Fowl Prey (9 page)

“Oh.” Judith lifted one shoulder. “Okay. But tell me one thing.” She saw Evelyn give a slight nod. “Since Mrs. Jones is with me, how come you used Brown instead of Smith?”

Judith had expected Evelyn to laugh and break the tension. But instead, her features became more grim than ever. “I thought of it. But before I could say who I was on the phone, Mrs. Wittelstein told me Mrs. Smith was just leaving.”

 

The rain was blowing harder, shaking out the last leaves on the horse chestnut trees along the esplanade. The cousins waited to cross Prince Albert Street, feeling the first drizzle of the day on their cheeks.

“Evelyn isn't playing detective,” said Judith. “At least not like we are. She's after something.”

“She'll get it,” replied Renie. “She's one very determined lady. But what was Mrs. Smith doing there?”

“Desiree, we presume?” Judith saw Renie nod. “She's after something, too. At least she used her real name. Her married name, that is, which is a ready-made alias.”

“I'll bet her picture was there someplace in all that junk,” Renie remarked. “Hey, what's all that?” She had paused as they reached the curb, pointing to a group of people outside the Clovia carrying placards.

“Gee,” said Judith, gaping at the orderly protestors who numbered about a dozen. “They must take murder seriously in Port Royal. I thought they had a pretty high crime rate.”

“They do,” agreed Renie. “Breaking the law is one of the things both countries inherited from their Common Mother. It looks to me as if the criminals are about to take over. Those marchers are in uniform.”

They were. Police uniforms, Judith realized and groaned. “You're kidding! The police can't go on strike!”

“They can up here,” Renie said grimly. “Everybody else does. The last time Bill and I came to Port Royal, it was the post office. Before that, the truck drivers and the nurses.”

The cousins resumed walking toward the hotel. The police protesters smiled and nodded, gently waving their signs. More Sterling for Coppers, Crime Doesn't Pay—For Us, and Take a Policeman to Lunch—We Can't Afford to Buy Our Own, were among the hand-lettered messages on the placards. Across Empress Drive, Judith recognized Angus MacKenzie leaning into a police car again parked at about the same spot where Bob-o had held court with his popcorn wagon. The detective straightened up, said something in dismissal to the
driver, and stepped away. Judith and Renie waited for him to cross the street.

“Welcome to the land of the labor dispute,” he said in greeting, his long face even longer than usual under the brim of his hat.

The trio mounted the short flight of steps into the Clovia as the marchers made a respectful path for them. “I hope this is a one-day walkout,” said Judith as they entered the lobby.

“Not bloody likely,” grumbled MacKenzie, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his rumpled Mackintosh. “It's been brewing for a long time.”

Departing and arriving guests buzzed around the desk where Doris held sway, her professional poise restored. Judging from the number of newcomers, a dead body in the elevator had done nothing to dampen the travelers' enthusiasm. Judith recalled her own fears that the murder of the fortune-teller would ruin her fledgling bed-and-breakfast enterprise, but had discovered that Renie had been right—notoriety was good for business.

“In other words,” ventured Judith as a Japanese family carrying their own expensive set of matched luggage headed for the elevator that had been the scene of the crime, “the investigation will be slowed.”

MacKenzie was watching the elevator doors creak open. “I hope my men got everything in there,” he murmured. “What?” He turned his attention back to Judith and Renie. “Oh, indeed, everything—lab work, forensics, the works. I don't expect we'll have the inquest until next week. Rotten luck, but at least there aren't a lot of survivors clamoring for a verdict.”

Judith dug into the Oriental carpet with her red wedge-heeled shoes. “Now just a minute, Detective MacKenzie. You can't mean that we have to stick around for an entire week?”

MacKenzie looked like a cloud of gloom had attempted to pass over him, got caught on his hat, and settled atop
his head. He sighed deeply. “We can't keep you against your will, of course. But as a courtesy, we'd certainly prefer that you stay in Port Royal. Even if you don't, you'll probably have to come back later.”

Judith and Renie exchanged frustrated glances. “If we do, we do,” Judith finally conceded. “But I have to be home tomorrow night.”

MacKenzie shrugged, making the raincoat ripple like dirty bathwater. “Go ahead. We'll try to have the statements ready for you by then. They've got to be processed before the inquest is held. Otherwise, you'll have to come back Thursday to sign them.”

“Thursday!” Judith all but reeled. “That's Thanksgiving!”

MacKenzie regarded her with the merest hint of amusement in his eyes. “Not here, it isn't. Excuse me,” he said, turning to Doris who was hoisting a telephone receiver in his direction, “the one officer on duty down at headquarters must be trying to call me. Maybe he's lonesome.”

