Fowl Prey (11 page)

“I'm in the hostelry business myself,” she said after introductions had been made. “Incredible as it may seem, we had a murder at my establishment earlier this year.
Naturally, I'm in shock over what happened last night. I understand you saw Bob-o come into the lobby.”

Sybil's pale blue eyes had grown very wide. It didn't seem to occur to her that Judith's explanation and question were a non sequitur. “Oh, I did, and that's a fact!” Her nasal voice had traces of an English accent. “All fumbling and bumbling he was, with none of his usual patter. He went to the elevator, and I told myself, ‘Syb, old girl, you'd better stop that man. He's going to cause trouble.' But the phone rang just then, and I had to answer it. He got into the elevator and went up.” She shook her head, the picture of tragedy. “How could I guess what trouble there would be!” Sybil was clearly enjoying her role as a witness.

“Did you notice where the elevator stopped?” Renie asked.

Sybil turned vaguely dejected. “No. The phone call was for a reservation and I had to write the information down in the book.”

“Did you hear the shot?” inquired Judith.

Sybil brightened a bit. “I must have done. Of course I thought it was the crackers.”

“When? How long after Bob-o went up did you hear the noise?” Judith was leaning on an old wooden filing cabinet, suddenly aware of how much her feet hurt.

“Oh—not that long. Maybe a minute or two.” Sybil nodded once, confirming the estimate in her own mind. “It was about five minutes after seven. I remember that because I was due for my dinner break at seven, but Doris had gone to the loo.” She seemed very pleased with herself for being so precise.

“Did you tell all this to Detective MacKenzie?” queried Judith, shifting her weight from one tired foot to the other.

“Of course.” Sybil's chins went up proudly, a portrait in civic duty. “He was amazed at how much I'd observed.”

“He should be,” agreed Judith, trying to envision the
dour Angus MacKenzie in a state of amazement. “You did very well.”

Renie, who had been idly toying with a small totem pole that had been sitting on Sybil's desk, looked up. “Were other people trying to get the elevator while it was stopped?”

Sybil's doughy forehead furrowed. “No—not at first. Well, yes,” she corrected herself, apparently not having been put to the test on this question until now. “Mr. Frobisher was there.” She apparently didn't notice the look of surprise which flitted over both cousins' faces. “No, no—that was just before Bob-o came in. Then afterward, maybe five minutes or so, the Marchants in 302 and the Brewsters in 210 came along. I went to dinner then. And you called Doris just after I left.”

Judith and Renie exchanged swift glances. “I suppose you mentioned Mr. Frobisher to Detective MacKenzie,” said Judith in a casual voice.

Sybil's face scrunched up in the effort of recollection. “No—I guess that's because Mr. Frobisher was down here before the…accident.”

Obviously, the Clovia staff had been counseled to soften the terms of the tragedy. But Judith was more interested in substance than semantics. “What was Mr. Frobisher doing?” she inquired, hoping she still sounded casual.

“Doing?” Sybil looked vaguely puzzled. “Nothing. That is, he came down the hall from the Hepburn Street entrance and went to the elevator.”

“Was he wearing a coat?” Renie asked, not casual at all.

Again, Sybil's face screwed up. “Um…I don't think so. Truly, I don't remember. Oh, dear.” Failure settled around here like an albatross.

“Never mind,” soothed Judith, “you've been splendid. Thanks for your time. You've helped us enormously.”

Sybil perked up and gave the cousins a toothy smile. “I just can't believe,” she said, with only minimal success at toning down her excitement, “I was the last person to see poor Bob-o alive!”

Judith gave the girl a wry glance. “Except, of course, for the murderer.”

Sybil's pudgy hand flew to her cheek. “Oh! Well, yes.”

Judith and Renie offered more thanks, then hurried out through the desk area and waited for Doris to unlock the little door. She looked up from the reservation book and once again gave them her conspiratorial smile.

“Wait,” said Doris. She bent down in a swish of plaid and brought out a huge floral arrangement of gold, bronze, and white chrysanthemums. Renie moved to give her a hand, but Doris obviously had been dying to make the presentation herself. “These are for you, Mrs. McMonigle. You must have quite an admirer!”

“What…?” Judith all but staggered under the flowers while Renie extricated the small gift card.

“I hope Sybil was helpful,” said Doris as the phone rang.

“She was great,” replied Judith, unable to see over the towering bouquet. “The card,” she hissed, letting Renie steer her toward the now infamous elevator. “What does it say?”

