Fowl Prey (10 page)

For the first hour, Maria duly regaled them with anec
dotes from her career. It struck Judith as a rehearsed performance, culled from interviews Maria had given over the years, and ran the gamut from the hilarious to the poignant to the spectacular and back again. The cousins made appropriate comments at suitable intervals, and were both generally entertained and enlightened. As the meal concluded—all three women having opted for the Oyster Tortelli Special despite professed predilections—Judith regarded her old school chum with what she hoped was the proper amount of awe:

“It must have been difficult to give up dancing. You were very young to retire.”

Maria's high forehead creased slightly. “We can't all be Dame Margot Fonteyn and go on forever. It's grueling, demanding work, requiring endless rehearsal and topnotch conditioning. No other performers, including athletes, exist so much at their bodies' whims. I simply didn't have the stamina to keep going.” Her long lashes, which Judith had decided were false, dipped above the high cheekbones. “Besides, I met Max.” She was looking not at the cousins, but at the remnants of her lunch. As Judith had suspected, Maria didn't exactly belong to the Clean Plate Club.

“At least you were able to stay in the theater world,” remarked Judith as their soulful-eyed waiter poured more coffee. “Max has certainly been involved in a number of varied projects.” Judith really had no idea, but was hazarding a logical guess.

“Oh, yes.” Maria brightened, resuming eye contact. “New works, especially Alabama's, the classics, musicals, revues, even an ice-skating show that toured all over the world. A half-dozen films, too, and a production of Wagner's Ring Cycle in Buenos Aires.” She uttered her tinkling laugh. “Everything
but
ballet, actually.”

Having been lucky once, Judith winced inwardly as she rolled the verbal dice a second time: “It was in the revues that he met Robin O'Rourke, right?”

Maria's jaw didn't quite drop, but she definitely evinced
surprise. “Who?” She fumbled with her napkin, and Judith felt a pang of real remorse. Maria, after all, was a friend, not a foe. Unless, Judith reasoned, she was also a murderess.

“You know—Bob-o.” Judith sensed Renie's questioning gaze, but kept her own on Maria. “He had your picture in his apartment. I assumed you and Max both knew him from somewhere other than his popcorn stand.”

The restaurant, which had been quite noisy during the lunch hour, had grown comparatively silent. Most of the other patrons had left within the last ten minutes, isolating Judith, Renie, and Maria in a sea of quiet. Maria was glancing about in a furtive manner, her thin fingers fretting at the drape on her dress. At last, she drew herself up, lifted her chin, composed her face, and stared straight at Judith. “My dear, you must be confused. I can't imagine how you know anything about the contents of that poor man's apartment, but I'd never seen him before in my life. Why on earth would I—or Max—be acquainted with a popcorn vendor?” The notion suddenly seemed to strike her as uproarious. She flung her head back, exposing her long throat in a lean, graceful arc. Judith swore she could have counted the vocal cords inside Maria's larynx.

Maria let the laughter die down naturally, then looked at her expensive Swiss watch and gasped. “Oh! It's almost two o'clock! I have a hair appointment!” Maria reached for the check, waving aside the cousins' feeble protest. “Please, I told you, it was my treat.” She flipped a credit card out of her purse, then signaled to the waiter who appeared as if by magic. “My dear,” she said, putting a hand on Judith's arm, “you could always make me laugh! Remember the time we skipped Mrs. Wigmore's French class to smoke behind the Beanery? You told her we'd had to call an ambulance for a man with a heart attack! Such marvelous fiction! So typical of your inventive mind!”

“Inventive?” Judith murmured. “It was true. The principal fell flat on his flute when he caught us. We'd accidentally set the Beanery on fire.”

Ignoring Judith's demurral, Maria deftly signed her name, added a generous tip, and removed her customer's copy. “I must dash.” She was on her feet, allowing the waiter to help her slip on her sable. “A cab, please. Gold Top.” She gave the cousins her most dazzling smile. “We must have drinks before Max and I fly out tomorrow night.
Ciao
.”

