Fowl Prey (5 page)

With a wave that no one else seemed to notice, the cousins were gone. Renie was already swearing a blue streak, employing words learned at her father's knee. Since Cliff Grover had been a seafaring man for much of his life, the language his daughter used all but seared the paint off the Clovia's walls.

“That's it!” Renie announced when she'd finally pol
ished off her stream of obscenities. “No more invitations! No old chums, no popcorn vendors, nobody but us, you lamebrained knothead! We came up here so you could relax. It's been one goofy disaster after another.” She paused, running out of steam. “Now we have a nice, quiet dinner. Tomorrow we shop. Then we have another nice, quiet dinner. Then we go to bed. And we'll have more fun, quiet times before we head home Wednesday. Okay?”

“You've got clam dip on your blouse.”

“Oh, crap!” Renie started to work herself up into another rage, then collapsed against the glass box that housed the fire extinguisher. “I'll have to change. What time is it?”

“Actually, it's not quite seven. We've got half an hour. Why don't we go down to the bar and have a drink and watch the ships in the bay?”

“We can do that at the restaurant,” replied Renie, using her key to unlock their door. “If we deviate from our schedule—
my
schedule—we will end up meeting someone you knew out on Thurlow Street who runs a crack house or is a pimp or used to hustle you when you worked at the Meat & Mingle. Worse yet, we might meet one of our relatives. That's the only drawback to visiting Port Royal, I'll have to admit, you always bump into people you know.”

“It seems like we have already,” Judith remarked perching on the bed while Renie tried to sponge off the clam dip. She failed, swore some more, and finally slipped out of her reversible wrap. “You said you saw the Rankers up here once,” Judith remarked, suddenly realizing that though the night was young, she wasn't, and if she remained on the bed too long, she might topple over and go to sleep. It was clear that her idea of a vacation didn't quite jibe with her cousin's. Renie's boundless nervous energy couldn't be contained in a single hotel suite. Judith, however, would have been content to loll about in bed and let room service cater to her every whim. She'd been giving to other people for too long not to enjoy being
on the receiving end for a change. But this probably wasn't the moment to say so to Renie. “Do Carl and Arlene often stay here?” Judith asked instead.

“I doubt it,” replied Renie, wriggling into a mauve wool jersey with a drape across the bodice. “I think they move around a lot. They were staying at Victoria Place then. Arlene cold-cocked the doorman.”

“Good old Arlene,” murmured Judith. “She should have been here tonight.”

“I wish she had, instead of me. What a bunch of—” Renie gripped the suede belt to her dress with both hands and Judith had to brace herself with her high heels as a tremendous
whump!
seemed to shake the hotel's historical foundation. The cousins stared at each other, then waited for ensuing tremors.

But only the sound of traffic down on Empress Drive reached their ears. “If that's a Heat Pixie, I'm checking out,” said Judith.

Collecting herself, Renie fastened the belt in place, annoying Judith by using the last hole. “No, more likely a giant cracker. I guess.” Shrugging off the loud report, she glanced in the mirror and picked up her purse. “I don't know why you'd complain about Heat Pixies when you keep dragging us into situations that make the Middle East look like Disneyland.” She took out her lip-liner and made a less than perfect pass around her mouth. “Sometimes, coz, I can't understand you. Don't you like peace and quiet? You've spent a lifetime in chaos. Give yourself a break.”

Judith knew that Renie's little lecture was the product of genuine concern. “That's exactly what I'm trying to do. All I did was accept a cup of tea and a scotch on the rocks. I don't call that searching out trouble.”

“No,” Renie conceded. “Maybe trouble seeks you. It always has.”

The cousins grew quiet, Renie reapplying blush and powder, Judith brushing her hair. “All right,” Renie said at last, “what have you heard from Joe?”

Judith had been waiting for Renie to ask, but even when the question was finally posed, she wasn't prepared. “Joe? Joe who?”

Renie tossed her mascara back into her handbag. “Oh.” The ensuing silence would have been awkward between most people. But Judith and Renie were too much in tune to be uncomfortable with each other's emotions. “Bill says the chancery is overwhelmed with annulment requests these days,” Renie remarked after at least a full minute had passed. “He thinks it's a good sign, really. People may want out of their marriages, but they also want to stay in the Church.”

“I don't know why Bill has to ask his students or his clients any questions,” Judith said with a touch of asperity. “He's so damned smart, he can read their minds.”

Renie absorbed the criticism of her mate without comment. “It took Cousin Marty almost two years, remember?”

“Marty's a moron. He thought all he had to do these days was call 555-SPLIT at the chancery and the archbishop would send the annulment back on a picture postcard of the Pope.” Judith stood up and went to the closet to get out her leather jacket. “The real question is, what happens when—and if—Joe is free?” Her anxious expression begged Renie for the right answer.

