Fowl Prey (16 page)

At Renie's lead, they had progressed the few yards down the hall to Birdwell's room. “Okay, so why are we breaking into this particular suite?”

“For obvious reasons,” Renie replied, first knocking to make sure no one was inside, then taking a quick look along the corridor. “One, because we can, and we ought to check Birdwell out while he's at dinner. Two, he's in the room directly above the one Bill and I stayed in last year. Maybe we can find the pipe and put out the Heat Pixies' lights.”

Birdwell de Smoot's lodgings were as avant-garde as their occupant was orthodox. White-on-white, leather, chrome, and glass dazzled the eye. Judith was thankful that he, not they, had ended up in Suite 802.

“What's Mildred's like?” inquired Judith, gazing at the ultimate mating of form and function.

“Late Victorian. Lots of frills and heavy oak. It looks like Grandma Grover's attic before you remodeled it.” She went to the window, where the sash opened easily. “You detect while I correct,” said Renie, picking up a steel paperweight before reaching out into the rain and wind.

The Heat Pixies weren't as loud in Birdwell's room, their dance more attuned to Guy Lombardo than Mötley Crüe. Renie began feeling for the pipe. Judith, meanwhile, searched in vain for any sign of Birdwell's personality in the sitting room. The bedroom wasn't much help, either. His briefcase revealed assorted reviews written by him and other critics, several play programs, two spiral notebooks, and a half-dozen business letters. The only surprise, though Judith found it a mild one, was a signed photograph of Maria at the bottom of his empty suitcase. She was costumed as Giselle, and had written, “To my severest—and sweetest—critic. Love, Maria.” Judith smiled faintly, put the picture back, and turned to the bureau. Neatly stacked white underwear and several pairs of socks, all black, rested innocently along with a few toilet articles. The closet was equally devoid of interest. In the gleaming
white and chrome bathroom, she found only the usual shaving kit, three bottles of prescription pills—two for stomach disorders, one for allergies—and a toothbrush. Judith felt gypped.

She emerged from the bedroom to find Renie standing by the window. She still held the paperweight in one hand; in her other, she cradled a gun.

“What on earth…?” Judith began.

Renie gulped. “It was stuck in the ivy.” She gave her cousin a dazed look. “My fingerprints are now all over it. Do you think it's loaded?”

Judith stepped closer. “Probably.” She stared at the gleaming weapon, the steel tinged with blue, the grip richly veined and deeply grooved. “It says ‘LadySmith, .38 S. & W. Special CTG.' Whatever that means,” Judith added lamely. “Put that sucker down before you blow my feet off.”

Renie complied. “What do we do now? Call MacKenzie?”

Judith considered. “I'll go get a shopping bag. We'll carry the gun in it back to our room and phone him from there.”

Judith was gone less than three minutes. Renie's gaze was still fixed on the gun as if she expected it to fire on its own. The Heat Pixies were relentless.

“I didn't subdue them,” Renie confessed. “I don't have Bill's knack.”

“Maybe he just got lucky,” said Judith, using a Kleenex to pick up the gun from the leather divan where Renie had set it. Gently, Judith put the weapon into the Prince Albert Bay Outback shopping bag she'd gotten along with a pair of Dingo boots to give Mike for Christmas. “Let's get out of here.”

Safely back in Suite 804, Judith called police headquarters. It took almost as long for the receptionist to answer as it had for Gertrude. MacKenzie wasn't in. They'd page him. Maybe.

Renie looked at her watch. It was almost nine o'clock.
“Should we go through Maria and Max's room before they get back?”

Judith shook her head. “We don't want to miss MacKenzie's call. Besides, if the police didn't find anything, I doubt that we will. Except for a very nice picture of Maria and a fond inscription, Birdwell was a bust.”

Forced to agree, Renie sank back onto the sofa. Only then did both cousins realize that the Heat Pixies had stopped their deafening clatter.

“Birdwell,” declared Judith after considerable mulling, “may be one person Mildred would confide in about the gun.”

“If he took it,” objected Renie, “why would he ditch it outside his own room?”

“Where else? He didn't have much time. By the way, did you notice you didn't have any trouble opening his window?”

“No. I mean, yes, of course.” Renie nodded in understanding. “I see what you mean—mine was stuck, and it took two of us to get Alabama and Desiree's all the way up. Maybe somebody—such as Birdwell—took care to see that his window worked easily. And quickly.”

