Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [100]
“I know,” Judith agreed, “but I’m still going to call Joe as soon as I finish this search.” She moved on to the next story covering the protest at Cruz headquarters, which, judging from the Ferry Terminal Building in the background of the accompanying photo, seemed to be near the bay.
“Cruz had—or has—a problem with dumping wastewater,” Judith explained. “Cal/EPA was starting an investigation about two weeks ago.” She scanned the protest article. Almost three hundred protesters had turned out, but there had been no violence. There were a couple of quotes from both sides, including a brief statement from Paul Tanaka, asserting that the cruise line was in compliance with state regulations.
“I didn’t realize there was an environmental problem,” Renie said. “Of course, I probably wouldn’t have been informed unless they needed a design for a friendly-looking Mr. Garbage. Maybe that’s why Paul Allum and Bill Goetz didn’t protest the headquarters move. They’re both concerned about our own environment.”
Judith was studying the photo of the protesters. “These people may not be physically violent, but they sure don’t look very friendly. Some of those signs are downright vicious. I’m glad they didn’t show up for the VIP prelaunch…Hey!” She pointed to a face in the crowd. “Look, coz. Isn’t that Ambrose Everhart?”
Renie stared at the four-column picture. “Egad! You’re right. And look at that sign he’s holding up.”
“I know,” Judith said with a worried expression.
Ambrose’s sign read, SHIPS STINK! SINK CRUZ! KILL CRUISES!
The cousins exchanged hard stares.
“Is that a motive for murder?” Renie asked.
Judith again considered the passion on Ambrose’s face. He certainly looked like a man on a mission. “It’s probably not,” she said, before adding in a forlorn voice, “at least not for a sane person.”
And the more she examined the photo, the more Ambrose Everhart looked unbalanced.
NINETEEN
“YOU DIDN’T HEAR the latest?” Connie asked in an excited voice as Judith and Renie sat down in the spacious living room of the two-story condo overlooking San Francisco Bay.
“We’ve spent a quiet Sunday,” Judith said, not untruthfully. “Exactly what happened?”
Connie and Paul were seated on a dark brown leather double sofa that looked out over the view in one direction and into the middle of the room on the other. Judith thought Connie seemed much improved since the debacle of the previous evening. She even apologized for the disarray of the household.
“The housekeeper was supposed to come in after we sailed,” she said with a rueful expression. “I haven’t had a chance to reschedule. There’s dust everywhere and even a couple of cobwebs on the ceiling. Don’t you just hate it when you have to live in the midst of filth?”
Recalling the squalid rental that she and Dan had lived in on Thurlow Street in the city’s south end, Judith could only nod. Filth was hardly a word she’d use to describe the Cruz condo. And Judith was certain that Connie—unlike the McMonigles—hadn’t heard rats doing the mambo inside their bedroom walls.
“Rhoda called less than an hour ago,” Connie explained before interrupting herself to ask Paul to pour some wine for the guests. “You do drink wine, don’t you?” she asked the cousins. “Mags always kept a really decent cellar. What would you like?”
Neither Judith nor Renie were wine drinkers, but they wanted to be polite. “You choose,” Judith said.
“Have you got one that tastes like Pepsi?” Renie asked.
Connie laughed. “You are a tease, Serena.” She put a hand on Paul’s arm. “Let’s open that Beringer 1997 private reserve cabernet sauvignon. We can’t serve our guests anything but a California label, can we?”
Paul merely smiled and left the room.
“What was I saying?” Connie asked with a frown. Despite the obvious improvement in her manner, she retained her quick, nervous gestures. “Oh. About Rhoda telephoning. She told me how the two of you had actually been taken to police headquarters and questioned