A Birder's Guide to Murder Page 12

  The invasion had begun.

  ZombieFest was going on at the other end of the Expo Center and was clearly in full Saturday swing. I studied the gray, ashen faces as I stood at the back of the long line leading to the sandwich counter.

  Did one of these pasty faces belong to Peter Porter, the zombie who had reported to the police that he had seen Esther in the vicinity of JJ Fuller’s dressing room at the time of the murder?

  I glanced at my watch as I inched my way further up the line.

  “Hey, Peter. Wait up.” A young woman with double ponytails, severe black lips and hollow-looking eyes bounded up to a young man of average build. And average looks, for a zombie, that is. He limped towards her.

  It was my Mr. Peter Porter. I jumped out of line. “Hold my place for me?” I smiled sweetly at the gentleman behind me and barged between Peter Porter and his friend. “Hi, Mr. Porter. Amy Simms, remember me?”

  “No.”

  “Who’s she?” Her dark blue eyes seemed to scour my flesh. Was she sizing me up? Wondering how I’d taste?

  The skin was peeling from her face and her teeth were yellow. Then again, what zombies weren’t?

  “I never saw her before, babe.” Porter removed the young woman’s hand from his forearm. He balanced a plastic food tray in his hands. On it sat a roast beef sandwich, fries and a soda. Hardly flesh-eating zombie food. “Can I help you?”

  “We met the other day. You were with Detective Locke.”

  “Who?” The girl was determined to stick her nose in.

  “Nobody,” Porter said to the girl.

  Porter was squirming. He looked repulsive too. His face was covered in icky pustules where it wasn’t marked by bruised, dead-looking flesh. More wounds covered his body. His charcoal trousers were torn at the knees and tattered at the cuffs. Loose dirty bandages crisscrossed his torso over a camel-colored shirt. An open pack of cigarettes stuck out of his shirt pocket.

  I didn’t bother to tell him those things could kill him. After all, he was dead, or undead, already. What would be the point?

  “You told the detective you saw my friend, Esther Pilaster, in the vicinity of the murder.”

  The young woman gasped. “You mean that dead bird guy?”

  I nodded. “JJ Fuller.”

  “What’s this all about, Peter?” pressed his companion.

  Porter scowled, looking suddenly very zombielike.

  “Nothing, Suze.”

  He stepped around me. “I’ve gotta go.”

  I jumped in his path. “Please, my friend is in trouble. The police seem to think she may be involved in JJ Fuller’s killing.”

  “Isn’t she?”

  “No.” I stuck my chin out at him. “She isn’t.”

  “Whatever.” Porter stepped to the left.

  “What were you and Ilsa Skoglund doing in the woods together?”

  Porter froze.

  “Alone.” I added that bit knowing it would get a rise out of his maybe girlfriend. It did. She was looking daggers at him now.

  Definitely a girlfriend.

  “None of your business,” he snapped.

  “She didn’t look happy. In fact, neither of you looked particularly happy.”

  “Who is Ilsa Skoglund?” Suze’s eyes were on Porter. I detected a flash of jealousy. A big flash.

  Peter looked around and set his plastic tray on the nearest empty table. “Give me a minute, Suze.”

  “But—”

  He raised his hand. “I’ll meet you inside.”

  Suze frowned but tromped off.

  “Listen, lady. I don’t know what your game is but I don’t want any trouble.”

  “Neither do I. All I want is the truth.”

  Peter Porter looked at the crowded space filled with inquisitive ears, then clenched his jaw. “Not here. Not now.”

  “Fine. But I want to talk to you. When and where?”

  Noting his hesitation, I added, “You may as well get it over with. I’m not going to stop badgering you until you do.”

  He pulled back the fake grey bandages that wrapped up his spindly arm and studied his watch—the face of which portrayed a zombified Albert Einstein.

  And I thought bird lovers were eccentric. The zombie-loving crowd had it all over us.

  “One hour.” He pushed down his sleeve.

  “Where?”

  This seemed to require more thought.