This time, the knock at the door was a sharp rat-tat-tat. “MacKenzie?” breathed Judith, but looked doubtful even as she rose to let their caller in.

Desiree Sinclair Smith wore a stunning forest-green dinner suit with padded shoulders, a stand-up collar, and a slim tulip-shaped shirt. Small gold buttons marched down from the hint of cleavage to the exposed knee. Maria could make men's heads turn; Desiree was the kind who could make men lose them. Judith was impressed in spite of herself.

“You're a real pair of morons,” Desiree announced, sailing over the threshold with Alabama riding her wake like a dinghy following a yacht. “Are you the ones who turned us in to Charlie Chan's number-one grandson?”

“You were kind of loud,” replied Judith.

“So were you.” Desiree waited for Alabama to close
the door. “That's why we reported you. I hope you get blackballed!”

“Nobody's talked to us about it,” put in Renie. “Of course,” she added a bit vaguely, “we were out for a while.”

Desiree sidled up to Renie, wagging a finger within an inch of her nose. “Listen, sweetie, you're lucky you're not out for the count! Nobody complains about Desiree Sinclair and Alabama Smith!” The tip of Desiree's finger almost made contact with Renie.

Incensed, Renie emitted a growling sound and made as if to take a bite out of Desiree. With a yelp, Desiree jumped back, raising a hand to swing at Renie. Alabama stopped her just in time.

“Calm down, darlin'. We don't want any more trouble.” His voice had grown careless in its effort to eradicate his Southern accent. “Let's be frank here. We couldn't understand most of what you two were sayin', but it sounded like maybe you had some pretty crazy ideas about poor Maria.”

“Invasion of privacy!” shouted Renie, still feisty. “What did you do, hold a glass against the wall?”

It was Judith's turn to intervene. She put a hand on Renie's shoulder and smiled politely at their most recent uninvited guests. “Forgive my cousin. The Heat Pixies have damaged her brain.” Ignoring the blank look on the faces of both Smiths, she continued: “As a matter of fact, we were talking about Maria. Spud, too. And Jonathan Castle.” She deliberately waited for a reaction.

But Desiree merely gave a toss of her copper mane. “From what we could hear—without any stupid glass”—she shot Renie a nasty look—“you said something about Jonny being Maria's love child. That's utter nonsense! You ought to be sued for slander!”

Judith let go of Renie, and made a hospitable gesture with one hand. “Have a seat. Let's all calm down and talk this out. I know,” she went on as the Smiths perched
warily on the sofa, “you aren't as anxious to leave Port Royal as the rest of us.”

“I'm not,” Desiree replied in a less heated tone. “I've got to play to do. But Alabama has to be in Minneapolis Friday.”

“Okay,” said Judith quietly from the armchair. She noted with relief that Renie had hauled over a footstool and seemed under control. “Renie and I have been doing some research. We may be wrong. In fact, whatever we've come up with about Maria—and Jonathan Castle—may be irrelevant.” Judith had to admit to herself that Desiree and Alabama's defense of Maria seemed genuine. It was, she reasoned, possible that they didn't know about that shameful incident of over thirty years ago. But the pair could answer some other questions. “How,” she asked pointedly, “did Helen die?”

Desiree gasped; Alabama sagged. Neither of them spoke for a long time.

“You
have
done your homework,” Desiree said at last, her husky voice even huskier than usual.

Alabama was getting a grip on his emotions—and his accent. “It was a terrible tragedy. I suspect she'd had a few drinks. I don't know, I wasn't there. I'd spent the afternoon at Boodle's with Max and some financial backers from the City. When I came home, I found her in the foyer, at the bottom of the stairs.” His face registered pain, and he looked away. “She'd been dead for some time.”

“I'm sorry.” Judith was: Unless Alabama was as good an actor as he was a writer, his grief seemed all too real. “Did you call the police?”

He shifted a bit on the sofa, turning to Desiree. “Did I? No, I called for an ambulance. I don't think it ever occurred to me to call the police.”

“Did Robin call them in later?” asked Judith, hating herself for opening up old wounds.

Alabama was still looking at Desiree, as if she were
holding up cue cards. “I don't think so. But I don't remember.”