Renie deliberately waited to reply, hoping to send Judith into a frenzy of impatience. The elevator arrived, disclosing two cheerful priests. Judith stumbled over the threshold, which hadn't quite meshed with the lobby floor.

“Listen, you…” Judith began as the doors creaked shut.

“It says,” interrupted Renie in a slightly soupy voice, “'Mum's the word. Joe.'”

Judith propped herself up against the back of the car, her upper torso obliterated by the huge arrangement. She sighed heavily. “Now what the hell does that mean?”

“Knowing Joe,” said Renie, glad that Judith had her hands full, “It means trouble.”

 

“What time is it?” Judith asked as they entered their suite.

“Four-twenty,” replied Renie, helping her cousin set the flowers on the coffee table. “Yikes!” She spun around the room, then switched on a light. “What's happened?”

Judith stopped gazing at the arrangement and tried to quit thinking of Joe. “What? Oh, good grief!”

The sitting room didn't qualify as a shambles, but the sofa and chair cushions were all awry, both drawers on the matching end tables were pulled out, and the escritoire had been opened.

“The police,” breathed Judith, but there was a question mark in her voice.

Renie also looked uncertain. Both cousins jumped as they heard a noise emanating from the vicinity of Renie's bedroom. They stared at each other, then tiptoed to the half-closed door. All was silent; even the Heat Pixies seemed to be resting. Judith grabbed the fireplace poker and stepped into the bedroom.

It was empty, and in semi-darkness, with only the light from the sitting room casting a spectral aura over the furnishings. Judith peered in every corner, noting that Renie's suitcase had been rifled and the bureau drawers had been emptied. She started toward the bathroom which connected the two bedrooms, then decided to check out the closet first. Renie yanked her thumb in the direction of Judith's room, then slipped back out through the door, presumably to cut off the intruder's rear exit.

The closet revealed only Renie's limited travel wardrobe on wooden hangers, two pairs of shoes, and some extra bedding provided by the hotel. Judith paused in the middle of the room, heard nothing except the overloud thumping
of her heart, and progressed to the bathroom. Cautiously, she opened the door. It was dark, and she momentarily forgot where the light switch was located. Something stirred not four feet away. Judith gripped the poker and swung.

The other person had lunged away. The poker glanced off the wall. Judith reached out frantically with her other hand, and shuddered when she made contact. Her victim was in her grasp. Unfortunately, Judith was also in the grasp of her victim. The two grappled briefly, then abruptly stopped.

“Coz!” squeaked Renie.

“Coz!” shrieked Judith.

The cousins let go of each other. Renie turned on the light. Judith laughed. “You look sheepish.”

“You
smell
sheepish,” said Renie. “You damned near brained me with that poker.”

“I missed by a mile.” Judith surveyed the wall where the poker had struck. A three-inch long gash showed up in the Clovia's plaster. “Shoot,” sighed Judith. “I've defaced a historical landmark.”

Renie was about to respond when the cousins both heard another noise, this time very faint—and very near. Their eyes darted to the bathtub where the shower curtain was pulled shut. With the poker again held aloft, Judith stood at one end of the tub while Renie guarded the other. Renie yanked at the curtain, revealing a cowering Mildred Grimm.

“Well, Mildred, first you show up half-naked in the middle of the night, then you come to take a shower with your clothes on. What gives?” asked Judith, putting the poker down.

“You'd never understand,” whined Mildred, gingerly climbing over the mahogany surround.

“Could we try?” asked Judith, keeping her exasperation at bay.

Mildred stepped out of her low-heeled pumps, which
apparently had gotten wet in the tub. “You wouldn't believe me,” she said, not looking at either cousin.

“You'd be surprised what we'd believe about now,” remarked Judith, as the trio emerged from the bathroom, went out through Renie's bedroom, and into the sitting room. “We presume this handiwork is yours, not the police's?” Judith made a sweeping gesture with one hand while replacing the poker with the other.

“Yes.” Mildred drooped, a pitiful thing in her baggy blue sweater and pleated skirt. “I'm sorry, I would have put everything back if I'd had time.”

Renie was already straightening the sofa cushions. “Sit down, we'll have a drink, we'll talk. What were you looking for, Mildred? More library cards?”

Whatever color Mildred possessed drained away. She collapsed onto the sofa like a rag doll. “How did you know?” she gasped.

“We were there,” said Judith, closing the drawers on the end tables.

“Yes.” Mildred sighed. “I saw you. But I didn't think you saw me.”

