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

by Jance, Judith A.

  “How long have you worked here?”

  “This is my last year,” she said.

  “The girls can only work four years,” Lars put in. “That’s as long as Dulcie will let them stay. It’s like an athletic scholarship. You get four years of eligibility.”

  The driver glanced at Lars in the mirror. “I haven’t seen you before, but I’ll bet you’re one of Dulcie’s old-timers, aren’t you!”

  “Ya.” Lars nodded. “Ya, sure.”

  Just as Lars had said, Dulcie sounded like quite a businesswoman. She cycled her girls through her system in four-year shifts. That way she get’s ’em when they’re young and healthy, and sends them on their way before they get too old.

  We were out of town now—I wasn’t sure in which direction—and driving through a hazy suburban landscape interspersed with patches of forest. We might have been in one of Seattle’s eastern suburbs—North Bend or Snoqualmie. We passed a sign on the right-hand side of the road that said ROOKIES. A gravel driveway wound up a rise and gave way to an uneven gravel-and-mud parking lot dotted with pickup trucks and SUVs. The building situated in the middle of the lot looked like any other nondescript commercial building—one that could just as easily be either a bar or a warehouse.

  “There used to be a lot more trees around here,” Lars said. “And why does that sign say ‘Rookies’? What happened to the Kiksadi?”

  “Changed hands,” our driver informed us helpfully. “The new owners decided not to try to compete with Dulcie, so they turned it into a sports bar. They have male strippers in occasionally, but only on special occasions. The girls are all down the road—with Dulcie.”

  “That’s it!” Lars exclaimed with a grin. “She told the guy that she was gonna get even and put him out of business. Looks like she did yust that.”

  Half a mile farther down the road we came to a second clearing. Even in the middle of the day, there must have been thirty cars parked in the smoothly paved lot, not counting the five matching pink Suburbans lined up in reserved spots near the front door. The Quixote Club wasn’t just a single building, either. Behind the main building—a two-story rambling affair that showed clear signs of regular painting and maintenance—stood a series of small, sturdily built cabins. I had a pretty good idea about what those were used for but made no comment. In the contest between the old Kiksadi Club and the Quixote Club, no matter how you pronounced the name, there could be no question that the Quixote was the hands-down winner.

  Our driver pulled up to the door. “You buy your tickets from the booth just inside,” she directed. “The show starts in about ten minutes. When it’s over, come outside and we’ll shuttle you back downtown. It’ll take a few minutes to change. When things slow down like this, we have to double as dancers and drivers both.”

  Inside the door was a vestibule complete with a glass-enclosed ticket booth. Beyond that was another room that reeked of cigarette smoke and was filled with the talk and laughter of guys having a good time. The ticket booth was staffed by a woman who was almost as wide as the booth itself. “May I help you?” she asked.

  As soon as the woman opened her mouth, I recognized the sultry voice from the answering machine. She may have once been beautiful. It was difficult to see her former beauty wrapped in the fleshy, sagging-jowled body imprisoned behind the glass, but the woman’s voice alone was enough to bring Lars to attention.

  He squared his shoulders, stepped up to the window, pulled out his billfold, and handed over a crisp hundred-dollar bill. For a change there was no grumbling about how much things cost. “Hi, there, Dulcie,” he said. “Two, please.”

  The woman handed him two tickets and his change, then there was a momentary pause while she studied him. At last her eyes lit up with recognition. “Why, Lars Jenssen, you old devil! What on earth are you doing here? So you finally decided to come check up on me, did you? Why didn’t you call ahead and let me know?”

  I couldn’t quibble with Dulcie’s genuine pleasure at seeing Lars again. If he had come to what he called the Quicksaudy Club for just the dancing and drinking, as he claimed, then I was a monkey’s uncle. But then again, anything that may have transpired between Lars and Dulcie was years in the past. It was no more my business than what was happening between Naomi Pepper and me was his.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Dulcie asked.

