Fowl Prey (18 page)

CLIP-TV led off with the police strike, featuring interviews with Port Royal's commissioner, the head of the local law enforcement guild, and a spokeswoman for the city. The bottom line was that no progress had been made.
Half dozing, Judith watched reports on a warehouse fire in a Port Royal suburb, a scam that had fleeced almost a million dollars from a dozen senior citizens, and a storm-induced two-hour traffic jam on the St. George Bridge.

At last, the apple-cheeked anchorwoman and her square-jawed partner zeroed in on Bob-o: “Lack of available personnel has slowed the murder investigation of one of Port Royal's best-known characters, Bob-o, the Prince Albert Bay popcorn vendor,” reported the chipper blond anchorwoman. “The long-time fixture on Empress Drive, whose real name was Robin O'Rourke, was found shot to death early last evening in the elevator of the Hotel Clovia.” A pan of the Esplanade, followed by an exterior of the hotel, appeared on the screen. “Homicide Detective Angus MacKenzie said today that police are doing their best under trying circumstances.”

The camera had caught MacKenzie at his most doleful. “The strike hampers us in several ways,” he said, sounding even more lugubrious on videotape than in person. “However, it's just a matter of time before we catch the killer. Nobody can get away with murder in a respectable hotel like the Clovia.”

MacKenzie's image was replaced by the well-scrubbed anchors. “Gavin,” said the blond, turning to her compatriot, “do the police feel this was a random killing or is there a personal element here?”

Gavin set his square jaw and looked sincere. “From what I'm hearing, it's definitely a maniac, possibly with drug connections. Everyone I've talked to is convinced the police are dealing with a wild card killer.”

“It's certainly someone with a lot of nerve,” declared Gavin's vis-à-vis, turning to face the camera head-on. “Residents of Prince Albert Bay may not be sleeping quite as soundly as usual tonight, but tomorrow they'll be able to take their minds off their troubles by going to the Empress Park Zoo to welcome the new panda from…”

Judith clicked off the TV. She didn't believe that MacKenzie—or anyone else in an official capacity—was
feeding stories of a drug-crazed maniac to the media. It struck her as odd that there had been no mention of the various celebrities staying at the Clovia. The Sacred Eight's members were getting their wish to avoid scandal. Or else, it suddenly occurred to Judith, Spud had been doing his bit to blow smoke at the TV station. He had, after all, been at CLIP that afternoon to tape his interview.

Finding Renie once again struggling with the window, Judith expostulated her most recent theory. “Might be,” said Renie, moving over so that Judith could help. Several groans and many pushes later, the window edged up a good six inches. Renie was satisfied, if limp. “I don't like sleeping in a closed room. Do you want help with yours?”

Judith hesitated. She shared Renie's sentiments about fresh air. The previous night, she had been too preoccupied with Bob-o's death to think about opening windows. But now it sounded like a good idea. The cousins were more fortunate in Judith's bedroom: Although the sash resisted initially, they achieved success on their second try.

“It's stopped raining,” Judith said in surprise. Off in the distance, they could hear the mournful notes of a foghorn. The storm had definitely passed.

Renie stood at the casement, looking out. “Coz,” she said quietly, “why are you upset about going home tomorrow?”

Judith let out a long sigh. There was never any point in trying to keep anything from Renie. “I hate unfinished business. I hate things that don't make sense. I hate being fooled by a cold-blooded killer.” Her voice had begun to rise, fervor building like water in a boiling kettle. “Most of all, I hate being a chump!”

“Look,” said Renie calmly, “once upon a time you had a murder fall in your lap. You had—what? Eight suspects right there under your roof. You were very clever, and you figured it all out. But let's face it, you can't expect lightning to strike twice. You're in a strange city, a foreign country. You're out of your element. Give it up, coz. Get some sleep, okay?”

Every so often, the old childhood habit of deferring to Renie's two years of seniority surfaced. Judith heard the compassion in her cousin's voice. She knew Renie was not only concerned, but that she was probably right.

“Okay,” agreed Judith wearily. “I'll turn in my badge.”

“Just turn in.” Renie gave Judith's shoulder a pat. “It's going on midnight. If we bag all this murder stuff, we can go downtown tomorrow and shop and have lunch and shop some more and then head home around five. How about dinner along the way at Pie-Oh-My!?”

