Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [116]
“But he wasn’t.” Judith paused, gazing out onto the bay, where the fog had lifted just enough to see the lights from ships that had dropped anchor for the night. “The cruise might have been fun,” she said wistfully. “A vacation would have been nice.”
“Yes,” Renie agreed. “Instead, we’re going to a funeral tomorrow.”
“Why,” Judith asked on a note of resignation, “am I not surprised?”
Renie didn’t bother to answer. Judith could only hope that their next close call wouldn’t come too soon.
But, she grimly reminded herself, the killer was still out there.
TWENTY-TWO
THE CATHEDRAL OF St. Mary of the Assumption was startlingly modern and unconventional in design, an ode not only to God, but to geometry. It reminded Renie of a spaceship. “If this thing took off, would we go straight to heaven?” she asked after the impressive service had finished.
“Doubtful,” Judith said, walking across the broad plaza along with the several hundred other mourners who’d attended the funeral Mass.
Connie had rejected the suggestion to hold a reception at the cathedral. She simply wasn’t up to it, according to Rhoda. Since Mags was being cremated, there would be no cortege to the cemetery. Connie couldn’t deal with that, either.
Judith felt a tap on her shoulder. It was Rhoda, asking if they’d like a ride to the private reception at the St. Georges’ Nob Hill home.
“I promise it won’t be like the last ride I offered,” Rhoda said, making a face. “I must warn you, though, Ricky is a terrible driver.”
Rhoda wasn’t exaggerating. Rick St. George seemed oblivious to other vehicles, driving their Bentley Arnage as if he were competing in a NASCAR race. Judith barely had an opportunity to savor the car’s quilted leather upholstery or the aura of luxury. Admittedly, it was a smooth, if harrowing, ride as Rick ran through at least three red lights, took an illegal left-hand turn, and circumvented a double-parked van by driving on the sidewalk. Yet fifteen minutes later, they arrived unscathed atop Nob Hill.
“Survival of the fastest,” Rhoda murmured as they got out of the car in the parking garage where Blackie and CeeCee had taken the cousins the previous day.
“We had to get here before our guests arrive,” Rick said breezily. “Let’s hope the caterers have everything prepared.”
They did. In fact, Biff McDougal was already sampling the lavish spread that had been set out on a temporary table in the living room. The white linen cloth was covered with every kind of salad, from greens to pasta; fruits de mer included oysters, crab, prawns, salmon, lobster, clams, and mussels; the cheeses were too numerous to count, let alone identify by sight; and delectable desserts swam in a sea of calories, with several topped by clotted or Bavarian cream. Judith was overwhelmed; Renie’s eyes were enormous.
“Ha!” Biff cried as the cousins and the St. Georges came into the living room. “I beatcha here! I put on the siren.”
“You also left early,” Rick said. “You and Buzz were at the back of the church. We saw you when we came in.”
Buzz was standing away from the table, looking deferential as usual. Renie couldn’t keep from ogling the buffet, but Judith put a hand on her arm.
“Hold it,” she whispered to Renie. “Try to control yourself for once. Even Biff can’t eat it all at once.”
“He’s hogging the lobster,” Renie declared, sounding almost in admiration of his audacity. “Look at him, slathering it in drawn butter.”
Rick had gone behind the bar. “Drinks, anyone?”
Biff mentioned that he was on duty—sort of. With an unconvincing show of reluctance, he accepted a shot of whiskey. Judith and Renie both asked for shooting sherry. It seemed like a proper choice for a postfuneral gathering.
“Good,” Judith said to her cousin. “You’re behaving in a civilized manner. Just don’t spill. You may keep your consulting fee yet.”
“I’d damned well better,” Renie muttered. “Oh, no—here comes Erma and her crew. You’d better lock me in the linen closet.”
Erma Giddon was draped in a black coat and matching dress. Her only jewelry was a short double strand of