Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [17]
Magglio put a finger to his lips. “No, no. You must call me Mags. All of my friends do. And tonight we are all great friends, awaiting the cruise of a lifetime.”
Judith allowed him to kiss her hand. “Please call me Judith. As a matter of fact, I’ve never been on a cruise of any kind.”
Magglio smiled genially; so did Captain Randolph J. Swafford, who stepped forward to greet the newcomers. The cousins also smiled.
“Believe me, ladies,” the captain said with an English accent, “this will be an unforgettable event in your lives.”
The cousins both froze. How often had they heard similar words, only to discover that they’d much prefer to forget than to remember.
FOUR
ART DECO RULED the ship’s design, from furniture to paneling to floors. Teak and mahogany flowed in clean curves and sleek symmetry. Glass was everywhere—tabletops, doors, wall inserts, and around the saloon where the party was being held.
“Remember,” Renie said as they hesitated in the doorway, “we should get into a thirties mood. Snappy patter, wisecracks, screwball antics.”
“For us, that sounds contemporary,” Judith murmured as an elegant woman in a Grecian gown of flowing white pleats and three-inch gold sandals approached the cousins. Consuela Cruz definitely evoked the gilded edge of the Depression era. She was as lean as her husband, with jet-black hair combed away from a heart-shaped face.
“We’re so glad you’re here,” she said to Renie. “There must have been a misunderstanding regarding your consulting fees. Mags would never dream of cutting you loose so abruptly.” Consuela pointed at a young man at the bar. “You know Paul Tanaka, of course?”
Renie nodded. “He often sat in for Mags at our design meetings.” She nudged Judith’s arm. “My cousin hasn’t met him, though.”
“We’ll attend to that at once,” Consuela said. “He’s standing by the bar with Mrs. Giddon and Mr. Brooks. And do call me Connie.”
Connie Cruz made a graceful gesture with her right hand. “I’ll take you both around the room. Almost everyone is here, I think, except the St. Georges and Émile. Of course, Émile is the ship’s purser, and may have business to take care of.”
The tall, stout woman with the steel-gray hair swept up on top of her head was indeed imposing, Judith thought. It wasn’t just her Amazonian size, but her piercing blue eyes and tight red lips.
“Serena Jones, Judith Flynn,” Connie said, “meet Mrs. George Elwood Giddon.”
Mrs. Giddon studied the cousins through a jewel-studded lorgnette. She was wearing a long, straight gown of black lace over white taffeta. A parure of diamonds and emeralds adorned her ears, neck, and wrists. The grande dame’s imposing presence practically overwhelmed Judith. “A pleasure, I’m sure,” Mrs. Giddon proclaimed in a lofty voice. “Who are you?”
“Who—or what?” Renie shot back with a deceptive smile. “The way you’re looking through that lorgnette makes me feel like a microbe.”
“I said who—not what,” Erma Giddon snapped. “Are you anybody I should know?”
Renie gave a languid shrug. “My forebears came over on the Mayflower—first class. They were fleeing their bridge debts. Judith’s ancestors were the first white settlers in our city, arriving circa 1850. Before that, they founded Philadelphia.”
Mrs. Giddon didn’t seem amused. Connie swiftly intervened. “For many years, Serena has been doing the graphic-design work for Mags. Mrs. Flynn is her cousin. Unfortunately, Mr. Jones couldn’t get away from his work.”
If Mrs. Giddon gave a damn, she didn’t say so. Instead, she turned her back on the cousins and asked a server to fetch her evening wrap.
“It’s chilly in here,” Erma declared. “The captain must adjust the temperature before we sail. You know I’m inclined to chest colds, Consuela.”
“Those cold germs must be really tough to get around her chest,” Renie said, lowering her voice a mere notch.
“Coz,” Judith said in a warning tone.
But Erma had moved her chest and the rest of her away, commanding the youthful blond bartender to mix her a Manhattan.
“Make that Bud in a bottle for me,” Renie called out