But Renie was fresh out of pat solutions. “Wait and see. It'll all come out in the wash,” she said, ducking behind one of Grandma Grover's favorite all-purpose platitudes.

“I've been waiting. For ten months.” Judith's black eyes snapped.

“Then you won't have to wait much longer,” Renie said blithely. She put on her black raincoat, searched for the belt in the pockets, and came up empty-handed. “Let's go. We've both waited long enough for dinner. I'm starved.”

At the elevator, the old-fashioned dial pointed to 7. “Let's hope it's not going down,” said Renie. “Everybody in Port Royal goes to dinner about this time.”

But the metal hand stayed put. Judith became restless; Renie grew impatient. “Come on, let's walk down one flight,” said Renie, heading for the stairs. “Some idiot may be holding it. Or maybe it's stuck. It does that sometimes.”

They tramped down the old worn stairs, their high heels echoing loudly in the stairwell. But on the seventh floor, there was no one at the elevator. Renie gave the button an extra hard push. The doors seemed to resist, then creaked open with a shudder. Judith and Renie started into the car and stopped. Judith gasped and Renie squealed. The elevator wasn't empty. Sprawled on the tweed carpet was a black form that looked like a giant spider.

It was Bob-o, and somehow both cousins knew he was dead.

A
BRIEF, IF
terrifying, examination proved that their instincts were correct—Judith could find no pulse, and the discovery of a neat, ugly hole in Bob-o's tasseled cape suggested that the shattering noise they had heard in their hotel room was not fireworks, but a gun.

Unlike more modern versions, the Clovia's elevator had no telephone. Fighting down panic, Judith searched for the button which had been set to hold the car on the seventh floor. It was large and dull red. She pressed it, the doors inched shut, and the cables went into their groaning act. The cousins stood transfixed, staring helplessly at each other over Bob-o's corpse.

“I'll call the front desk from our room,” Judith said in a low voice, as if she might awaken the late popcorn vendor. “You stay here and hold the car.” Renie's nod was barely perceptible.

The hotel seemed ominously quiet. Judith entered Suite 804 cautiously. A murderer was loose, after all, and a vacant room was an ideal hiding place. But only the sounds of traffic from Empress Drive met her ears.
With unsteady fingers, she dialed the desk and informed Doris that there had been an accident.

“The police are on their way,” Judith reassured Renie in a breathless voice. A glance down the hall told the cousins that no one else on the eighth floor had—as yet—been alarmed by the unusual noise.

“They were probably too busy trying to kill each other,” remarked Renie, who was now propping herself up against the corridor wall. “Jeez, coz, now I feel crummy.” She gave Judith a long look that was full of affection as well as admiration. “Just think, you made that poor old nut's last afternoon happy.”

Judith shrugged off the compliment. “I just wonder who made it his last afternoon, period. Why would anyone want to shoot a popcorn vendor?”

“I told you his popcorn was lousy,” replied Renie, then looked vaguely ashamed. “Well, maybe not
that
lousy…” She glanced back into the elevator, flinched, and turned away.

“How will the police get up here?” asked Judith “There's only one car.”

But Renie was pointing across the hall, into a little alcove. “There's a freight elevator. They use it for housekeeping and room service. Gee, I wonder, do they send the Mounties?”

Judith shook her head. “How would I know? You're the Sage of Canadiana. I'd guess they have some kind of metropolitan police force. Or would it be a constabulary?”

“Beats me. Bill and I've never gotten arrested in Canada.” She grimaced suddenly at Judith. “My gosh, coz, we're foreigners! Should we call the American consul?”

“We should call the Prince Albert Cafe and tell them we'll be late,” said Judith. She caught the billowing folds of Bob-o's cape out of the corner of her eye and bit her lip. “I'm being callous. Damn. But this is my second body in less than a year!”

“Don't forget Dan. Just think, we almost brought him along.”

“Yeah, and he was always such fun.” Judith paused, hearing the groan of cables in the recesses of the Clovia's walls. “That must be the freight elevator.
En garde
, coz.”

Four uniformed policemen, looking not unlike their American counterparts except for extra buckles and a bit more brass, erupted into the hallway. A fifth man remained by the freight elevator, sending it back to the lobby.

“Medics,” he said, “not that they're needed, we're told.” His voice had a soft Scots burr.

“Stand aside, please.” An older officer, presumably in charge, made straight for the passenger elevator and went down on his knees. His examination was only slightly more thorough than Judith's. “Shot through the chest. Death was instantaneous, I'd guess.” His dark eyes took in Judith's anxious face, then Renie's nervous fidgeting. “Did you know him?”

