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

by Jance, Judith A.

  “What do you want to do?” Chloe returned. “Wait long enough so he can read all about it in tomorrow morning’s Starfire Courier? No way! I’m going to find him and tell him now. Do you want to come along?”

  Leila shook her head. “I’ll wait here,” she said.

  Chloe left, slamming the door shut behind her. Having accomplished my mission, I stood up too and made as if to follow. “I’d best be going then as well,” I said.

  “Oh, no, please, Mr. . . .”

  “Beaumont,” I supplied.

  “Please stay, Mr. Beaumont. In case Chloe doesn’t find Harry, I’d like to have someone official here to tell him. I don’t want to be the one to have to do it.”

  I couldn’t blame her there. That was probably the time when I should have told Leila Featherman that I wasn’t really official at all—that I’d been drafted off the street and sent to do the cruise ship’s dirty work because First Officer Vincente hadn’t wanted to soil his own lily-white hands performing the job himself. But I didn’t say anything of the kind. My mother’s fondest hope was always that I would grow up to be a “good boy.” I tried being a good boy right then, and did as I was told. Even though my instincts warned me to get the hell out, I sat back down, put my hands in my lap, and waited for Harrison Featherman to return.

  10

  FOR THE LONGEST TIME after Chloe left, Leila and I sat in the gathering darkness without exchanging a word. Leila was the one who broke the silence, speaking musingly, as if talking more to herself than to me.

  “What I said is true. Margaret’s a very troubled woman. Troublesome, too, although I suppose that’s what all second wives say about first wives. Still, I can’t believe that she’d go so far as to commit suicide just to spite Harry. What do you think?”

  I remembered the duct-tape mask that had covered the lower part of Margaret Featherman’s face as she tumbled toward the sea and the two people who had been in her stateroom at or near the time of her fatal plunge. “I’m of the opinion that she didn’t commit suicide,” I said.

  “Her death was an accident then?” Leila asked.

  “More like murder,” I replied.

  Leila gave a sharp intake of breath, followed by another period of thoughtful silence. This time I was the one who broke it.

  “You mentioned that you thought learning about Margaret’s death would be hard on your husband,” I said finally. “Why? Is it because of what might happen to Dr. Featherman’s pending grant as a result of the adverse publicity, or is it because he still cares for her?”

  Leila laughed ruefully. “Harry still cares for Margaret, all right,” she said. “Just the fact that they continue to drive one another crazy is proof enough of that. People assume that hate and love are opposites, Mr. Beaumont, but they’re really very closely related. Love and indifference, maybe, but not love and hate. If you don’t care one way or the other—if you’re really over a relationship—the other person can no longer hurt you.”

  I was struck by the wisdom in Leila’s observation. To all outward appearances the second Mrs. Featherman was just another youthful trophy wife. But there was more depth to her than I had first supposed.

  “You’re saying Margaret could still hurt Harry?” I asked.

  Using Harrison Featherman’s pet name gave me pause. Everyone else who mentioned the man referred to him as Harrison. They all seemed dazzled by the Harrison persona or else by the title of doctor. Only his second wife, this young and very pregnant second wife, had burrowed under the formal name and title to excavate a man named Harry who seemed to live a hidden existence beneath the formal pomp and circumstance.

  “Yes,” Leila answered. “Margaret was forever taunting Harry. She specialized in showing herself off with men who were far younger than she was. Initially, I think I was Harry’s way of getting back at her for that. Tit for tat, you know.” Leila smiled. “But I knew going into the relationship that there was still unfinished business between them. It doesn’t bother me, and it doesn’t mean I love Harry any less or that he doesn’t love me. Harry’s been very good to me, Mr. Beaumont. Even now, when there’s so much going on and he’s under such awful stress, he’s still made every effort to see to it that if anything were to happen to him, the baby and I would be well provided for. Chloe, too, for that matter.”

  “If anything were to happen . . .” I said. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  It was too dark to see Leila’s face across the room, but I heard wariness creep into her voice. “You know,” she said softly. “If Harry were to die or something.”

