Fowl Prey (6 page)

Angry with herself for letting the truth slip out, Judith felt it was more like a nightmare. It was bad enough to incur the wrath of Renie and the displeasure of Angus MacKenzie, but how was she going to explain to Gertrude that they might not get home for Thanksgiving? Come Thursday, her mother would roast the turkey, but Judith knew her own goose was already cooked.

 

Judith was in no mood for dinner out. She was torn between calling Gertrude to forewarn her of their potential delay, and simply confessing to the murder. A hanging judge on foreign soil was preferable to her mother any day.

“Don't be an ass,” urged Renie after the policemen had left. “The bottom line is we happened to find a dead popcorn vendor in the elevator. We're innocent. We're on vacation. We need to eat out. Now.”

Judith, who was sitting on the bed with her shoes off, set her jaw and stared with unseeing eyes at a portrait of the Empress Josephine. Josephine stared back. “The bottom line is that the sooner we figure out who killed Bob-o, the sooner we can go home.”

“But we just got here!” wailed Renie.

“I mean, you dope, we can go home as scheduled.
Your
schedule, remember?” Judith fixed Renie with severe black eyes.

Renie's shoulders slumped. “Oh, shoot, coz, just because you figured out who did in that screwball fortune-teller doesn't make you Miss Marple! Once MacKenzie's feathers get unruffled, he won't care if we take off for the North Pole.” Trying a more reasonable tactic, she tugged at Judith's ivory sleeve. “Don't let this screw up our vacation. You need it even more than I do. Come on, we're only half an hour late for dinner. Let's eat.”

Judith, who hadn't quite given up her stare-down with Josephine, spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “What about Maria?”

“What about her?”

Finally conceding victory to the Empress, Judith looked up at Renie. “She acted scared, or at least upset, remember? Ten minutes later, somebody is dead in the same hotel. Somebody, I might add, who you said had a photograph of Maria in his apartment.”

“Oh.” Renie was chastened. “Well, what's that got to do with us going out to dinner?”

Slipping into her shoes, Judith slid off the bed. “I should go see her first. Then we can eat dinner.”

Renie started to protest, noted the set of Judith's wide shoulders, and gave up. “I'll wait here,” she said, “and call the cafe to see if we can get in by eight-thirty. We've probably lost out by being late.”

“It's Monday, a slow night in the food business. The Meat & Mingle used to close from Sunday until Wednesday,” said Judith, halfway out the door.

“That was because of the Health Department.” But Renie's comment went unheard by her cousin, who was already going through the sitting room. At the door to the corridor, Judith paused: The police and whoever else had joined them were still there, making quite a commotion. Judith changed her mind about going to Suite 800 in person and dialed Maria on the phone.

There was no answer. Either the Rothside party had left for dinner or they were congregated out in the hall, making nuisances of themselves with the authorities. Judith returned to the bedroom. “How do you feel about room service?”

Renie was still trying to find her glasses so that she could look up the Prince Albert Cafe in the phone book. “Why? Are we under house arrest?”

Judith glared in the direction of the hall. “It's a jungle out there. Do you want to face that mob?”

“I just want to face a menu,” said Renie glumly. “Hey,” she brightened, dropping the phone book and going to the door which adjoined the next suite, “if we could
get into 803, I think the fire escape goes out that way into Hepburn Street.”

Judith stared at the door which boasted a sturdy but old-fashioned Yale lock. She cocked her head at Renie. “Hairpin, bobby pin, paper clip? How did we do it when Cousin Sue used to lock us out of her bedroom to keep us from reading her diary?”

Renie was rummaging in the deep recesses of her handbag. “Here,” she said, producing a turkey skewer. “You asked me to lend you some for Thursday, remember? I brought them along this morning so I wouldn't forget.”

“Clever girl.” Judith knelt down and began probing the lock. “What was it Sue wrote about her first kiss?”

“It felt like a sink plunger,” replied Renie promptly, summoning up the description from forty years ago. “Who was the guy, Pudge Rollins?”

“No, he was the one who got ringworm for her junior prom.” Judith kept twisting the skewer in different directions. “I think it was Tommy Lee Bascomb, that walleyed kid who…Hey, I got it!” She raised her fist in triumph.

