Fowl Prey (2 page)

But, Judith thought to herself, Dan had enjoyed rusticating just about everywhere. And working not at all. Dan preferred eating himself into a mound and drinking himself into a fit, tasks which he had accomplished most suc
cessfully by the time he died at the age of forty-nine. If ever a man had committed suicide with an overdose of sour cream, it was Dan McMonigle. He had known exactly what he was doing—Judith was convinced of that. And in the process, he had made the request to have his remains scattered in the Glacier River. Now, over three years after his death, Judith finally had the time and the opportunity to honor his wishes. Meanwhile, he had reposed in the toolshed, awaiting Judith's first free moment from refurbishing the old family home and setting it up as a profitable bed-and-breakfast.

The gate to the Grover property sagged on hinges older than either cousin. Renie got out of the car, retrieved her boots from the trunk, and put them on. With a mighty heave and an impatient curse, she managed to shove the gate open, fighting against the long, damp grasses that had overgrown the driveway.

Five minutes later, Judith and Renie were at the river-bank, in the shadow of Mount Woodchuck. Behind them, the sprawling shake and shingle cabin that had hosted four generations of Grovers stood with its homemade curtains closed and a big padlock on the only door. The cousins would not go inside: For the time being, they had all the memories they could handle in the big plastic garbage sack.

With an air of solemnity, Renie handed the bag over to Judith. “I put the box in this, just in case your mother looked out,” she said.

“Good.” Judith gave Renie a wan smile. “We have to be careful. The undertaker warned me that ashes aren't exactly what you think…Hey!” She hoisted the bag effortlessly. “What…?” Frowning, she set the bag down and opened it. “Hell!” exclaimed Judith, glaring at Renie. “This isn't Dan, it's my begonia tubers, you dope!”

Renie clamped a hand to her chestnut curls and uttered several one-syllable obscenities. In the background, the river rumbled on, crystal-clear waters over moss-covered rocks. “Oh, coz, I'm sorry! You said it was a shoe box!”

Judith gritted her teeth. “
Boot
, not
shoe!
You think I could get Dan into a shoe box? Jeez, the man weighed four hundred pounds! It wasn't like ashes, it was more like rubble!”

Renie let out one final, fading expletive. “I didn't know…I should have…Oh, damn, I feel awful!” She turned a miserable face up to her cousin.

But Judith had recovered, taking this mishap, like all others, in stride. “Forget it.” She swung the plastic sack over her shoulder and started back for the car. “Let's face it, coz,” she noted with a wry grin, “at least the begonia tubers will come back to life. We'll let Dan go on doing what he always did best—nothing.”

R
ENIE MAY HAVE
been wrong about the shoe box, but she was right about Port Royal. Skyscrapers gleamed at the edge of the bay, sprawling condos dotted the islands that nestled among the coves and inlets, bold new homes marched up the hill overlooking the city, and even the older residences displayed a rediscovered dignity. Judith was impressed.

The Hotel Clovia, however, was another matter. A mile from the city center, it stood dowagerlike on Prince Albert Bay, with a magnificent view of the water and Empress Park. The setting was perfect, with a broad street sweeping past, and handsome apartment buildings at each side. But the Clovia itself remained an ivy-wrapped citadel of stodginess in a high-tech sea of luxury.

“It's a historical landmark,” Renie explained cheerfully, as Judith tried to negotiate the impossible confines of the Clovia's underground parking garage. “They couldn't change it if they wanted to.”

“What did they build this place for, horse carts?”
asked Judith, finally guiding the compact into a stall between a mini-van from Alberta and a sports car from California. “How the hell do you and Bill get your big Chev in here?”

“We don't,” replied Renie. “We park out back and walk. Sometimes Bill even carries the luggage.”

Judith emitted a growling noise that sounded not unlike Sweetums. “I can't wait to see our room. Do we sleep standing up?”

“Oh, no,” Renie answered blithely, squeezing her diminutive form between Judith's car and the van. “The rooms are quite big. They're not standard, though. I mean, as often as Bill and I've stayed here, we've never been in a room that was quite like any of the others.”

“I'll bet,” muttered Judith, trying to figure out if she should risk tearing her gray slacks on the car's grillwork or simply vault over the California sports coupe. “How's the food?”

“Great,” said Renie, grabbing Judith's hand and bodily pulling her between the cars. “At least breakfast is. We usually eat somewhere else for lunch and dinner. Port Royal has so many terrific restaurants. We should try the Prince Albert Cafe down the street tonight. Just avoid Bob-o on the way. His popcorn will kill you.”

“Who,” Judith asked as they unloaded their suitcases, “is Bob-o?”

“The popcorn vendor. He's a real character, been out there on Empress Drive forever. But his popcorn could create its own oil slick. It's just horrid. Look.” She paused, halfway to the elevator. Through the breezeway, they could catch a glimpse of the street and the bay. “There he is now, talking forty-to-the-dozen to some unsuspecting tourist. That's the other thing, he's like a wind-up toy. Once he starts blabbing at you, he won't shut up.”

