Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [34]
“Anemone didn’t deprive herself of a taco salad,” Renie noted.
“That’s my point,” Judith said, sliding the closet doors shut. “She wasn’t going to gorge, she was only satisfying her hunger. Really, aside from you, I didn’t notice anybody overloading their appetizer plates.”
“Let’s not talk about me,” Renie said, attempting to look innocent. “In fact, did you notice the dresser set in here?”
“You mean the very long nail file with the crystal handle? Yes. We have one in our stateroom. There’s also a long, sharp letter opener next to the stationery and postcards.”
“Weapons galore,” Renie murmured.
“But not the kind you’d take to a cocktail party,” Judith noted. “We’d better get out of here. We’ve done everything that needs to be done. Erma will wonder what’s keeping us.”
Renie followed. “Maybe they’ll let us swab the deck.”
But the cousins’ return went unnoticed. Erma was holding court, pounding her strong fists against the sides of her chair. “Really, Ambrose, you are so careless! You know I never go anywhere without Wilbur!”
“Please,” the secretary beseeched his employer, “I arranged for Wilbur to be brought on board first thing tomorrow morning along with the rest of the baggage.”
Erma began to shake with anger. “Do not ever refer to my husband as baggage! He was a very great man! If we weren’t about to leave the city, I’d fire you on the spot!”
“Now, now,” Horace began, but was cut short by an imperious wave of Erma’s hand.
“Oh, Mumsy, do calm yourself,” Anemone urged, visibly upset. “Popsy will be with us. He always is,” she added in a voice that was a trifle gloomy.
A knock sounded at the door. None of the Giddon entourage seemed inclined to respond, though Erma was regaining control of her emotions.
“The trouble with you, Ambrose,” she said stiffly, “is that you aren’t focused. You have outside interests, and they interfere with your job. You must decide what’s more important—your so-called causes or your paycheck.”
The knock sounded again. “Keep your shirt on! I’m coming!” Renie shouted, startling the others.
The waiter with the shaved head and goatee was holding a tray with a large and inviting taco salad. “Thanks,” Renie said. “Say—could you find another one of those for me?”
The waiter shrugged.
“Anybody else?” Renie called over her shoulder.
No one answered, though Erma glared.
“Never mind,” Renie told the waiter. “I’ll chew on the furniture.”
“I’ll share,” Anemone offered. “I can’t eat all this. It’s enormous.”
“Thanks,” Renie said. “I’ll get another fork from the bar.”
Horace was scowling. “You didn’t tip the waiter,” he said to Renie. “Now the gratuity will appear on Mrs. Giddon’s cruise bill. It’s an automatic eighteen percent, plus a courtesy tip.”
“That sounds very civilized,” Renie said, purposely making a loud clatter by dropping several forks. “Whoa! Just like pickup sticks!”
Judith wondered if it wouldn’t be better if Renie took a portion of the salad back to their own stateroom. Her headache was abating, but her hip still hurt.
She was about to make the suggestion when Jim Brooks produced a stethoscope from a black leather case. “It might be a good idea if I checked everyone’s vitals. Obviously, Dr. Selig doesn’t have time to tend to everyone’s needs.”
Anemone looked up from her taco salad. “Oh, Sir Hugsalot, what a terrific idea! Me first!”
“Thanks,” Judith said, motioning for Renie to follow her, “but all we need is some sleep. Good night, everyone.”
Renie stuffed a large forkful of lettuce, avocado, and chicken in her mouth before reluctantly taking her leave. “You might have given me a couple more minutes,” she groused on the way back to their suite. “I’d have had free rein on that salad while Anemone let Jim find out if she has a pulse.”
Loud voices startled Judith as she was sliding the key card through its slot. “Where’s that coming from?” she asked, turning in all directions.
“The Giddon menagerie?” Renie suggested.
Judith shook her head and withdrew the key card. “I don’t think so. Listen.”
The cousins stood