The lock gave; the door swung open. A moment later, Judith and Renie had collected their coats and were standing in a darkened bedroom. They waited for any sign of life from other parts of the suite, but all was quiet. Judith turned on a light, revealing complete disorder. The canopied bed was unmade, clothes were strewn across the floor, cosmetics littered the Louis XV dressing table, a white fox jacket hung at half-mast from one of the bedposts, and a half-dozen magazines were scattered around the room. The air smelled of tobacco, perfume, and sensuality.

“Gee,” said Renie, “an upscale Bob-o.” She picked up an emerald-green Yves St. Laurent tunic from the floor. “Desiree?”

“Most likely. It's sure not Mildred.” Judith was at the window, tugging hard. “This place needs an airing anyway. Ooops!” She had just edged the sash up an inch when she lost her grip and the window came crashing down.

Renie, who had been perusing a closetful of glittering gowns that looked like stage costumes, let out a little squeak. “Are you okay?”

Judith surveyed a broken fingernail. There were mirrors everywhere, giving the illusion of several sets of cousins and even more disarray than actually existed. Desiree's closet, however, was more opulent than overflowing. The dazzling array of satins and silks, sequins and beads, along with all manner of shimmering decorations indicated that the actress's wardrobe traveled with her. “Quit ogling those fairy-tale outfits and give me a hand,” coaxed Judith. “This window's heavy.” Working in tandem, the cousins finally raised the sash. They crawled out onto the fire escape and were suddenly overcome by the rickety feeling of the metal platform under their feet.

“It's a long way down, actually,” breathed Renie. Nervously, she tugged at the window to push it back in place. “I think I'll take off my heels.”

“Me, too.” Moving cautiously in the confined space, the cousins prepared for the descent. The ivy brushed at them, the wind picked up from the bay, the steel railing felt like ice to their touch. From somewhere close by, probably a police car parked on Empress Drive, they could hear the toneless voice of a radio dispatcher, giving notice of a vehicular accident on the St. George Bridge. By the time Judith and Renie reached the third floor, they dared to look down into Hepburn Street. A dozen or more people were milling about at the corner. Curious bystanders, Judith thought, and hoped they wouldn't look up.

They didn't. The cousins made the final leap to the ground on stockinged feet, then turned away from the little crowd. It appeared they had escaped the Clovia without mishap.

“Wow,” gasped Renie, stopping at the crosswalk to put her shoes back on, “where do I get these weird ideas? Remind me never to try that one again! It's a good thing the Prince Albert Cafe's menu is worth it.”

But after they crossed the street, Judith headed not for
the cafe, but the alley down the block. Renie grabbed her leather sleeve. “Hold it, you're going the wrong way!”

“Just a detour. Let's see if the police have gone to Bob-o's apartment yet.”

“Coz! It's after eight-thirty! I'm going to pass out from hunger! You aren't serious about this detection crap, are you?” Renie was clinging to Judith with all her might, heels dug into the parking strip grass.

But Judith was undeterred. “Let's just look. It's right here, past the dumpster.”

Renie gave in. The alley was dark. There was no sign of police activity. Judith took a small flashlight from her purse and passed it over the uneven cobbles. In the shadows, by the packing crates, something moved. Judith and Renie froze in place. A shrill cry met their ears.

“Let's get out of here!” urged Renie in a frightened whisper.

Judith held up a hand. “Wait.” The packing crates moved again. Just as Judith was about to take Renie's advice, the Siamese cat stalked into the alley, blue eyes gleaming in the glow of Judith's flashlight.

“Okay, okay,” breathed Renie, “so it wasn't Jack the Ripper. I still say, let's go. There's a murderer loose, remember?”

But Judith was at the door, turkey skewer in one hand, handkerchief in the other. Somewhat to her surprise, the knob turned easily. “I didn't remember it being locked this afternoon. Still, I wonder…”

“What?” demanded Renie, nervously following Judith into Bob-o's apartment. The little flashlight flitted from broken drum to dirty fridge to a picture of Richard Burton. The clutter seemed much the same as it had a few hours earlier. Yet Judith felt something was amiss.

“Where's that light?” she asked, more of herself than of Renie. She waved a hand in the air, finally making contact with a knotted string. The single naked bulb flooded the room with a yellow, sickly sheen. Judith switched off the pocket flash and looked around. “That
kettle wasn't there,” she said, indicating the stove. “What is it?”

Renie moved gingerly through the stacks of newspapers and around a deflated inner tube. “Mush. Or very gray meat. But don't think it's affecting my appetite. I could eat Tootle about now. Let's get out of here.”