  Finally, he said, “The fashion show. Backstage.”

  “What fashion show?”

  “The ZombieFest Runway Show,” he replied as if it was obvious, which it obviously wasn’t. “I’m the emcee. I’ll meet you before the show.”

  Peter Porter scooped up his tray and melted into the crowd. Not an easy thing to do dressed as a zombie, but he somehow managed.

  * * * *

  “You’re alone?” I handed Derek a tuna on whole wheat, a bag of potato chips, coleslaw, and the largest root beer I could buy. Derek is a nut for root beer soda. “Where are Floyd and Karl?”

  “I have no idea. They never showed up.”

  “That’s funny.” I looked around again as if they might suddenly appear. They didn’t. “How long can it take to park a car?”

  “You missed all the excitement though.”

  “What excitement?”

  “That assistant of JJ Fuller’s, Nikki Nilsson, showed up. She looked pretty—”

  “Pretty?”

  “You didn’t let me finish. Pretty smashed. She caused quite a scene.”

  “I don’t see any sign of her now.”

  “No.” Derek tore open the bag of chips and dug inside. “Irv Shipman intercepted her.”

  Irving Shipman. I wondered if he’d noticed all his missing gear. Expensive missing gear. I’d look for him later and try to explain, sort things out. Before he had a chance to file a report with the police, if he hadn’t done so already.

  My checkbook couldn’t handle having to provide bail for both Floyd and Karl.

  As Derek wolfed his meal, I explained about my run in with Peter Porter. “I’m supposed to meet him soon.”

  “Go ahead.” Derek wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “I can handle things here.”

  “Are you sure?” I wrung my hands. “I feel terrible sticking you at the booth for hours and hours.”

  “Mostly I’ve been collecting business cards and handing out yours. Talking up the store.” Derek shrugged off my concern and extended his arms. “Besides, what else have I got to do?” he asked with a grin. “You wouldn’t let me bring my golf clubs.” He took an imaginary swing.

  “Nice shot,” I commented. “Now kiss me.”

  He did.

  “Next time,” I said, feeling all weak in the knees, “I promise, you can bring your clubs. I wish I had one of them now. I could use your nine iron to keep Floyd, Karl and Esther in line.”

  Leaving Derek alone once again, I hurried to the opposite end of the Expo Center. A man guarding the entrance to that hall had a harried look on his face as I tried brushing past him. “Hold on,” he ordered, grabbing hold of my lanyard. “This says American Birding Expo.”

  “Yes.” I snatched my badge back.

  “This is ZombieFest, ma’am.” A fat finger pointed back the way I had come. “You want the other end of the Expo Center.”

  “No. This is the right place. I’m here to see someone.”

  The burly security guard wore a long-sleeved black t-shirt which stated in block letters that he was SECURITY. The shirt fell over a generous stomach. “You don’t have a ZombieFest badge. No badge, no admittance.”

  “I’ll only be a minute. I’m supposed to meet Peter Porter.” I checked the time on my phone. “I’m running late as it is.”

  “Sounds like you better hightail it over to registrati
on.”

  The man, with a face that was too small for his nose, made a gun of his right hand and shot a round of blanks toward a row of portable six-foot tables set up along the wall opposite. Each was manned by a ZombieFest volunteer.

  I approached one with more rings on and in her face than I had in my entire jewelry box. Hers were silver. Mine were a mixed bag.

  After some negotiation and the exchanging of money, mine, I was given a badge that gave me one-day admittance to ZombieFest.

  Oh, joy.

  But that wasn’t the end of my troubles. The registration police guarding entrance to ZombieFest had refused admittance unless I dressed what they called appropriately for the occasion.

  Suitable dress, per their standards, included an over-sized, over-priced gray and black ZombieFest t-shirt with a frayed collar, featuring a flesh-eating ghoul slurping up the brains of her unwitting victim. That set me back thirty dollars cash. Add that to the hair and makeup session that set me back another fifty and my little talk with Peter Porter was costing me big bucks.

