The waiter moved away from our table while giving his head a regretful shake. I’m sure that, in view of the dwindling number of diners in his section, Reynaldo was seeing his opportunity for generous tips on this cruise disappear as well.
“It’s too bad you didn’t get here earlier,” I said. “If you had, you could have met Marc Alley.”
“Who’s he?”
“Dr. Harrison Featherman’s patient, and, and in the opinion of some ship’s gossips, Margaret Featherman’s one-night fling on the first night of the cruise. As near as I can tell, the cutting-edge brain surgery techniques Dr. Featherman used to cure Marc’s epilepsy were enough to put both of them on the map as far as Leave It To God is concerned.”
Todd Bowman’s tie looked as though it were about to burst under the pressure of his bulging neck. “How the hell do you know about that?” he demanded.
I decided now was the time to be straight with him. Any delay and anything less would serve only to make matters worse. “Rachel Dulles told me,” I said. “She and Alex Freed are working the list detail. She was good friends with my former partner, Sue Danielson. I’m a retired Seattle police officer, Agent Bowman. When Agent Dulles found out I was on the ship and happened to be sitting at the same table with Marc Alley, she contacted me and asked me to help out. And, as far as that’s concerned, it looks as though you guys need all you can get.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What if LITG let themselves into Margaret’s room thinking it was actually Harrison Featherman’s cabin? Just because they made one mistake doesn’t mean Featherman is out of danger. I don’t think Marc Alley is in the clear, either.”
“Dulles and Freed are under orders to protect Dr. Featherman.”
“Yes, I know. Protect the doctors at all costs and leave the patients to their own devices. That doesn’t sound like such a fair deal to me, and maybe it didn’t seem fair to Agent Dulles. Maybe that’s why she called me in on it. And I’m serving notice, Agent Bowman. You do what you have to do, but I’m taking it on myself to protect Marc Alley.”
“If you interfere any more—”
“Think how it’s going to look if this ever comes out—and it will come out eventually—that the FBI saved the doctors and left their patients twisting in the wind. Believe me, John Q. Public is going to be royally pissed. This may be the new FBI, Agent Bowman, but I never heard anyone say that only the rich and powerful are worthy of being protected from domestic terrorism. You can call what I’m doing interference if you like, but in protecting Marc Alley I’m saving the FBI’s bacon. Including yours, now that I think about it.”
Bowman was one of the new breed of postO. J. FBI agents. He had been thoroughly trained in procedures, and in spin-doctoring as well. He knew that public relations are everything. My oblique threat to let the FBI’s internal policy loose in public was enough to make him back off a little.
“Did I understand you to say that you think Marc Alley and Margaret Featherman had something going?”
“May have had something going,” I corrected.
“What about you and Ms. Featherman?”
“Me and Margaret Featherman? Don’t make me laugh. She wasn’t my type. She couldn’t stand me from the moment she laid eyes on me.”
“How come?” Bowman asked.
“Why didn’t she like me?” I returned. “Probably because I was too old for her. I’m sure she would have liked you just fine. Harrison Featherman told me she went for the studly type. By the way, any word from the Coast Guard?”
Bowman glared at me. For a moment he didn’t answer. Finally, with a sigh, he did. “Not yet,” he said. “I went back to security with Captain Giacometti and looked at the tape in question one more time. Margaret Featherman took a hell of a fall. You left her former husband with the impression—or the hope, let’s say—that she might have survived it. I doubt that’s true.”
“I doubt it, too,” I said. “So at least we agree on something.”
“Did you tell Marc Alley about what had happened?” Todd Bowman asked.
“No, I didn’t,” I replied. “I didn’t have to. He’s the one who told me. He had heard it from some of the officers on board. They were talking about it in Italian, which Marc happens to understand.”
“Great,” Bowman said. “Another one of those wonderful little coincidences—similar to the way you found out about the video?”
I ignored his pointed gibe. “What about Margaret’s friends? Have you told them?”
