Fowl Prey (14 page)

“Savage,” muttered Birdwell, cramming the card in the pocket of his dinner jacket. “I should know better than to ever go farther west than Philadelphia!”

“What about Blue Earth?” blurted Judith.

Birdwell actually jumped. “What? Are you from Blue Earth?”

“No, but Cousin Sue's husband's brother's first wife was from Frost, Minnesota. It's just down the road, as I recall. Near East Chain.” Judith smiled pleasantly.

Birdwell was simmering down, wiping his forehead with
a handkerchief. “Well, yes, very close to the state line. I haven't been back in years.”

“You and Sylvia didn't live there, I take it?” said Judith at her most casual.

Birdwell gulped and gaped. “What? How do you know Sylvia?”

“Uh…” Judith was caught slightly off-guard. She cast a desperate glance at Renie. “I don't. My cousin knew her father, Gilbert. Renie's a designer.”

“Well.” Birdwell brightened. “I knew you must be connected with the theater somehow. What have you done lately, Mrs.…er, ah…”

“Jones,” supplied Renie, with visions of booting Judith dancing in her head. “I haven't been involved in the theater for some time,” she said. “I'm strictly corporate these days.”

“Oh.” Birdwell looked disappointed. “But you knew Sylvia?” he asked suspiciously.

Judith came to the rescue. “She knew
of
Sylvia, right, coz? You actually knew Gilbert when you were married to Mr. Grover of Cornwall.”

Renie looked faintly dizzy. “Yeah, oh, that's right, we were thick as thieves.”

Birdwell's little eyes narrowed. “And a child bride. Gilbert Pitkins died in 1951, Mrs. Jones.”

“I thought he seemed awfully quiet,” said Renie, with a weak grin. “I suspect we're talking about two different people,” she went on in a vain attempt at salvaging some shred of integrity. “Do you mean the Gilbert Pitkins who painted billboards?”

Birdwell gave Renie a withering glance. The cousins' game appeared to be up: Birdwell de Smoot stood with his hands on his hips, shiny patent leather shoes set at angles, lips pursed in a disparaging attitude. “If you must pry, at least do so with some amount of intelligence. Why are you asking me about Sylvia?”

Having maneuvered Birdwell from high dudgeon to low-down candor, Judith opted for the truth: “We've been re
searching everybody on this floor. We found out you were married to Dame Carmela Finch's daughter. Who, of course, was also the daughter of Gilbert Pitkins.”

“Or did he do movie posters?” mused Renie, refusing to give up the game.

“We also discovered that Max was Dame Carmela's protegé. We wondered if that was how you came to know Max.” Judith spread her hands in an appealing gesture.

Birdwell's round face tightened and his eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. “The first time I met Max was in court,” he said abruptly. “Dame Carmela left him all her money. She had cut Sylvia out of her will.”

Judith's eyes widened. “Why did she do that?”

Bitterness consumed the little man. “Why? Because Sylvia married me. That's why.”

Birdwell's frank admission left Judith and Renie momentarily speechless. Across the hall, the elevator groaned to a halt, and Max got out. He exhibited his charming smile and doffed his fedora. “The Clovia has a well-appointed conference room on the main floor,” he said with a twinkle. “Or is this a social gathering?”

“A chance encounter,” mumbled Birdwell, doing his best to hide his pain. “I was just going out.”

Max, suave as ever in a charcoal double-breasted pinstripe suite, inclined his head. “So are we. That is, Maria is waiting in the bar. I came up to get our coats. We're going to dine at Les Jongleurs.” He turned to Judith and Renie. “I'm sorry you couldn't join us downstairs. We've been watching the storm over the bay, and reminiscing about all the spectacular port cities we've visited over the years. Copenhagen is my favorite, but Maria prefers Marseilles.”

“I prefer Marseilles, too,” declared Birdwell with unwonted fervor. “That's the trouble, Max, you and Maria have very little in common.”

Though Max's left eyebrow lifted slightly, his aplomb appeared otherwise unruffled. “Oh, I don't know. We
seem to share a great many interests, actually. It's the differences that add spice to our lives.”

“Twaddle,” snapped Birdwell, then apparently thought better of further baiting Max. “I must go. I'm already late.” He swerved on his two-inch heels, heading for Suite 805, then stopped and turned back toward his own room. “I forgot my overcoat. You're right, it's blustery out there. Rotten weather, utterly unpredictable. I wish I were in Rio.” He stomped into his suite and banged the door shut.