Judith and Renie watched her fur-clad figure float across the restaurant. Neither cousin spoke until Maria had disappeared into the gilt and marble foyer. It was Renie who broke the uneasy silence:

“Hair appointment, my foot. She just winds that mane up and sticks a bunch of pins in it.” When Judith didn't respond, Renie continued in a less volatile tone. “Okay, okay, she dyes it and needs a touch-up. Or conditioning treatments. Or—hey, coz, wake up!” Renie snapped her fingers under Judith's nose.

Judith shook herself, then returned Renie's snap. “That's it. The Spider and the Bear!”

Renie goggled. “Huh?”

“Remember—yesterday, through the breezeway in the parking garage? I saw Bob-o's silhouette looking like a big black bug. He was talking to someone. I thought of a bear. But it wasn't.”

“Probably not,” remarked Renie dryly. “So few of them stay at the Clovia.”

Judith overlooked her cousin's flippancy. “It was Maria, in that sable coat. She's lying through her capped teeth, of course. Come on.” Judith was on her feet, grappling with her jacket and handbag.

“Where?” asked Renie, brushing Parmesan cheese off her beige slacks.

“The public library,” replied Judith, over her shoulder. “Which one is closest?”

Renie was practically running between the tables to catch up with her long-legged cousin. “Three blocks from the hotel. We went right by it when we were shopping
yesterday. But you said we couldn't waste time doing homework.”

“A basic search,” said Judith as they emerged into the street and discovered it was pouring rain. “That's all. Let me use my slightly rusty but never forgotten librarian's skills.”

“Let me use a bus,” retorted Renie. “Run, coz, that's a Number 4 Prince Albert stopping right across the street.”

The cousins darted between cars, evoking curses from three British Columbians, two Albertans, and an Oregonian. Accustomed to the less civilized Metro drivers at home, Judith and Renie were amazed to discover that the turbaned and bearded young man at the wheel not only waited for them, but flashed a brilliant white smile as they got on the bus. Seven minutes and a dollar twenty-five apiece later, they were in front of the Prince Albert Branch of the Port Royal Public Library.

“We'll start with Max,” whispered Judith, finding her way to the periodical section virtually by instinct, and selecting a vacant computer monitor. Around them at other screens, tables, and shelves were a varied lot of local residents, including a statuesque blond matron in a loden coat, a middle-aged Tlingit wearing a beaded parka over his business suit, a dainty Japanese girl taking copious notes, and a grizzled old man in a watch cap who had fallen asleep over his copy of the
Jerusalem Post
. Judith keyed in Max's name and waited for results. A long list of articles, mostly in theater magazines, scrolled down the screen. “This one.
Theatre World
, May 14, 1988. Write it down,” she ordered Renie. “Let's try Maria.” In less than ten minutes, they also had articles on Desiree, Alabama, Spud, and Birdwell. As an afterthought, Judith noted down a background piece on Jonathan Castle and Clea Rome.

“Why them?” Renie asked as they moved into the stacks. “They're in Hong Kong.”

“But they're part of the Sacred Eight. I'd hate to leave
anybody out.” Judith handed Renie the appropriate issue of
Theatre World
, then took
Dance Today
for herself. “Just an overview,” she reminded Renie in hushed tones as they sat down next to a couple of long-haired young men who had the look and smell of grad students about them. Judith read; Renie read. Both took notes. They followed the same procedure for Desiree, Alabama, and Spud, then for the absent Jonathan and Clea. Their search for Birdwell, however, had left them empty-handed. “Maybe,” murmured Judith when they had finished with their notes, “we should have tried ‘D' instead of ‘S' for de Smoot.”

She was right about the second time, but ended up just as frustrated. “How come all four of the issues with articles on Birdwell are checked out?” Judith asked, more of herself than of Renie.

“Maybe it's his fan club.”

