the cable car. I'll give you directions.”

Judith made notes on the pad. “When?” she asked.

“How about right now?” Rhoda replied, her voice dropping a notch. “I've almost finished putting Asthma's fur up in soup cans.”

“Beef noodle?”

“Right. See you soon?”

“You bet,” said Judith, and hung up.

 

The St. Georges lived only seven blocks from the hotel, but it was all uphill—even steeper than the Counterbalance at home. As the old-fashioned red, gold, and black cable car pulled around the corner by one of the numerous flower stands, the cousins could see that passengers were hanging from the side like sausages falling out of a wrapper. There were no friendly outstretched hands to help them this time. Renie grabbed Judith's arm to haul her aboard. Clinging to a steel pole, they hung on for dear life as the venerable conveyance rattled and clanged its way to the top of the busy street.

They could hear the hum of the tracks after they got off at the crest of Powell Street. It was windy—even chilly—as Judith and Renie walked a block west, where they stopped to catch their collective breath by the hallowed and exclusive Pacific Union Club. They gazed around at the Mark Hopkins and Fairmont hotels, two other well-known San Francisco landmarks.

“You can smell money around here,” Renie noted. “It's like Park Avenue in New York or Boston's Back Bay.”

Judith pointed to the street sign. “This is Sacramento. The St. Georges must live in that condo across the street from the Mark Hopkins.”

The doorman tipped his hat before asking the cousins' names and which resident they were visiting. A moment later, they entered the marble lobby with its lavish floral arrangement. Rick and Rhoda lived in the penthouse. A uni
formed elevator operator gave them a smooth ride to the top floor. The doors slid open onto what Judith and Renie assumed was the St. Georges' foyer. If there was any doubt, the sound of clanking tin cans rang in their ears. Rhoda and Asthma came into view.

“Judith! Serena! How nice! Come, sit, stay, behave.”

Judith gave a start. “What?”

Rhoda laughed. “I was talking to the dog. He seems to be trying to cuddle Serena.”

Renie was trying not to grimace as Asthma rubbed his fur-covered soup cans against her thighs. Managing to sidestep the dog, she followed Judith and Rhoda into a large sitting room with an Asian theme and a spectacular view of the city.

“This is lovely,” Judith gushed. “Are these furnishings antiques?”

“Some of them,” Rhoda replied with a shrug. “The butterfly trunk and the matching chairs with the lotus pattern date back a couple of centuries. The rest of it looks old because of Asthma. He's a bit clumsy.”

Judith and Renie sat on a sofa covered in a silk poppy print. Rhoda had gone to the full-service bar. Its dark wood was painted with white peonies. A Chinese vase filled with real peonies sat atop the counter. It struck Judith that Rhoda St. George wore her air of wealth and entitlement the way a river ran to the sea: It was unaffected, it was accepted, it was almost a force of nature.

“I'm having a martini,” Rhoda said, her long fingernails pointing to a half-filled glass next to the vase. “What may I serve you?”

“Scotch rocks,” Judith replied. “Water back, if you don't mind.”

“Not at all,” Rhoda replied.

“Any bourbon or Canadian as long as it's not Wild Turkey,” Renie said.

Rhoda arched a perfectly etched eyebrow. “You don't care for Wild Turkey?”

“Only when I fly,” Renie replied.

“Will Crown Royal do?” Rhoda inquired, unfazed by Renie's response.

“Just fine,” Renie said, nodding. “Water and plenty of ice, please.”

With practiced expertise, Rhoda mixed the two drinks and refreshed her own. “I understand,” she said, seating herself in one of the matching antique chairs, “we may not get out of port until tomorrow.” She glanced inquisitively at the cousins.

“Because of the murder—or the jewel theft?” Judith responded.

Rhoda smiled, arranging the folds of her orange chiffon hostess pajamas. “I was wondering if you knew. I guessed that Biff McDougal may have been interrogating you when the call came through to him. The theft took place aboard the ship, not at Erma Giddon's home.”

“That we didn't know,” Renie said, trying to relax despite the too-close presence of Asthma.

“Erma discovered that the jewels were missing when she was preparing to leave the
San Rafael
this morning,” Rhoda explained. “Naturally, she's blaming Beulah, her maid.”

“Why?” Renie asked. “Because Beulah is black?”

“Of course.” Rhoda shook her head. “Erma is such a bigot. You can imagine the unpleasantness she swears she's had to suffer because San Francisco has become such a mecca for the gay population. And that's so ridiculous of her because…well, just because it is.”

Judith sensed that Rhoda had been about to say something else but had changed her mind. “Do you know the value of the stolen jewels?” Judith inquired, savoring the scotch, which had to be at least forty years old and probably cost close to a hundred dollars a bottle.

