A Birder's Guide to Murder Read online

  “No. I’m staying in Philadelphia, remember?” She looked puzzled. “The inn that Hikers and Bikers had booked?”

  “Right. I guess I forgot.” She took a small sip. “How are the rooms?”

  “Fine.” There was no point explaining the mix-up and how there were only two rooms and how I’d had to pay top dollar for them. It would only sidetrack me from my reason for being there: murder.

  “So what brings you here?”

  “I suppose you heard about Peter Porter’s stabbing?”

  “Who?”

  Her hands had become very still in her lap. She held the beer tightly.

  “The unfortunate man who was murdered at ZombieFest.”

  “Oh, sure. Him. Thank goodness the incident happened at ZombieFest and not at the birding expo. I mean, I’m sorry it happened at all but I’m not sure the Expo could have survived a second murder.” She raised her beer and drank quickly. “You know what I mean?”

  “I suppose.” Was that why she had murdered Porter at the other end of the exhibition center? Because she was worried that a second dead body in the space of a couple of days would have dire consequences for the American Birding Expo?

  “Were you a friend of Porter’s, Phoebe?”

  “Me?” Her free hand flew to her chest. “Not at all. Why would you even ask that?”

  “No reason. I was just wondering. Someone mentioned they had seen the two of you talking.” I was lying but wanted to see how she’d react.

  “That’s weird. I don’t even know what he looked like,” Phoebe was quick to reply. “Whoever told you that is mistaken.”

  “I guess so. Did you know it was Porter who told Detective Locke that he’d seen Esther in the vicinity of JJ’s dressing room before he was killed?”

  “No. Wow.” Phoebe rose, turned her back on me and dropped her empty bottle into the trashcan beneath the desk. It hit with a very loud thud. “Are you sure I can’t get you something?” She reached into the fridge and pulled out a fresh beer.

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  “So why are you here exactly?”

  It was time to lay all my cards on the table. “I’m worried about Esther. If the police can’t find JJ’s killer, she could go to prison.”

  “I doubt that. They don’t really have enough evidence to convict, do they? I mean, wasn’t she released? I thought I saw her wandering around the Expo Center this afternoon.”

  That got my attention. “You saw Esther this afternoon?”

  “Yes. I mean, I believe it was her. She was with a man.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “No, not really. I only saw them from a distance. He looked to be about her age. He had on a long dark coat.” She ran her thumb over the lip of the beer bottle. “I could be mistaken. It may not have been Esther.”

  I let this latest news sink in for a moment. If Esther had been at the Expo Center this afternoon, why had she kept it a secret from the rest of us? And who was with her?

  It could only be Marty. She didn’t know anybody else. At least, I didn’t think she did.

  And if the two of them were at the Expo Center, it meant that they could somehow be mixed up in the murder of Peter Porter.

  Did the police know they had been at the Expo Center around the time of the second murder? If so, Esther could find herself back behind bars faster than a dive-bombing peregrine falcon hits its unsuspecting target.

  “Are you okay, Amy?”

  I opened my eyes. I probably shouldn’t have shut them whilst alone in a room with a possible murderess anyway. “Yes, I was just thinking.” At least I was still breathing and had no obvious wounds lethal or otherwise.

  “If there’s anything you can think of that can help Esther, help to find JJ’s real killer, I’d appreciate it. We both would,” I added. “Even if Esther is never actually tried and convicted, there will be a cloud of suspicion hanging over her head for the rest of her life. I’d like to clear her name.”

  “She’s a dear. You know I’ll do anything I can to help, Amy.” Phoebe sat moving rhythmically side to side in the swivel desk chair. The motion was accompanied by the tiniest of squeaks. It was like listening to a mouse with asthma.

  “I’m glad you feel that way. Tell me about your relationship with JJ.”

  Phoebe froze, the cold bottle an inch from her lips. Finally, she took a drink and set the bottle on the desk. “I’m not sure what you mean. Relationship?”

  I clamped my hands over my knees. “I heard that you and JJ were having an affair.”

  “Me and JJ?” Phoebe appeared genuinely amused. “Is that what you thought, Amy?”

  “I heard all about your personal troubles,” I said, feeling awkward yet determined to hammer her for the truth even if I had to throw out a few little lies along the way to getting there.

  Phoebe shook her head then turned and looked to the bathroom. “Lorna, you should come out now.”

  “Lorna?” I pushed out of my chair so I could see past Phoebe to the bathroom door. It had been shut the entire time. A familiar face appeared.

