Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [59]
“All in good time,” Rick said, summoning a waiter. “The usual for us, Marco. Ladies?”
After the cocktail orders had been taken, Rick offered advice about the menu. “Definitely the seafood,” he asserted. “There’s a touch of French in the edibles, but mainly this is a place to let your palate explore.”
“Yes,” Judith said tersely. “We’ll do that.” She offered Rhoda an encouraging look. “You told Serena you’d discovered what weapon was used to kill Magglio Cruz.”
Rhoda cast a smile in her husband’s direction. “That was Ricky’s doing. Oh—here come the drinks. A toast, darling,” she said. “You do the honors.”
Rick raised his double martini. “To new friends from the woodsy world of the great Northwest.” The foursome clicked glasses. “To old friends who have sailed beyond the bar. Poor devils.” They clicked again.
If there was supposed to be a moment of silence, Renie broke it: “Are you including Dixie Beales in that toast? Because she is—toast, I mean.”
Rhoda looked a bit wistful. Rick inclined his head to one side. “Yes, I suppose I am,” he said quietly. “Poor woman. There’s no autopsy report as yet. I heard you were actually at the Fitzroy when she arrived.”
“She’d already departed,” Renie put in.
Rick chuckled. “Well put. Biff questioned the hotel staff late this afternoon. Dr. Selig will keep us informed as to cause of death as soon as he finds out.”
Rhoda was shaking her head. “Such a waste.”
Judith’s expression was sad. “Yes. She must have been quite talented.”
“What?” Rhoda seemed taken aback. “Oh—yes, I suppose. I mean to waste all those clothes she’d bought at Neiman Marcus. Of course, Dixie’s taste was a bit florid.”
“To get back to the weapon,” Judith began, turning to Rick, “what was it?”
Marco returned, sliding up to the table as smoothly as olive oil on a baguette. “May I recommend the crab with cardoons?” he inquired.
“Cartoons?” Renie said. “Are they animated? How about Donald Duck or Porky Pig?”
Rick smiled in his urbane manner. “I recall advising the seafood.”
“Cardoons are similar to artichokes,” Marco explained, managing to look as if he didn’t believe Renie was an out-of-town idiot.
Renie was undaunted. “Is the crab Dungeness?”
Marco didn’t even blink. “Of course.”
“Okay,” Renie said. “Sounds good to me.”
At Rhoda’s urging, Judith selected sea urchin custard with caviar. The St. Georges settled on lobster-and-scallop stew—along with another round of martinis.
Judith was in a stew of her own. But as soon as Rick had his second drink in hand, he picked up his table knife. “Items such as this should be dismissed immediately as the weapon. Dr. Selig informs me that Mags was stabbed to death, but not with a knife of any kind. Rather, it was a puncture wound. Quite deep, and in a vital spot, which I won’t detail because we’re at dinner. Suffice to say that death came quickly.” He paused to sip his fresh drink.
Judith had long ago stopped being squeamish. “Did he bleed out or was it internal?”
Rick raised an eyebrow. “My, my. That sounds like the voice of a hardened expert.”
“My husband is a retired policeman,” Judith said in a noncommittal tone. “Homicide, in fact. I’ve heard stories.”
“Ah.” Rick smiled again. “The answer is internal bleeding.”
“Gruesome,” Rhoda murmured, though she seemed unfazed.
“But tidy,” Rick remarked. “So we eliminate the usual type of weapon associated with stab wounds. We also must consider what was at hand.”
“You mean as a weapon?” Judith put in.
Rick nodded. “Think back to the party. There were other means.”
“Like part of the decor?” Renie offered.
Rick’s expression was droll. “If you’re referring to someone dismantling the ship, no. Nothing was found to be out of place, missing, or damaged. The solution is quite simple. Think beef.”
“Darling,” Rhoda said in a reproachful voice, “you’re being obscure. You already ruled out knives.”
“But, my dove,” Rick inquired with a twinkle in his eye, “what do you use to make those knives work?”
Rhoda snapped her fingers. “A sharpener! Of course! They’re long, pointed, and can be very dangerous.”
“That