Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [121]
“Oh—right. It stands for something-or-other about endangered flora and fauna.”
“So,” Rick went on, “Ambrose acted innocently in buying the methanol. He couldn’t have known its fatal consequences.”
Paul leaped from his seat. “All right! I did it! I killed Mags! I poisoned Dixie! I strangled Émile! I confess everything!” Swiftly, he moved over to where a befuddled Biff was standing. “Arrest me. Take me away.”
Puzzled, Judith poked Renie. “What’s going on? This doesn’t make sense.”
“Sure doesn’t,” Renie replied. “Try the clam dip.”
“Hold on, Biff,” Rick called to the policeman. “Paul, please sit down. I know you didn’t kill anyone. You’re covering for the person you think may have done it. Please let me continue.” As Paul reluctantly took a couple of steps backward, Rick grew rather unsteady. “I go by my hunches in solving a case,” he asserted, holding on to the mantelpiece for support. “All along…I’ve had one about the killer…” He hiccuped again and dropped his empty glass, which bounced harmlessly into the kindling box on the hearth. “The killer is—” Rick gasped, hiccuped, and reeled into Rhoda’s arms.
“I think he’s passed out!” she exclaimed, staggering under her husband’s weight.
Captain Swafford and Dr. Selig hurried to help her. They eased Rick onto the floor.
“S’all right,” Rick mumbled as the guests began to stir uneasily. He cocked his head and half opened his eyes. “You f’nish, Mish Flynn.”
Startled, Judith began to protest, but Renie gave her a shove. “You’re on, coz. Go.”
“I’m embarrassed,” she announced while the others began to grow quiet and give her their anxious attention. “I’m not in the same league as Rick.”
Asthma had crept out from under the buffet table and was licking his master’s face. “But you’re not drunk as a skunk,” Rhoda said pleasantly, kneeling at Rick’s side. “Please enlighten us, dear Judith.”
Judith grimaced. “I must give you my reasons for coming to certain conclusions. I realize that Connie never wanted to bring shame to Mags because of her father’s misdeeds. I’m aware that she didn’t display Señor de Fuentes’s racing-career photos until after Mags had died.” Judith turned a pained face toward Connie. “I suppose that after the blackmail threat ended with Dixie and Émile’s deaths, it was a show of bravado on your part, to keep up the pretense that your father wasn’t a ruined man and hadn’t destroyed your family.”
“My God!” Connie exclaimed. “How do you know that?”
“Because you—like Rhoda—had sent the domestic help away. Yet the table where you placed the racing photographs was not only dust-free but gleamed as if it had just been polished.”
“Oh!” Connie raised a limp hand. “Those old photos were a comfort, especially after having just lost Mags. They reminded me of happier times. You were clever to figure that out.”
“Just logical,” Judith said modestly. “I also knew that Ambrose had been on board the San Rafael the night of Mags’s murder. He had confided as much in…Beulah, the Giddons’ maid.” She shot Chevy a quick glance. Chevy didn’t even blink. For once, Ambrose kept quiet.
“Ambrose had received a call from the ship to bring the methanol,” Judith explained. “He hadn’t yet delivered it to Connie because of all the precruise preparations. But he was told that she had to have it right away. It wasn’t Connie who called him, which is what made him suspicious, especially after he found out that Mags had been murdered. That’s why he told Beulah he’d been on the ship.” Again, she looked at Chevy. “He also told you when he went to the San Rafael, didn’t he?”
“Yes, he made a point of mentioning that—” Chevy began. “I mean—yaz’um. He sho’ did. Ten o’clock.”
Judith nodded. “Everyone remembers the decor,” she continued, “but I also recall the temperature. It was smoky, but very cool in the saloon. Yet one person was sweating—or so I thought. Later I realized it wasn’t perspiration. The person was wet, just as Mags’s tuxedo jacket and the floor were wet. The ice that