  “On the wagon.” Lars’ answer was a little sheepish and delivered with far less bravado than he might have used in the course of an AA meeting.

  “Good for you,” she returned. “What else is new?”

  “My wife passed away a few years ago, but I got remarried,” he continued. “My new wife, Beverly, and I are here on our honeymoon. We came in on the Starfire Breeze.”

  “Well, it’s good to see you again. And we’ve got plenty of O’Doul’s, or Sharp’s, if that’s what you’re drinking these days. And who’s this?” she asked, nodding in my direction.

  “My new grandson,” Lars said. “His name’s Beau—Beau Beaumont.”

  So here it was, contact at last—the moment I had been waiting for. But Dulcie never missed a beat. She beamed at me. “Glad to meet you, Beau. I’m Dulcinea Wadsworth. Most people call me Dulcie.”

  The outside door opened and two more paying customers got in line behind us. “The show’s about to start,” Dulcie said, “so why don’t you go on inside. My table’s the one to the right of the door. It’s marked ‘Reserved,’ but go ahead and sit there anyway. If anyone objects, tell them I said so—as long as you don’t mind sitting in the back row, that is.”

  “The back row’s fine,” Lars said. “I already told you, I’m married now. Besides, a man my age can’t afford to get too excited.”

  Leaving Dulcie Wadsworth to collect her other admissions, Lars and I stepped inside and took two of the four seats at a table marked RESERVED. I was careful to leave the chair next to me empty in case Dulcie planned to use the cover of darkness to explain the message she had left for me earlier.

  It was just before noon, so I was startled to see that the room was more than half full. I was also surprised to see any number of familiar faces—including Mr. Twenty Questions, the guy who had given Todd Bowman such hell in the Starlight Theater a few hours earlier. It was clear from the way the members of the audience were dressed that most of the old duffers were passengers from the Starfire Breeze. There were also a few swaggering, flannel-wearing youngsters. These were fisherman off the fleet, I supposed.

  Young or old, all of the attendees were intent on having an uproarious boys’ day out. They were drinking, smoking (an activity discouraged on the ship in anything other than the designated smoking lounges), laughing, and having a good time. Except for the bartender and three overworked cocktail waitresses, there weren’t any other women in sight.

  “What’ll you have?” the cocktail waitress asked once she worked her way over to our table.

  “O’Doul’s,” Lars told her.

  “Tonic with a twist,” I said.

  “That’ll be ten dollars each,” she said. “Cash only, no tabs, no credit cards.”

  Dulcie Wadsworth had a fine business sense, all right. And from the looks of things, the Quixote Club was raking in the dough.

  Several more customers came in after we did. Then, just before the lights dimmed, Dulcie herself entered the room as well. She swept past the place I had left for her. Instead, she eased her wide girth onto the chair next to Lars and then leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek.

  “It’s so good to see you again,” she said. “You’re looking well. Sorry to hear about your wife.”

  Lars nodded. “It was Alzheimer’s,” he said.

  “She was sick for a long time?”

  He nodded again. Dulcie reached over and patted his arm sympathetically. On her hand were several oversize rings, including a door-knob-sized emerald surrounded by a mound of sparkling diamonds. “I wish you and that new wife of yours years of happiness,” she said. “You certainly deserve i
t.”

  The cocktail waitress returned with our drinks. “Did you already pay for those?” Dulcie asked.

  “Yes,” I told her.

  “Give them back their money, Kristin,” Dulcie ordered the waitress. “Lars is an old friend of mine. Their drinks are on the house.”

  Without a word, the cocktail waitress nodded, handed us back our money, and then hurried off to deliver the rest of her tray of drinks while she could still see to do it. When the lights dimmed, a woman stepped onto the small stage that was positioned just to the right of the bar. It was difficult to tell how old the dancer was. She was dressed as a ragged old charwoman complete with a cap on her head and a dust mop in her hand. The outfit reminded me of those old charwoman comedy routines Carol Burnett used to do on TV, except Carol Burnett never used to take anything off. This one did—all of it—and I have to admit, it was pretty impressive. By the time the ugly duckling had turned into a beautiful and almost naked swan, money—paper bills in the form of tens and twenties—were raining down around her head.