  I hoped the venture paid off.

  Now I was late for my meeting with Peter Porter.

  “Excuse me.” I began pushing people aside as I cleared the entrance and entered the large exhibition hall. Well, I thought they were people. Who was to say some real zombies hadn’t infiltrated into the wannabe zombie crowd?

  “I’m looking for Peter Porter. Have you seen him?” I asked one undead woman pushing a stroller. She was no help. Neither were the skeletal remains she was hauling in the stroller.

  A nasty looking zombie with dark red blood—or something that I prayed only very much resembled it—dripping from an open wound on his cheek answered. “I saw him having a beer in back.”

  “Where’s back?”

  A heavily made-up hand ending in a ragged black fingernail pointed to my right. “He’s probably still there.”

  I didn’t want to know what was under his fingernails. Dead brain cells?

  “Thanks,” I shouted over the noise of the loud zombie four-piece band, which appropriately screeched out some nearly incomprehensible death metal tune.

  Well, tune was a charitable description of the noise coming from the left side of the low stage. The keyboard player, in particular, seemed more intent on smashing keys than playing any specific notes in any predetermined order.

  Across the room, I spotted Porter’s friend, Suze, in black lingerie, covered in oozing abscesses. Two men in torn and blood-streaked bridal gowns flanked her.

  “Such a waste of tulle and satin,” I mumbled.

  I waved to Suze. She ignored the gesture.

  I spied Porter behind the black curtains.

  He scowled at me. “You’re late.”

  “Sorry. I had trouble getting in.”

  He nodded in understanding. “You look good.”

  I pulled at my dyed gray hair, glancing at my pasty complexion in a backstage mirror. I hoped I didn’t end up looking like this in my old age. “Thanks.”

  “Let’s cut to the chase,” I began. “What were you and Ilsa Skoglund arguing about?”

  “Nothing. We were having a little conversation, that’s all.”

  “Why the secrecy?”

  “Who says there was any secrecy?” he scoffed, tossing back a beer.

  Porter dropped the empty can to the ground and stomped it underfoot. “You one of those conspiracy nuts?” He ripped another can from the yoke of the six-pack atop the wooden stool at his side.

  I was getting angry. All the zombie music was giving me a headache. The veins in my temples throbbed in synch with the beat. Plus, I was having a reaction to the heavy makeup the woman had used on me. My face felt like it was being eaten by fire ants.

  “You met Ms. Skoglund in the middle of the woods,” I asserted. “You don’t strike me as being the bird-walking type.” If there was ever a zombie walk, Peter Porter would probably be at the top of the signup list.

  I wondered if zombies kept life lists…or was that undead lists?

  “You want the truth?”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “I never saw your friend anywhere near that dead guy’s room.” He glared at me with bloodshot eyes. Was it alcohol or special effects?

  “You didn’t?” I bristled. “Why did you tell the police you did? Don’t you realize the trouble you caused?”

  “Somebody paid me.”

  “You threw my friend under the bus for a few dollars? She could go to prison.”

  He stiffened. “I needed the money. Being a zombie doesn’t exactly pay the bills.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it does. Who paid you? Was it Ms. Skoglund?”

  “I can’t tell you that. And if you tell anybody what I said, I’ll deny it.”

  “Hey, Porter.” A corpulent, corpse-like giant zombie waved. “You’re on. Get your rotting carcass on stage.”

  “Gotta go.”

  I scurried after Porter. “But you haven’t answered all my questions. Who paid you?”

  Peter Porter’s face darkened. He looked frightened. And frightening. “After the show.” He tipped his beer and chugged thirstily. “But, like I said, whatever I tell you stays between us. Tell anybody else and I’ll call you a liar.”

  He handed me the can, turned and left. Suze stood watching us closely.

  I tossed the can in an open trash barrel and squeezed my way to the middle of the audience to watch the runway show. I was there anyway and had paid for the privilege. Why not make the best of it?