  “Hello, Amy.” JJ Fuller’s widow stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of condensation. Her hair was damp and she had wrapped herself in a short terry robe and slippers. She crossed the room silently and kissed Phoebe on the mouth. “This is a surprise.”

  I was plenty surprised myself. I fell onto the ottoman.

  “Call me Lorna.” She tugged at the belt around her waist. “Phoebe and I were about to make plans for dinner. Would you care to join us?” Her eyes danced with amusement. “Or do you have other plans?”

  “Uh, no.” Why did it feel like I was sitting on a rowboat bouncing in rough seas rather than an ottoman anchored to the carpet?

  “I came by to see how Phoebe was doing. I mean, after her car was repossessed and the two murders…” I left my thoughts hanging because I really couldn’t think of what to say next.

  “And because you thought dear Phoebe might have had something to do with my husband’s murder?” Lorna sat on the bed and crossed her legs, fluffing a pillow between herself and the headboard.

  “Amy thought I was having an affair with JJ,” Phoebe said without a trace of malice.

  I colored. “Sorry. I heard a rumor.”

  “Never listen to rumors,” advised Lorna. “I never do.”

  “Look…” I stood. “I’m sorry I came. Forgive me for barging in on you. I don’t know what I was thinking, Phoebe. I thought you were having an affair with JJ and that you might have paid Peter Porter to cast suspicion on Esther.

  “Again, I apologize. You’ve been so kind. After all, Birds and Bees wouldn’t even be attending the expo if it wasn’t for you.”

  Phoebe waved my words away. “Consider it forgotten.”

  Lorna frowned. “Who is Esther?”

  “A friend of mine.”

  “I can’t believe that you thought I paid someone to lie for me.” Phoebe pulled at her hair. “Where would I get the money to pay anybody? I can barely afford my rent.”

  “That’s okay,” Lorna replied. “I’ve got enough for both of us.”

  They smiled at one another. I bolted for the door. If there was ever a time to feel like a third wheel, this was it.

  My fingers latched onto the stainless steel handle and I froze as the thought popped into my head that Lorna might have murdered JJ herself, after all.

  Lorna and Phoebe were standing shoulder to shoulder. Had they stood shoulder to shoulder in murder? Were these two harmless looking women responsible for the murders of JJ Fuller and Peter Porter?

  If the two of them were having an affair, wouldn’t it be far simpler to continue if JJ was out of the way? Permanently.

  “Is something wrong?” Phoebe blinked at me.

  “I do believe Ms. Simms thinks we might have conspired to
murder JJ.” Lorna picked Phoebe’s beer from the table, took a sip and frowned.

  “Did you?” My heart pounded against my chest. Did I really just ask that? If the answer was yes, was I about to be overpowered and stabbed or throttled to my death? Despite a woeful lack of exercise beyond hiking, I was reasonably sure I could hold my own against one of them. But what if they double-teamed me?

  Derek couldn’t come to my rescue because he didn’t know where to find me. I told him I’d be in the lounge.

  I inched my arm backward, my fingers desperately exploring for the door handle I knew was back there somewhere.

  “Don’t be crazy.”

  Did Lorna mean crazy to try to get away or crazy to think they were cold-blooded killers?

  “Where were you at the time your husband was murdered?” I blurted in cop fashion.

  A look of amusement danced across Lorna’s face. “The police have already asked me that question. After all, isn’t the wife always a suspect?”

  “And what did you tell them?”

  “That I was here at the hotel.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “The police seem satisfied with my answer. As you can see, I’m not under arrest.” She jutted her arms out from the robe.

  She had me there. Her pale wrists were free of handcuffs.

  “Did Porter know your husband, Lorna?”

  “As far as I know, the two were unacquainted. He was into flying birds, not walking dead.” Lorna laughed at her little joke.

  “And yet the two of them are dead. Both killed at the Expo Center.”

  “Do you really believe there’s a connection, Amy?” Phoebe asked.

  “There has to be. I only wish I had some idea what it was.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Lorna said with a devilish grin. “If Mr. Porter was paid to point the finger at somebody other than the true murderer of my husband—”

  I picked up the thread. “Then it stands to reason that Porter might have been blackmailing the killer.”

  “And JJ’s killer would not have taken too kindly to that.” Lorna tugged at the gold necklace around her neck.

  “Which brings us back to who killed your husband.” I sighed.

  We had come full circle. Who knew going in a circle could lead to a dead end? It seemed impossible and contrary to all the laws of physics that I knew, yet it had.

