Fowl Prey (19 page)

Renie rolled her eyes; Evelyn looked uncertain. But neither woman made an attempt to detain Judith. Three minutes later, after a frazzling ride in the elevator with an irate party from Nova Scotia who insisted the fog could last for three days, and thus ruin their entire lives, Judith entered the hotel dining room. To her relief, Spud was sitting at a corner table, smoking and drinking coffee.

“Hi,” said Judith breezily, not waiting to be asked to sit. “I see you fled the war zone.”

Spud's unhappy face flushed. “It sounds like Ev's been telling tales out of school.”

Signaling for the waitress to bring her a cup, Judith noted that there was no evidence of food on the table. “Haven't you eaten?” she inquired.

Spud continued to sit with his chin on his fist, cigarette smoke swirling about him as if the fog had come inside. “I'm not hungry.” He looked very much as Judith remembered him on an occasion thirty years earlier when Coach Humbert had benched him for fumbling three times in one game.

“Listen, Spud,” said Judith as the cup and saucer arrived along with a fresh carafe of coffee, “Evelyn isn't mad so much as worried. She's afraid you're going to get arrested.”

A startled look enveloped Spud's pink face. “For what? Telling Desiree to take a hike?”

“I thought so,” murmured Judith, but continued before Spud could make a comment. “Wouldn't it be easier if you told her why you came down to the lobby Monday night?”

Judging from the misery in Spud's eyes, it wouldn't. “I can't,” he said in a hopeless tone. “The fact is, if the police asked me, I could prove to them what I was doing. But I can't tell Ev.” He stubbed out his cigarette and swigged down more coffee.

From where Judith was sitting, she could see the hallway that led from the Hepburn Street entrance. According to Sybil, Spud had come from that direction before he got into the elevator. The girl couldn't remember if he'd been wearing a coat, which, Judith figured, meant he probably wasn't. Therefore, in all likelihood, Spud had not gone outside. Judith stared at the trio of pay phones that flanked the wall opposite the dining room entrance, then looked squarely at Spud.

“Who did you call long distance?”

Caught in the act of pouring himself another cup of coffee, Spud sloshed the carafe's contents all over the ta
blecloth. “Who said I called anybody?” he asked belligerently.

Judith noticed that his hand was shaking. “Come on, Spud, it's not that hard to figure out. You used real money so the charge wouldn't appear on your hotel bill or your calling card. The only way you could prove that you'd made that call at a certain time was if it had been long distance. The phone company would have a record of it.” She took a wild guess. “What time was it in Hong Kong?”

Spud looked as if he were about to cry. It crossed Judith's mind that before they got out of the Clovia, most of the Sacred Eight would wash away in a sea of tears. But Spud resisted the urge, instead making an awkward attempt to mop up the spilled coffee.

“I called Jonathan Castle,” he answered on a defensive note. “We work together a lot, you know.”

Judith fixed him with a shrewd, yet kindly stare. “I do know. It must give you great pleasure.”

Spud's broad shoulders slumped. He crumpled up his soaked napkin and flung it on the floor. “Hell's bells! Who told you? Maria?”

“No. Not precisely.” She gave Spud a little smile. “I gather that Jonathan knows about his real parents?”

To Judith's surprise, Spud shook his head. “Maria and I talked it over years ago, and decided against it. He was the kind of kid—well, young man, he was grown by then—who wasn't curious about that sort of thing. The couple who had adopted him were wonderful folks. There didn't seem to be any point stirring up trouble, especially since Maria didn't want Max to find out. And I wasn't crazy about Evelyn knowing I'd been an unwed father.” The athlete's aging body sagged in the chair; the boyish face showed genuine remorse.

“Why did you call Jonathan?” Judith asked after an appropriate moment of silence. “At that particular time, I mean.”

