Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [120]
“Captain Swafford,” Rick said, “you had been given detailed instructions about the event, correct?”
Biff gestured at Swafford, but Rick waved him off.
The captain, however, took umbrage. “Of course. The San Rafael is my ship.”
“Yes.” Rick smiled benignly. “You were given command despite your dumping violations in Alaskan waters. Mags was a loyal employer.”
“I’m a bloody good mariner,” the captain averred. “I’ve been sailing ships for almost forty years. How’s an old sea dog like me supposed to keep up with all these damnable new rules and regulations?”
“It’s your job, you twit!” Ambrose shouted.
The captain turned on Ambrose, who was standing only a few feet away. “Why, you little…”
“Enough.” Rick’s voice remained calm, but the authority in it made Swafford hesitate.
“The murders,” Judith whispered to Renie. “Can’t we get back to the murders?”
“Your favorite,” Renie retorted, moving on to the smoked salmon.
“In any event,” Rick continued, “the stage was set—literally and figuratively. Now I must amend the original statement about the weapon.” His gaze moved quickly around the room, though Judith thought it lingered just a second longer on her.
“Initially, there was some confusion,” Rick said, “because a stabbing death suggests a knife or similar sharp instrument.” He paused to hiccup twice. “’Scuse me.” His smile was decidedly off center. “But I—that is, our gallant police—knew the weapon was no ordinary item. I—that is, they—felt it best to mislead everyone, ’specially the killer.”
He paused to sip more of his martini. “Dixie had gone backstage to get ready for her piano performance. The killer waited for that moment, leisurely went behind the buffet, broke off a very sharp tail feather, and followed Dixie. But the first person to show up behind the saloon was Mags. Naturally, he wanted to know why this person was clutching a lethal-looking piece of ice. The killer made a joke. Mags apparently believed it was a harmless prank and turned his back. Panicking, the killer struck—and Mags fell into the piano. There was nothing the killer could do about Dixie now. She would have to be disposed of later. The methanol was originally intended for Émile, but the plan was altered, to be used for Dixie instead. And,” Rick said, lowering his voice slightly, “we know that Ambrose purchased a quantity of methanol earlier in the week. The police have the receipt.”
“Darn tootin’,” Biff said, making a move toward Ambrose. “Should I…?”
“No!” Ambrose had turned ashen. “I didn’t…I mean, I did…but I bought it for—” He fell facedown on the carpet at Biff’s feet.
“I can handle this one!” Jim cried, rushing to the fallen man’s side.
“Never mind,” grumbled Dr. Selig. “I’ll do it.”
“Brandy,” Rhoda murmured, going back to the bar.
Ambrose was already coming around. “Relax, my young friend,” Rick said, motioning for Biff to back off. “I know you didn’t buy it for yourself. You got it for Connie so she could make her own perfume. She’s always done that because of her allergy to commercial scents. Isn’t that so, Dr. Selig?”
“Certainly,” the doctor replied, forcing Ambrose to look him straight in the eye. “You’ll be fine. Have some brandy.”
“Maybe,” Jim said in a sullen voice, “I should forget Stanford and just go to bartending school.”
Anemone threw her arms around him. “Oh, do that, Jimmy! Then we can get married much sooner! You’ll get lots of tips working in a bar.”
“I didn’t,” Judith muttered. “Dan’s regular bartender was skimming. His girlfriend even stole my wallet.”
Rick had resumed speaking. “Yes, the methanol was purchased by Ambrose for Connie. She asked him to do the favor because he’d been lobbying her for a donation to one of his causes. She agreed to help save the black-footed ferrets or the Big Bear Valley sandwort or whatever is currently endangered. Naturally, he was happy to oblige her.”
Judith leaned toward Renie. “I’ll bet that was Connie’s check for a grand