“Didn't you?” Judith blurted. Seeing the policeman's startled, faintly annoyed reaction, she waved a hand in the direction of the body. “It's Bob-o, the popcorn vendor. I'm told he's been around the neighborhood for years.”

“We ask the questions here.” The policeman's eyes narrowed and his long nose seemed to grow sharper. “You say you knew the victim?”

Renie stepped forward, her short chin jutting. Finding a corpse in the elevator had not helped her disposition. “Everybody around here knew Bob-o and his popcorn wagon,” she said. “What's your beat—Mars?”

The policeman did not take kindly to Renie's flippant tongue. “Be careful, madame, or I'll charge you with insolence.”

“Insolence!” shrieked Renie. “How about inconvenience? We were on our way to dinner!”

“Coz…” Judith began, but was interrupted by the arrival of the white-coated medics who were crowded into the elevator.

“Are you two guests of the hotel?” the senior policeman inquired stiffly.

“Yes,” answered Judith, elbowing Renie out of the way. “We're in Suite 804. Right there.” She pointed to their door.

The officer nodded curtly. “Let's step inside where we can conduct this investigation in a more peaceful atmosphere.”

The decision was made just in time. Not only were the medics busily at work on poor Bob-o, but the door to the stairway had opened, revealing several curious Clovia employees and at least a couple of guests. At the end of the hall, Max, Alabama, and Desiree gaped at the congregation of emergency personnel. Judith and Renie whisked inside their room with the policemen at their heels.

“The homicide detectives are on their way,” the officer announced, making a quick survey of the suite, “I'm Constable Guildford, and this is Patrolman Forbes.”

The young Scot acknowledged the introduction by striking his fist against his leather belt. Judith offered seats which the policemen refused, while Renie commandeered the damask-covered armchair and looked sullen.

“Names?” asked Constable Guildford as Forbes whipped out a notebook and Judith remained standing by the gas-lit fireplace. Spellings ascertained, the cousins were required to give their addresses.

“Americans,” Guildford said, as if that explained a great deal, at least about Renie. He glanced at Forbes. “We may have to check in with the RCMP.”

“Really?” Renie's demeanor changed dramatically. She shot forward in the chair and all but beamed. “You mean, just like in the movies?”

Guildford's long nose twitched as he regarded Renie coldly. “Not precisely. At least, not the way you imagine it, madame.” He took a deep breath and made an effort at civility. “Here in Port Royal, we call in the RCMP only under certain circumstances. One of these is when foreigners are involved. Since you are from the States and
acquainted with the deceased, consultation may be necessary.”

Renie's smile faded. “Oh, we didn't know Bob-o. I mean, not as a person. We just knew
of
him, if you get what I mean.”

Constable Guildford exchanged a bleak glance with Patrolman Forbes. “I see. I think. You knew Bob-o as a vendor, correct?”

Renie nodded. “Correct.”

Forbes made a notation. Guildford resumed his routine questions: “You arrived in Canada when?”

Renie was still giving the answers. “This morning. Just before noon, actually.”

“How long do you intend to stay?” inquired Guildford, his tone growing more pleasant with each satisfactory response.

“Until Wednesday.” Renie leaned back in the chair, crossing her legs at the knee. “We have to be back home by eight p.m.”

“Wednesday?” The constable lifted his dark eyebrows. “Day after tomorrow?” He saw Renie nod again. “Hmmm. That may not be possible. It will depend on the course of the investigation.”

“What?” Both of Renie's feet slammed onto the floor. Even Judith let out an astonished exclamation. “We have to leave!” protested Renie, yanking at the folds of her mauve skirt. “Thursday is Thanksgiving!”

“
Your
Thanksgiving,” said Guildford, as if Judith and Renie should take the blame for their country's celebrating a month late.

A knock at the door prevented further debate over national holidays. A bulky man in a classic trenchcoat entered the room, taking off a battered hat to reveal dark hair combed over his forehead. Despite his easygoing manner, he exuded a mournful air, as if his calling required him to remain in a perpetual state of grief. “Murder at the Clovia!” he remarked in feigned shock. “What next, porno stars in Parliament?”

“I thought we had one, sir,” murmured Forbes, “from West Fortescu.”

“Eh?” The bulky man turned around to stare at the young patrolman. “So we do, I forgot about Ms. Labelle.” He cleared his throat and put out a hand. “I'm Detective Angus MacKenzie, Port Royal Homicide Division. You poor young ladies discovered the body, I take it?”

“We did,” replied Judith, warming to Angus MacKenzie at once. “We were going out to dinner and the elevator came and there was Bob-o. Dead.” She held up her hands in a helpless gesture.

“Dead indeed, poor old soul.” MacKenzie shoved his hands into the pockets of his trenchcoat and whistled a few dirgelike notes. “You recognized him, eh?”

“Oh, yes,” Renie put in. “My husband and I—he's not here this trip—have been coming to the Clovia for years.”