“Tootle!” Judith swung around, peering up at the refrigerator, the curtain rods, the cupboard over the sink. Her gaze traveled downward, scanning every inch of Bob-o's earthly possessions.

Next to a small plaster bust of Shakespeare, Judith espied Tootle. She edged closer to inspect the motionless bird. “I guess he's asleep,” she said but the words were doubtful. Judith touched the parakeet; her hand fell away as if burned.

Tootle's neck was broken.

“I'
LL HAVE THE
lox with capers and the mussels in broth and the angels on horseback,” a rejuvenated Renie told their waiter. “Then I'll get the Caesar salad, and after that we'll figure out what we're going to have for our entrees. Oh—and bring plenty of your wonderful sour-dough bread.” She closed the menu with a big smile.

The waiter had turned to Judith, who was reading the wine list upside-down. “Madame?” he ventured.

“Huh?” Judith gave a start. “Oh! I'll have a cup of clam chowder and a petite filet, medium rare. Maybe Petunia Pig over there will throw me some scraps from her first few courses.”

“Jeez, coz,” said Renie after the waiter had headed back toward the cafe's kitchen, “forget the damned diet! We're on the town!”

“We're on the lam. And, unlike certain callous people I know, I can't put Bob-o and that poor bird out of my mind. I swear, if you'd gone to watch the aristocrats get guillotined, you'd have brought a picnic hamper.”

Renie's eyes glazed over. “Filled with French food.
Pâté and cheeses and long loaves of bread and tiny button mushrooms with—”

“Can it. Here come our drinks. Why don't you at least have the decency to say you'd rather get sloshed about now than eat like a hog?”

Renie's ebullience faded as she zeroed in on the tragedy at hand. “Shoot, I feel terrible about Bob-o. And even that awful little bird. But starving myself isn't going to bring them back. Remember, coz, we are on
vacation
.”

“The Killer isn't,” Judith retorted. “Why would anybody strangle a parakeet?” She shivered, recalling the stiff little body with its broken neck. Just seconds after the discovery, the sound of squealing tires at the far end of the alley had flushed the cousins from the apartment. Fleeing in the opposite direction, they had sought refuge in the oak and brass ambience of the Prince Albert Cafe.

“Maybe Tootle fell,” Renie suggested after the waiter had left their drinks and brought the bread basket.

Judith shrugged and sipped at her scotch. “It's weird, I'll admit. Risky, too. That's assuming whoever did in Bob-o, did ditto for Tootle. I just wish we'd had time to find some personal papers. We don't even know what Bob-o's real name was.”

“True.” Renie smeared butter on her bread and took a big bite. “The police will find out. It'll be in the morning papers.”

“Or even the late TV news tonight.” Judith checked her watch. “It's after nine. Maybe I should try to call Maria around nine-thirty.”

Renie looked askance at Judith, but didn't try to dissuade her. Thirty minutes later, after Renie had wolfed down her hors d'oeuvres and salad, Judith was at a phone in the ladies' room. But there was still no answer in Suite 800 at the Clovia. A shaken Doris informed Judith that the Rothside party had gone out for dinner shortly after eight-thirty.

“Have the police left yet?” Judith asked, shielding her
words from the two older women who primped in front of a mirror.

“I beg your pardon?” said Doris with a shocked air that carried over the phone lines.

“Excuse me, I'm Mrs. McMonigle. I'm in Suite 804 with Mrs. Jones, and we were the ones who found the body in the—” She felt, rather than saw, the two women turn and stare. “Never mind, Doris. We'll try tunneling back in.” Judith put the phone down, gave the curious women a cloying smile, and patted her purse. “I don't know about you, but I'm glad I'm armed.”

She was still laughing to herself at the snoops' stunned expressions when something occurred to her. “Hey, coz,” she said sitting back down across from Renie, who was eating more bread, “what kind of gun laws do they have up here?”

Renie reflected. “Tough. Bill says they're much stricter than we are at home. Why do you ask?”

“How many average citizens in Port Royal would own a handgun? At least compared to people in our state. That fact alone narrows the field of suspects, especially if you first limit the list to people in the hotel.”

“Somebody could have followed Bob-o into the Clovia,” Renie pointed out.