“I talked to two of them—Sharon Carson and Virginia Metz. In fact, I was in their cabin up until a few minutes ago. I waited around for their third roommate, Naomi Pepper, but she never showed up.”
There were several very good reasons why Naomi Pepper might have chosen to make herself scarce around their three-women cabin and at the dining-room table as well. What she’d had to tell her friends earlier that afternoon didn’t paint a very pretty picture of what close friends do to close friends. Neither did what I had seen of her in the security tape before she ran from Margaret Featherman’s doorway and disappeared down the corridor.
Abruptly, Todd Bowman changed the subject. “You still haven’t told me how you heard about that videotape,” he said.
“At an AA meeting,” I told him. “One of the women there, Lucy Conyers, has a husband who’s an Alzheimer’s patient. He’s been sitting glued to his cabin’s television set ever since he came on board. He’s the one who saw Margaret Featherman go in the water, but since the man’s not in total possession of his faculties, his wife assumed he was making things up. She didn’t believe him. He claimed someone had thrown Peggy off the ship and would come for him next.”
Bowman frowned. “Isn’t Peggy a nickname for Margaret? Did he know Margaret Featherman?”
“No chance. According to his wife, the only Peggy he knew was his mother, and she’s been dead for years. But he kept harping on the incident and driving his wife crazy. Finally, Lucy, his wife, was so upset about what was going on that she mentioned it at the AA meeting this afternoon. As soon as I heard the story, I was sure there was some connection between what Mike Conyers claimed to have seen and what had happened to Margaret Featherman. I thought right away that the poor guy might not have made it up.”
“AA?” Bowman asked. “Isn’t that as in drunks? And isn’t the stuff that goes on in those meetings supposed to be kept secret?”
Contempt suddenly crept into his voice. I heard him speak with the arch superiority of someone who figures he’s forever above needing the services of such mundane things. And right along with his arrogance came something else as well—the babelike innocence of someone who assumes nothing bad will ever happen to him. He naively believed that no evil he might encounter could possibly take such a bite out of his mental resources that he’d choose to dive into the nearest booze bottle looking for relief. And it certainly never occurred to him that later on, once he’d drowned his sorrows, he, too, might be brought low enough to go looking for support meetings in hopes of getting his head screwed back on straight.
For a moment, I envied Agent Todd Bowman both his innocence and arrogance, but it didn’t take long for me to get over it. I knew from firsthand experience all the bad stuff that goes along with that killer combination. I was also well aware that in my years in AA I’ve encountered more than my share of both burned-out cops and burned-out FBI agents.
“I met with Lucy Conyers after the meeting,” I told him patiently, giving him a quick lesson in twelve-step ethics. “She gave me permission to talk to the authorities about what her husband had seen. That’s the only reason I’ve told you about it.”
By then Todd Bowman had pulled out his notebook, the same kind of ragged spiral job I used to use myself. “The Conyerses’ cabin number?” he asked, holding a stubby pencil at the ready.
“I wouldn’t bother trying to see them right now,” I added, once I gave him their number. “I’m pretty sure Lucy’s at dinner at the moment, up in
the Regal Dining Room. But when I saw her earlier this afternoon, she was stretched so thin she was about to fly apart. I understand she made arrangements for someone to look after Mike this evening so she could get out for a while, and I doubt talking to Mike by himself would do anybody any good.”
I didn’t mention that Mike Conyers’ adult baby-sitting service was currently being supplied by my own grandparents. There didn’t seem to be much point in telling Todd Bowman that. It would only have made matters worse.
“Anything else?” he asked.
“What if whoever threw Margaret Featherman overboard learns there’s a possible witness and comes looking for Mike Conyers?”
“You said yourself the man’s not all there, and he wouldn’t be much of a witness. There’s nothing at all on the tape that reveals the killer’s identity.”
“The killer doesn’t know that,” I said.
“Maybe,” Todd Bowman allowed dubiously. “What else?”