“Sounds good,” said Judith, with a wan smile. She watched Renie troop off through the connecting bathroom. Judith began to undress. Renie made sense. It was absurd, even arrogant, to suppose that she could track down Bob-o's killer. It was possibly irrelevant, now that they could sign their statements and go home. Her mother was waiting, Mike was on his way, the rest of the family was looking forward to the big holiday dinner. As for Joe, he was…

Judith paused, standing barefooted in her flannel nightgown. Joe was somewhere. She knew not the address or the situation, only that he was back home, a hundred and twenty miles away. Judith climbed into bed, hugged the pillow, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

H
ER FIRST SENSATION
was of dampness, then of murky light, and finally of an odd sound close to her ear. She rolled over and let out a small shriek. A seagull stood on the windowsill, begging eyes trained on Judith.

“Beat it!” she grumbled. “I don't do room service for birds!”

The gull lifted one claw, pecked under its wing, and settled in on the sill. Judith sat up in bed. Outside, the fog had rolled in, thick and gray. She couldn't see across the street. Another foghorn, much closer than the one she'd heard last night, echoed over the bay.

Judith got up, waving her glitzy paperback in a menacing manner. “Scoot! Go away! How would you like to meet Sweetums?”

The gull eyed Judith with disdain, then flapped its wings and flew off into the fog. Judith felt vaguely penitent. It occurred to her that the seagulls and other birds that resided in the neighborhood had no doubt dined frequently on Bob-o's popcorn, especially those bags tossed away by disgusted customers. That meal ticket
was canceled. The avian inhabitants would have to look elsewhere for sustenance. But not necessarily to Judith. Quieting her conscience, she headed for the bathroom, noting that it was almost eight-thirty. She'd take a shower, and then rouse Renie.

The warm waters cascading over her body brought Judith fully awake. She let out another little cry, shut off the faucets, grabbed a big fleecy towel, and flew into Renie's room.

“Coz!” she shouted, shaking the inert bundle that was Renie, “I've got it! Wake up!”

Renie burrowed further down under the covers. Judith shook her again. “Get with it for once! Come on, I've all but solved the murder!”

“Drmpdud,” mumbled Renie, pulling the sheet over her head.

“Drop dead yourself,” retorted Judith, accustomed to Renie's early morning mutterings. “Get your tail in gear.”

“G'fkyrzf.” Renie was putting the pillow over her head.

Judith yanked it away. “I will not. You're going to smother.”

In a tangle of bedclothes, Renie began to emerge, though her eyes were still shut. “Wzrg?” she asked.

“Nothing's wrong,” replied Judith, impatiently. “I've finally figured out what I've been trying to remember. It was that damned seagull.”

“Seagull?” Renie's eyes had opened. “What seagull?”

“There was one in the window just now. It made me think of Bob-o and Tootle. Go splash water on your face. I'll order breakfast.”

Judith had said the magic word. Renie struggled out of bed, staggering toward the bathroom. Back in her own bedroom, Judith toweled off and got dressed. Five minutes later, she was calling room service. Doris answered.

“Gee, Doris, don't you ever get any time off?” inquired Judith, thinking of her own long hours as general factotum of Hillside Manor.

“Usually, yes,” Doris answered crossly. “But this
hasn't been your average week. I had to come in last night to straighten out the payroll. We've still got the press prowling around, annoying our guests. Did you see the hotel on the news last night? Imagine, the Clovia mixed up in such a mess!”

Judith commiserated, but Doris wasn't done yet with her litany of complaints: “Now we find out the airport is closed because of the fog! I've already had about two dozen people screaming at me as if it were my fault!”

Judith could guess who some of them might be. She sympathized some more, then put in her breakfast order. Sounding somewhat mollified by Judith's understanding manner, Doris promised that Brian would be up in twenty minutes.

“Where's breakfast?” asked Renie, emerging from the bathroom in her purple robe.

“It's coming,” Judith assured her. “Have a seat. I'll give you my brainstorm.” She was slightly put off by Renie's vacant stare, but Judith plunged ahead anyway: “Do you remember all those goofy rhymes Tootle recited?”

“Tootle who?” muttered Renie, still staring.

Exasperated, Judith gave her cousin a little poke. “It's going on nine o'clock. Try waking up an hour early for once. This is important.”

Slowly, Renie came into focus. “Parakeets don't recite,” she said, sounding more like herself. “They repeat.”