  As the audience applauded and roared its approval, I felt a hand on my leg just above my knee. I looked up and there, sitting next to me, was Margaret Featherman. Without a word, she put a finger to her lips to silence me. Then she beckoned for me to follow her outside.

  If the United States Coast Guard was still out searching Chatham Strait for Margaret Featherman, they were looking in the wrong damn place.

  22

  WITHOUT A WORD, Margaret led me through the vestibule and over to a door that I had assumed led to a closet of some kind. Instead, the door opened onto a steep stairwell. She led me up the stairs and into a large and comfortably furnished living room complete with a massive log-burning fireplace. In one corner of the room was a home office complete with computer, printer, and a set of file cabinets, while at the other end was a rough-hewn refectory table. In front of the fireplace sat a coffee table made from a gnarled slab of polished root, and under the burl-wood table was an enormous bearskin rug made from an amazingly large grizzly. It was a room I felt immediately at home in even if it was situated smack on top of a whorehouse.

  It wasn’t until we were both inside the room that Margaret turned and faced me. That’s when I saw the bruises on her face. Green and yellow marks that began above her eyes and covered both cheeks made Beverly’s accident on the treadmill look minor in comparison.

  Margaret nodded. “I know,” she said. “The bruises are ugly as hell, but that’s what happens when you hit the water wrong. I’m just lucky I wasn’t knocked out cold. If that had happened, I’d be dead by now. Hello, Mr. Beaumont,” she added. “How are you?”

  “Fine.”

  “You don’t seem especially surprised to see me.”

  “I’m not. I heard your voice in the background on the phone the other night. At least I thought it was you.”

  A look of concern passed over her face. “Did you tell anyone?”

  “No, not without knowing for sure. I waited to see if you’d call back. You didn’t.”

  She sighed. “I’m glad you didn’t tell,” she said. “The fewer people who know I’m still alive, the better.”

  “What do you want?” I asked. “And why did you contact me instead of your friends or a family member? They’re all worried sick about you. They think you’re dead. And as far as I know, the Coast Guard is still looking for you. When they find out you’re safe and sound, they may very well charge you for the cost of that search.”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I can afford it. I’ve been using Dulcie’s computer to keep an eye on the market. If the Coast Guard sends me a bill, I’ll be able to pay.”

  “You still haven’t said what you want with me.”

  “I want to offer you a job.”

  “A job? What makes you think I want a job?”

  “You’re a retired cop. You’re on your uppers enough that you’re putting in your time as a cruise dance host. It crossed my mind that you might appreciate a regular dollars-and-cents paycheck or two to tide you over until you land yourself a rich widow.”

  A lot had happened since that morning when Naomi and I had met up with Margaret Featherman on her way to the gym. Naomi had moved beyond the dance host rumor, but as soon as Margaret mentioned it again, I went all defensive and came out swinging. “I’m not interested in rich widows,” I told her curtly. “Or rich divorcées, either, for that matter. And I’m not in the market for a paycheck. I’m fine without one.”

  “That’s too bad,” she said. “I was really hoping I could talk you into helping me.”

  Margaret Featherman was anything but the kind of person who could appeal to someone’s better nature—assuming I had one of those. But she was a survivor and a fighter—traits that forced me to grant her a certain amount of respect. She had also piqued my curiosity.

  “What kind of a job?” I asked.

  “You’re a former homicide detective,” she said. “I want you to find out who tried to kill me. I may be big news right now, but that’s only because people think I’m dead. At the moment I’m sure there are a whole lot of people working like mad to find the person who killed me. But once they figure out I’m still alive, they’ll lose interest. There’s far more riding on a homicide investigation than there is on an attempted homicide.”

  I had to admit there was some truth in what she said. In terms of parceling out resources, law enforcement agencies expend far more energy and focus on cases where the victim actually dies than they do in situations where, by virtue of luck or the advances of medical science, the potential victim ends up pulling through.