“It is,” said Judith, pointing toward the lobby. “There goes Mildred.”

Renie gaped at the faintly clandestine figure who was scurrying out of the library. “Where did she come from? And why?”

“She sure didn't want us to see her,” murmured Judith. “She must have been sneaking around the stacks, avoiding us.” Her lips pursed in disapproval. “She's not only a sneak, but a thief.”

“What are you talking about?” Renie gave her cousin a puzzled look.

“Mildred's not a resident. She can't check out materials from a Port Royal library. Neither can we, which is why we're taking notes.” Judith frowned, then grabbed Renie's arm. “She left by the main entrance. Let's go talk to the librarian at the desk, quick.” Noting Renie's still baffled expression, Judith explained in rapid, low tones. “See those gates we came through? That's a security device. It picks up any items that aren't checked out and automatically locks the gates. There isn't a detector at the Heraldsgate Hill branch, but we had one at Thurlow.”

“No wonder,” remarked Renie. “Your patrons out there
would have stolen talking books from the blind. I was always surprised anybody in that neighborhood could read.”

“We had a lot of picture books,” Judith said. “Scratch-'n'-Sniff, too. Real popular with the drug addicts.” She paused, approaching the desk with her professional librarian's manner intact. The pale young man in the lambswool sweater looked up and smiled diffidently.

“Excuse me,” Judith said with her most winning smile, “didn't we meet at the North American Library Congress in '87 in St. Paul?”

Renie rolled her eyes, knowing that Judith had never been further afield on business than the semiannual workshops held downtown at the main branch. But five minutes later, Judith and the Prince Albert librarian, whose name was Ian, were chatting like old chums.

“…Not collecting fines from children under sixteen may encourage them to read, but it doesn't stimulate responsibility,” Judith was saying. “By the way, I must be suffering from an overactive imagination today, but didn't I see an old friend leave a few minutes ago? Her name is Mildred Grimm.”

Ian's narrow face grew quizzical. “Grimm? Let me see…” He fiddled with his computer. “No, nobody by that name among the last dozen or so patrons.”

“Oh, that's right!” Judith clamped a hand to her cheek in chagrin. “She got married last year. And she dropped the Mildred. Let me think, what was it? Uh, um…”

“The woman who just went out was named…” Ian peered at the monitor. “Here it is…” He looked up in alarm as he noted that the line behind Judith and Renie had grown five deep. “Excuse me, I'll have to help these people, then we can talk some more.”

Judith put up a friendly hand. “That's fine, we've got to run. What did you say her name was?”

Ian turned away from the stack of sci-fi novels proffered by a baldheaded man in a dark blue coverall. “Oh—sorry you have to leave. The name…Wittelstein, Gerda Wit
telstein.” He gave Judith his diffident smile. “Come again.”

“Love to,” said Judith, as she and Renie made for the door. “Maybe I'll run into good old Gerda.”

J
UDITH AND
R
ENIE
hurried through the rain, typical native Pacific Northwesterners who didn't own an umbrella between them. The rain, after all, was too frequent, usually too light, and always too unpredictable. Umbrellas were only something to lose on the bus. Indeed, for those savvy but effete transplants, it wasn't necessary to ever actually buy an umbrella—they simple went down to the lost and found at Metro headquarters and claimed one as their own.

All the same, the cousins weren't keen on getting drenched in the uncommon downpour that was falling over Port Royal. Pulling up in unison at the door of a bake shop, they slipped inside to the accompanying aroma of hot coffee and fresh bread.

“So how did Mildred get Mrs. Wittelstein's library card?” asked Renie, settling into a white metal chair at a round white table.

“It seems to me as if everybody has been calling on Mrs. Wittelstein for one reason or another,” Judith replied, shaking raindrops from her salt-and-pepper hair.
“But why steal the card just to get articles on Birdwell? If Mildred's trying to suppress something, those magazines must be in every branch of the Port Royal library system.”