Renie was at the phone. “What will you have, Mildred?”

Mildred opened her mouth, started to shake her head, then reconsidered. “A martini. Very dry. With a twist.”

“Drat.” Renie replaced the receiver. “No dial tone. I'll run downstairs and give the bar our order.” She was gone before Judith could say “scotch.”

With only one cousin confronting her, Mildred seemed to revive a bit. “I tell you, it's not believable.”

“Let me decide,” said Judith, sitting in the armchair opposite Mildred. “You owe us an explanation. You broke into our room, you ransacked our belongings. We could have you arrested.”

“I know.” Mildred's face crumpled again. “But that will probably happen anyway. Only on a more awful charge.”

“Of what?” asked Judith, but the catch in her voice told Mildred she already knew.

The close-set blue eyes welled up with tears. “Murder. Bob-o was killed with my gun.”

J
UDITH HOPED IT
wouldn't take forever for Renie to get the drinks up to Suite 804. A stiff scotch had never sounded better. Ordinarily, weeks could go by without Judith feeling the need for a drink. But this wasn't one of them.

“Okay, Mildred, now give me this very carefully. You own a gun?”

Mildred nodded. “I bought it for my mother so she could protect herself after that break-in. She agreed to go with me and get fingerprinted and do everything that was necessary to obtain a handgun in Oregon. I'd only planned on staying two weeks, but there's a new law down there that requires a fifteen-day waiting period, so I had to stay over an extra day. Then, after I got it for her, she refused to use it. She wouldn't even have it in the house.” Mildred stared at Judith, as if her hostess couldn't possibly understand the contrary nature of the older generation.

Judith, of course, could—and often did, given Gertrude's particular brand of orneriness. “That makes perfect sense. Go on.”

Mildred looked faintly relieved. “I'd spent almost four hundred dollars for the blasted thing, and even though handguns aren't legal in New York, it occurred to me that someday I might need one. It's a very violent city, you know.”

“So I've heard,” said Judith dryly.

The irony was lost on Mildred, who was absorbed in her own troubles. “I also knew it wasn't lawful to bring the gun into Canada, but what could I do? The customs men didn't even ask me if I had one—I guess I don't look the type.” She stared sadly at the folded hands in her lap, as if regretting all the things in life for which she had not been suited. “The next thing I knew, it was gone.”

“Gone?” Judith gaped at Mildred. “When did you discover that?”

“About an hour ago. I'd come back from the library, and that woman at the desk—Donna?”

“Doris,” offered Judith.

Mildred nodded faintly. “Doris. She said that the police had told her the popcorn vendor was killed with a .38 caliber revolver. Well, she didn't exactly put it that way, but I knew what she meant. That's what I've got, a LadySmith with a three-inch barrel. I bought hollow-point bullets for it.”

“Great,” breathed Judith, wincing at the mere idea.

“I had it in my suitcase, in a box of…” She paused and actually flushed. “…sanitary napkins. I thought a customs man would be too embarrassed to look there.”

“I should hope so,” concurred Judith primly, inwardly marveling at Mildred's naivete.

“Naturally, when Doris told me about the weapon used to murder that poor old man, I came up to my room to make sure my revolver was still there. But it wasn't.” She swallowed hard, her stockinged feet pawing anxiously at the thick pile of the carpet. “I can only guess that the killer stole it and used it to shoot Bob-o.”

Judith was silent for a moment. “Who knew you had a gun?” she finally asked.

Mildred was dabbing at her eyes with a rumpled Kleenex. “No one. I was so nervous about having it, I started to ask about using the hotel safe, but I got terribly flustered and changed the subject. I pretended I bought Krugerrands in Oregon. I could hardly admit I'd smuggled a handgun into British Columbia, could I?” She blew her nose, as if to underscore the statement.

“True,” agreed Judith, wondering what was taking Renie so long at the bar. “The question is, what happened to the gun?”

“That's what I was trying to find out. I started with Max and Maria's suite, then yours.”

“Uh—how did you get in?” Judith inquired.

“I had a key to the Rothsides', in case I needed to get anything for Max.” She flushed again, the color adding immeasurably to her appearance. If ever, Judith reflected, a woman was in dire need of a makeover, it was Mildred Grimm. “As for this room,” Mildred went on contritely, “I told that nice little Chinese bellman a terrible fib. I said I visited you earlier today and had left my purse here. He let me in. I'm so sorry.”

