Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [35]
“A stairway?” Renie offered.
“Could be. But where? We took the elevator.”
“Amidships, at least. There must be more, though. How about toward the bow? That’d be closer.”
Judith didn’t argue. Renie, after all, was the daughter of a seafaring man, and knew more about ships than which side was port and which was starboard. The cousins trudged back the way they’d come from the Giddon suite. The voices grew closer.
“One of them is Biff McDougal,” Judith whispered as they slowed their pace. “I don’t recognize the other one.”
Judith and Renie stopped just short of the stairway. The men were no longer shouting, but Biff still sounded angry. “Okay, okay,” he said. “But one step out of line, and you’re in the hoosegow for good, Blackie.”
“I’m telling ya,” the man called Blackie replied, “I’ve gone straight. Ask Mr. St. George.”
“Yeah, right, sure,” Biff replied, lowering his voice to a mutter as they continued up the companionway. “If you even look cross-eyed, I’m going to Captain Swafford and let him…”
The next words were inaudible. Judith and Renie stared at each other.
“Blackie?” Renie said.
“Blackie. By the way, you have sour cream on your chin.”
Haphazardly, Renie rubbed at her chin. “Why the warning? McDougal makes Blackie sound like a crook. Isn’t all this a bit unreal?”
Judith paused halfway to their suite and gave her cousin a hard look. “You’re not suggesting that it’s staged, are you? We’ve traveled that route before.”
“No, no,” Renie asserted. “That couldn’t happen to us twice. It’s the atmosphere, I guess. All this thirties stuff makes me feel as if I’m time-traveling or in an old movie.”
“You’re right,” Judith said, opening the stateroom door. “We may not have been around during that era, but we’ve seen so much of it in movies and on TV that it’s very familiar. Let’s face it, Cruz Cruises has chosen an evocative theme for its new ship.”
“True,” Renie agreed, unzipping her carry-on bag. “They’re not the only ones. I understand the new Queen Mary is bringing back the decor from the thirties. I frequently run across that concept these days in design work. It was such a period of contradictions. On the one hand, you had the nightmare of the Great Depression. On the other hand, you had people knocking themselves out to have a good time. Prohibition ended, all of the arts were exploding with new ideas, technology was rapidly improving—and over it all loomed the prospect of war.”
“Serena Jones, historian,” Judith teased. “You still have sour cream on your chin.”
“Hunh,” Renie muttered, looking in the mirrored glass on the coffee table. “I might as well cleanse myself completely by taking a bath. I assume you’ll use the shower in the morning.”
“Yes,” Judith said. She preferred showers since she’d had the hip replacement. Getting in and out of a tub was difficult—and dangerous.
Judith was sipping ice water and sorting through her carry-on bag when a knock sounded at the door. A glance at the chrome hands of the clock informed her it was exactly eleven. Wearily, she went to see who was calling at such a late hour.
A pretty, petite young black woman in a maid’s costume looked as surprised to see Judith as Judith was to see her.
“Oooh-ah!” the young woman exclaimed. “Mah mistake. ’Scuse me, ma’am.” She bobbed a curtsy.
Judith didn’t know whether to smile or wince. “Are you—um—Beulah?”
The new arrival blinked twice before replying. “Yas’um. Ah’s workin’ fo’ Miz Giddon.”
Another source, Judith thought, putting out her hand and introducing herself. “Could you please come in for just a minute? I’d like you to meet my cousin. She’ll be coming out of the bathroom any minute.”
“Miz Giddon tol’ me to hustle mah bustle on down,” the maid replied. “But if Ah can help some way…” She shrugged. “Promise you won’t tell on me, Miz Flynn.”
“I promise,” Judith assured the maid. “Your mistress is just a few steps away, in the W. C. Fields suite,” she