  In spite of myself, I felt myself being sucked in. Rachel Dulles had asked me to look out for Marc Alley’s well-being, and I had agreed to that, but it hadn’t appealed to me nearly as much as what Margaret Featherman was offering me now—the chance to get a killer off the streets. Even though I had pretty well made up my mind to say yes, I decided to play hard to get. Margaret was in the habit of always getting her own way. I wanted her to have to work for it.

  “Before I say yes or no,” I told her, “I want you to answer some questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like who sent you the draft copy of Harrison’s new will?”

  Beneath the ugly bruises, Margaret’s skin turned chalk-white. “Melissa Pepper,” she said.

  I had been right about the Kinko’s connection. “Why?”

  Margaret shrugged. “Who knows? To hurt me, maybe?”

  “And how did she come to be in possession of it?”

  “Harrison gave it to her,” she answered.

  “And why did he do that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he’s sick and dying, or maybe he just thinks he is. But the will makes it pretty clear. Melissa said Harrison told her that she’s really his daughter, not Gary Pepper’s. And that in the event of Harrison’s death, she’s to receive a portion of his estate equal to Chloe’s. They each get twenty-five percent, while the other fifty goes to Leila and her new brat. Melissa said Harrison wanted to encourage her to ‘get her life on track.’ That’s how she put it.

  “Since she evidently didn’t know about any of this before, I have no idea why, after all this time, Harrison would have tracked Melissa down to give her the news. Missy Pepper’s been screwed up for years—since long before Gary Pepper died. My best guess is that the idea that one of Harrison’s offspring isn’t living up to her potential is driving him crazy. He’s something of a perfectionist.”

  “So you talked to Melissa?”

  Margaret nodded. “She called me that afternoon, after she sent the fax. She called on my cell phone. It was a number I didn’t recognize, but I answered because of the IPO. I thought it might be something about that.”

  “Why did she call you?”

  “To ask me if it was true or not.” Margaret paused. “The little bitch,” she added. “Why didn’t she ask her mother, instead?”

  I could have told Margaret that Melissa Pepper h
ated her mother, but I didn’t. When no answer was forthcoming from me, Margaret continued. “As soon as I got off the phone with Missy, I called Naomi and gave her hell about it. She claimed she knew nothing about the will, but she must have. And the will isn’t the point. I couldn’t believe she had betrayed me that way with Harrison. I asked her why she had done it. All she could say was didn’t I understand? She had wanted a baby so desperately. All she wanted was a baby. She said, since I had Chloe, I probably didn’t know what it was like, but I did, of course. I understood far better than she could have imagined.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not fair,” Margaret objected. “If you’re not going to help me, there’s no point in my telling you any of this.”

  “I’m leaning in that direction,” I said. “Tell me anyway.”

  “I had an abortion,” she said.

  “So? It’s not the end of the world. Lots of women have abortions.”

  “It was an illegal abortion.” As Margaret spoke, the words she loosed in the air were so brittle they might have been flying shards of glass.

  “A botched illegal abortion,” she added. “It was after Chloe was born but before Roe v. Wade. Harrison made me do it. The miracle is that it didn’t kill me. It almost did, but I couldn’t have any more children after that. Chloe was it.”

  “But why get an abortion in the first place? You and Harrison were married then. Didn’t you want more than one child?”

  “We did want more, but when we found out I was pregnant, Harrison wanted me to have the fetus tested. Amniocentesis wasn’t nearly as sophisticated back then as it is now, but it was enough. The test showed my baby, a little boy, would have had Down syndrome. Harrison didn’t want that. Not him. He only wanted perfect children, you see. Now he’ll have three: one, Chloe, who, in his estimation, is perfect in every way and worships the ground he walks on; and Melissa Pepper, who has her sights set on being a grade-A loser and who says she hates him anyway, at least that’s what she told me on the phone. As for the third one, who knows about him?”