Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [40]
“Is he a mute?” Judith whispered, pulling a chair up to the other side of the table.
Renie was spreading soft butter on her waffle. “Huh? No, I think he’s talking to CeeCee in the passageway.”
Judith glanced up. The waiter was leaving; CeeCee remained on the threshold.
“Gotta run,” she said. “Racey will think I’ve been kidnapped. He worries, worries, worries. Thanks for the perfume.” CeeCee closed the door behind her.
“Hunh,” Renie said after devouring half of a pork sausage, “she may be what we thought she was. What you see is what you get?”
“Perhaps,” Judith responded.
“What do you mean by that?”
“You know. It takes some digging to find the real person underneath the facade. How many times have we been fooled by appearances?”
“True,” Renie allowed, wiping syrup off of her chest. “Especially by seemingly ordinary people who turned out to be heartless killers. Which, I assume, is what we have among us.”
Judith grimaced. “I’m afraid so. We’ve no idea what the motive may be and only a limited knowledge of the method. Thus, I suppose the first thing we should consider is the third factor in any homicide—opportunity. How many people can we rule out because they never left the saloon?”
Looking thoughtful, Renie sipped her tomato juice. “Let’s see. We saw Magglio Cruz alive and well when we came on board the ship. Did we see him after that? Other than in the piano, of course.”
“Yes,” Judith replied. “He was at the bar. I don’t remember seeing him after that. Later Connie went to look for him. Which means,” Judith added with a frown, “we can’t rule out Connie as a suspect.”
“The spouse,” Renie remarked. “Always the prime suspect.”
Judith paused, eating, but not really tasting, her waffle. She was focused on re-creating the saloon party in her mind’s eye. “The St. Georges arrived last,” she finally said, “so we don’t know where they were before they made their grand entrance. Émile Grenier showed up just before that. We didn’t see Dixie Beales until the cabaret section was opened.”
“True,” Renie agreed. “But most of the other guests seemed to have stayed put. Erma, Anemone, Jim, Horace, CeeCee, Paul, Captain Swafford. Admittedly, everyone was milling around.”
“Then there’s Ambrose, who claimed he wasn’t on board but told Chevy that he was,” Judith reminded her cousin. “That’s a real puzzle.”
“It could be a miscommunication,” Renie pointed out, gathering up her tableware and placing it to one side of the portable table. “You didn’t eat your egg,” she said, pointing to a small dish that was still covered.
“Egg?” Judith frowned. “I didn’t know you ordered one for me.”
Renie bit her lip. “I didn’t, come to think of it. I got two, although I ordered only one for myself. Sorry, coz. I am a pig.”
“That’s okay,” Judith said. “You know I’m watching my cholesterol.” She narrowed her eyes at Renie. “I suppose you want this one, too?”
“No, I do not,” Renie replied in an indignant tone. “I’m a pig, but I’m not a hog. You eat it. You need to put on weight.”
“It’s probably cold by now.” Judith lifted the lid.
There was no egg—only a folded piece of paper on the white plate.
“What the heck?” Judith muttered. “Maybe we got a bill after all.” She unfolded the paper. “It’s not a bill,” she said grimly, and handed the note to Renie.
The rather small letters had been individually pasted on a sheet from a San Rafael memo pad. They read Butt Out.
“Good Lord,” Renie gasped. “Who knows you’re FATSO?” She referred to the corruption of her cousin’s Internet acronym, which actually stood for Female Amateur Sleuth Tracking Offenders.
“Do you think that’s what it refers to?” Judith responded, looking worried.
“What else?” Renie studied the message for a few more seconds. “There’s something odd about this. The individual letters haven’t been cut from a newspaper or a magazine. In fact, the paper they’re printed on is quality stuff, too heavy for an ordinary publication.”
Judith took the note and fingered each separate letter. “You’re right. I suppose we shouldn’t be handling