  She hadn’t come right out and said it, but I was pretty sure I knew what she meant. “As in, if something terrible happened to Harry the same way it has to some of the other doctors on the list.”

  Leila breathed an audible sigh of relief. “I’m glad to hear you know about that,” she declared. “It really wears me down to be worried sick about him and to have to keep pretending that nothing is the matter. At night I toss and turn and can hardly sleep. I jump at every sound. Even here on this ship. Especially on the ship,” she added softly. “I know they told us that there’d be people on board to protect him, but still . . . It’s such close quarters that I can’t help but worry.”

  “How long have you known about this?” I asked.

  “About the list? Not long,” she answered. “For only three weeks or so, but it feels like forever. Harry’s been so brave about it, but he’s also mad as can be that someone is interfering with his life and his wishes. He’s a doctor, you know, and he’s determined to carry on and do everything just the way he did before and act as though nothing is the matter. He refuses to give in to those people—refuses to be intimidated by them. It scares me to death, but it makes me proud, too.”

  The white-haired guy I had seen ranting on the dance floor had struck me as an overbearing jerk, but Leila Featherman saw her husband as a hero and loved him to distraction. Jerk or not, Harrison was incredibly lucky to have a wife who was smart enough to recognize that he had feet of clay and loyal enough to love him in spite of them. Right at that moment, I had no doubt that Leila Featherman loved her husband with every ounce of her being—loved him so much that she even worried about how he would handle the disturbing news of his ex-wife’s apparent death.

  “Have any more died?” Leila asked. “Any more of the doctors on the list? That’s what you FBI guys are supposed to be doing, isn’t it—protecting the doctors?”

  I guess I’m a little slow on the uptake sometimes. It wasn’t until then that I finally realized Leila Featherman had somehow jumped to the erroneous conclusion that J. P. Beaumont was an agent with the FBI. I was about to tell her otherwise when there was a click in the lock and Harrison Featherman let himself into the room, turning on the light as he did so. He smiled at Leila. “Why are you sitting here in the dark?” he asked. As soon as he saw me, the smile faded.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “It’s Mr. Beaumont, Harry,” Leila answered for me. “He’s with the FBI. Did Chloe find you?”

  “Chloe? No. Why? Was she looking for me?”

  “Please sit,” she said, patting the bed beside her. “Something terrible has happened.”

  Harrison Featherman did as he was told and sat on the edge of the bed next to his wife. “What?” he asked, then paled. “Not Marc. Please, God, don’t tell me something awful’s happened to Marc Alley.”

  “Not Marc, Harry,” Leila said gently. “It’s Margaret. She fell overboard late yesterday afternoon. Mr. Beaumont here came to give us the news. He seems to think it’s likely that she’s dead.”

  Harrison Featherman whole body shuddered as though he’d received a physical blow. “Margaret dead?” he rasped. “What do you mean, she fell off the ship?”

  “Just that. Mr. Beaumont said she went overboard at five forty-seven yesterday afternoon.”

  “You’re saying she drowned?”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” I hedged. “Depending on what kind
of swimmer she is, she may have made it to safety.”

  “Margaret’s an excellent swimmer,” Harrison Featherman declared. “But that doesn’t mean much when you go overboard while you’re at sea.”

  “We weren’t at sea,” I told him. “We were in Chatham Strait, just off Port Walter, when it happened.”

  “You’re saying people on this ship know exactly where we were when she fell in?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why the hell didn’t they do something about it at the time—like send out lifeboats or call in the Coast Guard. Why are we hearing about it now, more than twenty-four hours after it happened?”

  “Because none of the ship’s crew was aware of what had happened until today, when they were reviewing the security tapes. Her fall was captured on one of them.”

  Harrison stood up and strode over to the desk, where he picked up the telephone. “This is unbelievable!”

  “What are you doing?” Leila asked.

  “I’m going to call the Coast Guard and ask for a search team. We’ve got to try to find her.”

  “Please, Dr. Featherman,” I assured him. “Captain Giacometti has already handled that. Search and Rescue units are already on their way.”