MacKenzie lumbered off to the desk, leaving the cousins simmering in front of the Nubian lamp. “That's ridiculous,” fumed Renie. “I'll have Bill call our lawyer! I'll call the American consulate! I'll call my mother!”

“Go ahead,” remarked Judith, trying to damp down her ire. “Aunt Deb could talk them out of anything. Except it would take her until Christmas to do it. I've got a better idea.”

“What?” asked Renie, following her cousin's sudden pivot toward the elevator.

But Judith didn't answer. She stood by the button, her face set and her eyes gleaming.

“Oh, no,” breathed Renie as the car descended to the first floor. “You mustn't!” They got in, along with an older couple wearing matching tams and clashing tweeds. Judith still didn't reply. “You can't,” said Renie in a desperate voice. “You wouldn't!” But of course she knew that Judith would.

Five minutes later, Judith's voice was covering the one hundred twenty miles of telephone line that led from the cousins' suite at the Clovia back home to the Metropolitan Homicide Division and the office of Detective Joe Flynn.

R
ENIE HAD ARGUED
, all the way down the hall and into the hotel room. But Judith had already heard it all. From herself. Yes, Joe might think the call was a ploy to put pressure on him. Yes, Joe might perceive her request as a devious means of resuming contact before his annulment was granted. Yes, playing Damsel in Distress was a repugnant role to Judith. And yes, yes, yes, if Gertrude found out that her daughter had asked Joe for help, the Thanksgiving turkey wouldn't be the only thing that would get roasted at Hillside Manor. As for Renie, Judith knew she wasn't against the possibility of resuming the romance—she just didn't want to see her cousin headed for any more heartbreak. Judith wasn't keen on that, either.

To her mixed reaction of relief and anxiety, Joe was in his office. Only the briefest of pauses indicated he was surprised to hear from Judith.

“Jude-girl,” he said in that smooth, casual voice that could melt metal, “how've you been?”

For openers, Judith wanted to tell him to drop the
hated nickname, but didn't wish to get the conversation off to a rocky start. Besides, the sound of his voice brought back a rush of memories: of dancing on the car deck of the first ferryboat at dawn; of drinking Dom Perignon and tossing caviar-covered crackers to the fish in the city aquarium; of playing gin rummy on a raft in high summer and getting burned to a crisp; of pillbox hats and the Simple Sheath Dress and a standing appointment for a weekly shampoo and set. But most of all, of Joe himself, charming, tender, passionate, romantic, and attentive beyond belief. He had been too good to be true. Literally.

“I'm fine,” said Judith. “I'm in Canada. With Renie. We seem to have gotten mixed up in a murder.”

“Jeez!” The hiss slithered along the telephone wire. “You two always were mixed up, but this makes your second murder this year. Have you found a new hobby or is it just pure dumb luck?”

In the wake of his initial shock, Judith could hear the amusement in Joe's voice. She could picture him, sitting at his desk, with his tasteful tie loosened, his loafer-clad feet up, a wry grin on his round, faintly ruddy face. Carefully, she explained the situation, including taking tea with Bob-o, the cocktail party with Maria and Max, the grisly discovery in the elevator, and the unexpected police strike.

“What that means,” she emphasized as Renie watched her like a hawk, “is that we may not be able to sign our statements and get out of here in time to fix Thanksgiving dinner. To expedite matters, I'd like you to do a little homework for me. I know it's a bother, but I can't do it from this end, and probably neither can the police. At least not when they're so shorthanded.”

Joe was silent for a moment. Judith could picture his high forehead creased, a hand ruffling the red hair with its hints of gray. “To be honest, Jude-girl, I'm off duty. I only came in this morning to pick up my paycheck. Incredible as it may seem, I took the whole week off for Thanksgiving.”

Judith gritted her teeth and avoided looking at Renie. If
Joe was separated from his wife, where was he going to spend the holiday? With his children? Friends? Another woman? Judith fought down a sense of rising panic and concentrated on the task at hand. “This would only involve a phone call, Joe.”

He sighed. “Where to?”

“London.”

“London? Hey, forget it! How could I justify a call on the city's line to London?”

“Call from home,” she said tersely, wondering where home might be for Joe these days. “I'll reimburse you.”

Joe sucked in his breath. Probably his stomach, too, thought Judith nastily, remembering the hint of a paunch Joe had acquired over the years. “Who do I call?”

“Where's your brother, Paul, these days?”

Joe sighed again. “London. He's been posted at the embassy there for almost five years. I didn't think I'd mentioned it to you. How did you know?”

