Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [123]
“Yes,” Judith said softly. “That’s true. Oh—there’s one of my bags, with the yellow sticker on it.”
“Good,” Bill said. “Grab it.”
“Huh?”
Bill gave her a helpless look. “I can’t. I threw my back out after I got here.”
Judith had no time to hesitate. The suitcase was going around the curve, starting back up the belt. She stumbled and would have fallen if a bearded young man hadn’t caught her. He also snagged the suitcase.
“Thanks,” Judith said, slightly rattled. She turned to Bill, who was watching Renie collect one of her luggage pieces. “What happened to you?”
“I was fine until I had to unload the steamer trunk.”
“What steamer trunk?” Judith asked as Renie hauled her big green suitcase away from the conveyer belt.
“Your mother’s,” Bill replied.
Judith stared. “My mother’s?”
“Oh.” Bill’s blue eyes were again fixed on the moving baggage. “I guess you wouldn’t know. By coincidence, I had to bring your mothers out here today for a flight to Miami. They’re going on a cruise.”
“What?” Renie shouted, her ears still plugged from the plane’s final descent.
Bill nodded. “Aunt Gertrude decided to take that money she got from the movie people and go on a cruise. She talked Deb into going along. It was spur-of-the-moment, I guess. Hey, there’s another one of your bags,” he said to his wife. “And the last one. Be quick. I’ve got to go to the chiropractor.”
Renie picked up the bags and lugged them away. “That’s it,” she said in an overly loud voice.
“Okay,” Bill said, turning toward the escalator that led to the parking garage. “Let’s go, let’s hit it, let’s get boppin’!”
Judith would have preferred bopping Bill.
Judith was not in a good mood upon arriving home shortly after three o’clock. She found Joe lying on the living-room sofa, reading Sports Illustrated.
“Welcome back,” he said, not getting up. “Feeling rested?”
“No.” Judith dumped the luggage in the middle of the entry hall. “What are you doing home? Aren’t you going to help me?”
“Oh. Sure.” He got up, slowly walked across the room, and kissed Judith. “We had an early recess. I’ve been sitting for two days in that damned courtroom. I’m stiff as a board and my cold’s still bad. Funny, I’ve been so busy that it hardly seems like you’ve been gone at all. What was it four, five days?”
Judith scowled at her husband. “It seems like a month.”
Joe looked down at her luggage. “I’ll take that up later,” he said, going back into the living room and resuming his place on the sofa. “None of the guests are here yet. It’s really peaceful, especially with your mother gone. Hey, sorry you missed the cruise, but a few days in San Francisco can’t be all bad. Did you have a good time?”
“I…” Judith flopped down on the matching sofa. “No. It was like a screwball movie from the thirties, with three people murdered, a man named Blackie, a blond bombshell, a snobbish old bat, and a bumbling cop. We would have been shot if it hadn’t been for Rick St. George, an amateur sleuth, and his rich wife, Rhoda—who, by the way, own a dog named Asthma.”
Joe chuckled. “That’s cute.” He picked up the newspaper from the coffee table and flipped to the TV listings. “That reminds me, let’s kick back tonight. There’s an old Thin Man movie on.”
Judith stared at Joe. She started to rant, but changed her mind.
“Sounds good,” she said. “I like fantasy.”
About the Author
Seattle native MARY RICHARDSON DAHEIM began reading mysteries when she was seven. She started writing them when she was eleven, but her career as a published novelist didn’t begin until much later. After graduating from the University of Washington’s School of Communications, Daheim worked on small-town newspapers and in corporate public relations. Her goal to write fiction remained in place, however, and she began publishing the Bed-and-Breakfast series in 1991, adding the Alpine mysteries a year later. The author is married to David Daheim, and the couple, who live in Seattle, have