Dead Man Docking - Mary Daheim [97]
“We should sue,” Renie muttered as they reached a rear exit.
“Don’t even think about it,” Judith retorted. “Your legal threats are what got us into this in the first place.”
“Don’t you start in on that again,” Renie said as they walked out into the cool, damp night.
Judith let the subject drop. The air might be chilly, but it smelled fresh after the dank odors of the police station. The fog had lifted a bit, and Judith could see several yards down to the far end of the alley.
But she didn’t like what she saw.
Two men stood at the corner of the building. A streetlight shined down on them, making recognition easy. They were in deep conversation, paying no attention to the trio about to head in the opposite direction.
The men were Buzz Cochran and Flakey Smythe.
“I don’t speak French,” Judith insisted the next morning when Renie finished consulting the Mass schedules at nearby Catholic churches. “Why do we have to go to a service in French?”
“You don’t speak Latin, either,” Renie pointed out, “and for the first twenty-odd years of your life, that was the language of the liturgy. Besides, you can doze off during the sermon. If we hurry, we can just make the ten-thirty at Notre Dame des Victoires. It’s a beautiful church just a few blocks away, originally built to serve the large French-speaking community.”
“Fine.” Judith reached into her purse to get out her lipstick. It wasn’t in the side pocket, so she felt for it at the bottom of the bag.
“Come on,” Renie urged, standing at the door. “It’s ten-twenty.”
“I’m coming!” Judith snapped as she began to toss items out of her purse. Among them were the three VIP party invitations she’d filched from Dixie’s hotel room. “I don’t know why I kept those damned things anyway. I’m hardly going to forget—”
She stopped and stared at the elegant invitations, which lay scattered on the carpet. One of them had small holes cut in it.
“Hold on,” she said, picking up the damaged invitation. “Let me check something.” She reached into her purse again, this time pulling out the note that had appeared under the covered dish aboard ship. “I thought so!” she breathed. “Dixie must be the person who told us to butt out!”
Renie, who’d been looking annoyed, stepped back from the door. “What do you mean?”
“Look.” Judith pointed to the carefully clipped holes. “The capital B is missing from Beales, the lower case u’s are cut from Pankhurst and Cruz, the o is gone from Magglio, and the two t’s are from Everhart and Pankhurst. Taken together, they spell this.” She held the note out to Renie.
“You’re right.” Renie grimaced. “I should have realized that. I knew the note’s type font looked familiar. But why would Dixie threaten us? We hardly knew her.”
Judith put the invitations and the note into a hotel envelope. “Now we do have something to hide in a safe. I’m locking these up.” She opened the armoire and found the key inserted in the lock. “We can only assume it was Dixie who sent the note. But you’re right—I can’t imagine why.”
“You can mull during the French sermon,” Renie said. “I’ll be trying to translate it. Or some of it. Maybe.”
The eighty-year-old church with its twin towers and stained-glass windows was indeed beautiful. Judith had no trouble following the familiar liturgy, though her mind did wander during the readings and the homily. And in every direction that her thoughts traveled, they arrived at Dixie Beales.
Had Dixie killed Magglio Cruz? Had she been poisoned in revenge? What would have motivated her to send a warning note to the cousins? Or had someone else on board the ship sent the note and somehow the invitations had ended up in Dixie’s hotel room?
The Mass ended; the priest and the acolytes processed back down the aisle. Judith hastily crossed herself and said a very quick Act of Contrition. She felt that for the past hour the world had