“I have my methods,” said Judith, employing her most mysterious tone, and wondering how Joe could have forgotten that Paul Aloysius Flynn's picture and history had been spread all over the
Times
the previous summer in a feature about a local boy who had made good in the diplomatic corps. Paul at the Court of St. James, Paul with the Queen, Paul at Ascot, Paul at St. Paul's—it had all been there in glowing black and white. But knowing the sibling rivalry that had always prevailed among all four of the Flynn brothers, Judith wasn't too surprised that Joe chose not to remember Paul's moment in the sun.

“Okay, here's what I want you to ask him to find out,” said Judith, scanning the brief notes she'd made on the Clovia's stationery. “Anything about a Robin O'Rourke, born November 11, 1918, and probably an actor or some kind of stage performer. Also, what became of his wife, name unknown, and his daughter, Helen. Where he worked and when he emigrated to Canada. See if there are any connections with him and the following people…”

“Hold it,” rumbled Joe. “Let me get this all down.”
He paused. Judith could picture him scribbling frantically. “We've already got a trip to the Vital Statistics at Somerset House, the
London Times
, and whatever the English versions of the stage and screen actors guilds may be. Paul has other things to do as charge d'affaires than chase after wild geese.”

“He also has a staff,” Judith replied coldly.

The small grumbling noise at the other end of the line indicated that Joe was capitulating. “You don't care how you spend your tax dollars, do you?”

“Ha!” snorted Judith. “If I didn't give them something to do, they'd all be sitting on their fat duffs eating plaice and chips and ogling Princess Di's legs. And that's just the women.”

“Okay, okay.” Joe sighed with resignation. “This goes against my principles, but I wouldn't want your mother to explode.” He paused very briefly. “Actually, I would, but I'll call Paul anyway. Paul,” he repeated, making the name sound like a communicable disease.

“Great,” said Judith breezily, and bit her lips to keep from smiling with pleasure over the telephone contact with Joe. She gave Renie a thumbs-up sign. “How soon can you get back to me?”

“It's going on midnight in London,” said Joe. “I probably can't reach Paul until morning. I'll be lucky if he calls me back by Thursday.”

Judith's thumb turned down, eliciting a frown from Renie. “Tomorrow, Joe. By noon.”

Joe uttered something obscene under his breath. “That's impossible, Jude-girl. Even my brother can't work miracles.”

“He can work the angles,” said Judith.

There was the sound of a creaking chair in the background, clashing on Judith's end with the Heat Pixies who were dancing in the Clovia's pipes. “I can't promise,” said Joe. “Give me your number up there.”

Judith did. “I wouldn't ask you to do this if it weren't important. Our so-called vacation is already in tatters. Now
Renie and I don't want to screw up the family's Thanksgiving dinner, too.”

Joe's voice turned wistful. “How many are coming?”

“There'll be fourteen of us. Unless you count Mike's girlfriend, Kristin, as two people. She's big. Last spring we used her for a Maypole.”

“Has Mike finished college?” Joe asked, his voice again normal.

“Not yet. He's turning college into a career. Of course he's only twenty-two. He'll be home tomorrow. That's another reason I want to get back on time. I haven't seen him since August.”

“August,” said Joe in a musing voice. “That's when I saw you last, at Nordquist's, buying Mike's birthday present, right?”

“Right,” said Judith dryly, making a face at Renie who was flipping through the yellow pages of the Port Royal telephone directory.

“When is his birthday?” Joe inquired.

“August. Why do you ask?” She and Renie locked gazes.

“Oh—just curious,” Joe remarked, even more casual than usual. “Mine's August eighth.”

“I know,” said Judith. “So's Mike's.”

“It is?” Joe sounded more startled than surprised.

“Yeah. Hey, I've got to go, I've charged this to my credit card and it's prime time. Call me tomorrow. I'll be here in the room right around noon.”

Joe's sigh was audible. “Okay. But I may not have heard back from Paul by then.”

“Yes, you will,” said Judith briskly. “'Bye.” She started to take the receiver away from her ear, then put it back. “Thanks, Joe.”

“Sure, Jude-girl. Just remember, if you catch the murderer, I don't have any jurisdiction up there.” Joe hung up before Judith did.

Observing that Renie had at least a dozen questions, probably none of which had to do with the investigation,
Judith waited for her cousin to pounce. But instead of asking about Joe, Renie tapped the phone book's open page. “It's under Concessionaires, not Popcorn.”

“Huh?” Judith didn't have the faintest idea what her cousin was talking about.

“Somebody had to provide that crummy popcorn to Bob-o. Isn't it possible that whoever did might know something about him? He's been peddling the stuff for years.”

