Birds of Prey : Previously Copub Sequel to the Hour of the Hunter (9780061739101)

by Jance, Judith A.

  “What is it you wish me to do?” he asked.

  “First let me ask you something. What happens if someone boards the ship without having swiped their key when they disembark?”

  “An alarm sounds,” First Officer Vincente replied.

  “That’s what I was afraid of. Look, I’ll come back to the ship in a little while. If you can, have an extra key card made for Mrs. Featherman and have it swiped as though she had left the ship in an ordinary fashion. Then I’ll use that to bring her back on board. She can go straight to the security screening room and get started viewing tapes.”

  First Officer Vincente considered my proposal for some time. “All right,” he agreed finally. “I suppose that will work. And if the FBI agents have returned by then?”

  “We tell them what we have and turn the whole operation over to them.”

  “Very well, then. Captain Giacometti is not on board this afternoon, so this is my decision. I suppose that will be all right. How soon will you be back at the dock?”

  “Say half an hour?”

  “All right then. I’ll deliver a pre-swiped key card to the security officer in charge of loading passengers into the tenders. The card will be in an envelope with your name on it. Ask him for it when you get there.”

  “Thanks,” I said, putting down the phone. Having sold the program to First Officer Vincente, I might have danced with glee, but right then the door at the top of the staircase opened and Dulcie Wadsworth waddled into the room, followed by Lars Jenssen—an irate Lars Jenssen. He glared from me to Margaret Featherman and back again.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  Dulcie went straight to Margaret. “Is everything all right?” Dulcie asked.

  Margaret nodded. “I think so. Mr. Beaumont here has made arrangements for me to go back on board the ship. He wants me to look at the ship’s security tapes to see if I can identify the person who attacked me.”

  Lars’ jaw dropped. “This is the woman who fell off the ship?”

  I nodded. Dulcie turned to me. “Are you sure that’s such a good idea—taking her back on board the ship, that is? Won’t it be dangerous?”

  “If the killer finds out she’s still alive, it might turn dangerous,” I agreed. “If the attacker realizes Margaret could possibly identify her, she may try coming around and taking another crack at it. That’s why time is so important. Once Margaret is on board the ship, I’ve made arrangements for her to be taken directly to the security monitoring room. As long as she’s there, looking at tapes, she’ll be safe enough. The problem is getting her from here to there without anyone recognizing her.”

  Frowning, Dulcie Wadsworth looked Margaret Featherman up and down. “What size are you again?”

  “Eight or ten,” Margaret replied. “Depends on the cut.”

  “Wait here,” Dulcie ordered. “Let me see what I can do.”

  While Dulcie made her way back down the stairs, I turned to Lars. “This is Margaret Featherman, Lars. Margaret, this is Lars Jenssen, my grandmother’s husband.”

  He held out his hand. “Glad to meet you,” he said. “My wife has a shiner, too, at the moment. Had an accident on a treadmill. Not nearly as colorful as yours, though,” he added.

  Having exhausted his effort at small talk, Lars turned to me. “I didn’t even know you were gone,” he grumbled. “I thought you were sitting right there the whole time enjoying the show along with the rest of us. Then, when the lights came back up, you were nowhere to be found. Dulcie said not to worry. She said she knew where you were, but I’ve got to tell you, it gave me a scare. I didn’t know what to think.”

  That’s what he said, but I had a pretty good idea what he was thinking. He thought I had left the show early for only one purpose. He thought Margaret and I had been involved in the same kind of activity he and Dulcie had been up to for years. I was sure he’d be only too happy to report my assumed transgression to Beverly without making mention of any of his own.

  “Yoo-hoo,” Dulcie called from downstairs. “Margaret, come down here for a minute. I think I’ve found something that will work nicely.”

  While Margaret hurried to answer her summons, Lars continued his dressing-down. “You had no business yust going off like that without saying a word about it.”

