Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [80]
“So? Over the years, you’ve claimed to be everything from an astronaut to a zookeeper.”
“But always in the search for truth and justice.”
Renie’s eyes twinkled. “Always,” she said.
Judging from the age and style of the Giddon home in Pacific Heights, Grandfather Giddon had probably built the place back in the 1880s. In the Victorian Queen Anne style, it was three stories of jutting gables, patterned shingles, angles, curves, and a tower with windows that looked out over the bay. On a clear day, Judith wondered if the Giddons could see halfway to Rarotonga. It was the quintessential San Francisco house, though it sat on a corner lot and there was room for a well-tended garden.
“Four, five million on today’s market for this place?” Renie said after they’d paid the taxi driver and were standing at the foot of the stone steps that led from the sidewalk.
“At least,” Judith agreed. “I imagine it’s been kept up extremely well, despite all the earthquakes.”
Still, Judith felt there was something gloomy about the house. She almost expected to see gaslights and overdone Victorian furnishings inside.
“I never liked this style of architecture,” Renie declared. “Too ornate, too complicated, too damned ugly.”
“Be sure and tell Erma that,” Judith said sarcastically. “That’ll make her even happier to see the two of us.”
The door was answered by Chevy Barker-James, in her guise as Beulah. She looked every inch the part with her black dress, white apron, and matching cap.
“I heard you were coming,” she said under her breath. “Why in the world would you want to?” But Chevy didn’t wait for a response, instead leading the cousins through the foyer and into the drawing room. “Miz Flynn and Miz Jones,” she announced in a deferential tone.
Anemone, wearing a very short green-and-white cocktail dress, was the first to greet the cousins. “I’m so glad you could come. I can’t thank you enough for helping me pick out that black suit. Even Mumsy approved of it.”
“I didn’t do that much,” Judith objected as Anemone held her hand in a surprisingly tight grip.
“Oh, but you did,” Anemone asserted, her usually soft voice rising as her mother and Jim Brooks approached. “You spent so much time with me looking at the racks and in the dressing room while I tried things on. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Judith couldn’t see any point in contradicting. She’d have to get Anemone alone to find out why the young woman was lying. At least Judith’s hand had finally been set free.
Nor did she have a chance to respond: Erma Giddon was bearing down on her like a D-day landing craft on Omaha Beach.
“Such a sad time for all of us,” she said with about as much emotion as she might lend to the loss of a dead houseplant.
“Scary, too,” Jim Brooks put in. “I’m sure glad they never offered me a summer job on that cruise line.”
“But they did,” Erma said with a dark look at her future son-in-law. “Two years ago. I arranged it. Have you forgotten?”
Jim’s boyish features looked pained. “You knew I couldn’t take the job. I get seasick.”
“Nonsense,” Erma snapped. “You wanted to go on that field trip to Italy instead.” Perhaps conscious of her duties as a hostess, she patted Jim’s arm. “Never mind, that’s all in the past. It’s the future that counts, isn’t it, dear boy?”
Jim flushed. “Yes, ma’am, yes, sure, it is.”
Judith glanced around the room. The furniture was solid, expensive and unimaginative. Some of it could have come from the Victorian era, but several of the pieces looked like reproductions. The blue velvet drapes were pulled shut against the cold evening fog.
Except for Ambrose Everhart, fidgeting with some papers by a floor lamp with a beaded shade, no one seemed to be in attendance. Apparently, peace had not been made between Erma and Horace. The St. Georges would probably make their usual slightly tardy entrance. But surely, Judith thought, the Giddons must have an intimate circle of friends that didn’t include people connected to Cruz Cruises.
Chevy sidled up to the cousins. “What may Ah fetch y’all?”