Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [71]
“Even famous people have to walk up these hills,” Judith said, looking grim. “How far is the Ritz? My hip’s hurting.”
“Straight ahead. It’s that neoclassical building that looks like a museum. I’ll bet they can provide for our every need.”
“What I need is information,” Judith mumbled. “I’m not hungry.”
“I have some information,” Renie said as they approached the hotel steps. “It’s a nice day. We can eat outside in the Terrace Restaurant.”
“Do you refer to your endless knowledge of local food vendors,” Judith inquired as they passed through the elegantly appointed lobby to the elevators, “or something more pertinent to the latest body count?”
“The latter,” Renie said. “I’ll tell you as soon as we’re seated.”
The rooftop restaurant was busy, but the cousins didn’t have to wait for a table. Briefly, Judith paused to admire the garden setting, complete with large trees and a splendid view of the city. But her mind remained on murder.
“Okay, let’s hear your information,” Judith urged after they’d both ordered Rusty Nails from the bar.
Renie smirked. “And you thought all I was doing was shopping. Tsk, tsk.”
“Coz…”
“Okay, okay. It was Olga. She’d waited on Dixie yesterday morning.”
“Ah!” Judith made the exclamation just as their drinks arrived. The server apparently thought she was reacting to her cocktail.
“Thirsty, are we?” he said with a grin.
“Huh?” Judith blinked at the young man. “Oh—right. Thanks.”
Renie didn’t resume speaking until the server was out of earshot. “Olga was working in the department next to sportswear Friday. She’s a floater. Naturally, she remembered Dixie because she not only bought a couple of grand’s worth of clothes, but Olga had a hard time understanding her. Moving here from the Ukraine, Olga’s not used to American Southern accents.”
“Go on,” Judith said as Renie was momentarily distracted by the dishes being served at the adjacent table.
“French onion soup,” Renie murmured. “I can’t resist.” She turned back to Judith. “Where was I? Oh, Dixie was telling Olga that she needed a completely new wardrobe because she was moving back to South Carolina.”
“What? You mean she was quitting her job?”
Renie shrugged. “That’s what it sounded like. In fact, Olga thought she might be in love and planning to get married. Dixie mentioned something about meeting—let me get this right—her ‘shugah.’ Olga wasn’t certain what a ‘shugah’ was, but I explained to her that it was Southern talk for sugar, meaning a sweetheart.”
Judith rested her chin on her hands. “A mystery lover. Who?”
“Isn’t that up to Rick and Rhoda to find out? They were having breakfast at the Hyatt this morning. It’ll be interesting to hear if they learned anything.”
“Yes.” Judith fingered the menu. The aroma of fennel and curry and dill masked the exhaust fumes from the street below. “I suppose the St. Georges know about Émile Grenier. Or will, very soon. Biff would be quick to pass that along. How the heck did Émile get into the women’s dressing-room area in the first place? Don’t they have security cameras in those places?”
“I never saw anyone in that part of the store except Olga,” Renie asserted. “There were a couple of other customers—both women—browsing. Unlike some places where the employees check to see what you’re taking into a dressing room or stand guard to make sure you don’t try to wear six outfits at once and leave without paying—there was none of that. Neiman Marcus has a higher class of clientele. They don’t harass their customers.”
“The chairs,” Judith said suddenly. “Employees and customers are used to seeing men waiting in those chairs by the dressing rooms. Émile or any other guy might go unnoticed.”
Renie was rubbernecking again. “Did you see that chilled lobster salad on the serving cart? Am I drooling?”
“No. Yes.” Judith was thinking. “We have to assume Émile was killed in the dressing room. The cord-and-tassel thing that was used to strangle him looked similar to the ones on the sale rack items.”
Renie