Fowl Prey (4 page)

“I lament the Castles' absence, but there's no perfection in an imperfect world,” Max was saying, looking even more distinguished in his dinner jacket and black tie than he had in the lobby. At sixty, Max was still a handsome, well-preserved man whose silver hair and moustache only enhanced his masculine charm. By comparison, the shorter, somewhat younger man at his elbow seemed insignificant. The assessment, however, was utterly wrong. Maria introduced the cousins to Alabama Smith, the Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright whose works had electrified audiences for over two decades.

“A pleasure, I'm sure,” declared Alabama in a carefully articulated voice that indicated he'd worked hard to rid himself of Dixie speech patterns. “You must meet my wife, Desiree Sinclair.”

A mane of copper hair swung around from the Cubist sofa on which Desiree reclined, champagne glass tilted toward her red lips, green eyes shrewdly surveying the newcomers. No threat, her glance seemed to convey, and she flashed the famous smile that had dazzled her stage and screen admirers for more years than she probably cared to admit.

“Hot damn!” she exclaimed in the well-known throaty voice that had uttered lines for such diverse characters as Auntie Mame and Lady Macbeth. “Fresh blood. You're friends of Spud's as well as Maria's, I gather.”

“Well,” said Judith, trying to remember the name of Desiree's last hit, “we knew them both in high school.”

“Cute.” Desiree swung her copper mane at the mousy woman who sat next to her on the sofa. “Did you go to high school, Mildred, or did the superintendent just order you a diploma because you were such a kiss-ass?”

The painfully plain woman named Mildred seemed to scrunch even further into the plush cushions. “I worked very hard in school. I always work hard,” she said in a whiny voice. “I don't know why you pick on me, Desiree. You never talk like that to Maria or Evelyn. Next time, let one of them lend you her Epilady shaver!” Her pale blue eyes squinted at the lavishly framed portrait on the end-table next to the sofa. Judith took a closer look: It was Max and Maria with the Sacred Eight, including the missing Castles, photographed in the Place Vendôme. They appeared delighted to be together, and Judith decided that the camera could lie.

She was being officially introduced to the mousy Mildred, whose last name was Grimm and whose job was described as Max's assistant, when a gnomelike man burst into the room pumping away at an atomizer. “Good
grief,” whispered Renie, “I thought it was bug spray, and he was trying to zap the other guests.”

He was, in fact, Birdwell de Smoot, the respected theater critic and enemy of tobacco smoke. “You're all killing yourselves,” he announced, his pointed ears twitching and his tuxedoed chest puffed out like a penguin's. “And me.” He stopped squirting the air spray long enough to stand on tiptoe for his welcoming kiss from Maria and to give Max a jerky handshake. He then plopped down on the sofa, landing between Desiree and Mildred. “Mildred, your dress is out of date. Pastels don't become you. Why don't you get a new hairstyle? Desiree, your perfume doesn't go with your personality. You need to lose five pounds. You should never have taken that role in
It's His Toupee
.”

“Go screw yourself,” said Desiree with a yawn.

Birdwell de Smoot ran a small hand over his bald head. “Who's spitting on my scalp? I hate it when people speak and spit on me!” Behind his thick glasses, he turned sharp dark eyes up to Judith and Renie. “Who are you? What do you do? Act? Write? Sing?” Before either cousin could answer, he was on his feet. “Never mind. I need a drink.”

Maria extended a graceful arm, as if to haul him back. “Birdwell, dearest…” Ignoring his hostess, the little man zeroed in on the makeshift bar, which stood in front of a mirror decorated with a frosted leopard motif. Maria turned to Judith. “Birdwell's rather difficult, but most critics are. There, my dears, Max has your drinks.”

Max did, with scotch for Judith and rye for Renie. He also had Mildred trailing after him. “Max,” she inquired in her whiny voice, “are the hors d'oeuvres satisfactory? Should I get more liquor? Is there something I can fetch you?”

Ever courtly, Max took her hand. “Everything's wonderful, Mildred, as always. You've met Maria's friends?” His expansive smile took in not only Mildred, but his wife and the cousins as well. “Without Mildred,” he asserted, patting her limp hand, “my life would be chaos.” He
beamed down on his assistant, whose answering smile was halfhearted. Maria maintained her gracious exterior, though Judith could have sworn that the briefest of daggers had passed between the two women.

