Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [73]
“No thanks. After you’ve gotten hold of it, I don’t know where it’s been.”
“Jim Brooks isn’t rich,” Renie pointed out, dusting off her chest. “Ambrose Everhart isn’t. CeeCee Orr is rich only in the way that women like her are rich.” She paused to slurp and chew. “You’re right about the others, though. Unless you’re counting crew members.”
“We can’t not count them,” Judith declared. “If the original murder weapon was cutlery, one of the chefs or servers would have the easiest access.”
“Surely the police are investigating everyone thoroughly,” Renie contended. “Biff may seem a bit bumbling, but I’ll bet that when he’s in his own element—that is, not interviewing the rich and the really rich—he handles himself pretty well.”
“You may be right,” Judith said. “I wonder if Rick and Rhoda have tried to reach us at the hotel. If only we could talk to someone at police headquarters. It’s well and good for Rick to have an in there, but we don’t. I trust the St. Georges, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t leave out certain things. Especially Rick. Men don’t listen the way women do.”
“No ear for the ephemeral,” Renie remarked.
“Exactly. But I don’t want to step on Rick’s toes by contacting Biff or—” Judith stopped as their server delivered her Caesar salad. To allow him more foot room, she moved her purse closer to the chair. “Thank you. It looks lovely.”
Instead of picking up her fork, Judith reached into her purse. “I forgot about the newspaper article. You should read it.”
Finishing the soup, Renie wiped cheese off of her chin. “Now?”
Judith nodded and handed the paper to her cousin. “Yes. Because we’re going to talk to Flakey Smythe.”
“To…?” Renie frowned. “Oh. The reporter,” she murmured, scanning the byline and the lead. “Why?”
The server had returned, this time to remove Renie’s bowl and present her entrée. He started to describe the ingredients, but she waved him off. “Never mind. It looks great.”
“Then may I sponge madam down?” he inquired, pointing to a damp towel on the serving stand.
Renie narrowed her eyes. “Only if you have a hose.”
The server’s smile was fixed. “Not at hand, madam. I apologize.” He left.
“Read the story,” Judith ordered Renie. “I’m going to check to see if we have any calls at the hotel.”
There was only one, but it was from Rhoda St. George. “Breakfast at Grandviews was delightful,” her recorded voice said, “as well as informative. Call me when you have the opportunity.”
Judith dialed the St. Georges’ number at once. Rhoda answered on the third ring. “You caught me just in time. The weather’s so pleasant. I was about to take Asthma for a walk. He still hasn’t dried out from his last shampoo.”
“Have you heard about Émile Grenier?”
“Just. Rick has gone to see Biff. I wonder what Émile was trying on in that dressing room? He would have looked nice in puce.”
“Actually, that was the color of his face,” Judith said.
“I don’t want to think about that part,” Rhoda replied. “Really, I’m not a ghoul. I must say, you and Serena have an absolute penchant for finding dead people.”
“Unfortunately,” Judith admitted, “that seems to be true. Can you tell me about Dixie and Grandviews?”
“I can tell you about the poison,” Rhoda answered in her customary calm, cultured voice. “It was methanol.”
Judith searched her memory. In their younger, more foolish years, one of Renie’s fiancés had been a chemist. He’d frequently bring a form of alcohol home from work to use as a punch base. The cousins and their circle of friends had been lucky that they hadn’t been punched out permanently.
“You mean lab alcohol?” Judith responded.
“The very thing,” said Rhoda. “What moonshiners still use in the less civilized parts of this country.”
“Not that difficult to obtain,” Judith reflected aloud. “Virtually undetectable in a cocktail. How did Dixie ingest the poison?”
“You name it,” Rhoda said. “Possibly in Harvey Wall-bangers. In addition to the orange juice and the vodka, the Galliano sweetness would mask any unusual taste.”
The next question was even more important to Judith. “So