Fowl Prey (12 page)

Judith gnawed on her thumb in the effort of concentration. “Damn, neither can I. Maybe the fact that we don't remember means she wasn't. If she wasn't wearing them later, then she must have gone to Mildred's room after we left the cocktail party but before we went to dinner.”

“Meaning she could have gone there to get the gun and shoot Bob-o.” Renie rubbed at her little chin. “That wouldn't give her much time. And how did she know about the revolver?”

“How did any of them know? If Mildred were really clever, she should have told us that they all knew.” Judith
pressed her lips together in a tight line. “There is a kind of logic in this somewhere, but I can't figure it out until I take a bath.”

“Okay,” said Renie on a sigh of surrender. “Time to call Mumsies. Maybe I should make our dinner reservation first. How about Yokohama's? It's excellent, and has a wonderful view of the downtown harbor.”

“Hold it.” Judith stood by the mantelpiece and wagged a finger. “We have less than twenty-four hours to figure out this mare's nest. Put your stomach on hold, coz. We can't afford to lose a couple of hours guzzling sake and chomping on tempura.”

Renie looked cross, but for once didn't put up much of a fight. She, too, wanted to get home for Thanksgiving. As Judith turned away, Renie was picking up the Clovia's room service menu, which seemed to have a soothing effect.

“Attagirl,” said Judith with encouragement, and marched off to the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, she emerged much refreshed, wearing her bathrobe and with her hair wrapped up in a towel. Renie was still talking to Aunt Deb.

“Yes, of course we're being careful…No, we aren't going anywhere after dark…Yes, I'm wearing my rain bonnet…No, nobody's gotten fresh…”

Judith leaned against the doorway, arms folded across her breast, an ironic expression on her face. It was feast or famine, she was thinking, as far as their mothers were concerned. The two women who had married the Grover brothers couldn't have been more dissimilar on the surface. Yet each had produced only one daughter, been widowed comparatively young, and despite their apparent differences, were actually quite attached to one another. As for their offspring, Judith and Renie had grown up more like sisters than cousins. Better than sisters, they often joked, because as children they could send each other home when they had a fight. Absence might not make the heart grow any fonder, but somehow it healed the wounds
more quickly. Almost a half century of being both family and friends, Judith mused, watching Renie sit Indian-style with her shoulders hunched over the phone.

“…No, we haven't run into any problems up here…” Renie made a droll face at Judith. Obviously, the murder of an obscure popcorn vendor wouldn't cause any stir in the media across the border. “Of course I love you, Mom…Sure, I'll tell her…Yes, she loves you, too—you're her favorite aunt…Certainly Aunt Gertrude will be glad to hear from you. Again. Good night, Mom. Yes…okay…sure. Good night.” With a heavy sigh, Renie put down the phone.

“I'm having the pheasant,” she said, tossing the menu at Judith. “What about you?”

Judith perused the Clovia's offerings. “Poached salmon,” she announced. “Let's get a couple more drinks and a spinach salad.”

Renie duly placed the order, then sat with her chin on her fist and her eyes on the telephone. “Mom gave me Mabel Frable's phone number. Shall I call?”

“We already know why Mrs. Grimm left Cleveland. Forget it. Our phone bills are going to cost more than the rest of the trip.” Judith walked over to the window and looked out. The rain had let up slightly, but the wind was now blowing in from the west, ruffling the waters of the bay and making the lights on the anchored ships dance like fireflies. Traffic was still heavy on Empress Drive, and the pavement was a sleek ribbon of amber and ebony. Across the street, the police car remained in place. “Gee,” remarked Judith, “MacKenzie's minion must still be making his search. Maybe he found something.”

“That's more than we did,” replied Renie, punching in the area code for Oregon. “Despite our digging at the library and my illegal search of Mildred's room, I still feel at a loss. I'm calling Mabel.”

Judith started to say something, but Renie held up a hand. “Cousin Mabel, this is Serena, Cliff Grover's daughter. No, no, nobody died. We're all fine.” She grit
ted her teeth at the unintentional lie. “I've met some people from Sweet Home, and I thought you might know them. What? No, I didn't realize that two of the mills had been closed. That's a shame.” Renie rolled her eyes at Judith. “The spotted owl? Yes, it's quite a controversial issue. Both the conservationists and the loggers have good arguments. No, you're right, I've never tried to eat a spotted owl, either. But I think my dad did once.”