“Max is so modest,” said Mildred in that whining voice. “He brought me out of nowhere.”

“Actually,” put in Desiree, who had risen from the sofa and come to join them, “it was Cleveland. Same thing, though, isn't it, Mildred?” She gave a toss of the copper mane and a shrug of emerald-green satin.

“At least it wasn't Brilliant, Alabama.” Mildred's small blue eyes finally came to life and darted a venomous look at the bearded playwright, who was studiously avoiding the little group and chewing thoughtfully on an anchovy. “Is it true, Desiree, that your husband got his start by writing an ode to Bear Bryant's hat?”

“There was more drama in the Bear's hat than in Alabama's last play,” asserted Birdwell, who had somehow materialized between Renie and Mildred. Even with lifts on his shoes, Birdwell barely came to Judith's chin. Fascinated, she stared down at the top of his bald head and had an intense desire to spit.

“Rot,” replied Desiree, fitting a green cigarette into a long holder and deliberately waving it in Birdwell's indignant face, “
G-52
is a marvelous work. It's the first time anyone has explored the social and theological implications of bingo in the Catholic Church.”

“Birdie's a Presbyterian, remember?” Max's smooth voice should have had the effect of balm, but instead, Desiree laughed derisively and Birdwell snorted loudly.

The exchange was cut short, however, by the arrival of Spud Frobisher and a svelte woman with brown hair fitted close to her head like a cap. “Well, look at all these swell people! Are we having fun or
what?
” demanded Spud, long arms spread out to embrace the entire room. “Evelyn, we gotta get to drinking and catch up with the rest of them. How about a cream soda?”

“How about piping down,” murmured his wife. With
a resigned sigh, she gave Spud a little push toward the bar, then allowed Max to kiss her cheek and Maria to offer a stilted hug. “You must be Judith and her cousin, Serena,” said Evelyn Frobisher, not wasting time with proper introductions. “You made Spud five minutes late meeting me this afternoon.”

Judith was about to apologize when she noticed the glint of amusement in Evelyn's hazel eyes. “We had thirty years to cover,” Judith said with a smile. “I guess it took more than five minutes.”

The others were drifting away, Birdwell still arguing with Desiree, Mildred plying Max with canapes, and Maria joining Alabama by the window. Out on Prince Albert Bay, the lights from a dozen freighters shone in the clear autumn night air as their captains awaited pilots to guide them into the inner harbor. Spud was carrying two glasses of mineral water and spilling one of them on the deep pile of the carpet as he bumped into a chrome and leather footstool.

“Here, sweetie, no cream soda. Will this do?” He handed the full glass to Evelyn and gave her a puppylike look.

Evelyn wore a faintly weary air. “Of course, if it's all there is in the nonalcoholic line.” She raised the tall glass at Judith and Renie. “Spud and I don't drink. My father died of cirrhosis of the liver when he was thirty-nine. My mother died of a broken heart six months later.”

“That's why Evelyn became an agent,” interjected Spud, draping an arm around his wife's neck. He saw Evelyn's lifted eyebrow and revamped the statement: “I mean, she had to quit college and go to work. She was with William Morris when we got married, then she started up her own agency, didn't you, sweetie?”

“So it seems,” responded Evelyn with a resigned expression. ‘'The truth is,” she said to Judith and Renie, “I quit to have our first child. Then a couple of clients—no names, please—who were unhappy with the Morris agency asked me to represent them. Of course I always was Spud's
agent. Now Desiree is with me and Jonathan and Clea and several other big names. Mostly New York, though I have a few clients in London and L.A.” She summed up her career with the same brisk efficiency that she used to brush a piece of lint from her deep blue crepe dress.

“Impressive,” remarked Judith, thinking that Evelyn Frobisher's polished, no-nonsense manner was totally different from her husband's ah-shucks, down-home persona. “What about Alabama Smith?”

Evelyn's gaze traveled across the room to where the playwright was now engaged in a heated discussion with Birdwell de Smoot. “Alabama is a writer. Ergo, he has a literary agent.” She smirked. “If I were Birdwell, I wouldn't stand too close to that window. It's a long drop to Empress Drive.”

