Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [39]
“I’m a Red Door person,” Judith replied. “I like a floral scent. For years, I wore White Shoulders.”
“Red Door, huh?” CeeCee looked ingenuous. “Gosh, I’ve never used that. What’s it like?”
“I’ll let you try it,” Judith said, going into the bedroom.
Renie was rummaging in her suitcase. “Where’d I put the damned stuff? I wore it last night. Oh—here it is, in the side pocket. What’re you doing?”
“Being gracious,” Judith replied, wrestling with the zipper of her cosmetic case. “This thing sticks. I’ve been meaning to buy a new one, but I didn’t have time before we left on such short notice.”
“Is CeeCee as ditzy as she acts?”
Judith shrugged. “I don’t know. That act isn’t easy to do.” The zipper finally relented; the bottle of Red Door was extracted.
When the cousins returned to the sitting room, CeeCee was humming Cole Porter’s “Begin the Beguine.”
Judith sprayed a whiff of her own perfume on her wrist and let CeeCee sniff.
“Nice,” she said. “Kind of floral. What’s in it?”
“Several ingredients,” Judith replied, handing over the bottle. “Too many to remember. Jasmine, wild orchid—see for yourself.”
CeeCee squinted at the small print. “Gee, what a combo! Did you know that Connie Cruz makes her own perfume? She’s allergic to most of the stuff they sell in stores. Connie always smells like lilies.” She took another sniff of Red Door, and shook her head. “I still like Opium better.” She returned the bottle to Judith. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Here,” Renie said, handing her own brand to CeeCee. “Squirt away.”
“Mmm.” CeeCee closed her eyes again, purring softly as she applied the scent to her cleavage, her throat, and her wrists. “Now,” she said softly, “I can face the day.”
Renie accepted the perfume bottle and set it on a side table. “Good. Frankly, I wear that stuff only in the evening. It’s a bit overpowering for daytime use.”
CeeCee’s big brown eyes opened wide. “Really? Usually, I bathe in it. But I didn’t bring all my fragrances with me yesterday.”
“You’re going ashore?” Judith asked in a casual voice.
CeeCee shrugged. “I guess. Racey says there’s no telling when we’ll sail.”
Judith was puzzled. “‘Racey’?”
CeeCee laughed. “That’s what I call Horace. Sometimes I call him ‘Panky.’ As in ‘Hanky-Panky.’” She winked. “It all depends.”
“Yes,” Judith said in a noncommittal voice. “Do you live in San Francisco?”
Mischief still danced in CeeCee’s eyes. “Most of the time.”
Judith smiled in her friendliest manner. “I thought I heard a hint of the East Coast in your speech.”
CeeCee laughed again. “Ain’t it da troot?” she replied, exaggerating her accent. “I’m originally from Brooklyn. Brooklyn Heights, that is.”
Judith wasn’t skeptical about CeeCee’s Brooklyn origins, but she was dubious about her claim to the fashionable—and expensive—Brooklyn Heights neighborhood.
The conversation was interrupted by yet another knock. In a swirl of tiger stripes, Renie got up to answer. Halfway to the door, she tripped over the hem of her robe and fell flat on her face.
“Coz!” Judith cried. “Are you okay?”
The response was a stream of profanity, befitting a seafaring man’s daughter.
“I’ll see who it is,” CeeCee called out over the earthy din.
Judith did her best to haul Renie to her feet. “That tiger costume’s too long for you. No wonder you tripped.”
“Oh, shut up!” Renie collapsed back onto the sofa. “I got it on sale at Nordquist’s and I’ll be damned if I’ll pay for alterations on a markdown. Besides, Bill hates it.”
“No wonder,” Judith remarked. “It looks like you’re trying out for the cover of National Geographic.”
CeeCee had admitted the waiter with the shaved head and goatee. She stepped aside as he wheeled the table in front of the sofa and began to uncover the various dishes.
“How do we pay?” Judith asked as Renie surveyed the food with an eagle eye.
“He said you don’t,” CeeCee replied. “Everything for you guys is free. Lucky stiffs!”
“Let’s not talk about ‘stiffs,’” Judith said. “Surely we can offer a gratuity.”
But the waiter smiled slightly