Judith withheld her reply until the waiter had brought her steak and Renie's whole Dungeness cracked crab. “Have you ever seen Bob-o in the hotel before?” queried Judith, giving in to temptation in the form of butter, sour cream, chives, and bacon bits on her baked potato.

“No.” Renie was cracking crab with gusto.

“So someone invited him. Or else he came to find somebody. Probably that somebody was staying on the seventh or eighth floors.” She bit into her steak, discovering the marvels of Alberta beef. “Mmm, you're right, starving won't bring Bob-o back.”

“Why seven and eight? Why a guest and not an employee?” Now that Renie's appetite was appeased, she was throwing herself wholeheartedly into the puzzle.

“I'm not entirely ruling out employees. But if you planned to kill Bob-o—and I think it was planned because of the way it happened—why attract attention to yourself at your place of work? An employee could knock him off any time, and someplace other than the Clovia. But a visitor's opportunities are more limited.” Judith paused to savor a buttered baby carrot. “As for figuring it was someone on the the top two floors, you have to assume Bob-o was meeting the murderer, okay?” She saw Renie nod over a crab claw. “You don't ride up and down with your victim, gun in hand. You either get in with him and shoot him and then get out, or you shoot him as soon as the door opens, and then you reach into the car to set the button on Stop.”

Renie swirled a big chunk of crabmeat in a cup of melted butter. In blissful ignorance, she managed to spatter the mauve drape on her dress. “That makes sense. I think. But it's sure risky.”

Judith nodded. “The killer is a real risk-taker. He—or she—also had to go to Bob-o's apartment and do in Tootle.”

Renie tore into more crab, sending bits of shell into her hair and onto her sleeve. “So we've got two victims, one killer, and absolutely no motive. Unless,” Renie mused, unaware of the butter that had landed on her arm, “Bob-o saw something he shouldn't have in his course of work.”

Judith, who had become momentarily fascinated by the wreckage of Renie's toilette, looked perplexed. “Like what?”

“Well,” explained Renie, “his route covers the street across from the Clovia. He could have seen something through the window. Because of the view, everybody leaves their drapes and curtains open on that side.”

“Good point,” agreed Judith as the waiter came to see how the cousins were faring. Cringing at the carnage that surrounded Renie, he asked if there was anything else he could bring for their dining pleasure.

“How about a hose?” asked Judith.

They settled on two cups of decaf and a fingerbowl.
“Gee,” exclaimed Renie, surveying some of the damage, “I seem to have soiled myself. Again. I'm going to run out of clothes. I'll have to go to La Strada Boutique tomorrow and pick something up.

“The last time you did that, you had Bill teaching night school for three quarters,” said Judith.

“I pay for my own clothes,” Renie countered. She was about to launch into a dissertation on the Jones family financial responsibilities when she suddenly made a motion with her thumb. “Hey—by the door. The Rothside party is just exiting the private dining room.”

Sure enough, Max and Maria were exchanging pleasantries with the hostess, while Alabama helped Desiree into floor-length mink, Mildred allowed Birdwell to assist her with a drab brown raincoat, and Spud knocked over the brass hat rack as he tried to hand Evelyn her snakeskin jacket. The crash caused everyone in the group to turn around. As Evelyn extricated Spud from the hat rack, Maria caught Judith's eye across the room. She turned to Max and spoke rapidly. Nervously, too, thought Judith, though at such a distance, she couldn't be sure. But Maria detached herself from the others, and with less than her usual grace, moved toward the cousins' table.

“Do you mind?” Maria smiled tremulously and reached for the extra chair. “I told Max I wanted to apologize to you for the scene between Alabama and Birdwell. It was a lie, of course.” She sat down gingerly, mindful of the sash on her harem pants.

The waiter returned to inquire after her needs, but she waved him away. “I feel so stupid,” Maria said, a hand to her sleek head. “I was so full of my own concerns, and then that poor man got killed in the elevator. How petty we humans are!”

“As compared to what, goats?” retorted Judith, but saw Maria's dashed expression and felt silly. “Never mind. it's been a rough evening. I tried to call you at nine-thirty, but you weren't there. That's because you were here,” she added, somewhat inanely.

But Maria didn't notice Judith's small gaffe. “It's probably a prank,” she said, not looking at either of the cousins, but across the brass rail which divided the upper part of the restaurant from the lower level so that both halves could take in the view. “I ought to tell Max and be done with it. He'll laugh and make all my worries go away. He always does.” She smiled widely, but there was something of the frightened child in her wide-set gray eyes.

