Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [72]
“Émile wasn’t a very big man,” Judith pointed out. “I doubt that he was much taller than you. If you know how to strangle someone, you can do it quickly and efficiently—especially if you catch the victim by surprise.”
Renie feigned a shudder. “Sometimes you scare me. Maybe I should behave myself better when I’m with you.”
“If,” Judith said drily, “I haven’t killed you by now, I probably won’t. And stop ogling the poached halibut.”
“Sorry.” Renie was silent for a moment, eyes riveted on her cousin. “He must have been killed before I went into the dressing room.”
Judith nodded. “His feet were already under the divider. You didn’t notice because you’re too short to see over a mound of clothes. I wonder…Did he go with someone else or did he plan to meet someone?”
“He certainly wasn’t alone when he died,” Renie pointed out.
Judith shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “No. The problem is, the only woman who we know was on-site is Anemone Giddon.”
“But you were probably with her when Émile was killed,” Renie reminded Judith.
Judith made a face. “Was I?” She thought back to how Anemone had dismissed her before taking the black suit to the other dressing room area. Judith had gone to designer sportswear, browsing for about five minutes. But Renie was already in the dressing-room next to the scene of the latest crime. The timing was wrong—unless Émile had been killed before Judith and Renie had run into the young woman. But Anemone was the most fragile of the suspects. Or so she seemed.
“Adrenaline,” Renie said after Judith had put her thoughts into words. “If you’re pumped enough, you can do anything.”
“But why?” Judith’s expression was bleak. “If all these murders are connected—and they must be—what would set Anemone off on a killing spree? There’s no apparent motive, no sense to it, no logic.”
“Because,” Renie replied, beckoning at their server, “as my husband would put it in clinical terms, she’s mad as a hatter?”
Judith glanced at the menu. She still wasn’t hungry. “I’ll have your classic Caesar salad, please.”
“And after that?” the server prodded gently.
“That’s it. Thank you.”
He turned a hopeful face to Renie. She did not disappoint. “I’ll have the artichoke-mushroom gratin, tomato tartare, caper red onion jus for my entrée. But first, I’d like some French onion soup.”
“Excellent choices, madam.” He smiled kindly at Renie and moved away.
“Pig,” Judith murmured. “Do you even know what’s in your entrée? It sounds pretty exotic to me.”
“I’ll find out,” Renie retorted.
“It’d serve you right if you got a stomach—wait.” Judith placed both hands on the table. “There is logic in these murders. Magglio Cruz gets killed at the cocktail party. But who were the first two people to find the body? Dixie and Émile. Did they see the killer? Did they see something that told them who the killer was? Or did they see something and not realize it, but the murderer thought they did—or that they would remember later?”
Renie sighed. “All possibilities. But if Dixie or Émile saw something or somebody, wouldn’t they have told the police?”
Judith waited for Renie to exult over the thick crusty soup that had just been placed in front of her. “As I said, they might not have realized what they saw. Or,” she added after the server had once again left them, “there’s always blackmail.”
Renie’s eyes were closed. She was taking deep sniffs of the onions, Gruyère cheese, and toasted croutons, waving her soup spoon as if it were a weapon. “Ahhh.” She opened her eyes. “Blackmail? Now there’s a thought.” The spoon engaged the soup.
“Certainly the list of suspects has some people with enough wealth to pay a blackmailer,” Judith mused. “Almost everyone involved is rich.”
“So’s this soup. It’s terrific.” The battle was now underway; Renie had cheese on her chin, crouton crumbs on her bosom, and a puddle of broth next to the bowl. Her slurping noises sounded not unlike a