Fowl Prey (15 page)

“Thanks,” said Evelyn absently, putting the card to one side. “To be honest, I don't think Spud has very fond memories of high school. He hardly ever talks about it.”

“He's being modest,” said Judith in her most conversational tone. “Spud was quite a football hero. Plenty of girls thought he was Hot Stuff.” The statement was something of an exaggeration: While Spud's athletic prowess had been undeniable, he had been known to most of Judith's female chums as “Old Bucket-Head.”

Evelyn was watching both the door and the eighteenth-century faux marble clock on the mantel. “Spud never talked about his girlfriends much, either. There were a couple in Lincoln he used to mention, but I never gathered he got very serious.” She crossed and uncrossed her legs, trying to get comfortable. “Maybe I should call CLIP.”

“Go ahead,” said Judith. “I'm in no hurry. It looks like we're stuck here for the duration.”

Evelyn arched her straight brown brows. “I hope not. I called home tonight and the kids will be in tomorrow before dinnertime. We've got an afternoon flight.”

Judith sadly shook her head. “That's too bad. You'll never make it.”

“Of course we will!” Evelyn had become quite heated, her hazel eyes snapping. “The police can't detain us! We're leaving, and that's that!”

“Good luck,” said Judith with irony, then she leaned forward in the club chair. “Evelyn, I don't want to sound like a pretentious fool, but I think I may be on to something as far as finding out who the killer is.” She paused; Evelyn's skeptical expression indicated she thought Judith was a pretentious fool.

But Judith was as undaunted as she was devious. “What happened to Helen Smith?”

Evelyn receded into the chair, her face sagging. “Helen! I hadn't thought about her in years!” She closed her eyes briefly, hands gripping the brass-studded chair arms. “Helen,” she repeated in a faraway voice. “So you know about Helen? How on earth did you find out?”

Judith shrugged. “Renie and I have friends who have relatives in strange places. Were you in London when Helen died?”

Evelyn took a cigarette out of a gold case and flicked on a small silver lighter. “Yes. Spud was directing Desiree in
Blithe Spirit
. She was very good, by the way. Of course he deserves much of the credit.” Cigarette smoke mingled with the sandalwood. “Helen's death was a terrible tragedy. She fell down a flight of stairs and broke her neck.”

Judith looked properly dismayed. “I gather that sort of unhinged Bob-o?”

“Of course. He'd lost his wife in the war, Helen had been through one bad marriage, and then there was this awful accident.” Evelyn's mouth set in a tight, thin line. “She was drunk, you know.”

“I didn't, actually,” replied Judith in surprise. “Was she alone?”

“Allegedly.” Evelyn's face hardened. “If so, it was a rare occasion.”

“Oh.” Judith digested Evelyn's words. “Helen sounds like a problem.”

Evelyn inhaled, exhaled, and slumped a bit in the chair. “She was, but to be fair, she'd had a rough time. She never knew her mother, Robin was in the service, a couple of old maiden aunts—no relation, really, just family friends—raised her out in the country, Devon, I think, and even after the war, she was sort of sent from pillar to post. Robin's career didn't leave him much time for fathering. Then there was an early marriage to a real swine, some sort of musician who was a drug addict as well as a drinker. That's what got Helen started.” She sighed and
stubbed out her cigarette. “I suppose you're wondering why none of us admitted we knew Bob-o?”

“True,” conceded Judith. “Unless you just didn't like his popcorn.”

Evelyn gave Judith a dour look. “I can only speak for Spud and me.” She glanced at the clock again. “Where is that man?” Her body was tensed for any sound coming from the hall, but there was nothing, except for the wind blowing at the windows and among the Clovia's chimneys. “We had no idea who Bob-o was until his real name was given on the news last night. Even then, we weren't sure it was the same Robin O'Rourke. Max told all of us the first thing this morning.”

Judith tried to detect the lie in Evelyn's voice, but couldn't be sure. “Why did you go to see Mrs. Wittelstein?”

Evelyn actually laughed, if bitterly. “We all agreed that we didn't want to get mixed up in any scandal. I was delegated to go to the Tudor Arms to look through Robin's apartment and see if there was anything that might implicate any of us. But as you know, I couldn't get in.”

Judith was puzzled. “Why did you want us to keep your visit a secret from Spud?”

Evelyn ran a hand through her short, neat hair. To Judith's amazement, it fell back into place, as if on command. “Spud didn't want me to do it. He was afraid I might get into trouble somehow. He's very protective of me. And vice versa. It's the way we work together.”

With a pang, Judith thought it was a very nice way. Fleetingly, she wondered what such a marital arrangement would be like. “How did Desiree get into the act?”