“That's okay,” sighed Judith. “No real harm done. But what about Mrs. Wittelstein's card?”

“Oh, that.” Mildred's color deepened. “I called on her this afternoon to offer my condolences. After all, she seems to be the only friend Bob-o had. I borrowed the card so I could use the library. If we're going to have to stay here a few extra days, I wanted some reading material to help pass the time.” The blue eyes that gazed at Judith held a hint of challenge.

Judith decided to let the lame excuse pass as a breathless Renie burst through the door, announcing that drinks were on the way. They were, in fact, almost on her heels. Room service, in the form of a much younger, taller version of Lui, arrived with a tray bearing one dry martini, one scotch on the rocks, and one rye, water back. Renie signed the bill, forked over a tip, and plopped down on the other
end of the sofa to listen without comment to a rehash of Mildred's story. At the conclusion, Renie had a question:

“When did your mother move from Cleveland, Mildred?”

Mildred evinced mild surprise. “It was in 1957, the same year I went to New York. My father died in 1955. He was a sheet-metal worker and had a sudden heart attack on the job. Mother remarried a man from Oregon two years later. Pappy—that's what I always called my stepfather—passed away four years ago on the Fourth of July.” She paused, cocking her head at Renie like a curious wren. “Why do you ask?”

Renie shrugged. “I was just curious. Judith and I have a distant cousin in Sweet Home on our fathers' side of the family. Mabel Frable. I thought you or your mother might know her.”

But Mildred shook her head. “I don't think I do. I try to get out to Oregon at least twice a year, but I don't do much visiting. I just spend my time taking care of things for Mother. It's been a real trial keeping her in her own home since Pappy died. I'd like to get her to move to New York so she could live with me.”

“Don't!”
Judith blurted, then swiftly recanted. “I mean, old folks should stay independent as long as they can.” She glanced at her watch. “Holy cats, it's after five! I've got to call my own mother!”

“Me, too,” said Renie, springing to her feet. “I'll go downstairs and do it. There's a pay phone in the hall by the Hepburn Street entrance.”

“Don't bother,” said Judith. “You know Gertrude—she'll only stay on the line long enough to insult and upbraid me five or six times.”

Renie sat back down, but now Mildred had gotten up. “I really must go,” she said, looking a bit more composed. The dry martini apparently had done its job. “I can't tell you how sorry I am to have caused such trouble. When they arrest me, I'll send you a formal apology from prison.”

Judith stood up to see their uninvited guest to the door. “Don't worry about it. If the police don't find the gun, they'll never connect you with the crime. And even if they do come up with it, that doesn't prove a thing.”

Mildred, however, remained unconvinced. Still begging forgiveness, she departed the suite with the air of a victim headed for the firing squad.

“True or false?” Renie inquired after Mildred was gone.

Judith shrugged and picked up the phone. “Who knows? It may all have been a ruse to cover the fact that she actually did kill Bob-o. Still,” she added, dialing her home phone number, “I feel sorry for her.”

“You would,” murmured Renie under her breath.

The phone rang. And rang. Judith counted to eleven before Gertrude's raspy voice broke into the line.

“Where were you, Mother? Outside playing fetch with Sweetums?”

“Your hairball of a cat got hit by a truck,” retorted Gertrude with an evil chortle. “The truck's totaled.”

“Funny, funny Mother,” muttered Judith. “You will have your little jokes. Are you doing okay without us?”

“Hunh,” snorted Gertrude. “I had one of my spells today. Had to chew two packages of Tums. I almost called Dr. Clapp.”

“Feeling that miserable, huh?” Judith gave Renie a knowing look. “How much of Arlene's lasagne did you eat last night?”

There was a pause. “Enough. It sure was a cut above yours. She even cooks the noodles.”

“Pasta,” corrected Judith absently. “How do you feel now?” She winced at the question.

“Not so hot. Deb's driving me nuts with her phone calls. That woman could talk the bark off the trees. When are you two dumbbells coming home?”

“Tomorrow night, around eight. Just like we planned.” Judith and Renie exchanged grimaces. “Mike will probably get there before I do. You take it easy, okay?”

“Easy? What's easy about running this big house all by myself? What's easy about all these phone calls from Deb and your goofy customers? What's easy about being
old?
”

“Not a damned thing,” agreed Judith. “But you're tough as a two-dollar steak, which, I might add, is how you got to be so old in the first place.”

Gertrude turned away from the phone and cussed. “Disgusting cat. He just ate the hibiscus plant you sent me. Why did you waste your money on that anyway?”

