Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [18]
Judith winced. She had a feeling that Renie was going to be difficult, at least as far as Mrs. Giddon was concerned.
“Please don’t mind Erma,” Connie begged from behind her hand. “She adheres to a very strict social code. Her own family dates back to one of the original San Francisco railroad magnates.”
“Which one?” Renie shot back. “The guy who threw the fusies from the back of the crummy?”
Connie looked pained. “No, a Stanford or a Crocker or a Hopkins or a Huntington. You know—the Big Four.”
“I thought they met at Yalta, not Nob Hill,” Renie muttered. “Or was that just the Big Three?”
Connie’s smile was feeble. “Here’s Paul Tanaka. I must find Dixie Beales. She’s providing a brief entertainment later on.”
Paul greeted Renie with a hug. He was a squarely built young man, part Japanese and part African-American. The handshake he offered Judith was firm and the big smile seemed genuine.
“You’re Bill’s stand-in, I hear,” he said. Like the other men, except for the captain, he was wearing a tuxedo with thirties styling. And like several of the other guests, he was smoking. “What happened to him?”
Renie explained, stopping when the other young man who’d been at the bar came forward with a bottle of Budweiser. “I’m Jim Brooks,” he said by way of introduction. “I’m attending medical school at Stanford.”
“Congratulations,” Judith said, releasing Jim’s clammy hand. “I gather it’s difficult to get accepted there.”
Jim flushed slightly. “Yes…but sometimes knowing the right people helps.” He gave Judith a sheepish look and nodded at a lithe blonde who was talking to Captain Swafford. “I’m engaged to Anemone Giddon. Isn’t she beautiful?”
Even from a distance, Judith could see that Mrs. Giddon’s daughter was a winsome, lovely creature. In a lavender floral gown made of organza, she looked like a breath of spring.
“Is her father still living?” Judith inquired.
Jim shook his head. “He passed away from a heart attack almost ten years ago.”
“Then,” Judith asked, “who’s the older bald man that just joined Mrs. Giddon?”
Jim Brooks snickered, a reaction befitting his boyish manner. “The great Horace Pankhurst,” he replied. “Like Mrs. Giddon, he owns shares in the cruise line. He’s also Erma’s financial and legal adviser. Excuse me, I must see how Anemone’s doing. The bartender asked me to deliver the beer to you, Mrs. Jones.”
“Thanks,” Renie said without enthusiasm.
Another member of the party had entered, surveying the gathering over a tall vase filled with calla lilies. He was small and spare, with a goatee and a slight limp.
“Émile Grenier,” Paul informed the cousins as he followed their gaze to the newcomer. “He’s the purser, and he’s French. Ergo, he’s the biggest snob of all.”
“Quite a mixed background for these people,” Judith remarked as Renie drifted toward the buffet, with its ice sculpture of a pheasant with a gold ring around its neck and a spray of frozen tail feathers. “Was Mr. Cruz born in Mexico?”
Paul nodded. “But his parents moved—or should I say swam—to the United States when he was a baby.”
“A self-made man,” Judith observed. “I have the greatest admiration for that type of person. Bloodlines don’t impress me.”
Paul smirked. “It also helps to marry the granddaughter of a wealthy ranchero from Argentina.”
Judith’s gaze shifted to the direction that Connie Cruz had taken upon leaving the little group. But their hostess was nowhere in sight. At that moment, the double doors opened to frame a striking couple with a large white dog. The trio stood very still for just a moment or two, giving the impression that they were striking a pose.
Judith gaped. “The St. Georges?”
Paul nodded. He, too, was looking at the handsome pair. Indeed, everyone was staring with the exception of Erma Giddon, who was fidgeting with an earring. Richard St. George wore a double-breasted midnight-blue tuxedo with silk piping and a gardenia in the left lapel. Slowly, deliberately, he removed his homburg hat, which matched his suit. His manner