“Indeed.” Angus MacKenzie nodded approval. “The Clovia has staunch fans, especially among you Yanks.” He glanced at Forbes, who produced the notebook. “Yes, I see…names, addresses, very good.” The detective lumbered over to the window and looked out in the direction of Prince Albert Bay. “Lovely night. Frost by morning, I should imagine.” He whistled again, soft and unrecognizable. “Well.” He swiveled about, the dark hair falling almost into his eyes. Judith judged him to be about fifty, and clearly an old hand at homicide. “Did you hear the shot?” he asked in a voice that sounded as if he'd surprised himself with such a sordid question.

The cousins exchanged glances. “I think so,” said Judith. “It was more like a thud. Or a whump. We thought it was firecrackers.”

MacKenzie nodded and chewed on his long upper lip. “That makes sense. I don't suppose you noticed the time?” He sounded apologetic.

Again, the cousins made a visual consultation. Judith hazarded a guess: “About seven? I know we got back to our room just before the hour. Renie couldn't get rid of
the clam dip so she changed, and that was when we heard the noise, right?”

“Right,” agreed Renie, her spirits on the rise with the advent of Angus MacKenzie. “Clam dip has an oil base. The elevator was on the seventh floor. We walked down.”

“Nasty stuff, clam dip,” mused MacKenzie. “On seven, you say? Locked to stay put, eh?”

“That's right,” replied Judith. “Whoever shot Bob-o must have gotten out there. I suppose the question is, was he coming up or going down?”

“Indeed.” MacKenzie prowled the sitting room, studying the breakfront with its collection of English bone china, the silver wall sconces shaped like fleur de lis, a Turner print of Venice. “Very observant.” He gave Judith and Renie the benefit of a toothy smile. “You heard nothing else? Saw nothing unusual?”

Judith shook her head. “No. We'd come down the hall just before seven, from Suite 800. Maybe five or ten minutes before we heard the noise. Nobody was around when we went out to the elevator.”

MacKenzie frowned, then turned to Guildford and Forbes. “Would that mean that no one in this entire hotel used the elevator for—what?—ten, fifteen minutes?”

The other two policemen looked blank. “It's possible, sir,” Guildford finally replied. “It's really quite a small place. Under a hundred rooms, I believe. But of course they may have tried to call for the car, given up waiting, and used the stairs. As Mrs. McMonigle and Mrs. Jones did.”

“Indeed.” MacKenzie let out a heavy sigh. “Thank you, ladies,” he said with an apologetic smile. “I'm sorry you had such an unfortunate incident spoil your visit. Please don't let it warp your opinion of Port Royal. Basically we're as law-abiding a community as the next.”

“Of course,” agreed Judith, her sympathy with the detective almost goading her into a confession that she had unwittingly given shelter to a murderer in her very own home less than a year ago. But it was probably best not to
say so. Unlike Constable Guildford, Angus MacKenzie didn't seem inclined to detain the cousins in Port Royal. “Will there be an inquest?” Judith asked, just to make sure.

MacKenzie picked up a glass paperweight from the end table next to the sofa and whistled some more. “Don't worry about it,” he said at last. “We'll have someone bring a from for you to sign tomorrow. Except for the approximate time of death, we won't need anything else from you ladies. If we do,” he added with his apologetic smile, “you're only a hundred and twenty miles away.”

“True.” Judith put out her hand as Guildford and Forbes started for the door. “I wish we could have been more help.”

Angus MacKenzie's jowls jiggled in denial “Nonsense. You've done everything you could for us. Now we'll do what we can for poor old…what was it?” He saw Guildford mouth Bob-o. “Oh, yes, yes, Bob-o. Bob-o, indeed. With hard work and a bit of luck, we'll find the murderer. For now, we must find his next-of-kin. Mrs. Bob-o, poor lady, is in for a shock.”

“Oh, no,” blurted Judith. “There isn't one. There's just Tootle.”

All three policemen, who had been standing in the doorway, gaped at Judith. “Tootle?” echoed Angus MacKenzie. “Who is Tootle?”

Renie was glaring furiously at Judith. “Ah…” Judith found it easier to deal with the Port Royal authorities than with her cousin. “Well, as it turns out, Tootle is Bob-o's parakeet, and what we forgot to tell you was that quite by accident this afternoon, Renie and I were invited to…”

In a belabored account, Judith rendered her explanation. MacKenzie listened with apparent disillusionment over Yankee candor, while Renie tried to recover from her near-apoplexy. The cousins were then given a stern warning to remain not only on Canada's side of the border, but within the immediate call of the Port Royal Homicide Division and, since they were not citizens, the Royal Cana
dian Mounted Police. At that point, Renie didn't think it was anything like the movies.