Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [114]
“So,” Rhoda remarked, “Erma intended to cash in on the insurance money?”
Rick nodded. “Horace knew more than he let on about CeeCee’s background. He chose her, not the other way around. Horace knew that sooner or later, temptation would get the best of CeeCee.”
“How,” Judith inquired, “did Horace get the jewelry out of the country?”
Rick smiled in his devilish manner. “I believe Wilbur was his unwitting accomplice.”
Judith gaped. “You mean…?”
Rick nodded. “The urn. Horace probably dumped poor old Wilbur into the landfill somewhere and shipped the urn off for burial abroad. There’d be records. Biff’s checking on that.”
Rhoda raised her glass. “To my adorable, clever Ricky.”
The cousins joined the toast. Asthma barfed on the carpet.
“Oh, no!” Rhoda jumped from her chair. “Poor doggie, he must still be upset. Excuse me while I clean up after him. Come, Asthma, follow Mommy.” The dog stumbled and wheezed after his mistress.
“At least he missed my shoes,” Renie noted.
Judith, however, was still considering crime. “But CeeCee didn’t kill Mags or Dixie or Émile, right?”
Rick was busy with the cocktail shaker. “No. It’s a wonder she didn’t kill Horace, though. And a damned good thing she didn’t shoot either of you or my darling wife,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
“Yes,” Renie said drily, “I hate it when my new Chetta B outfit from Saks gets riddled with bullets.”
“Speaking of weapons,” Judith put in, her mind far from fashion, “are you and Biff still certain that a knife sharpener was used to kill Mags?”
For just a brief moment, Rick’s hand froze on the cocktail shaker. “Why, yes.” He undid the stopper and began to refill his glass. “You ask because…?”
“Because…I just wondered.” Judith’s smile wasn’t quite convincing, and she knew it. “That is, it seems like an odd weapon if the killer was a woman. It would be hard to hide, given the simplicity of those thirties evening gowns.”
“But not impossible,” Rhoda said, returning with rags, a pail, and a spray bottle of carpet cleaner. “For example, I could have hidden it under my jacket. There was so much padding at the shoulders.”
“But you didn’t, did you, darling?” Rick asked.
Rhoda, who was wearing something elegant in green and pink that might have come from Versace, was scrubbing the rug on her hands and knees. Judith thought it was a little like watching Marie Antoinette clean house at the Petit Trianon.
“Ricky,” Rhoda said without looking up, “why on earth would I want to kill poor Mags? Frankly, I can’t think why anyone would.”
“Stop worrying your beautiful head about that,” Rick said, sitting down again. “After the funeral tomorrow, I intend to reveal all.”
Rhoda glanced at Rick; Judith gazed at him with curiosity; Renie was staring in the direction of the kitchen, apparently wondering if appetizers were available.
“Is that why we offered to hold the funeral reception here?” Rhoda asked.
“Of course.” Rick twirled his glass. “You can wait that long, can’t you? Certain facts need to be verified.”
“Facts?” Rhoda tossed the rags into the bucket and stood up. “Since when did you rely on facts, darling? It’s your hunches that usually pinpoint the killer.”
“True enough,” Rick conceded. “Yet it’s wondrously strange how bringing people together and discussing the crime can force the guilty party to spill the beans.”
Renie looked puzzled. “Does it really work that way?”
“It can,” Rick replied. “It has. It might.”
Judith’s expression was noncommittal. “Let’s hope so.” She savored the expensive scotch before posing the question she’d wanted to ask ever since relative peace had broken out. “Did Biff track down that methanol sale?”
“Yes, finally,” Rick replied. “Only chemical companies sell it, and there are several in the Bay Area. Denatured alcohol is another term for it, with all kinds of purposes other than poisoning people. It’s perfectly legal.”
“And?” Judith prodded.
Rick lighted a cigarette in a leisurely manner. “The methanol receipt was signed by Ambrose Everhart.”
“Ambrose!” Judith exclaimed. “Why?”
Rick shrugged. “Good