“What? I didn't send you any plant.”

“Well then, who did?” Gertrude waited for an answer, didn't get one, and growled into Judith's ear: “Never mind, it's ruined anyway. I got to go, Arlene's making sauerkraut and wienies with Knöpfle noodles. Hers beats yours six ways to Sunday.” The phone banged in Judith's ear.

“Dear Mother,” sighed Judith, relinquishing the phone to Renie. “She's as full of sentiment and good cheer as usual. I'll go soak in the tub for an hour or so while you call yours.”

“Wait—don't you want to hear what I found out?” asked Renie, looking smug.

Judith pivoted in mid-step. “About what?”

Renie smirked. “I took advantage of Mildred's presence here to return the favor. You didn't really think I couldn't get through to room service, did you? Ta-da!” She had reached into her slacks and pulled out a large key on a small ring. “One of the Clovia's master keys. I stole it from under the desk while I was supposedly trying to help Doris with your floral tribute from Joe. Clever, huh?”

Judith's long mouth curved into a broad smile. “Brilliant! I always knew you could be a first-rate crook if you tried. Weli?”

“Her mother's name is Myrtle Grimm Little, Mrs. George Little. I found a carry permit made out to the old dear tucked way inside Mildred's wallet. That's why I wasn't too surprised when I heard about the gun. I also peeked in her bankbook. Mildred makes a lot of deposits, many of them small, maybe dividend checks or such. On
the first of each month, she puts anywhere from $2,500 to $3,000 into savings. I'd guess that's her salary from Max. But on the tenth, she deposits $2,000. It doesn't vary, and she's been doing it every month since the beginning of that passbook which dates back to May of '88.”

“An annuity?” Judith remarked dubiously.

“Could be,” replied Renie. “Could be something else. I don't think a sheet-metal worker would leave an estate that would pay an annuity like that every month.”

“Blackmail.” Judith sighed and sank down further into the sofa cushions. “Mildred isn't just an old gray mare, she's a real dark horse.”

Renie agreed. “A mixed bag in more ways than one.” She finished off the dregs of her rye, then took a sip of water. “I also found those magazines from the library. I didn't have time to give them much of a look, but a couple of things sprang to my eye. Birdwell is from Blue Earth, Minnesota, was a Rhodes Scholar, and was married early on for less than a year to someone named Sylvia Finch-Pitkins.” She gazed at Judith, waiting for a reaction.

There was none, at first. “So? I'm not surprised Birdwell got bounced so fast. The woman was probably a living saint to have put up with him that long.”

“
Finch
-Pitkins,” repeated Renie. “As in Dame Carmela Finch?”

Enlightenment dawned on Judith. “Aha! Max's patroness. But how do you know Sylvia and Carmela are related?”

“Because Carmela married Gilbert Pitkins. He was a well-known designer in the English theater between the wars, and I did a paper on him for a class at the university. They had a couple of kids. I'll bet one of them was named Sylvia, and had the regrettable misfortune to marry Birdwell, if briefly.”

Judith considered Renie's thesis. “You may be right. But as far as this case is concerned, so what?”

“I don't know,” Renie admitted. “If memory serves worth a hoot, Dame Carmela had retired from the stage
by the late 1950s. But she was still active somehow, both in New York and London. I suppose she was playing mentor to people like Max. Maybe her daughter Sylvia's marriage shows the ties between the Sacred Eight early on.”

“Which I find strange in itself,” remarked Judith. “Maria, the Smiths, the Frobishers, Birdwell, and Mildred are all about the same age. Even Max isn't that much older. But Jonathan Castle and Clea Rome are a lot younger, practically from another era. I wonder how they got into the clique?”

“Max has produced a couple of Jonathan's films,” said Renie. “Maybe he's worked with Clea, too.”

Judith tipped her head to one side. “He's worked with a lot of people, but they don't all belong to the Sacred Eight.”

“Max may be the type who enjoys having younger people around him. He's never had any kids of his own.”

“Jonathan and Clea aren't exactly kids,” noted Judith.

“True,” conceded Renie, once again digging into her slacks. “I also found this.”

Judith looked into Renie's palm. It was an earring, shaped like a spaceship. The cousins locked gazes. “Maria,” breathed Judith.

“It was under the bed. Maria must have lost it there after we left the Rothside suite,” said Renie. “The trouble is, I can't remember if she was wearing these earrings when she came to our table at the Prince Albert Cafe.”