“Right,” agreed Judith, relieved that Renie had decided to join the Land of the Living. “Ergo, Tootle was mouthing stuff he'd heard, probably from Bob-o. One of the things Tootle said was something about ‘Don't forget your key.' That could mean somebody else had access to Bob-o's apartment.”

Growing ever more alert, Renie mulled over the idea. “That's true. Mrs. Wittelstein, maybe. But where does it get us? I thought we were going to forget about playing sleuth.”

Judith waved her hand at Renie. “We can't. Not now.
We're too close. But you're right, that rhyme isn't much help. The other one is more illuminating. Help me remember how it went—‘Polly put the kettle on, wearin' o' the green.' What's next?”

“It wasn't Polly, it was Daddy.” Renie definitely did not look pleased with Judith's re-immersion into the murder case. “Where's breakfast?”

“Parakeets don't have lips,” declared Judith. “Tootle probably meant to say Polly.” She hesitated, then shook her head. “You're right, Daddy would make more sense because then it was something about Mummy and biscuits and not keeping clean. Have you got it yet?” Judith leaned forward eagerly.

“I don't even have a lousy cup of coffee,” Renie exclaimed. “No,” she said through clenched teeth. “I haven't got it. And I don't much care.”

Judith was taken aback, but not yet defeated. “The references are to a girlfriend. If ‘Daddy' is Bob-o, then ‘Mummy' must be his…” She sought the right word. “…mate? Ducks and drakes, remember!”

Renie yawned. “So what?”

“It's all part of my theory,” said Judith, growing irked by her cousin's indifference. “Never mind, just don't come crying to me when the police find the gun this time and your fingerprints are the only ones that show up. I hope you'll like that thin gruel they serve in prison for the holidays.”

Apprehension crept into Renie's eyes. “That's silly. MacKenzie knows I found the gun. We told him so. Of course my prints are on it.”

Judith emitted a small snort. “MacKenzie thought our entire story was a fable. He's a cop, he deals in facts. If the bullet that killed Bob-o matches that .38, and your prints are on the gun, you can bet your Bally boots they'll haul you in.”

Renie's disinterest had given way to the instinct for survival. “Damn! Why did I ever ask you to come up to Port Royal with me? The worst thing that's ever happened when
we've stayed at the Clovia was the time Bill was taking a nap and the headboard fell on him! Okay, run this nutty idea of yours by me again. So far all we have is Bob-o making tea for some woman who could be Mrs. Wittelstein who could be a homicidal maniac but I doubt it. This deduction does not a conviction make.”

Judith was still undaunted. “The part about wearing green—Desiree does, a lot.”

Renie rolled her eyes. “Desiree and Bob-o making out like minks? How about the Pope and Cher?”

“I don't mean Desiree and Bob-o were lovers. Desiree no doubt had other things on her mind if she called on him.” Judith was about to elucidate when Brian arrived with breakfast. “Wow, we may have people sleeping in the lobby tonight!” He grinned broadly at the thought. “If the guests who are due to check out can't leave because of the fog, we've got over twenty-five rooms double booked. The phones are all tied up, the boiler isn't working right, and the staff hasn't been paid. Gramps is about to have a seizure, and Doris is threatening to quit.” Clearly, Brian was enjoying every minute of the ongoing crisis. “I just talked to a TV reporter dude. I should be on the news tonight. Fresh!”

Judith and Renie tried to share his enthusiasm, but had to make up for their lack of wholeheartedness with yet another generous tip. They had just settled in over scrambled eggs, Canadian bacon, hash browns, and toast when Evelyn arrived at the door, her eyes glistening with tears.

“All right, so
I'm
the fool!” she declared angrily, brushing past Judith to throw herself on the sofa next to Renie. “I suppose you're laughing your heads off at me!”

With a forkful of scrambled eggs poised at her mouth, Renie glared at Evelyn. “I never laugh at anything before ten o'clock.”

Judith was more sympathetic than her cousin. “What's wrong, Mrs. Frobisher?” Not having an extra coffee cup, she offered Evelyn the rest of her tomato juice.

But Evelyn waved the glass away. “You know every
thing! Why didn't you tell me where Spud was last night?” She drew her legs up under her body and hugged herself. “Well?” Evelyn demanded, her skin as pale as the ivory sweater she was wearing over matching slacks. “What have you got to say for yourselves?”

“Evelyn,” said Judith, putting the conversation on a calmer and more personal note, “I have no idea what you're talking about.” She checked her statement. “Okay, maybe I do. But I didn't know it when I was with you last night.”