Having made his confession, Spud began to pull himself together. “I always call him once a month, on the third
Monday. It's a habit we got into early on in his career. He looked to me as sort of a…what do you call it, a sponsor? And I liked being able to help him out. It made up for…a lot of things.” He turned away from Judith, wistful, yet proud. “Jonny isn't just good-looking, he's got talent.”

“You and Maria made something wonderful together,” Judith commented in a quiet voice. “It's almost a pity that the world can't know.”

“Well, I'll be boiled in oil before I'll tell anybody,” Spud asserted with fervor. “I didn't know myself until Jonathan showed up in New York, and poor Maria went to pieces!”

“You mean she had a breakdown?”

Spud drew back in his chair, one elbow almost knocking over a plant stand. “That's what ended her career. She hadn't seen Jonny since the day he was born. Oh, she knew where he was, and all that, even though she never told me he existed. Then along he comes, right off the bus from Oregon, and walks into the theater where I was auditioning actors for Alabama's new play. I didn't know Jonny from Adam, but Maria had stopped by on her way from rehearsal at the Met. She took one look at the names on the tryout sheet, found out which one was Jonny, and went into a regular tailspin! We had to call an ambulance.” Spud shook his head at the unhappy memory. “Maria never danced again.”

Judith emitted a low, faintly unladylike whistle. “That seems like an awfully extreme reaction.”

Spud didn't agree. “Not when you're the reigning prima ballerina of the dance world, and just married to the most respected theater impresario of our generation. Besides, she was always wound up pretty tight.” Unexpectedly, Spud grinned. “Remember the time Donnie Barksdale put the slug in her Pee-Chee folder and she freaked out so bad her folks had to come and take her home?”

Judith did, though the memory wasn't quite as vivid for her as it appeared to be for Spud. But slugs and Pee-Chees
were a far cry from illegitimate children and nervous breakdowns. Or, Judith thought on reflection, maybe they weren't…

The breakfast crowd was thinning out. Their waitress reappeared to check the coffeepot, found it still half full, commiserated over the wet tablecloth, and scurried off with the promise of clean linen. Spud, however, was standing up, jarring a passing busboy in the process.

“You really think Evelyn is more worried than mad?” he inquired hopefully.

“Yes, I do.” Judith had remained seated, craning her neck to look up at Spud, who was holding the bill in one hand and digging for coins with the other. “Spud—why don't you tell her about Jonny? Your wife is basically a very understanding woman.”

Spud sighed. “You think so?” He seemed to be weighing Judith's suggestion. “No, I can't do it. It wouldn't be fair to Maria.”

There was some truth to his statement, Judith admitted to herself. She was also impressed by Spud's old-fashioned gallantry. Still, she believed—basically—that honesty was always the best policy. But as much as she would like it, she couldn't set all the affairs of the world in simple, logical order. “You'll have to do what you think best. But I'd certainly put her mind at ease by reassuring her about Desiree. And letting her know you made a phone call instead of plugging Bob-o”

“Ev doesn't think I did that,” said Spud disparagingly. He was moving through the dining room, leaving a trail of jostled customers and rattling crockery in his wake. Judith followed at a safe distance.

“Tell me something,” Judith said, when they had reached the privacy of the elevator. “Why did Birdwell take Max to court?”

Spud let out a little rumbling chuckle. “You know about old Dame Carmela?” He saw Judith nod. “She was loaded. Her estate was divvied up between her daughter, Sylvia, and her son—I forget his name, he's an ad exec or
something—but Dame Carmela couldn't stand Birdwell. When he married Sylvia, the old girl cut her daughter out of the will. Instead of leaving it all to the son, Carmela left Sylvia's share to Max. He'd always been her pet protegé.”

The elevator doors slid open, somehow without their usual jarring noises. “But what about Sylvia? She and Birdwell weren't married that long.”

Spud chuckled again, this time ruefully. “That was a tough break for Sylvia. Carmela died a month after the wedding. A year later, Sylvia and Birdie were separated.”

