Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [19]
By contrast, Rhoda St. George seemed indifferent to the stares. She was the epitome of thirties chic in a theater suit featuring a black velvet jacket lavishly embroidered with gold thread and the occasional small ruby, topaz, and seed pearl. The long skirt was dark green, gathered around the hips. But it was the hat that drew all eyes: black satin fitted to the head like a skullcap with two long, wide matching streamers, black veiling from hairline to neckline, and a golden rose nestled on top. Rhoda looked wonderfully selfconfident. Judith couldn’t blame her—any woman who could carry off such an ensemble deserved a medal that matched the gold and jewels on her jacket.
Yet in the end, it was the dog that evoked Renie’s comment. “Sugliesmutievasa,” she declared, returning from the buffet with her mouth full of shrimp.
Judith had grown accustomed to translating Renie’s food-marred speech. “He’s certainly an unusual dog, though not necessarily ugly. I don’t think I’ve seen that breed before.”
“It’s not a breed,” Renie asserted after swallowing the shrimp, “it’s a conglomeration. It’s got dreadlocks and no feet. It’s a dog on wheels.”
“The feet must be under all that curling fur,” Judith said as the dog glided across the floor.
The St. Georges proceeded into the saloon, where they were effusively greeted by Émile Grenier, Paul Tanaka, Horace Pankhurst, and a platinum-haired beauty in a silver satin evening gown that clung to her curvaceous body like melted cheese on hot toast.
Renie leaned closer to Judith. “Where’d she come from?”
Judith shrugged. “The powder room, maybe. She’s certainly a Jean Harlow look-alike. I’m beginning to feel like somebody’s dowdy maid in Mother’s old wedding dress.”
“You look fine,” Renie assured her. “Come on, get something to eat. You need to put on some pounds.”
The cousins made their way to the buffet. Judith paused to admire the pheasant ice sculpture, which was holding up remarkably well.
“The caviar’s great,” Renie said, swiftly refilling her plate. “So are the wontons with crab and the oysters and the gravlax and—”
“I get the picture,” Judith broke in. “It’s a good thing you’re wearing black. Your spillage doesn’t show up very much.”
“Huh?” Renie stared down at her bosom. “Oh. Right—it blends.”
Connie Cruz had returned, looking a trifle worried. “Everyone, please enjoy the food and make sure you visit the bar in the next few minutes. Our cruise director, Dixie Beales, is going to play some of the great old songs from the thirties in the next room at seven o’clock.”
“I never did get a cocktail,” Judith noted, carefully choosing a selection of vegetables cut into exotic shapes. “Where’s your beer?”
“In that potted palm by the model of the ship,” Renie replied. “You know I hate beer. I just wanted to be annoying. Oh, for heaven’s sake!” she cried, looking at her cousin’s plate. “You’re grazing, not eating. Here, have some smoked sockeye salmon en croûte and crab dumplings and anything else that might be considered real food. Get the servers to slice off a piece of rare Kobe beef from Japan. I intend to fatten you up.”
“Well…” Watching a bearded young man wield a gleaming carving knife through a juicy roast tempted Judith. Somehow, she resisted. The cousins had, after all, eaten a late lunch. “Okay, I’ll try a couple of dumplings,” she said, allowing a waiter with a shaved head and a graying goatee to serve her. “Then we’d better get our drinks before the piano recital starts.”
“I’m drinking Pepsi,” Renie declared. “I can’t bear the thought of alcohol after this morning.”
“I don’t blame you,” Judith said drily. “Uh-oh,” she whispered, “here come the St. Georges with Fido.”
Richard St. George nodded at the cousins; Rhoda had lifted her veil and was smoking a cigarette through a silver holder. He ordered two double martinis; so did she. The big white dog with the long curls of fur stopped by the cousins and wheezed at Renie’s hem.
“Nice doggie,” Renie murmured, trying to disguise her antipathy