Read Online Dead Man Docking by Mary Daheim - Free Book Online

drinking Pepsi,” Renie declared. “I can’t bear the thought of alcohol after this morning.”
    â€œI don’t blame you,” Judith said drily. “Uh-oh,” she whispered, “here come the St. Georges with Fido.”
    Richard St. George nodded at the cousins; Rhoda had lifted her veil and was smoking a cigarette through a silver holder. He ordered two double martinis; so did she. The big white dog with the long curls of fur stopped by the cousins and wheezed at Renie’s hem.
    â€œNice doggie,” Renie murmured, trying to disguise her antipathy for canines.
    But the large animal moved closer, shedding white fur on Renie’s black gown. “Beat it,” Renie muttered, holding her hors d’oeuvres plate out of reach.
    Wheezing and panting, the dog sat down on Renie’s feet. “Excuse me,” she said to Rhoda St. George, “would you please make your dog move? I’m immobilized by his very large—yet unusual—body.”
    Rhoda had just accepted two martini glasses. “Oh, don’t mind Asthma,” she said with a little laugh. “He’s absolutely harmless. In fact, he has respiratory problems. I think he likes you. Or else he’s collapsed.” His mistress didn’t seem particularly distressed by the idea.
    Richard St. George, who also had both hands full of martinis, nudged Rhoda with his elbow. “Who’s the blond dame with Pankhurst?”
    â€œHis latest trollop, darling,” his wife replied. “Carole or Cecile or maybe both. I believe she’s called CeeCee. Judging from her bust, DeeDee would be more…fitting.” Rhoda turned back to the cousins. “I’m sorry, we haven’t met. I’m Rhoda St. George and this is my slightly inebriated husband, Rick.”
    Rick had almost finished his first martini. “Swell,” he said sarcastically. “You’re giving me a poor send-off.”
    â€œDon’t worry, darling,” Rhoda replied. “These ladies have eyes.”
    â€œAnd feet,” Renie put in. “I’m Serena Jones and I’d like to move mine. Feet, that is.”
    â€œOh.” Rhoda looked down at Asthma, who appeared to have fallen asleep, though it was hard to tell with all the long curls covering not only his body but his face. “Do move him, Ricky,” she implored. “Otherwise, Ms. Jones is going to charge him rent.”
    Setting his now-empty glass on the bar, Rick searched through the fur around the dog’s neck, presumably for a collar. “He’s a Komondor,” Rick said, “a guardian breed, and sometimes considered a working dog. Except I’m afraid he doesn’t work very well anymore, poor fellow. Come on, Asthma, strut what’s left of your stuff.”
    â€œHe’s…big,” Renie said. “He must weigh over a hundred pounds.”
    Rick St. George finally managed to get the dog to move off of Renie’s feet. “Yes,” he agreed. “Asthma weighs in at a hundred and twenty, or, according to my darling wife, ten pounds more than she does. Good boy!” he said, patting the animal.
    Feeling left out, Judith introduced herself. “I’m Serena’s cousin.”
    Both St. Georges expressed their delight, and sounded almost sincere. They were immediately pounced upon by Captain Swafford.
    Finally able to put in her drink request, Judith ordered a scotch rocks from Ray the bartender, whose smile was that of a young man eager to please. “Will Glenfiddich do?”
    â€œDefinitely,” Judith responded.
    But there was no Pepsi for Renie, Ray informed her in an apologetic tone. Would a Coke be acceptable? It would, Renie said, between mouthfuls of marinated chicken.
    A gong sounded and a sliding door opened at the far end of the room. A golden-haired middle-aged woman wearing a black and red gown that evoked the Orient, held out both arms.
    Renie spoke softly in