Judith stood at the door to Suite 804, fist poised to knock. “You mean she lost out on everything?”

Spud shrugged. “At least she got rid of Birdwell.”

“What happened to her?” asked Judith, rapping on the door.

Spud shrugged again. “I don't know for sure. I think she remarried and moved to the States. Or Canada. I didn't ever meet her.”

“I don't suppose,” said Judith as Renie opened the door, “you know why the marriage ended so fast.”

Spud burst out laughing, startling Renie. “Think about it,” he said in a choked voice. “Besides,” he added, as they entered the room and he inadvertently stepped on Renie's foot, “Sylvia smoked.”

J
UDITH AND
R
ENIE
were never quite sure how the reconciliation between Spud and Evelyn Frobisher had taken place. All they knew was that Evelyn had greeted her husband with open arms, and after an exchange of whispered words, the couple had left, their faces wreathed in besotted smiles.

“What did you say to Evelyn while I was gone?” Judith inquired.

Renie looked blank. “Not much. We just talked a bit. I told her about you. And Dan.”

Briefly, Judith shut her eyes. Her late husband had often been used by Renie as an example of what other wives should be thankful not to have to endure. “Thanks, coz.”

“Sure,” said Renie. “Want to go shopping?”

Judith's initial reaction was that she did not. Upon awakening, she had been convinced that the solution to the puzzle of Bob-o was at hand. She had all the pieces within her grasp, yet there was something missing. She hated to admit as much to Renie.

“Okay,” she said. “Do we take a bus or cab it?”

Renie was at the window. The fog had thinned out just enough so that they could see halfway across Empress Drive. “Let's get a cab. It's only a four-dollar ride.”

Five minutes later, they were in the lobby, avoiding the registration desk where an embattled Doris was fending off a TV news crew. “I wonder,” said Judith, as Renie replaced the telephone that had a direct line to PAB Cabs, “when MacKenzie is coming by with those statements. Maybe we should hold off a bit.”

A flicker of doubt passed over Renie's face. “He'll leave them with Doris. We can always come back here and have lunch somewhere in the neighborhood.”

But Judith was uneasy. “I thought you were the one who was hell-bent for heading home.”

Renie bridled. “I thought we both were. Or are you going to stand here and tell me whodunit?”

Judith sighed just as the PAB Cab pulled up outside, its red-and-white exterior looming up through the fog. “I wish I could. I almost can. But there's still something weird about this case.”

“There's nothing weird about shopping,” declared Renie, pushing the heavy hotel door open and marching down the stone stairs. “Come on, I feel like General Patton landing at Salerno. Let's hit those beaches! Let's wave those credit cards! Whoopee!”

But Judith didn't share Renie's enthusiasm. “You better not let Uncle Vince hear you talking like that,” she said as she buckled her seat belt. “He was at Salerno, you know.”

“Sure. Anzio, too. That's where he learned to drink Chianti out of a jug over his shoulder. Just think, tomorrow we'll all be together, eating that big fat fowl and stuffing ourselves until we puke.”

The Iranian taxi driver's smoldering eyes seared the cousins with disapproval. “Where go?” he asked as if he didn't want to know.

“Royal Majesty Mall,” replied Renie.

“Nowhere,” said Judith, hastily unbuckling her seat belt. “I'm getting out.”

“Wait a minute!” shrieked Renie. The cab, which had begun to pull away from the curb, screeched to a stop.

“Go or no?” asked the irritated driver.

“You go without me,” Judith said, ducking out of the taxi. “I mean it, you planned on this, and in my present mood, I'd just be a drag. Meet me back here for lunch about one, okay?”

Renie started to protest, but Judith slammed the door shut, eliciting an angry look from the driver. It was all right, Judith told herself: Renie would overtip the poor man and make up for the inconvenience. Assuming, of course, that her cousin survived the journey. Judith noted with some alarm that the cab had shot off at a reckless speed, given the traffic and weather conditions of Prince Albert Bay on this foggy November morning.

