Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [75]
“You’ve never been pretentious, and you don’t sound like you’re nuts,” Renie assured her. “You’re making perfect sense. I’m just a little overwhelmed. And guilty. If it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t be here. To think I thought I was doing you a favor!” Incredulous, she shook her head. “Instead of giving you a rest, I’ve managed to mire you in murder.”
“That’s not your fault,” Judith insisted. “All of this would have happened if we were here or not. How would you and Bill have coped?”
Renie thought for a moment. “Bill would have said, ‘We’re outta here.’ He’d have packed us up and come home. He doesn’t like glitches when we travel.”
“That’s a sensible reaction, I suppose,” Judith said as the server arrived to remove Renie’s plate.
He glanced at Judith. At least two-thirds of the Caesar remained uneaten. “Is your salad satisfactory?”
Judith’s smile was feeble as well as apologetic. “Yes, it’s fine—I’m just not hungry. You can take my things, too.”
A hint of disappointment appeared on his face, but he complied. “Could I tempt you ladies with dessert such as the chocolate profiteroles with vanilla ice cream and a luscious chocolate sauce?”
Both cousins declined. “Did Rhoda say what Dixie and Ambrose were quarreling about?” Renie asked as they waited for the bill. “Assuming that they were, that is.”
“Dominic described it to Rhoda as a ‘heated discussion,’” Judith replied. “He picked up only the occasional word, like greedy, sycophant, liar, and sponger. Unfortunately, those words could apply to any number of our suspects.”
“Not helpful,” Renie noted. “So how do we get hold of Flakey?”
“Through the newspaper office, I suppose.” Judith paused; her face fell as she looked at the bill. “Do you realize you spent over fifty bucks on lunch?”
Renie shrugged. “It’s San Francisco. Good food doesn’t come cheap.”
“And I thought prices at home were outrageous,” Judith muttered.
“They are,” Renie conceded. “It’s the West Coast. All that money spent on shipping things around the Horn. Don’t worry,” she added, flipping her AmEx card onto the table. “I’m paying for this. I’ll charge it to Cruz Cruises.”
Judith glowered at Renie. “What if they go out of business? Who’ll pick up the tab then? And don’t tell me you’re charging them for your new shoes!”
“I thought about it,” Renie admitted. “I wouldn’t have bought them if I hadn’t come to San Francisco.”
The cousins retreated to the lobby. Flakefield Smythe had a phone number as well as an e-mail address in the newspaper.
“We’ll call first,” Judith said. “He may be at work if he’s covering this case.”
Flakey’s voice mail informed Judith that he was away from his desk, but that in cases of emergency he could be reached at another number.
“We’ll try that one,” Judith said to Renie, who was lolling against the wall next to the row of pay phones.
A live male voice answered on the second ring. “Lefty O’Doul’s. How can I help you?”
Surprised, Judith hesitated. “Is Flakey around?” she finally asked.
“Sure,” the man responded. “Can I tell him who’s calling?”
“Never mind. We’ll be there in person.” Judith hung up and looked at Renie. “Isn’t Lefty O’Doul’s bar right by the St. Francis?”
“Yes, on Geary. We went there years ago.”
“Then,” Judith said, starting for the hotel exit, “we’re going there again.”
Lefty’s hadn’t changed much in over forty years. It was basic American bar & grill, befitting its founder, a former Major League Baseball player and longtime manager of the old Pacific Coast League’s San Francisco Seals.
“Time warp,” Judith said under her breath, scanning the long bar, the solid tables with their arrowback chairs, and the baseball memorabilia that covered the walls. She was so tired from walking the six blocks between the Ritz-Carlton and Lefty’s that she had to lean against the door for a moment. But as her eyes grew accustomed to the dim lighting, she spotted her prey: The reporter she’d seen in the Fitzroy’s lobby