Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [23]
“That’s why we’re leaving him in the piano,” Rick said as he looked down at his wife, who was scratching Asthma’s curly head. “Rhoda, be an angel and call Biff McDougal. He’s probably at home.” He winked.
“Right, darling,” Rhoda replied, winking back as she opened her bejeweled evening bag to get her cell phone.
“Just a moment, Mr. St. George,” Erma Giddon said in her loud contralto, “who, may I ask, is in charge here?”
With an ingenuous expression, Rick gazed around the room. “Who else but Captain Swafford? I’m merely an innocent bystander.” His hazel eyes shifted to the sliding doors, which were still closed. Rick, mouthing what appeared to be the word booze, looked questioningly at the captain. Swafford nodded consent. “Ray,” Rick said to the bartender, “would you mind opening the bar? I believe Mrs. Cruz and Ms. Beales could use some brandy. And I could certainly do with another martini.”
Some of the guests, including the Giddon women, Horace, and a wobbly CeeCee Orr hurried out of the cabaret section. Others lingered: Jim Brooks was still tending to Connie and Dixie on the divan. Émile Grenier hovered over the trio. Rhoda hauled Asthma to an upright position. Captain Swafford stood erect by the stage, as if he were willing to go down with his ship.
“Who is this St. George anyway?” Renie demanded of Paul.
Paul looked sheepish. “He’s what you might call a man-about-town. Rich beautiful wife, social entrées everywhere, amusing company even when he—and she—are somewhat blotto. He also considers himself something of a sleuth.”
Judith snapped her fingers. “That’s where I’ve heard the name! Isn’t he known as the Gin Man?”
Paul nodded. “For obvious reasons. How did you come across him?”
“I saw his name on a Web site for amateur sleuths,” Judith started to explain. “I’d cross-referenced my…ah…”
Judith was rescued from explaining her own Internet status as “FATSO” by a shout from Émile Grenier. “We need help with les dames here,” he said in his French-accented voice. “Madame Cruz wishes to lie down in her stateroom, and Madame Beales refuses to remain with the…piano any longer.”
“When’s the doctor coming?” Paul inquired, going to the divan. “That is, the…real doctor.”
Jim flushed. “Hey, I’ll be a real doctor in three years.”
“They probably can’t wait that long,” Renie put in. “The commencement ceremony would take too much out of them.”
“Dr. Selig is on his way?” Connie bit her lower lip. “I forgot about him. He should have been invited tonight.” She put both hands to her head. “Oh, what am I saying? How can I be concerned with social gaffes when my poor husband is dead?”
Judith figured that as long as she and Renie were stuck aboard the ship, they might as well make themselves useful. “Can we help?” she asked, moving closer to the divan.
Connie and Dixie both stared at Judith as if they’d never seen her before. Indeed, Judith realized that Dixie Beales hadn’t met her or Renie. “I’m Judith Flynn,” she said quietly. “This is my cousin Serena. We can help you get settled in your staterooms if you’d like.”
Recognition dawned on Connie. “Would you?”
Émile, however, intervened, drawing himself up to his full height, but not tall enough to meet Judith eye to eye. “I shall take care of Madame Cruz,” he declared. “You may tend to Madame Beales.”
“Okay,” Judith said, noting the apologetic expression on Connie’s face. “We’ll do that.”
Émile and Paul helped the distraught women to their feet. “What can I do to be of help?” Paul inquired of the purser.
“Nothing,” Émile replied, putting a supporting arm around Connie’s slim waist. “I’m a crew member, reporting to le capitaine. You, Monsieur Tanaka, are support staff.”
Paul’s dark skin turned even darker. “Is that so? You seem to forget that I’m Magglio Cruz’s second in command. Unless the board of directors say otherwise, I’m in charge of this whole operation.”
“We shall see,” Émile retorted. “The board members—including Madame Giddon and Monsieur Pankhurst—may have other ideas.”
“For God’s sake!” Connie