Evelyn wiped at her eyes with shaking fingers. “Who are you? Really?”

Judith gave a little strangled laugh and shook her head. “Nobody. Ourselves. We're just a couple of cousins with a knack for the unusual. Renie's dad always said we could turn buying a quart of milk into a perilous adventure.”

“It was a loaf of bread,” Renie said with her mouth full.

Evelyn regarded the cousins uneasily. “The point is, you know about Spud and Desiree.” Her hazel eyes were accusatory, as if the alleged dalliance had been concocted by Judith and Renie.

“All we know is that Alabama was looking for his wife while you were worrying about Spud,” said Judith patiently. “We also know—because Maria told us—that Desiree's rehearsal was over by five. The rest is pure conjecture.” She eyed the distraught Evelyn. “Perhaps you know more.”

Evelyn's taut, slim body unwound a bit. She dropped her arms and allowed her feet to touch the floor. “Isn't it obvious?” she replied, though there was doubt in her voice.

“That depends,” said Judith. “What does Spud say?”

Evelyn's mouth drew into a straight line and her eyes flashed. “He denies it, of course.”

Renie finished her second piece of toast. “Believe him. The man's crazy about you.”

Evelyn stared at Renie. “How would
you
know?”

Renie cut up her Canadian bacon and gave Evelyn a wry look. “We know everything. You said so yourself.”

“You
are
laughing at me!” cried Evelyn. “You're Spud's friends!”

Judith's patience was wearing thin. “Renie hardly knew Spud, and I haven't seen him in thirty years. Give the guy a break. Desiree may have put a move on him. You're all under a lot of strain, trying to avoid getting implicated in Bob-o's murder. Even Desiree probably isn't herself.”

Evelyn bridled. “She doesn't know who herself is! She's always playing a part, her favorite role being Desiree Sinclair, world-class tart! To make matters worse, we can't leave Port Royal because of this stupid fog! I can't let the au pair girl roast a turkey for the kids!” Evelyn started to cry again.

Judith and Renie traded looks of consternation. “The fog will lift,” Judith said with more confidence than she felt. “It's Spud you're upset about. I gather he's been a faithful husband in general?”

Evelyn seemed taken aback by the blunt question. She stifled her sobs and sat up straight. “As far as I know. Oh, he's certainly had his opportunities. You can't work in the theater and not be faced with temptation every day. But except for—” She stopped, her expression suddenly faraway. “No, I'm being stupid. Years ago, when the children were small, and I was working so hard to get my agency going, I wondered if he was involved with someone else. It would have been my own fault,” she added with a trace of bitterness. “Frankly, I was neglecting him.”

Judith drank the rest of her juice and regarded Evelyn with compassion. “It happens. But as you said, you take very good care of each other. ‘Protective,' wasn't that how you put it?” She took a deep breath. “Where did Spud go Monday night just before Bob-o was shot?”

Evelyn coiled like a snake, her small, perfect teeth bared. Judith and Renie both tensed, poised for a violent reaction. But the other woman relaxed almost at once,
shaking her head in surrender. “I was afraid of this. Why haven't the police questioned him about it?”

“I'm not sure they know,” replied Judith. “The person who saw him in the lobby may not have mentioned it.” Judith was being deliberately cagey; she felt she might learn more by keeping Evelyn off-guard. “Well?” she pressed the point, like a boxer jabbing away at his opponent's open cut.

“I don't know,” Evelyn said at last. She gazed at each cousin in turn. “I honestly don't know. Spud wouldn't tell me.” In a sudden spasm of anxiety, she writhed about on the sofa. “Oh, God, I'm so scared!”

Rather diffidently, Renie put the hand that wasn't forking in food on Evelyn's arm. “Take it easy, kiddo. You don't really think Spud killed Bob-o, do you?”

Evelyn tried to regain control of herself. “No. Of course not. But what will the police think if they find out Spud was downstairs that night? And why won't he tell me what he was doing?” Her voice was filled with desperation.

Judith put her plate aside and stood up. “Let's ask. Where is he?”

A blank expression crossed Evelyn's face. “He stomped out. Maybe he's in the dining room. Or out walking. He does that sometimes when he's mad.”

The vision of a clumsy Spud Frobisher, walking around in pea-soup fog, was more than Judith could handle. “Let's try the dining room.” As both Evelyn and Renie started to rise, Judith put out a hand. “You stay here. Together. Don't worry, I'll be the soul of tact.”