Max looked bemused. “Poor old Birdie. I'm sorry he's so unhappy. Perhaps that's what makes him such a perceptive critic.”

“At least,” allowed Judith, “It gives him a forum to vent his spleen.” She caught Max's shrewd glance, hesitated, and plunged into murky waters. “It sounds to me as if he has a crush on Maria.”

Max uttered a sigh of resignation. “He has indeed, dating back to the first time he saw her dance in London. Birdwell has a habit of falling for the wrong woman. I never met his first wife, even though I knew her mother very well. But since that marriage was short-lived, I have to assume it was a mismatch.” He made a face of mild dismay. “My word, I'm gossiping like a garrulous old woman! Forgive me, I think murder must have the effect of loosening one's tongue.”

Judith assumed her blandest expression. She noticed that Max hadn't mentioned either Dame Carmela or Sylvia by name, an indication of his inherent discretion. “We're all a bit on edge,” she said, and, on an impulse both calculated and reluctant, put out her hand. “I must offer my condolences, Mr. Rothside. I didn't realize at first that Robin O'Rourke was your brother-in-law.”

For just an instant, Max's face froze and his grip on Judith's fingers tightened. Then he bent his head, gave a rueful little smile, and sighed. “I felt it was best that no one knew. For Maria's sake, of course. She's such a sensitive person.”

Judith slowly withdrew her hand. “Oh. You mean that Maria didn't realize you and Bob-o were related?”

“That's right,” said Max. “That is, she didn't know Bob-o was Robin. He had moved to Canada by the time we were married. I wrote to him early on, but he never answered, so I stopped.” His handsome features assumed an aura of regret. “He preferred cutting all ties after he left England. And of course Estelle—my half-sister—had been dead for years.” His fine slate-blue eyes studied Judith a little too closely. “I must confess I'm intrigued—how did you know about the relationship?”

For the briefest of instants, Judith could have sworn she saw a glint of fear in Max Rothside's face. His reaction prompted her to tell an outright, bald-faced, no-nonsense lie: “Bob-o told us. We had tea with him yesterday afternoon.”

Under the tan that Max had no doubt acquired in Palm Beach, Mazatlán or the Greek Isles, he went quite pale. But otherwise, he showed no other sign of dismay. “How fascinating! He wasn't much for company. Or so I'm told.” The smile was now forced. “I suppose he regaled you with his entire stage career?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Judith cheerfully. “He talked about everything and everybody. Especially Larry and Viv.” That much, Judith thought as a salve to her conscience, was true.

“Well, of course! There was a fateful coupling.” Max looked ruminative. “Unfortunately, I never met Vivien, but I worked with Larry twice. Marvelous actor. Wonderful man.” He paused, adjusting the already perfect knot of his maroon and silver tie. “No doubt he resurrected all sorts of old scandals and amusing backstage scuttlebutt.”

Judith chuckled, while Renie shifted rather awkwardly in place. “From Albee to Zeffirelli,” said Judith. “There was no stopping him. I just wish we'd had the chance to go back for more.”

Max's smile now seemed stuck. “I'm sure you do. My, my!” He glanced at his watch. “Almost eight o'clock!
Maria must be drumming her nails. It's been a pleasure.” He made a courtly bow, and swung around to head for Suite 800 at the end of the hall.

Judith and Renie watched him go inside and close the door. “We sure make the Rothsides time conscious,” remarked Renie. “They can't seem to get away from us fast enough. By the way,” she added, suddenly serious, “are you sure you did the smart thing by implying that Bob-o told all? What if Max is the murderer?”

The cousins were back on the threshold of their own suite. “I know I took a chance,” Judith admitted as she started to shut the door. “Even if Max is innocent, he may spread the word among the others. But dammit, coz, we've got to take some kind of risk to flush out the killer so we can get home!”

Renie shivered. “That's the trouble, you're more afraid of your mother than you are of a murderer! Meanwhile, we could end up dead as dodos!”

Judith, who was still at the door, motioned for Renie to be quiet, and peered out through the small slit. “Ah—as I thought.” Carefully, she closed the door all the way and clicked the latch. “Birdwell was going toward Mildred's room at first, then made up that excuse, and went back to his own. He and Ms. Grimm just headed for the elevator. She's wearing pink chiffon.”