“Simple. Spud asked her to take my place. She loved the idea, playing yet another part. Desiree went as the Comfort Lady from St. Willibrord's Anglican Church. She wore black crepe and put her hair in a bun. I went over there anyway because I know Desiree—she probably gave a wonderful performance, but forgot what she was there for. She tends to get wrapped up in her roles.” Evelyn
turned wry. “Not that it mattered—she couldn't get in, either.” She lighted another cigarette and opened the phone book.

“I don't suppose,” Judith said musingly, “that there was any doubt about Helen's death being an accident?”

Evelyn looked up from the yellow pages. “What?” Her hazel eyes widened. “Oh, no. I told you, she was drunk. Alcohol is a killer in more ways than one.”

“Were any of the other members of the Sacred Eight in London at the time?” Judith asked, wistfully thinking that Evelyn's cigarette smelled wonderful.

“We weren't the Sacred Eight back then. Jonathan and Clea hadn't arrived on the scene yet. But yes, the rest of us were all there, as a matter of fact. Even, if you'll excuse the expression, Birdwell.” She stopped speaking at the same time she finished dialing. After what appeared to be three separate parties coming on the line, her face fell. Evelyn put the phone down and stared at Judith with hollow eyes. “Spud left CLIP-TV just before five.
Where the hell is my husband?
”

J
UDITH HAD DECIDED
not to press Evelyn further. There were still a lot of unanswered questions: Spud's appearance in the lobby just before Bob-o was shot, the inclusion of Jonathan Castle and Clea Rome in the Sacred Eight, Birdwell's bitterness toward Max, and the stash of money Bob-o had left behind would all have to wait for a more propitious moment. Evelyn's mood had deteriorated from anxious to frantic. She was on the verge of calling the police when Judith left her, though it was dubious if they had the personnel available to search for a husband who was a mere three hours late.

Still, Judith felt she'd made some sort of progress. At least she knew why Evelyn and Desiree had gone to the Tudor Arms. Her suspicions about the Sacred Eight's reluctance to admit to any connections with Bob-o had been confirmed. She had to assume that Evelyn—and perhaps Spud—didn't know about Maria's illegitmate baby.

She was at the door of Suite 804 when the elevator opened. Spud emerged, whistling.

“Spud!” exclaimed Judith. “Evelyn's having a fit! Where have you been?” She had no right to ask, but the words tumbled out all the same.

“Gosh, nowhere special,” said Spud, colliding with the fire extinguisher on the wall. “I was just chewing the fat with some of the TV folks.” He looked at his big wristwatch. “Wow! It's after eight! Ev must be starved! I'd better hustle the little woman off to dinner pronto.”

Spud wheeled around, somehow tripping over his own feet, but managing to stay upright. Judith watched him head down the hall to 801 and call out a hearty greeting as he hurtled through the door. Oddly enough, Judith shared Evelyn's imagined relief. Though perhaps it wasn't so odd, she told herself as she entered her own room: In a sense, all of them were in this mess together. The only outsider was the murderer, and at this point, Judith had no idea whose face hid behind the killer's clever mask.

Renie was lying on the sofa, an empty plate on her stomach and a guest copy of a travel book propped up in front of her. “You were right. I did dessert beautifully.”

“Let me guess,” interrupted Judith, fingering her chin. “Bailey's Irish Cream cheesecake?”

Renie reared up, knocking the plate onto the carpet. “How'd you know?”

“You've got some of the remains in your hair.” She sank down in the armchair, propping her tired feet up on the coffee table. Renie was frantically wielding a brush through her unruly chestnut curls. “Spud has returned,” Judith said.

“Good,” responded Renie, bending down to retrieve the plate. “So has Desiree.”

“What?”

Renie looked smug. “You aren't the only one who can have exciting adventures while on vacation in a foreign land. I went out to get my cheesecake from Brian, and there was Alabama, looking like U. S. Grant was at his heels. Being the considerate sort, I asked him what was wrong. He demurred a bit, then said his wife was very
late getting back from her rehearsal.” Renie arched her eyebrows at Judith.

“Well!” Judith tipped her head to one side. “It may be a coincidence, of course.”

The look the cousins exchanged revealed they didn't believe it was anything of the sort. However, they would have been willing to dismiss the extramarital peccadilloes of Spud and Desiree, had war not broken out in the suite next door. The Clovia's best efforts at soundproofing could not prevent Desiree's high-pitched and highly trained screeches from carrying through the wall. A crash, a thud, and a thunderous stream of epithets from Alabama followed.

Judith and Renie froze in place. Somehow, Judith managed to speak without moving her lips: “Should we call the desk?”

“We can't call the cops. At least the hotel isn't on strike. Yes,” mouthed Renie as Desiree shrieked again.

“Maybe,” said Judith in a more natural manner, “we should call on the Smiths.”