“We're only guessing she took them,” Renie pointed out as a ponytailed waitress in a frilly pink apron came to take their order. “You should have asked your old pal Ian.”

But Judith shook her head, dispersing more raindrops onto the white table top. “All that he could tell from the computer was that she'd checked out four periodicals. It wouldn't say what they were. The real question about Ian is why didn't he realize that Mildred wasn't Mrs. Wittelstein? Mildred may seem like a mouse, but our Gerda isn't the kind of patron you forget. I suspect Mrs. Wittelstein doesn't go to the library very often. Judging from her apartment, she considers
The Inquirer
real deep stuff.”

The waitress reappeared, placing steaming mugs in front of each cousin. Renie sprinkled nutmeg on her mocha and delved into her enormous purse. “Okay, here we go. This is what I got on Max.” She put on her red-rimmed glasses, the scratched lenses making Judith cringe as always. “Born May 23, 1930, Toronto, to Gilbert and Dorothy (nee Damrosch) Rothside. One sister, Suzanne, born 1933, and a half-sister, Estelle, born 1921.” Renie glanced up over her glasses. “Hmmm. Must have been a second marriage for Dad or Mom.” She returned to her notes. “Educated, University of Toronto, apparently did not graduate. Worked in New York theater, 1952 on, also in London. Protege of Dame Carmela Finch. Began producing own plays in 1961. Married Desiree Sinclair, 1964, divorced, 1972. Married Maria Filonov, 1977. Thence follows a list of his successes, awards, and so on. Given addresses in both New York and London. No kids. No scandal. No help.” She pulled a face at Judith and put the card aside.

Judith was frowning at her own notes. “Nothing of interest on Maria, either. Parents, Victor and Mary Lou Filonov, maiden name, Little. That early stuff is all old news
to us, anyway. To Paris to study ballet, 1960, debut, 1962, Covent Garden. The rest of it we heard today at lunch.” She sipped at her latte and scanned the scribblings she'd made on Spud. “He was born in Ogden, Utah, joined the National Guard, married Evelyn Novotny in 1963, two kids. He's directed plays all over the place, including London, I might add. Other than that, zero. They live in New York,” she added as an afterthought.

“Here's Alabama,” said Renie without much enthusiasm. “The only really interesting thing about him is that his real name is Beauregard Longstreet Smith. He joined the army after he got out of the University of Alabama, was stationed in Germany, and discharged in 1960. He went to New York, had his first hit play,
Dixie Biscuits
, and went over to London with it in '66 where he got married.”

Judith's brow puckered. “To Desiree? That can't be right.”

“No,” replied Renie. “Actually, maybe this part is interesting. By comparison. He married one Helen Brookes.” Her turned-up nose wrinkled. “Helen—that was Bob-o's daughter's name. What do you think?”

Judith considered briefly. “I think it's a fairly common name. Plus her last name wouldn't have been Brookes. Let's pass on that for now.”

Renie gave a short nod. “Okay. That first marriage was fast work, since it took place the same year that he arrived in England. Then Alabama tied the knot with Desiree in 1976.”

“But divorced when?” Judith's question was academic, her eyes on the waitress who was making a spectacular confection with coffee, milk, some kind of syrup, and six inches of whipped cream.

“Didn't say,” replied Renie, giving Judith a quizzical look. “Odd, maybe?”

Judith shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe just sloppy record keeping.”

Putting Alabama's card aside, Renie summed up the
biographical data: “He and Desiree have homes in New York and Aspen. No kids.”

“Don't doubt it.” Judith rested her chin on both hands and began to read from the notes on Desiree in a semi-mumbling manner. “Born San Jose, 1943 is year given with a question mark, to New York, 1961, Broadway debut in something I never heard of in '62, married Max in '64, divorced, married 'Bama, blah-blah.” She yawned. “I think we wasted a lot of time.”

“Maybe we should have looked up Bob-o,” remarked Renie, gazing with longing at the bakery case.