Slowly, Judith mounted the short flight of stairs and reentered the hotel. The sudden brainstorm she'd had in the taxi now didn't seem quite so brilliant. The TV crew had departed, leaving Doris with a mere dozen or so frustrated guests who were trying to find out when the airport would be reopened. Birdwell was among them. He saw Judith, and detached himself from the herd.

“Really,” he groused, “this is ridiculous! I'm not even flying! I hate airplanes! They aren't meant to stay up so high! Just look at the headlines, almost every day one of them falls down somewhere! But there's no connecting train going south between here and the States! Nobody told me that!”

Judith could have. Rail service between Port Royal and her hometown had been discontinued a decade ago, though the reason for it mystified potential passengers on both sides of the border. “You have to take a bus,” she informed the agitated critic.

“That's absurd! I don't have a bus schedule! I have a train to catch for San Francisco at six o'clock tonight!” He was all but hopping up and down.

“I think,” Judith said calmly, “there's a schedule posted over on that board.” She pointed in the direction of the picture postcard display. “I noticed it yesterday.”

“Where?” Birdwell peered in the direction of Judith's finger. “Oh! Excuse me, my eyes are really very poor. I can't seem to find an opthalmologist who can correct my vision. The medical profession is a disaster!”

With a small smile, Judith watched Birdwell bustle off to the hotel's bulletin board. He all but plastered his nose against the schedule, then headed for the elevator. Judith roamed about the lobby, trying to sort out her thoughts. At last, the desk area was cleared of traffic. Doris glanced about furtively, then sneaked a coffee mug out from under the counter and took a big sip.

“You're in the business,” she said as Judith approached. “You'll understand.”

“I do,” agreed Judith, leaning on the desk. “Doris, what do you know about ducks and drakes?”

Doris choked on her coffee. “What?”

Judith made an apologetic gesture with her hands. “I know, it's a stupid question. I'm rambling this morning. Isn't there an old English rhyme, though?”

Doris had recovered herself. “Probably. It doesn't ring a bell.” The phone jangled at Doris's elbow. “That does, though. Excuse me.”

Judith resumed wandering the lobby. The Nubian lamp was turned on, to ward off the morning gloom. Two small children tumbled about on one of the cut-velvet sofas while their parents argued over the plan of attack on Port Royal's tourist attractions. The couple in matching tams and clashing tweeds came huffing and puffing through the main entrance. Their cheeks were rosy and their smiles friendly.

“Lovely, it is,” the wife said to Judith. “Empress Park,” she added by way of clarification. “You done it yet, luv?”

“No,” responded Judith with an answering smile. “Isn't it a bit foggy for a walk?”

“That depends,” said the husband, still panting from
his exertions. “Out past Smugglers' Point, the mist comes and goes. Then you get some smashing views. Peek-a-boos, as it were.” His blue eyes twinkled at Judith.

At the desk, Doris slammed down the phone in a most uncharacteristic—and inhospitable—manner. “That does it! I quit!” She grabbed her forest-green cardigan and her brown leather shoulder bag from under the desk, and charged out through the little office.

“Well!” The wife put her hand through her husband's arm. “It's like I always tell Hubie here, things just aren't the same anywhere these days. Not even,” she added mournfully, “at the Clovia.” The couple nodded their tams in unison at Judith and walked toward the elevator.

Sybil bobbed up behind the counter, her pasty face quivering. “Blimey! What a place! I think I'll go back to the fish and chips shop on Piccadilly Island! If Mrs. Teel can't take it here, neither can I!”

Judith had strolled over to the desk. “What set Doris off?” she inquired.

“I really can't say,” Sybil replied primly. “It was a guest, though.” She lowered her head as well as her voice. “From the eighth floor.” She gave Judith a knowing look, then shuddered as another elevator load of angry patrons stormed into the lobby.