Bewildered by Maria's rambling words, Judith went straight to the point. “Look, Maria, you can speak in front of Renie. We've been keeping each other's secrets since World War II. If you'd like to unload, go ahead.”

Maria put a thin hand on Judith's arm. “You're a darling. You always were. I remember how nice you were to me when I threw up in geometry class and everybody else was so nasty. But dear Judith, I assure you, I've nothing to say. It was all a tempest in a teapot. I'm like that, nervy. Forgive me for worrying you.” She let her hand fall away, and fixed Judith with that fragile smile.

“Well, okay, but if you ever feel like—” Judith began, but Maria was on her feet.

“I must run. Max said he'd wait outside. He didn't want me walking back to the Clovia alone. There's a homicidal maniac out there, after all.” Still smiling, she blew a kiss at the cousins and then was gone, her tall, slim, red-and-black-clad figure turning several heads in the cafe.

“What was that all about?” inquired Renie, finally daring to look at the dinner bill which had been resting inside its leather-bound folder.

“Damned if I know,” said Judith, getting out her wallet. “Maybe Maria is subject to nerves. Or maybe something happened in the last couple of hours. Like Bob-o getting killed.”

Renie's eyebrows arched. “That's right. He had that picture of her. Gee, do you think Maria…oh, no.” Renie checked herself. “Somehow I can't see Maria shooting that poor old popcorn vendor.”

Judith was looking grim. “Somebody did. And it was
probably somebody on the seventh or eighth floor. So far, the only link we have with Bob-o is Maria.”

Renie considered her cousin's words. “If you've got Maria, you've also got Max,” she noted, putting on her glasses to sort out the bill. “For the moment, let's move on to the next mystery.”

“What's that?”

Renie's lips moved as she toted up figures. “The exchange rate. What's eighty-five percent of ninety dollars, then twenty percent for the tip?”

Judith gave her cousin a dour look. “Beats me. Whatever it is, it's too much, Petunia.”

Ten minutes of calculations, including how much was owed by Renie as opposed to Judith, brought the cousins to the front door as well as to the conclusion that foreign currency was not their metier. Out on Empress Drive, they observed that all but one of the police cars was gone.

“Dare we try the front way?” Renie asked.

“Why not? They can't arrest us just because we sneaked out for dinner. Besides,” Judith added as they crossed the street to the hotel and felt the sharp breeze cut through their coats, “I'd like a word with Angus MacKenzie.”

“The last words he used on you were ‘liar, cheat and fraud',” Renie pointed out. “Your usually glib tongue failed you, I noticed.”

“I couldn't lie to a Canadian policeman,” replied Judith, who sometimes had an uncanny knack for twisting the facts so that even she couldn't tell what was true and what was false. “Besides,” she went on as they mounted the five steps that led up to the stained-glass hotel doors with their scenes from Arthurian lore, “I couldn't figure out any way to extricate myself. The question now is did the police find Tootle's body? Hey,” exclaimed Judith, yanking on the door and discovering it was locked, “what's going on? Have they sealed the place?”

“No, no,” replied Renie, pointing to small sign next to the double doors. “The Clovia doesn't encourage carousing among its guests. If you come back after ten, you
have to let yourself in. If you return after midnight,” she continued, running a finger under the engraved instructions, “you have to buzz and be admitted.”

“With an excuse from your mommy?” inquired Judith. “Weird. How did you and Bill find this place, in a guidebook for wimps on Tour?”

Pushing the heavy door open, Renie glowered at her cousin. At the desk, Angus MacKenzie's shambling form was hunched over a pile of registration slips. A frazzled Doris was going though a cardboard box that appeared to be the Clovia's files. It occurred to Judith that although the Age of the Microchip had dawned everywhere else, it had not yet hit the Clovia.

Hearing the cousins, MacKenzie slowly turned around. “Well,” he said in a somewhat frosty greeting, “the Houdini Sisters are back. I don't suppose there would be any point in asking how you left the hotel, eh?”

“Sure would,” replied Judith smugly. “We flew off the roof in our moon launch. Caught any good murderers lately?”

“There's no such thing as a good murderer,” MacKenzie asserted, regarding Judith with undisguised disapproval. “This investigation has barely begun. You realize we have an entire hotel to consider, almost four hundred people, including staff?”