“Birdie would bounce,” said Desiree, sidling up to Evelyn and Spud. “Listen, Ev, one more role like the Queen of Thrace, and I'll put you out there with him. That's the last time I play a part wearing a costume made out of furnace filters. Let's get a little more selective, hmmm?” The green eyes glinted at Evelyn, then shifted to Max, who appeared to be refereeing between Alabama and Birdwell. “Maybe I should start sleeping with Max again. The best parts I ever had were under him. So to speak.” The heavy eyelids and thick lashes dipped in a sly, langorous motion. Spud actually blushed.

“Golly, Desiree, you wouldn't want to upset Maria! She and Max have been married a long time now.” He sounded quite stern, like a Sunday school teacher lecturing preschoolers in a little church on the prairie.

“Oh, cut the corn, Spud!” snapped Desiree, coming out of her indolent state. “I was married to Max almost as long as Maria has been. We still work well together.” Her crimson mouth twitched slightly. “In many ways.”

“At least you're all friendly,” Evelyn put in, watching her husband turn an even deeper red. “Usually.”

“Sure,” said Desiree is that husky voice. “I suppose what I ought to do is inspire my brilliant pork rind from
Brilliant to write something to showcase my talents. That's assuming he can still write at all. I'm getting sick of defending that stupid bingo turkey.” Her green gaze cut across the room like a laser just as Alabama grabbed Birdwell by the lapels and shook him violently. “Oh, damn!” exclaimed Desiree, grasping her emerald satin skirt and hurrying to her irate husband. “Put the little twerp down, 'Bama. Nobody reads his wretched stuff anyway!”

“You're a bitch! He's a liar!” Birdwell was turning blue. “I'm number one! There's not a critic in North America who can touch me! Help!”

“Well, Ah'm touchin' you now, Birdie ol' boy,” said Alabama, his carefully cultivated accent gone as he lifted the little man off the floor. “How would you like to go for a nice ol' swim in Prince Albert Bay?”

“Max! Maria! Help! I'm blind!” Birdwell's glasses had fallen off into the clam dip. Max was grappling with Alabama while Maria tried to calm Birdwell. Mildred stood by the telephone, ready to summon reinforcements. Evelyn was concerned; Desiree, bemused. Judith and Renie edged toward the door, prepared to beat a hasty retreat to the Prince Albert Cafe.

Spud lurched across the room, knocked a bottle of gin off the bar and smashed his shin on the coffee table, but still managed to reach Birdwell and Alabama before further harm could be done. Somehow circumventing Max Rothside, Spud picked the critic up in one hand and the playwright in the other.

“Hey, you guys, this is a
party!
We're having
fun!
Look, you've ruined the ice sculpture!”

Sure enough, the graceful swan, apparently carved in honor of Maria's famous role, lay on its side with its head broken off. Birdwell was unmoved. Alabama, however, looked vaguely ashamed.

“My apologies, Maria. It was a pretty piece of ice.” He gave Birdwell a hard stare, then put out a hand. “Sorry, Birdie, but you get under a man's skin. Back home, you'd have been lynched forty years ago.”

Birdwell accepted the apology with bad grace. Spud released both men and slipped on the swan's head, falling to the floor with a terrific thud. Evelyn rushed to his side, but her sympathy was perfunctory. “He falls down a lot,” she said to Judith over her shoulder. “If you knew him way back when, you probably remember.”

Judith didn't, exactly, but took the comment as her cue to depart with Renie. “This has been…interesting,” she said to a shaken Maria. “But Renie and I have a dinner reservation.”

“In Guam,” muttered Renie, surveying the damage wrought by falling bodies, melting ice, overturned furniture and spilled drinks. “Thanks a lot, have a nice day. 'Bye.”

“But wait!” Maria's voice bordered on panic. She grabbed Judith's hand and came so close their toes touched. “Judith,” she whispered, “I must talk to you. Alone. When will you be back from dinner?”

Startled, Judith glanced at Renie, who was looking increasingly thunderous. “Well, um, I suppose around nine-thirty or so. Shall I ring your suite?”

Maria's padded shoulders slumped in relief. “Yes. No, I'll ring yours. We have to feed these people.” She sounded as if she planned on tossing out raw meat at the zoo. Leaning forward, she brushed her cheek against Judith's. “Thank you, my dear. Thank you. I'm so glad you're here!”

Puzzled, Judith looked past Maria's sleek black head to Renie, who was on the verge of an explosion. “We won't be late,” Judith promised, and gave Maria an impulsive hug. “Don't worry.”