“Gag,” remarked Renie, flopping back down on the sofa. “You mean Birdwell didn't want Max to know?”

“So it would seem,” replied Judith, just as the phone rang. She picked it up to hear Evelyn on the other end. Her voice was devoid of its usual crispness. She was, however, characteristically direct:

“Have you seen Spud?”

Judith reflected briefly. “I haven't seen him since the two of you came in for breakfast.” She paused, then, when Evelyn didn't respond, switched to a less casual tone. “Is he missing?”

“No. He taped an interview this afternoon at CLIP-TV. I thought he'd be back a long time ago, but they must have
run into some problems.” The slight quaver in Evelyn's voice betrayed her anxiety. “It occurred to me he might have stopped to talk to you about the old days.”

Judith eyed Renie, who looked as if she were about to explode with curiosity. “He'll probably show up any minute.” She gestured at Renie to contain herself. “By the way, Evelyn, I've got some names for him from our class. He's been listed as ‘Address Unknown' for the last three ten-year reunions. Shall I bring these contacts over?”

Evelyn said yes, but without enthusiasm, then hung up. Getting her fat little address book out of her purse, Judith explained to Renie about the missing Spud. Renie's reaction was anticlimactic:

“Big deal. He probably stopped for drinks with the TV crew.”

“Spud doesn't drink,” Judith reminded her cousin. “Okay, okay,” she continued before Renie could respond. “So he could sip some pop while the others got loaded. You may be right, but wherever he is, it's worrying Evelyn. That means she's vulnerable right now, and I'm off to take advantage of her.”

“Crass,” remarked Renie, springing to her feet. “You aren't going to be that opportunistic without me.”

But Judith fended Renie off with her purse. “Not this time, coz. I had good luck going one-on-one with Mildred. I might do the same with Evelyn. No offense, but as a team, we may be a little overwhelming.”

Renie was torn between incredulity and hurt. “Us? Rot. We're about as intimidating as lint.”

“All the same, let me go alone. In all modesty, I'm told I have a knack for getting people to open up. You're the one who told me.” She picked up the Clovia's menu. “I'll do what I do best, you do ditto. Order dessert.”

 

Suite 801 was a medley of English country decor. A green and gray Brussels-weave carpet, a Delft urn on a pedestal, two deep burgundy club chairs, a plate rail lined with Wedgwood, Royal Doulton, and even a matching pair
of Staffordshire botanical designs gave the room an elegant yet homey look. Judith couldn't help but wonder how the various pieces of china and objects d'art had survived Spud's occupancy.

Evelyn apparently had been passing the time with work. The Regency desk was littered with a large looseleaf binder, a yellow legal-sized tablet, a Rolodex, and a stack of papers.

“Have a seat,” offered Evelyn, looking tense and lean in a lavender cashmere sweater and white wool slacks. “Have you been searched yet?”

“Of course,” said Judith, sitting in the mate to Evelyn's club chair. “You, too, I gather?”

“Oh, yes.” Evelyn grimaced. “The policeman didn't find anything. What are they looking for? The gun?”

“I suppose so,” Judith replied noncommittally.

“Preposterous,” scoffed Evelyn. “It's probably out in the bay. They'll find it washed up in Empress Park six weeks from now.”

Judith was flipping through her address book. The room smelled of sandalwood, and looked out onto the high-rise apartments and condos of Prince Albert Bay. A forest of buildings, a shimmer of lights rose out of the rain. For a brief instant, Judith let go of everything but the magic enchantment of the city at night. All those windows, she thought to herself, and all those lives, caught up behind glass and concrete. Human nature fascinated her in all its complexities and simplicities. She could almost hear the voices, quarreling, giggling, pleading, bantering. No matter how similar, Canada and the United States were two separate countries, yet to Judith, people were people, regardless of national origin. She was captivated by the notion, momentarily swept away by the common bond of the human race.

“Kay Kramer Norville and Ron Patricelli are the alumni chairmen for our class,” she said, shaking off her contemplative mood. She wrote down the names, addresses and phone numbers on the back of one of her Hillside Manor
business cards. “Have Spud drop one of them a line. I know they'd love to hear from him.” Judith spoke the truth, but didn't personally care if Kay or Ron ever heard from anybody. Judith hadn't gone to any of the reunions, having been too ashamed to own up to the kind of life she had created for herself.