  Sighing, Harrison Featherman put down the phone and returned to the bed. He sat down beside Leila, who leaned against him and began rubbing his back. Two fat tears dribbled down the man’s cheeks. He brushed them away with a single angry swipe.

  “Margaret can’t be gone,” he said. “She may have been a royal pain in the ass, but she still had so damned much to offer.” Then another thought crossed his mind. He looked at me and frowned.

  “She was messing around with Marc Alley. Is there a chance someone was really after Marc and got to Margaret by mistake? I saw her dancing with him. I’m sure she was going to take him to bed. That’s what she usually did with her young studs.” Harrison Featherman’s voice cracked as he said the words.

  I could see that Leila was right. Margaret’s death did grieve the man, but so did the fact that his ex-wife had been dancing with Marc Alley and was maybe about to get it on with him as well. In fact, listening to Harrison Featherman right then, I couldn’t tell which of the two situations bothered him more. The fact that he was upset and complaining about Margaret’s possible dalliance with Marc in the presence of his own young wife didn’t escape me, but it was evidently lost on him.

  About that time there was a loud knock on the door. Not the gentle, polite tap of an arriving room attendant, but the firm, in-your-face kind of knock administered by cops the world over. I recognized it. I’ve used that knock myself time and again.

  “Todd Bowman,” a voice in the corridor announced as soon as Leila Featherman opened the door. “I’m with the FBI. Is Dr. Featherman in?”

  As soon as I heard the name it all made perfect sense. Beaumont and Bowman. First Officer Vincente had misheard my name and had assumed that I was the FBI agent sent to investigate Margaret Featherman’s disappearance. No wonder he had treated me like visiting royalty. No wonder he had taken me, no questions asked, into the bowels of the ship and made me privy to that initial viewing of the security tape. No wonder he had asked me to notify Dr. Featherman of his ex-wife’s possibly fatal mishap. It was all a case of mistaken identity, and I was in deep water.

  Without even glancing in my direction, Bowman turned his attention full on Harrison Featherman. “I’m so sorry . . .” he began.

  “Don’t bother. I know all about it,” Harrison said impatiently, waving in my direction. “He already told me.”

  Bowman turned to me. “And you are?” he asked.

  “Beaumont,” I said. “J. P. Beaumont.”

  “Don’t you two know each other?” Leila Featherman asked. “I mean, you do work together, don’t you?”

  “No,” I said. My voice sounded very small. “We don’t.”

  “You don’t?” Leila looked puzzled. “But I thought . . . When you came to tell us . . .”

  “When he came to tell you what?” Todd Bowman asked.

  “About Margaret. I just assumed he was with the FBI. I mean, he knew about the list and everything.”

  Todd Bowman sighed. “Oh,” he said. “That’s all right then. I’m sure he’s working the list detail. First Officer Vincente told me there were other agents on board, but I didn’t think we’d be running into each other like this.” He offered me his hand. “Glad to meet you, Beaumont. And since you’ve already made the official notification, then there’s no need for me to do it.”

  “Right,” I agreed. I stood up and sidled toward the door. “But now that you’re here, I’ll be going. It’s probably best if I don’t hang around.”

  Bowman nodded. “You’re right. I’ll catch up with you later in case we need you.”

  On my way down the corridor, I broke into a cold sweat. In my own mind, I hadn’t been impersonating a federal officer, at least not intentionally. But I didn’t see how I’d be able to convince a federal prosecutor that was the case. Not in a million years.

  Back in my stateroom I went out onto the lanai and stood there. It was dark, and I could see the phosphorescent glow of water kicked up and disturbed by the ship’s passing. Despite myself, I couldn’t keep from imagining what that horrific plunge must have been like for Margaret Featherman. My cabin was on the Capri Deck. Hers had been on Aloha—three decks closer to the water. Still, even from Aloha, it was a very long fall into the sea—the same as falling off the top of a building that was four or five stories tall.