Renie shuddered as something heavy bounced off the wall. “Forget it. This is a job for hotel security.” She picked up the phone and dialed.

“I didn't know they had any,” said Judith, wincing at Alabama's stormy voice.

“It's actually Lui.” Renie turned from her cousin to speak into the phone. “Doris? Oh, Sybil? Who? Hello, Elaine. This is Mrs. Jones in 804. There's a bit of a commotion next door in 803. Could you send someone up? We'd hate to have another accident,” she added ominously.

The screaming, shouting and crashing stopped just as Renie replaced the receiver. The cousins sat very still, waiting for a resumption of hostilities. Nothing happened. “Rats,” breathed Renie. “We've avoided an Accident, but we've created an Incident.”

“That's okay,” soothed Judith. “Whoever comes up can at least verify that Desiree and Alabama are still
alive.” She spoke the words all too seriously, then went to the door and peeked outside. Brian was just arriving. He winked at Judith and went down the hall to 803. Judith ducked back inside, but left the door open a crack. Two minutes passed before Brian returned, looking unperturbed.

“It's cool,” he said, brushing back his dark hair. “Mr. and Mrs. Smith are alive and well, but I'm afraid we'll have to assess them a damage fee.”

“Serves them right,” said Judith with approval, remembering the shattered Roseville vase an irate orthodontist had pitched at his wife when she'd exceeded their credit card limit during a stay at Hillside Manor. “As long as you're here, how about getting us a couple of Irish coffees?”

Brian grinned. “Sure. Chill out. It's that kind of night. Be right back.” He buzzed for the elevator, which hadn't yet budged from the eighth floor.

Judith sat down to file a full report with Renie, going backward. From Brian's assessment of Suite 803, she moved up to the conversation with Evelyn. Renie was mildly impressed.

“So where does it take us?” Renie queried. “Are we to assume that one of the Sacred Eight—or however many there were then—did in Helen? And Bob-o knew who it was, so the killer finally knocked him off, too?”

“Maybe.” Judith was frowning. “Alabama was married to Helen at the time. She was a faithless wench, thus making him the logical suspect.”

Renie shook her head. “Alabama has a habit of marrying faithless wenches. It seems to me he yells and carries on, but doesn't do much damage. To the wenches, that is.”

“He was going to throw Birdwell out the window,” Judith reminded Renie.

“Who wouldn't?” retorted Renie. “Anyway, Birdwell is no wench.” She got up as a knock sounded on the door.
Brian entered with two Irish coffees, their whipped cream toppings looking like small mountains.

“By the way, Mrs. Jones, I finally had time to check out that Toronto directory you called about. No Rothsides listed. Sorry.”

“I guess they checked out. Permanently.” Renie looked faintly aggrieved. She glanced at Judith. “While you were gone, I asked Brian to look up Max's parents in the phone book. No luck.”

Judith shrugged. “Not everybody lives as long as our relatives.”

“My Uncle Hui is a hundred and four,” said Brian.

“Hui?” echoed Renie. “Where's Dui?”

“Calgary. Have a nice night.”

“So,” said Judith, after Brian had left with a grin on his face and another tip in his pocket, “we can't rule out Alabama just because he didn't murder Desiree tonight. We also can't dismiss Desiree, since she became the next Mrs. Smith about a year later. Then we have Spud, who may have been carrying on with Desiree even then. He was directing her in a play at the time.”

“Why would he kill Helen?” Renie asked reasonably. She lapped at her whipped cream like a cat.

Judith looked stumped. “You're right, that doesn't wash. Alabama and Desiree might have a plausible motive. As for Max, Helen was his niece. He might have stood to gain by her death somehow. Or he wanted to silence her.” She shook her head. “Neither idea fits Max very well. And he wasn't married to Maria then, so I don't see how she'd figure into the picture.”

“Jonathan and Clea are out of it,” said Renie. “They were just kids in 1974. What about that million bucks? That's a motive any murderer could sink his or her teeth into.”

A pensive Judith gazed at the huge spray of chrysanthemums. “Bob-o probably left it all to Tootle. But then again, maybe not.” Her black eyes strayed to Renie. “Let's just suppose he was very fond of one of the Sacred
Eight. He might have chosen one as his heir. Or maybe more than one.”

“But which? Max, maybe?” asked Renie, stirring her Irish coffee with a slim glass stick. “Then Bob-o would have to have made out a will. How long before the police find it, or a lawyer speaks up?”

“Good question,” mused Judith. “Bob-o didn't strike me as a legalistic type. If he never spent any of the money, I doubt if he'd bother to dispose of it properly. What happens then? Some third cousin twice removed in Ireland who never heard of him gets it all and moves to Beverly Hills?”