Here it was. If Leave It To God was responsible for Margaret Featherman’s death, then whatever had gone on between her and Naomi Pepper before her death was nothing more than bad coincidence. But if someone else was involved—someone who was connected to Naomi Pepper and her daughter—then Todd Bowman needed to be aware of what had happened.
“Did you talk to Sharon Carson and Virginia Metz together or individually?” I asked.
“Together. Why?”
“Did they give any reasons as to why Naomi Pepper might not have been with them in their room right then?”
Bowman frowned. “Not really. They just said she was out. Neither one of them seemed to have any idea about where she was or when she’d be back.”
“So they didn’t mention anything to you about Naomi Pepper’s daughter?”
“No. Should they have?”
“Well, since Margaret Featherman’s husband, Harrison, also happens to be the father of Naomi Pepper’s daughter, they probably should have.”
“You mean Margaret was Harrison Featherman’s second wife?”
“No. Margaret was Harrison’s first wife.”
“So where does Naomi Pepper come in? Was she wife number two and Leila is number three?”
I shook my head. “Dr. Featherman evidently fathered a child with Naomi, one of Margaret’s closest friends, while he and Margaret were still married. That baby, a girl, is in her late teens now. From the way it sounds, Margaret didn’t know a word about this until sometime yesterday afternoon—shortly before she died.”
“How shortly?”
“I’d say within a couple of hours. And Naomi was in Margaret’s room talking about it within minutes of Margaret’s fall.”
“How do you know that?”
“Naomi told me so herself.”
“How old is the daughter?”
“Eighteen or so—over ten years younger than Harrison and Margaret’s daughter, Chloe.”
“I suppose you found out about all this by attending another meeting?”
“No,” I said. “I’m just the kind of guy people like to confide in.”
Agent Bowman rolled his eyes at that. “Sure you are,” he said. He pushed his chair back and stood up. By now the dining room was practically empty. Most of the tables had been cleared and reset for breakfast. Reynaldo and Joaô lingered impatiently in the background, waiting to finish clearing our table.
“I guess I’ll go see if I can track down Lucy Conyers,” Bowman said. “You’re probably right. It doesn’t sound as though there’s much to be gained by talking to her husband. Where will I be able to find you in case I need you?”
“I’ll be in my cabin,” I said, giving him the number. For that evening, at least, I didn’t figure anyone from Margaret Featherman’s table would be making the scene in the Twilight Lounge.
“And one more thing,” I added as Bowman turned to leave.
“What’s that?”
“Did Captain Giacometti say anything to you about a Room Service attendant visiting Margaret Featherman’s room late yesterday afternoon?”
“No.”
“If I were you, I’d go back to him and have him show you the Aloha Deck security tape between five and six. You may find it very interesting.”
Bowman’s eyes narrowed. “I take it you’ve already seen this tape?”
“I just happened to,” I said.
“Another coincidence, I suppose?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” I said. “That was no coincidence. I asked to see the tape on purpose, and their security guy was kind enough to show it to me. I can’t imagine why they didn’t offer to show it to you.”
“I can,” Todd Bowman muttered. With that he abruptly rose and abandoned the table, leaving me to breathe a sigh of relief at having successfully handed Agent Bowman another likely target for his wrath. Even with the FBI on board and actively pursuing a case, Starfire Cruises was still trying to get away with “under-reporting.”
Not a good idea, I told myself. Not for them, and not for me, either.
12
IT WASN’T THAT LATE when I got back to my room, but I was bushed. Although the cable-car ride in Juneau had happened during the morning hours of that same day, it now seemed like weeks ago. There had been too many people crammed into the day, too many stories, too much happening. Cruises are supposed to be leisurely. Instead of a vacation, my time on the Starfire Breeze was beginning to feel just like work. I stripped off my clothes and lay down on the bed. Closing my eyes, I tried to sort through the jumble of the day’s people and events.