  The irony wasn’t lost on me. I may have been the one person in the country right then with a chance at putting Leave It To God out of business, but here I was being chewed out by Lars as though I were some errant schoolboy. We were long-term friends, but I had reached my limit.

  “Right,” I bristled right back at him. “You can show up at a whorehouse in your old stomping grounds where the local madam-with-a-heart-of-gold treats you like some kind of visiting dignitary, but if I disappear for half an hour in the same establishment where you’re evidently a regular customer, you go ballistic and call out the National Guard.”

  “It isn’t,” he said.

  “It isn’t what?”

  “It isn’t a damned whorehouse,” Lars declared.

  “Really? I say, if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck and walks like a duck . . .”

  “It is not a whorehouse,” Lars said again, his voice rising.

  “Have it your way,” I told him. “But I’m not a kid, Lars. I don’t need watching every minute, and I don’t expect to have to ask your permission to leave a room for five minutes. That’s not the way things work.”

  At that, Lars marched off across the room. There he stood, brooding and silent, staring out the second-story window, and I made no effort to follow him or talk him out of it. A few minutes later, Dulcie came huffing back up the stairs.

  “I think we’ve about got it handled,” she said. “You’ll be surprised.”

  “Good,” I said. “Thanks.”

  Lars said nothing.

  Dulcie cast a concerned look in his direction. “Is something the matter, Lars?” she asked.

  “Damned-fool kid. He’s got the idea in his head that this place is some kind of whorehouse.”

  “Isn’t it?” I asked.

  Dulcie Wadsworth’s eyes narrowed, and her cheeks flushed with anger. “Whatever makes you think that, Mr. Beaumont?”

  “Well,” I said lamely. “There are the girls—”

  “They’re dancers,” she said, cutting me off. “That’s what they do—dance. And the ones who come to the Quixote Club thinking they’re here to do anything more than dance lose that idea in a hurry or they get sent packing. When I came to town years ago, Sitka was a wide-open after-hours kind of place. I happen to know from personal experience that there were plenty of men who were ready to take advantage of naive young women—the ones dumb enough to fall for their sad stories.

  “But that’s not what the Quixote Club is all about. I don’t operate that kind of establishment, Mr. Beaumont. My girls sign contracts. The contract lays out in black and white all the dos and don’ts. If the girls stick to the rules, they can make more money dancing here for three months than they could working a year at most jobs back home. And when they do go home, it’s with the understanding that they’re to return to school and complete their education. Four years is all they can work for me—four years and that’s it. If they want to go after a graduate degree, they have to find some other way to pay for it because by then it’s time for them to step aside and give other girls—other younger girls—the same kind of chance they’ve had.”

  I remember how, in one or another of those old fairy tales, someone talked about having their ears boxed. By the time Dulcie Wadsworth finished her tirade, that’s exactly how I felt—as though I’d had my ears boxed. I felt them turning beet-red. It didn’t help that during her speech Dulcie Wadsworth had walked up so close to me that her ponderous breasts thumped against my chest for emphasis as she went along. And I have no doubt Dulcie could have taken me in a fair fight.

  “Any other questions?” she finished.

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “I don’t think so.”

 
; “Good then.” With that she turned back to the door, which she had left open. “How’s it going, Margaret?” she bellowed into the stairwell.

  “Fine,” Margaret called back. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

  Lars turned away from the window. “I’m sorry about that, Dulcie,” he said.

  She waved aside his apology. “Don’t worry about it, Lars,” she said. “Your grandson isn’t the first man to make that mistake, and I doubt he’ll be the last.”

  There was a creak on the stairs. I looked back toward the door as an old woman stepped into the room. She had a widow’s hump that left her so bent over that her face was totally concealed. Her peroxide-blond hair was covered by a white-haired wig arranged in an armor-plated pageboy. She was dressed in an outfit—a silk, nautically themed sweat suit—that looked as though it might have come straight from the Starfire Breeze gift shop. In fact, it was almost a duplicate of the one Rachel Dulles had been wearing the first time I saw her.

