Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [62]
Judith aimed another kick at Renie. This time she connected. “You haven’t decided on your entrée, coz dear.”
“Oh.” Renie finally took the hint.
“Are you joining us?” Rhoda inquired of Ambrose.
“Oh—no, thank you. I must get back to Mrs. Giddon. Anemone is having quite a time keeping her mother calm. Jim Brooks is there, but he worries more about his fiancée than about his future mother-in-law.”
“I should hope so,” Rhoda remarked. “Run along now, Ambrose, and do your duty. By the way, where is Mr. Pankhurst?”
Ambrose looked pained. “He and Mrs. Giddon had an awful row. She even threatened to fire him as her financial adviser and attorney. I guess he went off with Miss Orr to lick his wounds.”
“Or something like that,” Rick murmured. “My, it sounds as if they had a high old time in the Giddon manse. Report back to us if there’s any serious bloodshed.”
But nobody—not even Rick—cracked a smile.
TWELVE
AMBROSE EVERHART’S DEPARTURE seemed to signal a change in the atmosphere. Rick and Rhoda took eating as seriously as they did drinking, which, Judith calculated, seemed to be about the only things—other than murder—that the couple didn’t dismiss with glib tongues and flippant attitudes. Certainly Farallon’s food was worthy of attention.
“So we’re still landlubbers awaiting anchors aweigh,” Rick said as they finished their meal with fruit and a cheese tray. “Fortunately, we don’t have schedules to keep. Do you?”
Judith explained that she had a B&B to run; Renie worried that if Cruz Cruises suffered a serious scandal, she’d have to get busy finding another client to fill the void.
“Not to mention,” Judith added, “that our husbands wouldn’t like to have us gone for too long. They miss us. I think.” She omitted mentioning Gertrude, who was probably more anxious for her daughter’s return than she’d ever admit.
Marco had glided up to the table once again. “There’s another gentleman to see you, Mr. St. George,” he said in his soft-spoken manner. “He won’t come into the dining room. He’s not dressed.”
“At all?” Rick responded casually.
Marco cleared his throat. “I meant to say that he isn’t wearing proper attire. He looks a bit…unkempt.”
“Biff,” Rick said, getting up from the table. “Excuse me, ladies. There may be news.”
“Biff,” Rhoda repeated after her husband had gone. “Such a shambles of a man. But he doesn’t mind doing the dog work.”
Judith glanced at her watch. It was after ten o’clock. She was anxious to call Joe, which she’d planned to do when they returned to the hotel. But if Biff McDougal really did have some new information, it might take a while to sort out. Excusing herself, she sought out Marco and asked where the telephones were located. She preferred not using her cell, since she hadn’t taken time to recharge the battery before leaving town.
Marco pointed the way. The booths, which were shaped like seashells, also happened to be near the alcove that led to the restrooms. Rick and Biff could be heard—but not seen—talking in the open area between the men’s and women’s entrances. Judith couldn’t resist listening in.
“It’s gonna be all over the news tomorrow,” Biff said in a disgusted voice. “That dopey Buzz Cochran let himself get conned by Flakey Smythe.”
“Flakey’s conned more than one cop out of a story, Biff,” Rick said. “Don’t beat yourself up over that. Buzz is a rookie. Give him some slack. He’s not used to subterfuge from journalists. That’s what makes Flakey a hotshot reporter. He’s sharp, he’s clever, he gets the scoops.”
“Flakey’s drunk half the time,” Biff grumbled. “I ought to know—I run into him all the time at my own hangouts. You can bet he doesn’t get anything out of me, even if he does offer to buy now and then.”
Judith was sitting in the booth at the end of the row. She pretended to dial, just in case the men suddenly came out of the alcove.
“What about Blackie?” Rick asked.
“He’s up to something, all right,” Biff replied. “But he’s not talking. Not yet. Don’t worry, I’ve got my ways.”
“Of course you do,” Rick said agreeably.
“Anything new on Wilbur?” Biff inquired.