Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [28]
“Ah…” Judith winced. “Our cat’s not exactly like that. He’s…independent.” As well as ornery, bad-tempered, and more self-centered than most of his breed.
“Oh.” Rhoda’s amber eyes danced. “I understand.” She turned to Renie. “And you?”
“We have a Holland dwarf lop named Clarence. He’s adorable. And cuddly. Clarence has quite an extensive wardrobe. In fact, he has his own cruise wear, including a small Speedo.”
“Really.” Rhoda arched her perfect eyebrows. She actually seemed intrigued. “Does he enjoy wearing clothes?”
“In a way,” Renie hedged. “Often, he prefers to eat them.”
“Yes,” Rhoda said thoughtfully. “But every animal has its own flaw—or fetish. Asthma, for instance, can be very impatient when we have to curl his fur. That cordlike effect is achieved by using soup cans. The poor darling only cooperates if we use beef noodle.”
Renie nodded solemnly. “Clarence is opposed to any kind of grooming. He tends to hide behind the furnace on his little deck chair.”
Rhoda leaned forward. “While wearing his Speedo?”
“No. Actually, the swimsuit was completely consumed last summer.”
Judith felt like screaming. The growing bond between Renie and Rhoda was making her fractious. Usually, it was Judith who chatted amiably with possible suspects and witnesses while Renie kept to the background.
There was a pause before Rhoda spoke again. “I must get Asthma settled for the night. Why don’t you come into our suite and have a drink? We’re just a couple of doors down. Actually, we have two suites—one for us and one for Asthma.” She continued walking, urging the dog along. “We’re in the William Powell and Myrna Loy suites, just beyond yours.”
“That figures,” Renie whispered to Judith as they followed Rhoda at a short distance. “They remind me of Nick and Nora Charles from the old Thin Man movies.”
“Do they?” Judith was looking grim. “I never liked those films. Their solutions were too glib.”
“That was because they were really screwball comedies,” Renie replied.
“Whatever,” said Judith.
The St. Georges’ suite was similar in style and layout to Judith and Renie’s. Rhoda urged the cousins to make themselves a drink—along with a martini for her.
“Maybe,” Renie said as Judith revived her old skills from her bartending job at the Meat & Mingle, “I could bear a sip of Drambuie.”
“They’ve got everything,” Judith replied, studying the mirrored shelves above the teak bar. “Especially gin. I’ll stick to scotch.” Maybe a stiff drink would improve her disposition.
The St. Georges also had plenty of luggage, some of which was piled in a corner of the sitting room. Two large steamer trunks with shiny brass studs on hand-tooled leather boasted travel stickers from New York, Paris, London, Sydney, Hong Kong, Singapore, St. Petersburg, Buenos Aires, Capetown, and other foreign cities.
“It looks like they’ve been everywhere,” Judith remarked, handing Renie a small snifter of Drambuie.
“And done everything, I should imagine,” Renie replied.
“I wish we’d sent our bags ahead,” Judith said, adding a dash of water to her scotch rocks. “We’ll have to sleep in what we’ve got on.”
“You’re right.” Renie tasted her Drambuie as Rhoda emerged from the adjoining suite.
“Asthma is tucked in,” she informed the cousins, finally removing her hat and her bejeweled jacket. “Ah.” She saw the martini glass on the bar. “Thank you. This has been a really tiring event. By the way, did I overhear you mention not having any essentials on board?”
“Unfortunately,” Renie replied, “we don’t. We didn’t expect to spend the night here.”
Rhoda picked up the ship’s phone. “I can fix that. Will carry-ons do or would you prefer all of it?”
Judith had to admit to herself that Rhoda was not only friendly—if almost as goofy as Renie—but also helpful. “Yes, the carry-ons are fine. We both keep what we need most in case the airline loses the rest of our baggage.”
Rhoda nodded. “The St. Francis?”
Judith confirmed that they were staying there.
Rhoda