Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [50]
The body would be placed on a gurney, put in the ambulance, and driven off to the morgue. A tow truck would arrive for the taxi; the emergency personnel would exchange remarks; the crowd would disperse; the panhandler would resume badgering passersby. There was nothing Judith could accomplish by staying on the sidewalk.
Except, making eye contact with a young police officer, she could ask a question.
“Excuse me,” she called out, “can you tell me something?”
He moved briskly toward her. The young officer had red hair and green eyes. His name tag identified him as F. X. O’MALLEY.
“Yes?” he said politely.
“Did anyone mention the cause of death?”
“No.”
“A heart attack, perhaps?”
O’Malley shrugged.
“Natural causes, I assume?”
He shrugged again, then eyed Judith more closely. “Did you know the deceased?”
Judith started to say yes, but stopped. “Thank you.”
She walked back into the lobby.
“Miya’s throwing up in the bathroom,” Renie announced as Judith approached her by the hotel desk.
“She’s that upset?” Judith asked, recalling the first time that a guest had died at Hillside Manor.
“No,” Renie replied. “She’s pregnant.”
A couple of good-looking young men got out of the elevator. They placed their key on the desk and left. No one else seemed to be in the small lobby. Judith went around to the other side of the desk, put the key in the proper slot, and checked the guest register.
“Captain Swafford’s here,” she noted. “He should be informed at once.” But a glance at the key in the captain’s mailbox told her that Swafford was out. “Drat,” she muttered. “Where’re Émile Grenier and Paul Tanaka? They should be staying here, too. Ah. Here they are, in Rooms Twenty-five and Thirty-one.”
But their keys were also in their slots. Judith was about to surrender when Émile Grenier himself entered the lobby, looking as self-important as ever.
“You are not Mademoiselle Miya,” he accused Judith. The purser scrutinized her more closely. “But I know you. You are perhaps the maid most incompetent?”
“No,” Judith replied, taking advantage of Émile’s faulty memory. “I’m filling in for Miya. She isn’t feeling well. I also own a B&B.”
Émile looked as if he didn’t think Judith was qualified to run a washing machine. “Eh bien.” He gestured in the direction of the street. “Why this commotion? Is there a fire?”
“No,” Judith replied, noting that Renie had turned her back and seemed absorbed in studying a framed photograph of the original building. “One of the guests has expired. A Ms. Beales. Were you acquainted with the poor lady?”
“Mon Dieu!” Émile slapped a hand to his forehead and had to prop himself up against the desk. “Madame Beales! Non, non! Quelle horreur! What happened to la pauvre femme?”
“I’ve no idea,” Judith answered. “Apparently she became ill in a taxi on her way back from shopping. Were you close to her?”
The query seemed to catch Émile off guard. “Close?” He hesitated while resuming his usual erect posture. “We worked together. This is terrible news. Excuse me, I must make a telephone call from my room. My key, s’il vous plaît.”
With professional aplomb, Judith reached for the key to Room Twenty-five. “My condolences,” she murmured.
“Merci, merci,” Émile responded before limping off to the elevator.
As soon as the purser had disappeared, Renie rejoined Judith. “I thought if he saw us together, he might remember who you really are,” she said. “It’s best when I let you lie on your own.”
“I didn’t exactly lie,” Judith said. “I do own a B&B.”
Renie leaned an elbow on the polished mahogany counter. “Was there blood?”
“Not that I could see,” Judith replied, both cousins keeping their voices down in case someone entered the lobby. “I only got a glimpse. The most I could tell—besides recognizing Dixie—was that her face seemed discolored