“He might have,” said Desiree with a shrug. “Helen's death sent him right off his head. It's a wonder he didn't call Number 10 Downing Street.”

Renie, who was still regarding Desiree with a certain amount of mistrust, posed a question:

“Was Bob-o always a little loony?”

This time it was Desiree who looked to Alabama for the answer. “I'd call him…what?” Alabama was searching for the right word, a sign of his craft. “Not crazy, not eccentric…a rugged individualist, except not particularly rugged. If you've seen my play,
Southern Comfort Station
, you'll recognize the type. I modeled the ticketmaster after Robin.”

“But,” put in Desiree, not wanting to be upstaged, “he wasn't really nuts until Helen died, right?”

Alabama nodded sagely. “That's true. Just as the ticketmaster doesn't go insane until his Creole mistress falls down the one-holer.”

“I missed that one at the rep,” murmured Renie. “I had croup.”

“I was working nights that season at the Meat & Mingle,” mumbled Judith.

Alabama tried not to look affronted. “It's a very deep work,” he remarked.

“It sounds like it.” Judith turned brisk. “Was Helen part of Max's…uh, cadre?”

Alabama evinced surprise. “Helen? Oh, no. She wasn't involved in the theater, except by association. Robin was very firm about keeping his daughter out of show business. Two generations of O'Rourkes on the boards were enough, he used to say. Helen never really worked at all, except for a bit of modeling. She was,” he went on with an apprehensive glance at his present wife, “very attractive.”

“I only met her once,” Desiree said, as if a single encounter was insufficient to validate Alabama's opinion.

“So,” said Judith, on a sudden inspiration, “if Helen
didn't work, she couldn't have had much money of her own. Bob-o's wealth must have come from his stage career.”

Alabama fingered his short beard. “Wealth? Robin made a decent living, but he certainly wasn't wealthy. I'm sure he would have used up all his savings by now if it hadn't been for—” He caught himself, along with a jab in the ribs from Desiree.

“Hey, hot grits, it's getting late,” said his wife, standing up on her four-inch sling-heeled pumps. “Let's go eat. I've got rehearsal in the morning.”

Following Desiree's lead, Judith, Renie, and Alabama all rose and went to the door. “Well, now,” drawled Alabama, once more the Southern good ol' boy, “Ah guess we aired ouah differences. Just remembah, don't go believin' everything you heah about people. 'Specially Maria.” The smile in the beard was a trifle wolflike.

“In other words,” said Desiree, “don't be a couple of chumps. St. Maria of the Thundering Thighs is as pure as the driven snow. And don't give me that old line about how she drifted. It's not her style.”

So saying, Desiree made her exit, Alabama once again bringing up the rear. Judith closed the door behind them and gazed at Renie. “They don't know about Maria and Spud. They do know about Bob-o's stash.”

“Why is everybody so protective of Maria?” demanded Renie. “She may be your old pal, but she'd drive me batty in about three days. Too artificial.”

Judith measured Renie's words. “Artificial, yes. Phony, no. Maria has been living a lie for thirty years. It shows.” She headed for her bedroom. “Get your coat. We're going out.”

“What?” cried Renie. “It's almost ten o'clock! There's a gale out there! Are you nuts?”

But Judith had already left the room. Renie shrugged and went to fetch her raincoat. Moments later, they were at the elevator, waiting for the car to struggle up from the
first floor where it had presumably just let off Desiree and Alabama.

“What about MacKenzie?” Renie asked. “I thought you didn't want to miss his call.”

“We won't be gone more than ten minutes,” replied Judith. “We're not going far.”

The elevator arrived, the cousins stepped in, and the cables played their now familiar refrain. “Remember, we said there must a photo of Desiree in Bob-o's apartment?” Judith paused as Renie nodded. “Yet neither of us recalls seeing it. I think we would have remembered it in retrospect after we met Desiree. If it had been there.”

“I'm confused,” admitted Renie, as they got out of the elevator on the main floor. A gap-toothed brunette, presumably Elaine, was behind the desk, consulting with the suntanned couple from New Zealand. A handful of guests milled around the lobby, chatting and looking at the display of picture postcards. By the main entrance, Desiree and Alabama were waiting for a taxi. Judith and Renie ducked out through the Hepburn Street exit.