Judith nodded with approval. “You're right. Who'd you find?”

“Several. Let's just start with the first one. It's called Ascot Unlimited.”

Renie did the calling. Ascot Unlimited served big events, such as horse races, rock concerts, and professional sports. Their very proper British receptionist informed Renie that individual vendors, such as Bob-o, probably purchased their wares from either Port Royal Amusements or Bundles of Fun. The former knew Bob-o by reputation only; the latter wanted to know when the popcorn cart would be returned.

“After the funeral,” Renie informed the grating male voice at the other end, restraining herself from telling Bundles of Fun that Bob-o's corpse would be transported on the wagon instead of in a hearse. “We're trying to track down his heirs,” she lied, wishing that Judith had handled the call. “Would you know of anyone—maybe some of his friends? I assume he had a backup when he got sick or went on vacation.”

“Vacation?” The grating voice sounded nonplussed. “Never took one. Never got sick, or if he did, nobody substituted for him. Sorry, I can't help you.”

Disappointed, Renie was about to ring off when Bundles of Fun spoke again: “Wait—there was some fellow who came in with him once, a year or so ago, to help straighten out an invoice. Bob-o's mistake, not ours. I remember that because the chap was not the type I'd figure for a friend
of Bob-o's. I thought at first he was an irate customer, bent on suing us. And Bob-o.”

“Do you remember his name?” Renie sounded faintly breathless.

“No. He didn't give it.” There was a pause; Renie waited with her eyes on Judith's expectant face. “Distinguished chap, silver hair, moustache, clothes right out of Savile Row. But not an Englishman. Probably Canadian or American.”

Renie mouthed the single syllable to Judith: “Max.” She spoke again into the receiver. “Why did he come with Bob-o?” she asked.

“Moral support, I guess. Bob-o was upset. Hey, there's the other phone, you want to hold or what?”

Renie opted for hanging up. She thanked Bundles of Fun, then relayed her slim pickings to Judith.

“Assuming that was Max,” said Judith, “he knew Bob-o from somewhere. But of course we can't be sure.”

“We could take a picture of Max to Bundles of Fun,” suggested Renie.

“We could also talk to Maria. She's holding back.” Judith drew her feet up onto the sofa and frowned in concentration. “There's got to be a connection between this crew and Bob-o. My guess is that Max and Maria—and who knows how many of the others—knew Bob-o in London, before he emigrated to Canada. But which one of them is going to talk? Maria? Evelyn? Spud? We're stuck until we hear back from Joe.”

“There's always the library,” Renie suggested, somewhat dubiously.

“We don't have time to go through old English newspapers on microfilm.” Judith rested her feet on the handsome marble-topped coffee table. “Something's bothering me.”

“Me, too,” said Renie. “It's my stomach. Lunchtime draws nigh.”

Judith gave Renie a baleful glance. “Later. I'm talking
about something else, something I saw. Or didn't see. If only I could…”

A knock at the door broke into Judith's musings. Renie got up to answer it. Maria, wearing beige wool draped from neck to hem, and carrying her sable coat over her arm, sailed across the threshold.

“My dears,” she exclaimed, “I feel I owe you an apology for my ramblings last night. I was quite unhinged. Would you join me for lunch at Ernesto's?”

“Of course!” responded Renie, all smiles.

Judith gave her cousin a sidelong warning glance. “We don't want to impose, Maria. You have your friends here.”

But Maria was waving an imperious hand. “I insist. As I told you, they aren't my friends so much as Max's. He's off watching the Dickens gala rehearsal. Desiree's playing the Ghost of Christmas Past. Evelyn and Spud are downtown somewhere, Birdwell is lunching with a fellow critic from Montreal, and I don't know where Alabama is. As for Mildred…” She made a dour face, her fine eyebrows coming together. “I don't much care. I'm not overfond of Mildred's company.”

Judith gave in, restoring Renie's waning exuberance. “Okay, but we'll go Dutch. You can tell us all about life as a firebird, a swan, a—”

“Duck,” Renie broke in. “Ernesto's has the most terrific duck cooked in Barolo wine with pappardelle.”

Maria gave Renie a thin smile. “I prefer the smoked chicken and tagliatelle. Shall we go?”

They went. Ernesto's was about a mile away by cab, a replica of an Italian villa in one of Port Royal's older, refurbished neighborhoods. Cypress trees stood like sentries outside the espaliered walls, while the splashing fountain in the courtyard featured a band of chubby cherubim. Inside, all was stately Renaissance splendor, fit for a doge, or a Medici pope. Judith admired the statuary, the frescoes, the pilasters, the waiters. Renie buried her pug nose in the menu and sighed a lot.