Deciding that the conversation was going downhill fast, Judith went back into the bedroom and changed into black flannel slacks and a gold cable-knit sweater. Renie was right: Almost an entire day had gone by, and they were no closer to finding Bob-o's killer than they were when they had found Bob-o.

Turning on her portable hair dryer, Judith tried to build a link between the victim and the murderer. Bob-o was from London. All of the Sacred Eight had spent time there. Birdwell had been a Rhodes Scholar. As a world-class critic, he'd no doubt been a frequent visitor to the London theater scene, and had even been married to an English-woman. As for Evelyn, she'd no doubt accompanied Spud on his directorial duties abroad. And Mildred, of course, would have tagged along with Max as his dutiful assistant. If Bob-o had indeed been some kind of entertainer, any and all of the Sacred Eight could have known him in some capacity.

Yet Bob-o appeared quite harmless. The usual motives of gain and jealousy seemed unlikely. Therefore, Judith reasoned as she shut off the hair dryer, he had known something, probably from long ago. Then why wait all these years to kill him? Perhaps the murderer and Bob-o hadn't seen each other since London. That, in theory, would rule out Max and Maria who had been in Port Royal the previous year. But maybe they hadn't learned by then what it was that Bob-o knew. Certainly Maria had been unnerved by something, unless she was generally unstable. Judith remembered her as a bit high-strung, but a seemingly sound young girl.

Outside, the wind howled around the Clovia, scattering the crimson ivy leaves and stripping the horse chestnuts along the Esplanade. There were no revelers shooting off their crackers on this stormy November night. The windows rattled in their casements; Judith felt a draft blow past her cheek. She applied lipstick and mascara, then rejoined Renie in the sitting room.

“Jackpot,” said Renie, with a smile of triumph.

Judith saw the new tray with drinks. “Bless that son of a Lui,” she said.

“Grandson,” corrected Renie. “That's Brian. I didn't mean the drinks, I meant Mabel. Once we got past the sagging economy, the loss of funding for the schools, the property tax hike, and the ominous courting of California mini-industries, she dug into her satchel of scandal and picked out a plum.”

Judith sat in the armchair, scotch in hand, feet up next to Joe's floral arrangement. “Such as?”

“Back in 1959, the year of the drought and the demise of Mabel's poodle, Charles and Diane Holmes, married almost ten years and unable to have children, adopted a baby boy. The town was all agog, since everybody knew the kid was illegitimate.” Renie paused to see how her information was registering with Judith.

“They don't make bastards like they used to,” commented Judith, with a shake of her head. “I mean they do, even more so, but nobody much cares. Except my mother.”

Renie looked over the rims of her crooked glasses. “Shut up. This is hot stuff. The mother of the baby, a mere teenager, had moved in with her Uncle George and his new wife. She stayed with them until she had the baby, and then let the poor childless pair adopt it, seeing as how her aunt and uncle were already middle-aged and had grown children of their own by their first spouses. Mabel couldn't remember the girl's name, but if I tell you that her uncle was George Little, can you guess?”

Judith stared vacantly, then clapped a hand to her head,
spilling some of her drink on the rug. “Maria! Her mother's maiden name was Mary Lou Little! How did we miss that?”

“Easy enough. It's a common name,” said Renie. “But you should have noticed the part about Maria going to Paris. You both got out of high school in June of '59. The magazine piece said she went abroad to study in 1960.”

Judith nodded. “That's right, and that's where we all thought she had gone right after graduation. But she didn't,” Judith added wonderingly. “She went to Sweet Home instead.” Her black eyes widened as she gazed at Renie. “Good grief, that baby must have been Spud's! No wonder she threw up in geometry class! She was pregnant!”

“You got it. Maria Filonov, prima ballerina, and Kent Frobisher, Tony award-winning director, are the parents of some young man in Sweet Home, Oregon.” Renie paused, her pug nose twitching.

“What's wrong?” inquired Judith, also feeling some sort of qualm.

“Huh?” Renie shook herself. “Nothing, I guess. Do you suppose Spud knows?”

A knock at the door prevented Judith from answering. Renie was on her feet. “Dinner,” she breathed. “Let me at it!”

