Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [51]
“As if death hadn’t been pleasant,” Renie mused. “But you don’t suspect the driver?”
Judith shook her head. “If he could act that well, he’d have left Nigeria for Hollywood, not San Francisco. His shock seemed genuine.” Abruptly, she turned to face the mailboxes. “Damn! We should use Dixie’s key to check out her room. How long is Miya going to be gone?”
“Who knows?”
But Miya was already coming out of a door at the end of the lobby. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Jones,” she said. “I feel much better. For now.” She looked curiously at Judith. “You’re Mrs. Flynn?”
“Yes.” Judith felt a bit embarrassed. “Mr. Grenier needed his key.” Briefly, she explained that she, too, ran a B&B. “It was second nature to help him,” she added with a lame little laugh.
Miya and Judith exchanged places. “That’s okay. I’m just upset—not only because the baby makes me throw up, but because I suppose the police will come around here asking a lot of questions. That isn’t good for business.”
“Um…” Judith grimaced. “Over the years, I’ve had a similar problem or two.” Or three or four or five…Judith stopped counting the times that the police had come calling at Hillside Manor. “Don’t worry about it. Would you mind if we took a look in Ms. Beales’s room? Dixie would probably want us to do that for her.”
Miya frowned. “Is that…I mean…maybe I’d better call the manager.”
“You should,” Judith agreed. “Is he or she on the premises?”
Miya looked pained. “He’s my husband. He’s at the gym. He should be back anytime.”
“You take it easy,” Judith insisted as a lanky middle-aged man in a short, weather-beaten raincoat entered the lobby. “We’ll take a peek in Dixie’s room and be on our way.”
Miya also saw the man approaching. His gait was none too steady, and he wore a world-weary smile. “This isn’t a guest,” she murmured. “Could he be a policeman?”
“Doubtful,” Judith said, casting a sidelong glance at the newcomer. “Press, maybe.”
“Oh, dear.” Miya moved away from the desk, apparently in an effort to forestall the newcomer.
Judith moved swiftly, nipping around to the mailboxes and taking Dixie’s key. Motioning to Renie, she hurried toward the elevator.
“You’ll get Miya into trouble,” Renie warned Judith after the door slid closed and the small elevator creaked upward.
Judith shook her head. “If Biff’s put on this case—and don’t tell me that if Dixie was murdered, there’s no connection with Magglio Cruz’s death—then I’ll tell him to blame me, not Miya. Honestly, this trip has turned into the worst nightmare ever!”
“Aren’t you used to it?” Renie asked wryly as the car stopped at the fourth floor.
“I never get used to it,” Judith asserted. “How can you get used to murder?”
Renie had nothing to say.
At first, Judith thought that Dixie’s room had been ransacked. But upon closer inspection, she realized that the dead woman was simply untidy.
“What are we looking for?” Renie asked, her eyes scanning lingerie, shoes, and other belongings strewn about the floor and furniture.
“I don’t know,” Judith answered. “A note, maybe, to see if she was meeting anyone.”
There was no note, nor was there a notepad. The only items on the bedside table were the telephone, a lamp, and a small pile of leftover invitations to the VIP party. “Coz,” Renie said plaintively, “the cops could be along any minute. You aren’t touching anything, are you? I don’t want our fingerprints found here, too.”
“I’m being careful,” Judith insisted, peering into the bathroom and the closet. “We should be wearing gloves. I remember the first time we came to San Francisco with Cousin Sue, all the women wore gloves. We looked like country bumpkins.”
“We still do,” Renie said, “compared to the way they dress here. We are from the Land of Plod.”
“Nothing,” Judith said after moving some of the scattered items aside with her foot. She glanced at the party invitations on the bedside table. “I want a souvenir,” she said, carefully picking up the top three from the pile and putting them in her purse. “I think I threw mine out. Nobody will miss these, and they’re so