Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [44]
“That’s a Nob Hill address,” Renie said. “It figures—they’re rich, and housing there is sky-high in more ways than one.”
Dialing the number, Judith really didn’t expect that the St. Georges would be home. But Rhoda answered on the second ring.
“Judith—how nice to hear from you,” she said in that cultured yet nonchalant tone. “Did you make it back to the hotel without getting pistol-whipped?”
“Yes,” Judith replied with a thumbs-up sign for Renie. “But as soon as we got here, Biff McDougal paid us a visit.”
“Biff.” Rhoda sounded amused. “Ricky likes him, probably because he’s such a suggestible kind of policeman. And he is discreet when it comes to publicity because he despises the media. Years ago, one of the newspapers—I can’t remember if it was the Chronicle or the Examiner—poked fun at him. They called him a ‘relic from the past,’ and implied that he was inept. But his closure rate is very good, especially with homicides.”
Judith wondered if that was partly due to Rick St. George’s help. Maybe Rick and Biff were a successful combination of brain and brawn. “Biff doesn’t work with a partner?” Judith inquired.
“Usually,” Rhoda answered, “but Willie—William Jackson—broke his leg skiing at Lake Tahoe last week. He won’t be back on the job until the end of April. Willie’s young, eager, and reasonably bright. I believe another rookie has been assigned as a temporary partner—Buzz Something-or-other—but he showed up late last night. By the way, how was Biff when you saw him?
Judith frowned. “How?”
Rhoda laughed. “I mean, was he in a hurry?”
“Let’s say he left in a rush,” Judith hedged.
There was a momentary silence on the other end of the line. “I see. Why don’t you and your cousin come by for a drink? We’re only a few blocks up from the St. Francis. You can take a taxi or ride the cable car. I’ll give you directions.”
Judith made notes on the pad. “When?” she asked.
“How about right now?” Rhoda replied, her voice dropping a notch. “I’ve almost finished putting Asthma’s fur up in soup cans.”
“Beef noodle?”
“Right. See you soon?”
“You bet,” said Judith, and hung up.
The St. Georges lived only seven blocks from the hotel, but it was all uphill—even steeper than the Counterbalance at home. As the old-fashioned red, gold, and black cable car pulled around the corner by one of the numerous flower stands, the cousins could see that passengers were hanging from the side like sausages falling out of a wrapper. There were no friendly outstretched hands to help them this time. Renie grabbed Judith’s arm to haul her aboard. Clinging to a steel pole, they hung on for dear life as the venerable conveyance rattled and clanged its way to the top of the busy street.
They could hear the hum of the tracks after they got off at the crest of Powell Street. It was windy—even chilly—as Judith and Renie walked a block west, where they stopped to catch their collective breath by the hallowed and exclusive Pacific Union Club. They gazed around at the Mark Hopkins and Fairmont hotels, two other well-known San Francisco landmarks.
“You can smell money around here,” Renie noted. “It’s like Park Avenue in New York or Boston’s Back Bay.”
Judith pointed to the street sign. “This is Sacramento. The St. Georges must live in that condo across the street from the Mark Hopkins.”
The doorman tipped his hat before asking the cousins’ names and which resident they were visiting. A moment later, they entered the marble lobby with its lavish floral arrangement. Rick and Rhoda lived in the penthouse. A uniformed elevator operator gave them a smooth ride to the top floor. The doors slid open onto what Judith and Renie assumed was the St. Georges’ foyer. If there was any doubt, the sound of clanking tin cans rang in their ears. Rhoda and Asthma came into view.
“Judith! Serena! How nice! Come, sit, stay, behave.”
Judith gave a start. “What?”
Rhoda laughed. “I was talking to the dog. He seems to be trying to cuddle Serena.”
Renie was trying not to grimace as Asthma rubbed his fur-covered