Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [102]
He nodded. “Mags told me the same thing. Erma also loaned Horace—assuming it was a loan and not a gift—a big chunk of money for his cork-and-sponge museum. Unfortunately, she seems to have relied on him for all her financial advice since Wilbur died.”
“It seems to me,” Judith put in, “that to Erma, Wilbur hasn’t died. She behaves as if he’s still alive.”
“A quirk,” Connie said.
“A delusion,” Renie asserted. “Not a good sign about Erma’s mental state. What did she mean aboard ship about Wilbur being…what was it? Missing?”
“His urn,” Paul replied. “She takes his ashes everywhere.”
“Did he ever turn up?” Renie asked.
Connie shrugged. “I’ve no idea.”
Judith had made the mistake of sitting in a zebra-stripe chair with a deceptively hard seat and back. Maybe zebras were more thin-skinned than they looked. She was forced to stand up and relieve the discomfort in her hip.
“Sorry,” she apologized. “I have an artificial hip. I think I’ve done too much walking since we came to San Francisco, especially with all these hills. They’re much steeper—and there seem to be more of them—than at home.”
“You’re right,” Connie agreed. “I’ve noticed the difference myself. Is there something I can do to make you more comfortable?”
“No, thank you,” Judith said with a grateful smile. “I’ll see if I can loosen up a bit.”
She strolled around the room, admiring the view and then the paintings. Renie, Connie, and Paul were talking about the future of the cruise line. A replacement for Erma on the board of directors sounded like the top priority. Several names were mentioned, but they meant nothing to Judith.
Four of the oil paintings seemed to have been done by the same artist. Small brass plates attached to the frames were etched with the horses’ names. A handsome chestnut standing proudly in his stall was called Tierra del Fuego. A powerful bay named Belgrano charged across the finish line. Beau Noire, an imperious black stallion, stood in the winner’s circle wearing a mantle of red roses. Lastly, grazing in an emerald green field, was a beautiful milk-white mare. Judith stared at the name on the brass plate: MONTESPAN.
She peered at the painting’s background, where she could see an old windmill and, beyond that, the spires of a Romanesque church. The scene had a European feel to it. The picture had been signed—they all had—but Judith couldn’t read the artist’s signature.
Momentarily stumped, she suddenly had a wild idea. “Excuse me, Connie,” she said, moving closer to the sofa, “would you mind if I went into the bathroom to take some pain medication?”
Connie gestured with her forefinger. “The guest bathroom is right off the foyer.”
“Actually,” Judith said with a little grimace, “I need to lie down for just a couple of minutes. Is there a bathroom near the bedroom?”
“Of course,” Connie answered graciously. “My bathroom and dressing room adjoin the bedroom. They’re downstairs. Can you manage? Please, take your time. I’m so sorry you’re in pain.”
“All the walking,” she mumbled, noticing that Paul seemed to tense up while Connie was speaking. “But I can do the stairs,” Judith added quickly.
That, however, was no easy task. Although the steps were carpeted, the staircase was a spiral. Judith had to hang on for dear life, lest she misjudge her footing and take a header.
Double doors opened onto the master suite. The room was divided into three parts—boudoir, dressing room, and a small office. It was the latter that interested Judith most. Judging from the feminine decor, this was not where Magglio Cruz worked when he was home. No doubt his own study or den or office was elsewhere in the spacious condo. Judith had noticed that Connie’s sleek red Cartier shoulder bag was on a table in the living room. No doubt her checkbook was inside. But if Connie had been making withdrawals for the past few months, her less recent bank records might be in the office.
Connie was organized.
Judith was thankful for that. She remembered an occasion when Renie and Bill had