Judith backpedaled away from the desk, making for the Hepburn Street exit. Fog or no fog, a walk in the park suddenly sounded like a terrific idea.

Crossing over to the Esplanade, Judith felt the damp against her cheeks, but her leather jacket kept her warm. She could see at least ten feet in front of her, though to her left, the bay was obscured, and on her right, the high rises were hidden from view. The paved walkway was strewn with crisp brown leaves and spiny horse chestnuts. Judith stopped to pick up a chestnut for luck. Carefully, she split the outer covering and extracted the smooth brown fruit. It was an old habit from the autumns of her childhood. Smiling, she tucked the talisman inside her pocket.

Empress Park began where the high rises left off, its
entrance heralded not by gates or signs, but a quaint old teahouse that had served four generations of Port Royal residents and visitors. Its French windows flirted with the fog as Judith passed by. She felt, rather than saw, other walkers. Port Royal was a city heavily influenced by the English, and its inhabitants preferred using their feet to driving their cars.

Beyond the teahouse and the tennis courts and the cricket pitch, the path divided into three separate trails. A wooden sign pointed to Smugglers' Point, the lighthouse, and Kitimat Cove on the left, to Princess Alexandria Yacht Club, Deadman's Cliff, and the zoo on the right, and in the middle, to the lawn bowling greens, the rose garden, and the Indian burial ground. Judith opted for the water view, hoping there would be one. If not, at least she would have avoided the stampede to welcome the new panda at the zoo. Deadman's Cliff and the burial grounds didn't suit her present mood.

Above her, in the virgin Douglas fir and western red cedar trees, she could hear the muffled cry of bluejays. Below, almost attacking her pant leg, were a pair of bold black squirrels. Unlike their gray counterparts across the border, they were not intimidated by Judith's efforts to shoo them away. For at least thirty yards, they scampered along beside Judith, then careened off into a clump of sword ferns.

The cool, wet greenery and the soft, gray mist soothed Judith's soul. She needed this peace, away from the hubbub of the hotel and constant flow of churning emotions among its guests. Her insights as to the identity of Bob-o's killer were falling into place. Judith was sure the solution was almost in her grasp. There were just one or two facts that didn't quite fit into logical order. That disturbed her, but Judith was convinced that if she used this quiet time to sort things through, everything would become clear.

Here, with the sound of the waves lapping at the shore, Judith no longer felt guilty about abandoning Renie. Her
cousin would dash madly from boutique to salon to specialty shop, running up debts that would make what was left of Bill's hair stand on end. Judith smiled to herself again, and caught a glimpse of the lighthouse on the point. The foghorns sounded as if they were talking to each other.

She had gone about a mile when she realized her feet were getting damp. She really should have worn her boots, but she'd left them in the trunk of the car along with Renie's. Judith turned around, savoring the brief view of the water where a fishing trawler used radar to head for port. The fog now seemed to be dispersing on the bay, but settling in closer over the park. Judith felt the salt on her tongue and sniffed at the sharp, tangy air. She actually gasped when she heard the scream. A woman, she thought, pivoting around, and very nearby. Her heart began to thud as she tried to peer through the heavy curtain of gray. Another cry pierced the fog, then scuffling noises, and a sudden, ominous, silence.

Judith had frozen in place. Having turned about in every which way, she was unsure whether she was pointed toward the teahouse or headed deeper into the park. It dawned on her that for the past few minutes she hadn't been aware of anyone else on the path. Feeling an onset of panic, she started walking very fast. She knew there was a boathouse at Kitimat Cove. Surely she would meet someone soon.

Seconds later, a figure loomed up out of the fog, not six feet away. Startled, Judith let out a little cry of both fear and relief. She hesitated, blinking away the moisture on her lashes. Judith recognized the cashmere overcoat and the fedora. It was Max, and as he came closer, she could see that he had blood on his hands.

Judith turned, and ran for her life.