  “What do you think?” Margaret Featherman asked. “Will this do?”

  I was impressed. “You could have fooled me,” I said.

  Lars nodded. “Me, too,” he said grudgingly.

  “You have to watch out that you don’t undo the Velcro,” Dulcie warned Margaret. “The outfit comes off easily. That’s the whole idea. It isn’t designed for street wear.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Margaret said.

  “Now, how do we go about getting back to the ship?” I asked. “I told First Officer Vincente that we’d be there within half an hour.”

  “No problem,” Dulcie said, picking up the phone. “I’ll have someone bring the car around.”

  That car turned out to be another Suburban. Instead of the standard Quixote Club pink, this was one of the shiny black ones favored by the FBI and Secret Service. It came complete with a deluxe full-leather interior and heated seats. I didn’t see how many miles were on the odometer, but it smelled brand-new.

  The driver was the same young woman who had driven Lars and me to the club earlier. If she had danced a number in the show, there was no sign of that now. Dressed once again in her driving togs, she hurried around the Suburban, opened the door for us, and helped a stooped and frail-looking Margaret Featherman into the middle seat. I followed Margaret. Once seated, I turned around in time to see Dulcie Wadsworth envelop Lars Jenssen in a smothering bear hug. She gave him a smooch that left a bright smudge of red lipstick on his cheek.

  “It’s so good seeing you again, Lars,” she said. “Come again soon. Don’t be such a stranger.”

  “Doubt I’ll be back again,” Lars muttered with a shake of his head. “Don’t travel as much now that I’m not fishing. You know how it is. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

  Dulcie laughed. “None of us are.”

  “But you’ve done a good job here, Dulcie,” Lars added. “A real good job.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without help,” she said, hugging him again.

  I thought about that kiss during the better part of the ride into town, which only took a few minutes. It was mid-afternoon by the time we were back at the dock. I left Margaret and Lars to get out of the car while I hurried over to the crewman, Security Officer Angeleri, who was checking passengers prior to their boarding the tender. As soon as I told him who I was, I expected him to hand over an envelope. Instead, he waved me aside. “Please wait until I finish loading this tender, sir,” he said.

  Simmering with indignation, I wanted to argue with him about it, but I couldn’t. There were far too many returning passengers milling around on the visitors’ dock and clambering into the tender. It was no place to make a scene, especially in view of the fact that Lars, trying to be helpful, had escorted the decrepit and shuffling Margaret right up to where I stood. I consoled myself with the thought that at least the two of them made a believable-looking couple.

  It didn’t take all that long to load the tender, but the time passed slowly, especially since I wanted us to be on the tender rather than standing on the dock waiting for the next one. At the time my biggest fear was that we’d run into someone we knew—someone who would recognize Margaret Featherman or Lars Jenssen or me. The last thing we needed was for someone like Claire or Florence Wakefield to show up. They’d take one look at the convincing old lady Margaret Featherman had turned into. Then they’d go straight to Beverly and blow the whistle.

  While we waited, I recognized several of the guys who had been with us in the audience at the Quixote Club. In preparation for returning to the ship, they had all shucked their high spirits. To a man they seemed subdued and as intent on being invisible as Lars and I were. Even Mr. Twenty Questions made it a point to avoid eye contact. He didn’t acknowledge us, and we did the same.

  “Now then,” Security Officer Angeleri said finally when the fully loaded passenger tender pulled away from the dock. “You are to go to the far end of the dock. First Officer Vincente has another tender waiting there. It will take the special passenger to the crew gangway. That hatch leads directly to crew quarters. An officer will be waiting there to escort her to the screening room.”

  “Her,” I objected. “What about us? We need to be with her.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Security Officer Angeleri returned dubiously.

  “You go on the crew tender,” Lars said. “I’ll wait for the next one here.”

  Another flurry of passengers approached. The chance of avoiding a scene did the trick. “All right,” Angeleri said, giving in. “Go.”