Renie looked perplexed. “It sounds as if we're back to Helen. Maybe Birdwell was nuts about her. Maybe Helen was blackmailing Mildred. Maybe Evelyn found Helen's alcohol addiction so appalling that she threw her down a flight of stairs. Maybe Max was ashamed of her. Maybe I ought to shut up.”

“We're still missing something.” Judith sighed, taking a sip of Irish coffee. “The whole case is a jumble. It doesn't make any sense.”

Outside, the wind was still howling. Inside, the Heat Pixies had renewed their dance. Judith gritted her teeth. “How do you rake up alibis from so far back? Even if we could, how do you disprove them?”

“We can't give up,” Renie asserted, but her voice sounded flat. “While you were with Evelyn, I tried to clear my brain by reading up on tourist treats in the Western States and Provinces.” She tapped the guidebook next to her on the sofa. “It didn't work. Somehow, the torpedo trips in Yreka, California and the world's largest strawberry shortcake in Lebanon, Oregon, didn't inspire me.”

“Don't forget the Milton-Freewater Pea Festival,” remarked Judith. “Do you remember the year we drove down there with our folks, and your dad pulled up in Wallula to—” She stopped abruptly, leaned forward in the chair, and raised her voice above the clamor of the radiators. “What did you say?”

“Huh?” Renie looked up from her glass with the shamrock embedded in the stem. “I didn't say anything. That was the Heat Pixies.”

“No, before that.” Judith looked slightly agitated. “About…shortcake.”

Renie lifted one shoulder. “Well, I like it a lot, but last year the berries didn't have as much flavor as—”

“Shut up!” Renie and the Heat Pixies were getting on Judith's nerves. “About the town, dopey. What did you call it?”

Semi-offended, Renie wrinkled her pug nose. “You should pay closer attention. The home of the largest strawberry shortcake in the world is Lebanon, Oregon. Yikes!” She sat up like a rocket. “Where's that map?” Her fingers raced through the pages of the guidebook. “Jeez, I can't believe it! Lebanon is right next to Sweet Home!”

The Heat Pixies had taken a break. In the relative silence, the cousins stared at each other.

“Are you sure, coz,” said Judith slowly, “that Jonathan Castle was born in Lebanon the country, or Lebanon the Oregon town? Your glasses, after all, are a disgrace.”

Renie turned indignant. “I can see just fine. How the hell do you think I produce such brilliant design concepts?”

“Sheer dumb luck,” snapped Judith. “Think. Which was it?”

Renie shook herself. “I don't need to. Jonathan Castle's real name was John Holmes. Oh!” She gave herself a slap on the cheek. “I get it—Holmes, as in H-O-M-E-S, equals Castle!”

Judith clasped her hands together. “John Holmes, the baby Maria gave away, is really Jonathan Castle. Well, well!” She finished off the Irish coffee and chewed on her thumb. “Our problem is that we keep missing these connections. Too many people involved, I guess, to catch everything the first time around.” She paused as the Heat Pixies picked up the tempo. “The next question is, does Maria know Jonathan Castle is her son? Does Jonathan
know that Maria is his mother? And what about Spud?” She was all but shouting now, trying to drown out the din emanating from the radiators.

“There is a resemblance,” yelled Renie. “Jonathan has Maria's coloring and bone structure.”

“And what?” But Judith figured it out before Renie could repeat the remark. “He's got Spud's build, too. I wonder if Joe knows anybody in Hong Kong?”

“King Kong?” Renie looked flummoxed. “What's he got to do with it?”

“I said…” Judith put her hands over her ears. “I can't stand this!” she shrieked. “I'm getting a headache! Let's go down to the lobby.”

Renie didn't try to argue. But even as she stood up, she snapped her fingers. “Wait.”

Puzzled, Judith watched Renie mouth something to herself and point around the room as if she were counting. Then she reached into her purse, pulled out the master key she'd pinched from the hotel desk, and signaled for Judith to follow her out of the room. Blessed quiet reigned in the hall.

“Last year we stayed in Room 502,” Renie explained. “The Heat Pixies were driving Bill absolutely nuts. In fact, he thought some of the noise was coming from outside, so he opened the window to check. Nothing, it was just the radiators, but he got so mad, he cussed and swore and pounded on some sort of pipe that ran along the outer wall. The clanking stopped.” Renie gave Judith an ingenuous look.

“Why not try our own windows?” Judith asked as a chunky maid emerged from the freight elevator with a fresh set of towels, a mop, and a broom. She gave the cousins a weary smile, then proceeded down the hall to Desiree and Alabama's suite.

With the maid's arrival, Renie had stuffed the master key in her pocket. “My window's stuck. I'll bet yours is, too. Last night I wanted some fresh air and I couldn't budge the blasted thing.”