Judith peered at the rotund figure shrouded in a billowing tasseled cape with the popcorn wagon at his side. In the noonday sun, Bob-o was a dark silhouette, reminding Judith of a giant spider rendered by Arthur Rackham.
His customer looked like a dancing bear. A sharp crack echoed off the concrete walls of the parking garage. Judith jumped.

“What was that? The popcorn exploding? Or did somebody blow up Bob-o?”

But Renie was unperturbed even as a series of loud reports sounded from outside the building. “Crackers, for Guy Fawkes Day. You know,” she explained, pushing the elevator button, “like our Fourth of July firecrackers. The Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving the second Monday in October, then Guy Fawkes Day on November 5. That just warms them up for the rest of the holiday season. They keep right on shooting those suckers off through New Year's.”

“Swell,” Judith remarked as the elevator door opened, revealing a bearded man of middle age with an unlighted pipe. He nodded vaguely as he got out and the cousins got in. The cables creaked and the small car groaned. Judith was alarmed until she noted Renie's composed features.

“It always does that,” said Renie with a little shrug. “Wait until you hear the Heat Pixies in the radiators. Oh, and the Clovia boiler has a mind of its own. When they're working on it—which seems to be often—room temperatures can vary by 40 degrees in a single day.”

“No wonder this place is so cheap,” murmured Judith as the door jerked open onto the lobby.

“They can't raise the prices,” said Renie. “I told you, it's a historical landmark. And it's always jammed.”

Judith was about to ask why but one look at the lobby partly answered her question. The furnishings were old, but solid and handsome. Stately vases with fresh flowers, red-striped velvet sofas, high-backed oak armchairs with needlepoint seats, paintings which were either originals or excellent reproductions, filled the small lobby. So did at least a dozen guests, hovering around the desk. Even the life-sized lamp in the shape of a turbaned Nubian serving boy had a certain charm, his hand outstretched as if in welcome. The fact that some puckish soul had put an old
toothbrush in his palm did nothing to diminish Judith's enchantment. She smiled in spite of herself.

“Wait here,” said Renie, putting down her suitcase. “I'll check us in. There's Doris.” She gave an airy wave in the direction of a stoic redhead who was stamping the bill of a departing guest.

Judith stepped aside to let a giggling young couple pass. Honeymooners, she thought with a pang, then steeled her spine and set her jaw. To hell with romance. From the wrong side of forty, True Love had to be an illusion. Or so Judith kept telling herself. She was trying to absorb the idea when a tall, dark-haired woman in a sable coat came into the lobby from an entrance which Judith assumed led out onto the street. Judith stared. The woman turned and stared back.

“Judith!” she exclaimed, her handsome face breaking into a big smile. “Judith Grover!”

“Maria!” The two women rushed to embrace, both of a height, one reed-thin, the other full-figured. Judith swore she could feel the bones under the sable and was reminded of Dan in the boot box. She actually shuddered.

But her long-lost friend didn't seem to notice. “Judith, I can't believe it! After almost thirty years!” Maria held Judith at arm's length. “You look wonderful! What are you doing here?”

Judith glanced over at the desk to get Renie's attention. But Renie was engaged in deep conversation with Doris. “My cousin—I'm not sure you ever met Serena, she was a couple of years ahead of us in school—and I came up for a few days before the holiday season sets in. I run a bed-and-breakfast on Heraldsgate Hill and I—” She stopped, taking in the sleek black hair pulled back into a chignon, the shimmering pearls, the smart taupe dress under the expensive fur coat. “But you've retired from dancing, right? And married to…” The name eluded Judith. Maria Filonov's husband was a big luminary in the theater, a producer, or something.

“Max Rothside,” said Maria graciously. She gestured
with a gloved hand toward the desk where Renie was still consulting with Doris. “In the fedora.”

“Ah.” Judith took note of the tall, distinguished man with the silver moustache and cashmere overcoat who was collecting messages from a dumpy blond. He had a cane over his arm and an attache case in one hand. “I remember now. I read about it in the paper. Ten, eleven years ago?”

Maria adjusted a pearl earring. “Almost thirteen, actually. Lucky thirteen,” she added, perhaps a bit too hastily. “They've been exciting years, even though I retired about the time we got married. We've gone all over the world and been involved in some really extraordinary ventures. But there!” She put a hand to her flat bosom and looked abject. “What about you? I'm sure you've had some thrills along the way as well.”

Judith reflected that if working two jobs, getting evicted, and having your husband blow up at the age of forty-nine constituted thrills, then she'd had them, all right. But the lobby of the hotel Clovia wasn't the place to say so. “I'm a widow,” she blurted, saw Maria's face fall, and gave her friend an encouraging smile. “I have a wonderful son who's in college, I moved back with Mother, and the B&B is doing very well. That's my life.” She paused, then shrugged. “That's what I want. For now.”

If Maria heard the doubt in Judith's voice, there was no opportunity for her to remark upon it. Renie was storming across the lobby, all but knocking over a stout white-haired woman with a Dandie Dinmont on a leash.