By then my concerns about being prosecuted for impersonating a federal officer had pretty well been put to rest. Todd Bowman may have been young and inexperienced, but it seemed to me that he had accepted my explanation and no longer thought what had happened represented deliberate malice on my part. And, other than the last bit about the unauthorized security tape, he had seemed happy with the added information I’d been able to pass along to him. He hadn’t even seemed too outraged by learning that Rachel Dulles had tapped me in her effort to keep Marc Alley out of harm’s way.
Marc Alley himself was another problem altogether. He hadn’t appreciated my warning, and he wasn’t likely to pay any attention to it, either. Instead of hearing me out, he had marched off in a huff. What could I do to get back in his good graces? As Marc had stalked away from our table in the Crystal Dining Room, he had clearly been deeply offended. He had undergone an extremely risky surgical procedure in an effort to escape the cocoon imposed by his previous physical disability. I was afraid that my suggestion that he play it safe would yield exactly the opposite effect of what I had intended—that I’d push him into taking more chances rather than fewer.
Good work, Beaumont, I groused at myself. What do you do for an encore?
And, with barely a pause, the requested encore appeared in the guise of Naomi Pepper. She had entrusted me with a closely guarded family secret, which I had been obliged to pass along to Todd Bowman. It would have been nice if someone other than me had blown the whistle on her and the fact that Harrison Featherman had fathered the child who had been raised as the daughter of Gary and Naomi Pepper. No such luck. Agent Bowman had said that he had talked to Sharon Carson and Virginia Metz shortly before coming to the dining room looking for me. His obvious surprise at hearing about Melissa Pepper’s unorthodox paternity told me that Sharon and Virginia had kept their mouths shut on that score. I probably should have done the same.
What puzzled me was why Sharon and Virginia hadn’t mentioned it. Was it because Naomi had lost her nerve that afternoon and hadn’t gotten around to telling them her secret? Did they know and were they keeping quiet out of loyalty, or was it because they thought the paternity issue had nothing at all to do with Margaret’s going overboard?
I disagreed with them regarding the latter position. Much as I might have liked to blame what had happened on Leave It To God, I knew that Margaret Featherman had taken her plunge within hours of learning of her husband’s dalliance with Naomi. No,
dalliance wasn’t the right word. That implied a level of romantic involvement on one or both sides that Naomi Pepper claimed hadn’t existed. According to her, what had passed between her and Harrison Featherman had been little more than a friendly favor.
As soon as that thought crossed my mind, I wondered if it was true. Had Gary and Naomi Pepper paid Harrison Featherman a “stud” fee of some kind in exchange for his sperm donation? Or had he selflessly performed that so-called service strictly out of the goodness of his heart? Fat chance, I thought. Tears over his ex-wife’s mishap notwithstanding, good old Harrison didn’t strike me as a milk-of-human-kindness sort of guy.
Which led me to thinking about Gary Pepper. According to Naomi, her husband had willingly gone along with the whole program. He himself had suggested it. But was that true? How many men would have stood still for, much less encouraged, that kind of a cure for his own infertility and his wife’s resulting depression? And how had Gary Pepper felt about the baby once Melissa was born? Had he regarded her as his own and treated her with loving, fatherly pride, or had he dealt with her as an interloper—as someone else’s child and not his own? And how much did Harrison Featherman’s involvement in their lives contribute to Gary and Naomi Pepper’s eventual marital breakup all those years later?
Lying there on my bed, I suspected that the same seeds that had implanted Missy Pepper in her mother’s womb had also doomed Gary and Naomi’s marriage. Had they known what was coming, they might have realized that paying for artificial insemination using an anonymous donor could have spared them untold grief rather than accepting Harrison’s so-called friendly offer.
As I mulled the intertwining fates of those four people, two of whom I had never met, I fell asleep. I had drifted into a deep sleep when the telephone on the bedside table startled me awake. It was pitch-dark in an unfamiliar room. While I fumbled to locate the receiver, I felt a momentary panic. No doubt the caller would report some kind of medical crisis having to do with either Lars or Beverly.
Birds of Prey : Previously Copub Sequel to the Hour of the Hunter (9780061739101) Page 14