“I did,” said Judith. “Nothing. I hope Paul has better luck.” She glanced at the small menu in its plastic case on the table and calculated their bill in her head. “Put down three bucks Canadian. Let's go back to the hotel. I could use a real drink about now. It's almost time to call Mother.”

“
Mothers
,” corrected Renie. “Assuming I can get through to mine. It's a wonder her ear hasn't permanently adhered to the receiver. Oh—didn't you want to hear about the Castle-Rome lash-up?”

“Not really,” said Judith, but dutifully sat at attention. “Shoot.”

“Clea Rome is a native of Chicago, real name, Romanoukis, born 1960. Got her start as lead female singer with group called Stiff as a Board. Many gold and platinum records, six films, fabulous concert tours. Married Jonathan Castle, 1981. One child, a boy.” She paused to see Judith's nod of acknowledgment. “Jonathan Castle, real name, John Holmes, born 1959 in Lebanon. Must have been a government issue,” Renie noted, adjusting her battered glasses. “Diplomatic corps or the American University, maybe. Where was I? To New York, 1977—the rest is on Jonathan's successful stage and screen career,” she admitted. “There's not even a description of his searing dark eyes and rough-hewn lean features and athlete's magnificent body.”

Judith reclined in the chair and let out a purring noise
that might have come from Sweetums, had that particular animal possessed any typical feline traits. “What a pity they couldn't be here. I would love to see Jonathan in the…flesh.” She let the last word out on a slither of sound.

“Jeez,” breathed Renie, looking askance. “Maybe I should call the chancery when we get home and give the archbishop a nudge. You've been a widow too long.”

But Judith was already sitting up straight and looking very businesslike. “A momentary lapse. Face it, coz, you have absolutely zip.”

“Afraid so,” conceded Renie, getting up.

Judith followed suit. “Maybe we missed something.”

“Like what?” inquired Renie, as they girded themselves to face the rain.

“I don't know.” Judith bit her lip, casting a helpless glance into the window of the Prince Albert bookstore. “Cleveland, for one thing.” She pointed to a large coffee table-sized book on the Great Lakes. “Didn't Desiree say that Mildred was from Cleveland? So why's Mildred's mother living in a little burg like Sweet Home, Oregon?”

“It's not exactly a burg anymore,” said Renie. “Don't you remember our dads' cousin, Mabel Frable? She's lived there forever. My mother still exchanges Christmas cards with her, and she constantly complains about how Sweet Home has grown. I think it's up to almost seven thousand by now.”

“Mabel Frable would complain about going to heaven on a riverboat,” remarked Judith. “Her letters make Birdwell seem like Pollyanna.”

Renie tilted her head in assent. “Yeah, but the fact is, Sweet Home isn't precisely a village.”

“Still, it's a long way from Cleveland,” mused Judith, avoiding a large puddle. “I'd like to know why she came West.”

“To help augment the population and drive Mabel Frable nuts?” offered Renie.

“And that part about Alabama's first wife—how come
no mention of a divorce? The other pieces told about Max splitting from Desiree, and vice versa.”

“Gee, coz, they were different articles from different magazines written by different writers,” countered Renie. “You can't expect uniformity.”

The cousins were crossing Prince Albert Street, a block from the hotel. Through the blur of rain, the Clovia looked sad, like a genteel old lady beset with family troubles. At least the police pickets were gone, though the familiar patrol car was once again at the curb across the street on Empress Drive.

“MacKenzie?” Judith arched her eyebrows at Renie.

“Maybe he's brought our statement to sign.” The cousins took heed of the pedestrian signal and crossed the wet pavement. Though not yet four o'clock, it was growing dark, and most of the cars had their lights on. “Maria was certainly optimistic about flying out of here tomorrow night,” Renie noted.

“Blowing smoke,” said Judith, but wondered if any of the sacred Eight was actually under suspicion. As far as Judith knew, only she and Renie had admitted to an acquaintanceship with Bob-o. The thought made Judith feel as gloomy as the heavy black clouds that hung low over Prince Albert Bay.