  Margaret started off toward the end of the dock. Before I could follow her, Lars tapped me on the shoulder. “Not a word to Beverly about Dulcie,” he whispered.

  I couldn’t have agreed more. “I’ll keep quiet if you do,” I promised. “As long as you don’t say anything about Margaret.”

  Lars nodded. “Ya, sure,” he said. “Fair enough.”

  “And you’d best wipe that lipstick off your face before Beverly gets a look at you,” I told him. “If she sees that, she’ll figure out for herself that you’ve been up to something.”

  Guiltily, Lars scrubbed his face clean, and we let it go at that.

  Margaret Featherman and I were the only passengers to ride the specially designated crew tender out to the ship. When we left the pontoon docking platform and stepped onto the ship, First Officer Vincente was waiting just inside the gangway. The look he gave me was anything but friendly, but when he saw Margaret Featherman, he frowned and hesitated.

  I could understand his consternation. He hadn’t expected me to be on the tender along with Margaret. Not only that, I’m sure that in her absence, Margaret’s picture had been circulated among the crew. Even I had to admit that the aged, white-haired woman standing in front of him bore little resemblance to the handsome middle-aged woman whose image had most likely been captured by the ship’s ubiquitous photographers.

  “This is Margaret Featherman,” I said. “And this is First Officer Vincente.”

  As if to put Vincente at ease, Margaret whipped off her wig and held out her hand. “I’m glad to meet you,” she said. “Thanks for all your help.”

  Relieved, Vincente, too, offered his hand. “But of course, Mrs. Featherman,” he said solicitously. “I am most happy to meet you. It is my great pleasure to welcome you back on board. Captain Giacometti wishes me to inform you that he is pleased as well. The entire crew of the Starfire Breeze is at your disposal and will do everything possible to assure your continued safety. To that end, once you are finished viewing the tapes, Captain Giacometti is pleased to offer you the use of his quarters until this matter is settled.”

  “I appreciate that very much,” Margaret said.

  I appreciated it, too, but not wanting Vincente to send me packing, I decided to practice being seen but not heard. To that end I kept quiet.

  “Now, if you will come this way,” First Officer Vincente added, “I will show you to the security screening room.”

  I more than half expected First Offic
er Vincente to tell me to get lost, but he didn’t. I followed them down the corridor and slipped into Antonio Belvaducci’s darkened screening room. Once again I did my best to stay out of the way while First Officer Vincente made introductions and issued orders.

  Antonio listened carefully, nodding as Vincente posed the problem. By the time the first officer had finished, Antonio was smiling broadly. “I have just the thing,” he said. “There is only one video camera every passenger must pass by,” he said. “That is the one mounted just inside the ship at the top of the gangplank. In Seattle, passengers start boarding at one o’clock in the afternoon. The ship sails at five. So there will be four hours of tape to view, but that is not so very difficult, and it will approach the problem in an orderly fashion.”

  “Very good,” Vincente said. “The sooner, the better.”

  Antonio pushed a rolling desk chair in Margaret Featherman’s direction. “If you would care to take a seat, I’ll cue up the first tape for you.”

  Margaret took the offered seat while First Officer Vincente excused himself and left. I found another chair and settled in to wait.

  The process took the better part of two hours, and I had a hard time sitting still. Twice I got up and tried calling Rachel Dulles and Todd Bowman. The fact that there was still no answer in either of their cabins was cause for worry, but I didn’t see any sense in leaving them a message—not until I had something substantial to report. Not that finding Margaret Featherman alive wasn’t substantial.

  The real reason I didn’t leave a message may have had to do with ego. Once a detective, always a detective. Officially it may have been the FBI’s case, but I was in on it now. I had no intention of letting go, not until I was good and ready—not until I had the whole thing sacked and bagged.

  As for my being a team player? Screw it! This time I didn’t see how anyone could fault me. After all, how could I be a team player if they hadn’t let me on the team in the first place?