Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [49]
Renie concurred. “Good thinking. Is that our next stop?”
“Yes. I’m certainly not going to confront Erma Giddon just after her jewels have been swiped. Especially,” Judith added, using chopsticks to pluck a strip of beef from her noodle dish, “if she has any suspicions about us being the thieves.”
It was almost two-thirty when Judith and Renie got out of the cab that had taken them from Brandy Ho’s. An older, typically narrow San Francisco building, the Fitzroy looked as if it had just been renovated.
Judith snapped her fingers. “I know this place! It’s a brand new B&B, only on a much grander scale than Hillside Manor. I got a mailing about it from the California innkeepers association.”
“Maybe you can get a job,” Renie said, pushing Judith along to avoid another mouthy panhandler.
The lobby was small but attractive. A young woman of Asian descent stood behind the desk, eyeing the cousins with polite curiosity. Her name tag identified her as MIYA.
“We’re booked through tonight and possibly the weekend,” she said before either Judith or Renie could speak.
“We don’t need a room,” Judith said, wearing her friendliest smile. “We’d like to see one of your guests, Dixie—that is, May Belle—Beales.”
Miya turned to look at the mailboxes. “Ms. Beales is out,” she said. “Her key is here. Would you care to leave a message?”
Judith was considering the idea when a man wearing an exotic African cap rushed into the lobby. “My taxi! Lady very sick!” he shouted. “I call to 911! She guest here! Come quick!”
Judith and Renie immediately followed the cabdriver outside. His vehicle was double-parked in the narrow street, causing horns to honk and drivers to curse. Renie had to fend off the offensive panhandler a second time.
Judith waited for the driver to open the rear door. “See?” he said. “She pass out. She very sick.”
Leaning into the cab, Judith gently moved a paisley head-scarf away from the woman’s face. Recognition struck instantly. Judith felt for a pulse.
Renie had joined Judith and the driver.
“It’s Dixie Beales,” Judith said in a stricken voice. “She isn’t sick. She’s dead.”
TEN
THE COUSINS COULD already hear sirens approaching.
“I move taxi,” the driver said.
“No,” Judith responded, closing the cab door. “Ignore the traffic. It’s only going to get worse when the emergency vehicles arrive. Here comes an aid car now.”
The driver, who looked Nigerian to Judith, was wringing his hands. “Not my fault! Not my fault! Lady good when she got in taxi!”
Judith cupped her right ear. She could barely hear the agitated man over the din of honking horns, screaming drivers, and shrieking sirens. A crowd was gathering. Even the panhandler seemed curious.
Moving closer to the driver, Judith spoke loudly: “Where did you pick her up?”
“What?”
Judith repeated the question as the aid car came to a stop.
“Neiman Marcus,” he answered. “She have many packages.”
Judith glanced inside the cab. A half-dozen shopping bags bearing the Neiman Marcus logo were stashed on the other side of Dixie’s body.
Renie was looking over Judith’s shoulder. “I guess she shopped until she dropped.”
“What?” But when Judith turned around, she saw that her cousin’s expression was sad. Apparently, the glib remark had just tumbled out.
The driver had taken off his native hat and was holding it out in his hands like a sacrifice. “You see? She dead. Not my fault.”
Judith nodded. “Of course not.”
Renie poked Judith. “I’m going inside to tell the desk clerk.”
“Okay.” Judith watched the EMTs hurry to the cab. At least, she thought, she didn’t know this bunch by sight, as so often happened at home. They immediately went to work, though Judith knew there was nothing they could do. After a minute or two had passed, they began questioning the driver, whose first name was Joseph, and whose Nigerian surname Judith couldn’t catch.
She did, however, know the drill. The firefighters, the ambulance, and a couple of police cars had just pulled into the crowded intersection. Joseph would be questioned closely