Rhoda waved a hand. “I can only guess. Rick's estimate was in the low seven figures.”

“And more like them at home,” Renie murmured.

“Oh, definitely,” Rhoda said blithely. “Those were only her cruise baubles. Erma has quite a collection, some family
heirlooms, some of them dating back to the Romanovs and the Hanovers—and the Vikings, for all I know. She likes to brag.”

Judith tried to coax Asthma in her direction. “Did the thief take the case or just the jewels?”

“Case and all,” Rhoda replied.

Judith knew the answer, but asked the question anyway: “Did Erma always keep it locked?”

“I've no idea,” Rhoda answered.

“She didn't,” Renie blurted out, deigning to pat one of Asthma's soup cans. “We know. We had to sub for Beulah when we called on Erma and company.”

“Really.” Rhoda's eyes danced. “Tell me all.”

Renie did, despite the increased nudging and wheezing from Asthma.

“That makes sense,” Rhoda said when Renie had finished. “If Erma was still wearing some of her trinkets and her maid wasn't around, she wouldn't bother locking the case until bedtime. It's stupid, but then Erma is a rather stupid woman.” She held up her almost empty glass. “Refills?”

The cousins declined. Neither of them had made it even halfway through their own cocktails.

“I'll wait, too,” Rhoda said with a touch of regret. “I hope Ricky calls back soon. I suppose Biff is picking my darling husband's brains. Tell me,” she went on, leaning forward in her chair, “you two must have seen or heard something—anything—unusual at the party before Mags was killed. You seem very observant as well as perceptive. We arrived a bit late, you see.”

Now who's picking whose brains?
Judith thought.

“To be honest,” she said, “we didn't notice anything unusual. Has the weapon been found?”

“No,” Rhoda answered with a frown. “The fatal wound was made by something pointed, slim, and round.” She made a quarter-inch circle with her thumb and index finger. “It sounds like a tool, rather than a knife or dagger. Still, there are many kinds of exotic weapons that don't readily
come to mind. Ricky guesses that the killer threw it overboard.”

“That makes sense,” Judith allowed.

“You know most of the suspects better than we do,” Renie said as Asthma dozed off at her feet. “Can you fill us in? It might help to discover the motive.”

Rhoda looked amused. “I don't know where to start. Though money is always a good place, especially when murder is involved. Mags and Connie were never able to have children. They considered adoption, but her family—at least her father—is one of those snobbish Argentinians of Spanish hidalgo descent. God forbid they might have gotten a child who had native Latin American blood. Consequently, everything goes to Connie, since California is a community-property state.”

“And Connie is already rich,” Judith remarked.

Rhoda shrugged. “Not rich in the sense of
rich
—if you understand what I mean. Her father was very successful as a horse trainer and owner, having started out in Dubai working for a couple of emirs. I would say there's no money motive on her part.”

“They were happy?” Judith inquired.

“Yes, I think so,” Rhoda said. “Of course one never knows for certain.”

Renie edged away from the dog, who was not only wheezing, but also snoring and drooling. “What about the business arrangement? I assumed—not that I ever thought Mags would die young—that being second in command, Paul Tanaka would take over.”

“The board of directors has to decide that,” Rhoda replied. “There are five members, including Erma Giddon and Horace Pankhurst. Two others are from your part of the world—two of those computer kings, Bill Goetz and Paul Allum.”

“Who's the fifth one?” Renie asked.

Rhoda smiled. “Me.”

Judith smiled back. “The swing vote?”

Rhoda inclined her head to one side. “It could be. I seldom agree with Erma and Horace. We all have stock in the company. Your billionaire entrepreneurs are usually sensible people when it comes to voting on issues. Of course,” she added with only a slight suggestion of disparagement, “they
do
represent ‘new' money.”

“But,” Renie pointed out, “they both allowed the line to move its headquarters out of town. Or did they vote against it?”

“The vote was unanimous,” Rhoda said without expression.

Judith was puzzled. It didn't seem right for Goetz or Allum to deflect tourism from their hometown. They were not only civic leaders, but boosters as well. Both were very smart. They must have had sound reasons to permit the move.

“So the board can agree on some things,” Judith remarked.

“Yes,” Rhoda said, “and of course Mags wanted the move. He lives here—sorry—he
lived
here most of the time, and Connie has always loved California. She's still a big Thoroughbred-racing fan, and some of the best tracks are in this state.”

“Money,” Judith murmured. “It's such a good motive for murder. But I don't see who benefits financially from Mags's death.”

“Neither do I,” Rhoda agreed. “Erma has all of her family and hangers-on covered. Horace is well off, though he's sinking a great deal of his own cash into the museum startup. Jim Brooks's Stanford tuition is being paid by Erma.”

“That leaves the crew,” Renie said. “Were there union problems?”