Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [21]
“We get it,” Renie broke in. “The Cousins get it.”
The other half of the saloon was lighted only by mica-shaded wall sconces. Comfortable armchairs had been placed at small round tables. As her eyes adjusted to the demilight, Judith could make out a black grand piano on a cabaret-type stage.
“Sorry about this,” Renie whispered in apology. “I didn’t know there’d be entertainment that we’ll have to pretend to enjoy even if we’d rather be hung from the yardarm.”
“That’s okay,” Judith said, scanning the short program that had been left at each table. “She’s going to play just six pieces. Piano arrangements inspired by Duke Ellington, Tommy Dorsey, Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, and Artie Shaw.”
Dixie Beales had arranged herself on the bench. She gazed at the sheet music, flexed her fingers, and scowled. Getting up, she moved to the edge of the stage and spoke to Émile Grenier. He stood up and limped to the rear of the piano.
“A moment only,” Dixie announced. “The piano lid hasn’t been fully raised.”
Anemone and Jim were sitting at the table next to Judith and Renie. “The Fun Lady,” Anemone remarked from behind her hand. “I bet she’s wearing a wig.”
Judith smiled politely. Renie remained immobile.
Dixie had moved to assist Émile. Their efforts were obscured from the audience by the piano itself.
“The lid must be stuck,” Jim Brooks said. “Maybe I should help. Émile doesn’t look like the strongest guy in the world.”
“The purser’s small but wiry,” Anemone asserted, looking pleased with herself for making the observation. “Though he has a bad leg.”
“I’d like to hear some Cole Porter,” said Horace Pankhurst at the table adjoining the engaged couple. The big man used a cocktail napkin to pat at perspiration on his thick neck.
“Cold what?” his blond companion asked. “You mean Coldplay? They’re a great band. They’re Brits, you know.”
Horace looked as if he didn’t know. “Oh? Well, whatever the music, it’s taking long enough to get that piano open. Somebody ought to take a crowbar to it.”
“You wouldn’t want to use a crowbar on an expensive piano,” Renie noted. “My good friend Melissa Bargroom, who just happens to be our newspaper’s music critic, says that an instrument like that costs—”
A loud, piercing shriek from Dixie Beales cut through Renie’s words. Both cousins stared at the stage. Dixie had disappeared, apparently having fallen to the floor. Émile suddenly went out of sight, too, presumably coming to the cruise director’s aid.
Captain Swafford was on his feet. So was Rick St. George. A sense of apprehension engulfed the saloon.
“Stay put, everybody,” Rick said in a loud if somewhat slurred voice. “I’ll see what’s going on.”
The other guests seemed to defer to Rick, who bounded onstage, martini glass still in hand. Rick also disappeared behind the piano, but almost immediately resurfaced along with Émile Grenier.
“Is there a doctor in the house?” Rick asked, his speech no longer slurred.
Rhoda St. George burst into derisive laughter. “Oh, Ricky, can’t you find a better line than that old cliché?”
But her husband looked serious and ignored the remark, casting his eyes around the room.
Jim stiffened in his chair before looking every which way. “Ah…” he began, awkwardly shifting his lanky frame into a standing position. “Um…I’m a medical student at Stanford.”
“Then you’d better get up here, kiddo,” Rick said. “Dixie Beales has passed out.” He paused while Jim came forward. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing you can do for the corpse in the piano.”
FIVE
DAMNED FUNNY, ST. George!” Horace Pankhurst shouted, slapping his thick thigh. “I should’ve brought my harmonica as a backup!”
Judith, however, didn’t believe that Rick St. George was trying to be funny. He certainly didn’t look it, judging from the worried creases in his forehead.
Apparently Consuela Cruz didn’t see any humor in the situation, either. She was on her feet, slim body trembling. Captain Swafford tried to calm her, but she broke free of his restraining hands and staggered toward the stage.
“Is it Mags?” she cried. “Is it Mags?”
Judith