It was not room service, but Maria. “I tried to call you, but your line has been busy for the last hour,” she said with the hint of reproach in her voice. “I wanted to ask you to have a drink in the bar with us.”

Judith indicated her glass. “We've got some. Any more and we'll both put lampshades on our heads. Have a seat, we were just, ah…” She glanced at Renie. “We were just talking about old times.”

Carefully arranging her burnt-orange taffeta skirt, Maria sat down next to Renie. “I can't stay, my dears. I'd so hoped you could join us for a bit. Max hasn't really gotten acquainted. He's been gone all afternoon at the King
Charles II Theatre. The rehearsal didn't get over until after five o'clock.”

Judith got up, came over to the sofa, and squeezed in on the other side of Maria. “I'm sorry about that. He seems like a nice guy.” She bit her lip, then went on speaking. “Forgive me, but I'm about to upset you. Your chances of getting out of here tomorrow are as slim as ours unless everybody stops playing games.” Judith saw the look of alarm in the other woman's eyes, but plunged ahead. “How long has Mildred been blackmailing you about your illegitimate son?”

Hemmed in between the cousins, Maria couldn't have fled if she'd tried. Her nostrils flared, her gray eyes grew enormous, and her hands shook. The protest she had begun to form died on the tip of her tongue.

“How did you know?” she asked in a hollow voice.

“It wasn't too difficult,” said Judith, not unkindly. “Mildred's stepfather was your Uncle George. You went down to Oregon to stay with him and Mildred's mother to have your baby. Somewhere along the line, Mildred found out. She'd probably always been jealous of you after you married Max, seeing as how she's the classic dutiful dogs-body who has no doubt been in love with him forever. So she got her revenge by putting the squeeze on you to the tune of two grand a month. Right?”

“My God!” Maria gripped her pearl and topaz necklace. “I can't believe it! You're uncanny!”

“No,” replied Judith. “Renie and I just happen to have a lot of relatives in a lot of different places. And I always was good at library research.”

Renie was proffering the remains of her rye. “Take this, Maria. We're fresh out of smelling salts.”

But Maria waved the glass away. “No, no. Thank you.” She took a series of deep breaths, then gave Judith a pained looked. “It was about to happen all over again,” she said. “That's what I was going to tell you last night.”

“What was going to happen?” inquired Judith, decid
ing she could get off the sofa and resume her seat in the armchair.

“The demands. More blackmail.” Maria licked at dry lips. “A note was left at the desk Sunday, telling me someone had a secret. There was no signature, just a crude drawing of a bird. Nobody at the desk—they had the weekend help on—noticed who it was. I didn't want to tell Max. Then Monday morning, another note came. Even though it was addressed to me, that Doris woman gave it to Max. It mentioned a secret again and said I'd have to meet with this person. But it didn't say who or where or when. Max didn't tell me about it until we were leaving for dinner. He assured me that it must be a prank, and not to worry. I was so upset about that poor man being murdered that I decided to let Max take care of any problems. He always does,” she said in that childlike tone.

“But Max doesn't know about the child?” asked Judith.

Maria shook her head. “No. I could never tell him such a thing. You see,” she said, the long lashes sweeping the high cheekbones, “when we were first married, he wanted a family. But I didn't. Not then. I just wasn't emotionally able to cope with a baby. I told him I couldn't have children.” She turned her ashen face to each cousin. “It was the most awful lie. But then I couldn't see how to get out of it. And as time went by, he seemed to get over the idea.”

Compassion welled up in Judith's breast, though Renie was looking more cynical. “We all can think up the strangest ways to hurt ourselves,” Judith said, almost to herself. She knew from bitter experience: Her heedless marriage on the rebound from Joe had brought over eighteen years of misery. “Well.” Breaking out of her brief reverie, Judith became brisk. “How was the second note delivered?”

“Doris said it had been slipped under the door, probably very early.” Maria was gazing at the floral arrangement and shaking her head slowly. “Nothing has come today, though.”

And nothing probably would, thought Judith. She was certain that the notes had come from Bob-o. The drawing of the bird, which could have signified a robin, pointed to that. Or, she reasoned, someone else had wanted to pin the blame for the missives on the popcorn vendor.