Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [84]
Ricky made a face. “Egad, my love, you’re putting me in the same class as the Mesdames de Pompadour, du Barry, and Montespan.”
Horace, who had been coaxing Connie to try the soup, turned to Rhoda. “Who? I’ve heard of de Pompadour and du Barry, but—”
“Montespan,” Rhoda said loudly and clearly. “She was Louis XIV’s…”
The explanation was lost in a clatter of spoon and crockery as Connie Cruz fell face forward into her lobster bisque.
SIXTEEN
ERMA GIDDON HOWLED like a wounded hound, clutching at her bisque-spattered bosom. CeeCee and Anemone were screaming, too. Horace was bug-eyed, staring at his fallen companion’s motionless figure. Ambrose, who was sitting directly across from Connie, picked up his bowl and poured the contents onto the Persian carpet.
“Poison!” he gasped, grabbing at his throat with a trembling hand.
“My Ferahan Sarouk!” Erma screeched. “You’ve ruined it, Ambrose! That rug cost more than you’ll make in ten years!”
Rick had risen, moving quickly past Renie and Horace to reach Connie. Feeling for a pulse, he gave a single nod. “She’s alive. I believe she merely fainted.” Gently, he lifted her head and wiped her face with a napkin.
Next to Judith, Jim was making an awkward effort to get out of his chair. “Let me help. I’m almost a doctor.”
“He needs the practice,” Renie murmured from across the table.
On Judith’s other side, Paul was doing his best to shush Anemone. CeeCee had stopped screaming when Ambrose pitched his soup on the floor. Rhoda was leaning her cheek on one hand and sipping the dregs of her martini.
“I wonder,” she said musingly, “if there’s a salad course?”
Ambrose’s hand fell away from his throat. “You mean we’re not all going to die?”
Briefly, Rick scowled at the secretary. “Hardly.” He chafed Connie’s hands as her eyelids began to flutter. “I suggest we move her onto the sofa.”
“Yes,” Jim agreed, now standing between Erma and Connie. “Yes, that would be my medical recommendation.”
“Good thinking, old son,” Rick said. “Would you mind helping me with the patient?”
“What? Oh! Sure, here let me…”
But Horace threw up his hands in protest. “Wait! Consider the liability involved! Should she be moved in her condition? Would it be better to let her lie there with her head on the table until she’s fully conscious?”
“Good grief!” Renie exploded. “In that case, why not stick her face back in the soup bowl?”
Thoughtfully, Jim rubbed his chin. “She could drown that way, couldn’t she?”
Horace shrugged. “You’re the doctor.”
“No, he’s not,” Rhoda declared. “This is ridiculous. Ricky, move the poor woman.”
Rick, Jim, and Paul carefully eased Connie out of the chair. She was moaning softly and licking her lips.
Gesturing at Jim, Renie looked across the table to Judith. “Instead of the Mayo Brothers, we get one of the Marx Brothers. It figures.”
“What’s wrong with Mrs. Cruz?” CeeCee asked, her usually breathy voice shrill.
“Overwrought,” Horace replied, dabbing at his forehead with a napkin. He’d begun to sweat and had grown very red in the face. “Nerves. Exhaustion. Grief.” His eyes followed Rick, Jim, and Paul as they carried Connie out of the dining room. “Excuse me,” he said, his chair bumping Renie’s. “I must go to her.”
“Why?” The word shot out of Erma’s mouth like a bullet.
Horace stopped in his tracks behind Connie’s empty place setting. A scant three feet away, Erma sat rigidly at the table’s head, her fingers splayed like fat claws on the arms of the Hepplewhite chair.
“T-t-to see if I c-c-can do anything,” Horace stammered.
“You can’t,” Erma snapped. “Sit down.”
To Judith’s surprise, Horace obeyed, again bumping into Renie, who was starting to look annoyed.
“Gosh, Panky,” CeeCee said, her voice no longer shrill, “you don’t look so hot. Maybe you’d better take your pills.”
“Oh!” Horace felt around