Smelling not unlike a pair of sheep in their wet wool clothing, the cousins climbed the half-dozen stairs and were grateful for the warm, dry haven of the lobby. At least two dozen people were crowded onto the velvet sofas and high-backed armchairs, taking tea and nibbling small sandwiches.

“Damn,” breathed Renie. “I forgot to tell you about high tea. You have to make a reservation.”

“I'll survive,” said Judith, pulling at Renie's sleeve. “I don't see MacKenzie. Let's ask Doris.”

Behind the desk, Doris was registering a young suntanned couple from New Zealand. She summoned the aged Chinese bellman to help with their luggage. His smile was beatific, his shoulders stooped.

“That's Lui,” Renie whispered as he chugged off toward the elevator looking not unlike a two-legged pack-mule.

“Poor old guy,” said Judith. “That's a tough job at his age.”

Renie snorted. “You kidding? He owns the place. He only does the bellman bit to keep an eye on the customers. And the help.”

Judith overcame her surprise at Renie's pronouncement to return to Doris's conspiratorial smile. “Is Detective MacKenzie around?” she asked.

“He was here again after lunch,” Doris said, her face puckered in disapproval. “He certainly keeps any information to himself, though he did say he thought Bob-o had been shot with a certain kind of gun.”

Judith braced herself against the desk. “What certain kind?”

Doris looked vague, her bony fingers fiddling with the waistband of her Clan Gordon tartan skirt. “I don't remember. A .36? Or was it a .38? I don't know the least thing about firearms. But I do wish the police would stop prowling about. It makes the guests nervous.”

“It should make them feel safer,” said Judith. “At least they've got enough manpower to keep a car staked outside.”

“Hrmpf!” Doris's bow-shaped mouth turned down even further. “That MacKenzie has a man with a search warrant, going through some of the rooms. It'll take him forever, our guests will be wild, and I'll bet my next paycheck he won't find anything.”

Judith didn't feel like arguing the point. She wondered which rooms were being searched. Theirs, probably, she thought with a new wave of gloom.

Renie obviously was pondering the same question: “What floors is he doing?” she asked.

Doris shook her head. “I wouldn't know. He has one of our master keys. I think he started out looking for French Separatists. Or the IRA.” She sniffed with disdain
at police methods, or, it occurred to Judith, possibly the Quebeçois and the Irish.

Judith, however, decided to steer the conversation in a slightly different direction. “Did anyone see Bob-o come in last night?”

Doris rested her elbows on the deck and leaned closer. Judith and Renie bent their heads. “I didn't, but Sybil did.” She nodded at the dumpy blond who was filling registration cards in the office just behind the desk area. “He ambled in here looking all at sea. ‘Confused,' was how she put it. Sybil thought about stopping him—it crossed her mind he might be claiming a guest had short-changed him. He was never any good at figures, I'm told. Rest his soul,” she added hastily. “Anyway, he went over to the elevator and poked the button and got in.”

“Alone?” queried Judith, aware that a party of two older couples had just entered the lobby from the parking garage, towing their suitcases on leashes.

“Yes. Up he went.” She turned mournful. “But he never came down. At least not the same way.”

Judith glanced at the quartet behind her and Renie. Each couple was wearing matching caps and jackets, one pair in blue, the other in red. “Could we talk to Sybil for just a minute?” Judith inquired hopefully.

Doris looked dubious, then apparently remembered how helpful the cousins had been the previous evening, and shrugged. “Go ahead. Step through here.” She clicked open the waist-high door in the desk, meanwhile smiling graciously at the new arrivals. Judith and Renie scooted inside and went to the open office door.

Sybil was no more than twenty, and her pasty skin looked as if she hadn't been outdoors in years. Judith teetered on the brink of telling a monstrous lie about some official connection with the case, but decided on semi-candor.