“They screwed up our reservation! It's never happened in the fifteen years Bill and I've been coming here! I told Doris I want to see the manager!” Renie was worked up into one of her rare but explosive rages, heedless of the other guests, oblivious to Maria Filonov Rothside. Her short chestnut hair all but stood on end and her brown eyes flashed. “I refuse to stay in one of those ghastly antiseptic glitzy horrors downtown!”

Judith wasn't quite sure how a hotel could be both glitzy
and antiseptic, but this wasn't the moment to query her cousin. “Calm down, it's just a little past noon. They may have a cancellation.”

But Renie shook her head with vigor. “Never. Nobody ever cancels at the Clovia. It's a historical landmark!”

“Oh, shut up!” snapped Judith, grabbing her cousin by the lapels of her blazer. “Settle down, meet Maria Filonov, the dancer. Remember her from grade school?”

Renie's rages tended to die down as quickly as they built up. “Maria!” she beamed and put out her hand. “Yes, I do. You were the awkward kid who fell off the stage doing the minuet for the George Washington's birthday assembly! I never could figure out how you went on to dance with Balanchine and win international acclaim!”

Maria had the grace to laugh. “I think that incident taught me a lesson. I've never fallen off a stage since.” She sobered a bit and relinquished Renie's hand. “Actually, the Clovia does have the occasional cancellation.” Her wide-set gray eyes rested on each of the cousins in turn. “Max and I have taken the entire eighth floor—they're suites, you know—for a reunion of theater people he calls his Sacred Eight. But one couple can't make it, so if the two of you would like their room, I'm sure we could arrange it.”

Judith and Renie exchanged questioning looks. “I don't know,” Judith began. “It sounds as if we'd be imposing…”

“Nonsense.” Maria tossed her sleek head, very much the prima ballerina. “In fact, I think it would be wonderful fun. These are really Max's friends, and I'd enjoy having someone of my own on hand. We'll talk to the desk and arrange it. You'll join us for cocktails at six, of course.”

Judith felt as if she were being given a royal command. She shot a look out of the corner of her eye at Renie, who seemed equally cowed. “Well…okay, sure, if you don't think Max will mind,” said Judith.

Max, in fact, was approaching, swinging his cane and
doffing his fedora. Introductions were made all around, and Judith was much taken with his expansive manner.

“Heraldsgate High School,” he said with a nostalgic catch in his deep voice. “How often I've heard Maria mention that name! And the grade school, what was it, something about drunkards?”

“SOTS,” replied Judith, “for Our Lady, Star of the Sea. It was—is—a parochial school, attached to the parish.”

Max Rothside beamed. “Delightful. We must make a pilgrimage some day. Heraldsgate Hill is about the only place we've missed over the years. But of course Maria's parents have been dead for some time now.”

Maria looked appropriately solemn, then took Judith and Renie by the arm. “Let's get you checked in. You'll be in 804—no, wait, I put Birdwell in there when Jonny and Clea couldn't come” She rocked gracefully on her suede high heels, tapping a manicured red nail against her chin. “That's all right, Birdwell isn't here yet. We'll give him 802. It's smaller, and he'll complain, but he always does. He's a critic, you know.”

“Birdwell de Smoot?” inquired Renie. She saw Maria nod. “He's a crank! My husband Bill says that if you look up the word ‘negative' in the dictionary, you'll find that the definition is—”

“We expected a smaller room anyway,” Judith interrupted, riding right over Renie's latest recital of The Word According to Husband Bill.

But Maria forced the large suite upon them. Since Renie had originally requested a much cheaper room, Doris and the Clovia's management insisted that the rate remain the same, despite the upgrade in amenities. To the elation of both cousins, Suite 804 was furnished not in forty-year-old bits and pieces, but elegant First Empire. There were two bedrooms, a sitting room, a kitchenette, and a huge marble bath set in mahogany. The view of Prince Albert Bay was unrestricted. They could even see Bob-o, plying his trade and chattering like a magpie to a trio of punk
rockers. The Heat Pixies, however, did not defer to price. Even as Judith and Renie unpacked, the clatter and clang of the radiators threatened to deafen them.

“So tell me about Maria,” inquired Renie half an hour later as they sat down to lunch in a small French restaurant three blocks from the hotel. “She's too skinny, I can see that. Makes her look older.”

“Dyes her hair, too,” said Judith, sampling a warm wedge of
tarte a l'oignon
. “But she certainly had a wonderful career. I used to try to follow her rise to fame before I got married. Then I had enough problems following my own.”

“Which involved two jobs at once,” murmured Renie over her lamb's lettuce salad. “but let's not be bitter. You never could dance worth a lick.”

“I still wanted to,” said Judith as the waiter poured more Vouvray. The restaurant had been built to resemble a cave, with bottles of wine shoved into every conceivable crevice. “I envied Maria a lot, especially when she went to Europe to study. We wrote for a while, but then one of us stopped. I forget which.”

“And Max produced plays from Athens to Zimbabwe. He's a Canadian, as I recall, though his earliest successes were in New York.” Renie shot Judith a smug look over her mache-betterave.