  So who was responsible? Instinct told me that neither Leila Featherman nor her husband had anything to do with Margaret’s fall or death, whichever it was. I regard myself as a fairly good judge of human behavior and character. The news had rocked them both. And they had both grasped eagerly at any suggestion that Margaret might still be alive. I had been only too glad to leave them with that small glimmer of hope. It was true, the Coast Guard might still find her, but in the privacy of my own mind a happy outcome didn’t seem likely. I was pretty well convinced the only thing successful searchers would bring home with them would be Margaret Featherman’s body-bagged mortal remains.

  I considered Harrison’s initial reaction, before he knew the bad news was about Margaret. His first concern had been that whatever had happened might have had to do with Marc Alley. And then, later on, even after he knew Margaret was the victim, he had wondered if perhaps Marc had been the killer’s real target. As far as I was concerned, the duct tape pretty well ruled that out. This wasn’t a case of mistaken identity. Whoever had wrapped Margaret’s face in tape had known the person they were dealing with or at least the person they thought they were dealing with.

  There was a possibility that with three separate parties named Featherman on board the ship, the hit man—I was convinced the person carrying the tray had been male—might have gotten the staterooms confused. He might have gone to Margaret’s cabin thinking it was Harrison and Leila’s cabin and had thrown the woman he found there into the water believing Margaret was Harrison’s current wife rather than his first one.

  How likely is that? I wondered.

  Well, cases of mistaken identity seemed to be running rampant on the Starfire Breeze. There was my current Bowman/Beaumont problem, for one thing. And then I remembered how, on that first night, a fax addressed to Margaret Featherman had mistakenly been delivered to Chloe, her daughter. If someone from the ship’s crew could make that kind of error, couldn’t a killer mix things up as well? Besides, anyone who still thinks crooks are smart hasn’t spent the last twenty-odd years dealing with them.

  If that was what had happened—if the Leave It To God folks had mixed up whose cabin was whose—Marc Alley was still in danger and still out of the loop. I tried calling Rachel Dulles’ cabin to discuss the situation with her and see what she thought, but there was no answer, and I didn’t feel comfortable leaving a message for her on voice mail. I’ll tell Marc at dinner, I told myself. That’ll be soon enough.
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br />   Later, when I was getting ready to go to dinner, Beverly called me. The sound of her voice reminded me that now, through their own kindness, they too were involved in something far more serious than simply being good Samaritans. The question was, should I let them go ahead and become involved, or should I warn them away? I felt I had a moral obligation to be straight with them. Besides, Lars had been at the meeting as well. He had heard Lucy’s story at the same time I had.

  “Lars and I are getting ready to go down and stay with Mike Conyers right now,” Beverly was saying cheerfully. “Lucy’s about to leave for the second seating in the Regal Dining Room, so we need to be at their cabin as soon as possible.”

  “Wait,” I said, making up my mind. “Let me come down and talk to you before you go.”

  “I don’t see why that’s necessary—”

  “Believe me, Beverly, it is. Just wait for me, please. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

  The elevators were crowded with people going to dinner. I hustled down the stairway instead. “So what’s this all about?” Lars asked when he opened the door to let me into their stateroom.

  “If you’re going to get involved in this, you should know that Mike Conyers wasn’t making it up,” I told them. “He really did see someone fall in the water. Her name was Margaret Featherman, and it happened at five forty-seven yesterday afternoon, about the time everyone else on board was looking at that pod of whales. Her fall was captured on one of the ship’s video cameras, but no one other than Mike actually saw what happened until today—this afternoon, when we reviewed the tape.”

  “Why, forevermore!” Beverly breathed. “I can hardly believe it.”

  “Where’d it happen?” Lars asked.

  “In Chatham Strait,” I said. “Near Port Walter.”

  “That’s good, then,” Lars said at once. Suddenly he was all business and know-how. “The shipping lanes through there aren’t all that far from shore. If she’s a halfway decent swimmer, she might have made it to land. I remember there’s an old cannery at Port Walter with a bunch of old buildings where she could have gone inside and dried off. And then there’s the fish-and-game station. That’s a year-round outfit. She could have gone there for help, too. Has anyone contacted them yet?”