  Zombies of the male, female, and canine persuasions paraded the runway, lurching awkwardly like only zombies could or should. Some were in lingerie, others bandages, bikinis, bridal gowns and tuxedos.

  One zombie man wore a giant diaper. That was just gross.

  Peter Porter provided color commentary for each contestant.

  At the end of the show, three of the undead were awarded gold zombie statuettes. A man and woman dressed as zombie bride and groom handed out the trophies to much applause and the occasional boo from a disgruntled fan who thought their favorite should have won.

  I realized then there was no sign of Peter Porter.

  I pushed my way through the crowd in search of him. I was afraid he would try to get away before he could tell me everything he knew.

  And I had a feeling that was plenty.

  14

  Suze and a gathering of buzzing zombies loitered behind the curtain at the back of the stage near the exit door.

  “Have you seen Peter?” I laid a hand on Suze’s clammy arm.

  She looked disturbed. And disturbing. But I figured that was normal. What zombie doesn’t?

  She pulled away. “Leave him alone. You’ve caused enough trouble.”

  “Wait. What trouble?”

  But Suze no-last-name was gone.

  I pushed through the tight-packed crowd, feeling squeamish. It was unnerving to be jostled by a pack of swarming zombies. I felt like I’d unwittingly stepped onto the set of a George Romero movie or, worse yet, into a very real zombie apocalypse.

  I only hoped that these zombies had had their fill of human brains for the day because I wasn’t in a mood to share mine.

  A young man grabbed my wrist in a not unfriendly fashion. “Nice outfit, lady.” His smile, meant no doubt to be suave and come hither, was spoiled by the dark brown caps over his teeth. “Who are you supposed to be?”

  At least I hoped those were caps.

  I blurted out the first thing I could think of, the name of a character from Z: A Zombie Musical, an obscure musical film from the early 2000s about a zombie pug who zombifies a trio of skinny-dipping nuns.

  “Cool.” My suitor nodded appreciatively. He wasn’t bad looking actually. Under all that makeup, I imagined an olive-skinned Greek god with longish black hair and
smoldering eyes, and a body that spent more time working in the gym than it did at a day job. “I’m Stalker. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Sorry, Stalker.” I smiled. Stalker? I could only hope that wasn’t the name on his birth certificate.

  And I really hoped he hadn’t gotten the moniker due to a predilection for following single women like me around. “One pint of blood a day is my limit.” I tugged and he readily released his grip on my wrist. “Actually, maybe you can help me.”

  “Yeah? Happy to.”

  “I’m looking for Peter. Peter Porter.”

  “Oh.” He appeared about as crestfallen as a zombie possibly could. That’s a hard look to pull off when you are already looking like death warmed over.

  “Have you seen him?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, my Adonis in zombie clothing reluctantly answered. “Yeah. I saw him go outside.” He jerked his thumb over his right shoulder indicating the exit door. “Probably getting stoned or getting smashed.” He chuckled. “Maybe both.”

  I rolled my eyes. It was going to be hard getting answers out of Porter if he was stoned out of his mind and drunk to boot, let alone meaningful answers.

  “Thanks.” I turned to go.

  “I’ll come with you.” Making himself useful, he carved a path through his zombie cohorts and threw open the exit door.

  Peter Porter sat on the ground, his back against the wall. His feet were tucked under one of the big garbage bins lining the rear.

  Near at hand, a dented beer can lay on its side in a puddle of suds.

  “Hey, Porter. Wake up. You’ve got company.” Stalker gave him a toe kick. “Drunk again. What a lush.” He turned to me with a look filled with distaste. “Disgusting isn’t it?”

  “Sort of,” I could only reply. This was my first experience with a drunken zombie. Hopefully it would be my last. “Maybe we should let him sleep it off.”

  I was more frustrated than disgusted. A comatose zombie was a useless zombie.

  “Are you kidding?” Stalker leaned forward and yanked hard on Porter’s right arm.

  I couldn’t help thinking that if Porter had been a proper zombie, it probably would have come off in his hands.