  “If anybody wanted JJ dead it was probably that annoying Ms. Skoglund,” Lorna said rather coldly.

  “Ilsa? Why would she want your husband dead? I heard there was bad blood between the two of them but, still, murder?”

  “She’s not the goody-two-shoes she pretends to be.” Lorna removed herself from Phoebe’s side and retrieved an open bottle of Riesling from the fridge. She poured a small amount into a plastic cup and drank.

  “I realize there was a certain competitiveness between your husband and Ilsa but was there so much animosity that she’d want him dead?”

  “JJ used to call her a she-devil in birder’s clothing,” Lorna snapped.

  “Skoggie is ruthless,” Phoebe put in.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time one of them tried to kill the other.” Lorna raised a brow pointedly.

  “What?”

  Both women nodded briskly.

  “There have been accidents.” Phoebe pulled at her fingers.

  Lorna handed her the glass of wine. Phoebe sipped gratefully.

  “Accidents, incidents. Either way, whenever the two of them got together, they clashed. Sometimes with verbal clashes, other times things got physical.”

  “JJ physically attacked Ilsa?”

  “More the other way around.” Lorna threw back her head and laughed. “JJ was not the biggest or fittest of men. Ilsa is more than capable of holding her own against any man. I don’t think she considered my husband much of a threat at all.”

  Maybe. Or maybe she considered him a big threat and decided to do away with him once and for all. Now that Lorna had mentioned it, I could imagine Ilsa quite capable of overpowering JJ.

  And it wouldn’t take much strength to poke a knife into a zombie. A certain cold mental capacity, yes, but not much muscle power.

  “Have you told the police this?”

  “What’s to tell?” Lorna took back her lipstick-stained cup and drank. “Two egomaniacs at each other’s throats. It was old news.”

  “I’ll say.” The cell phone sitting on the night table vibrated. Phoebe looked at it. “One of the exhibitors. Another crisis, I imagine.” She put air quotes around the word.

  I couldn’t help wondering how much of what the two women was telling me was the unadulterated truth and how much was exaggeration.

  Or misdirection.

  “I can tell you this,” Lorna began. “JJ was being paid to take pictures.”

  “Of birds?” That was hardly newsworthy. Bird photography was a big part of what made JJ Fuller who he had been.

  “Yes, there was always that. But I’m not talking about birds.”

  “What then?”

  “I don’t know. The most innocuous stuff really.” Lorna pulled a pack of cigarettes from a shiny black leather purse and lit up. I was sure the hotel had a nonsmoking policy but that was her problem.

  “More innocuous than birds?”

  “Buildings and things. Airports. Waste treatment facilities. The most mundane things, really. I mean, it’s not like birds are all that exciting but compared to this other stuff, well…” She flicked a quarter inch of ash into her empty wine cup.

  I wondered what had brought JJ and Lorna together. It certainly hadn’t been a shared love of birds.

  “I caught him in his office one afternoon at the computer with his back to me. He was downloading pictures off his camera onto his PC. He wasn’t happy to see me. When I asked him about the photographs, he told me it was none of my business. I didn’t know what the fuss was for. All I saw were birds and people. Perfectly ordinary people.”

  “Naked?” I wondered aloud.

  “Completely clothed.”

  Okay, so JJ Fuller wasn’t into anything kinky. I scratched my head. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Nothing, right?” She sucked on her cigarette. “Yet when I questioned him about it, he flew off the handle. He told me to forget what I had seen. I didn’t even know what I had seen. Crazy, right?”

  Phoebe moved to the thermostat and cranked up the A/C, waving her hand in front of her nose. No fan of smoking, I guessed.

  “I’ll say.” Or was it? JJ traveled the world as a birder. But had he been something more? And was that why he’d been murdered? If so, I knew just the man who could be involved up to his eyeballs in things: Marty.

  And, if that was the case, Esther could be in even bigger trouble.

  17

  I fled the room but there was no escaping my thoughts.

  Was there anything to the idea that JJ Fuller had been a spy? Or was I merely becoming a victim of my own overactive imagination?

  Esther. It was all her fault. Trips to cemeteries. Talk of spies. Crazy, unexplained behavior.

  Murder. No, make that two murders.

  Now she had me seeing spies everywhere.

  This whole thing, this whole ugly weekend of murder and mayhem was probably nothing more than a couple of random muggings gone awry.

  Probably.

  And Esther being off her medications. She’d probably forgotten her prescriptions at home.

  Yes, that would explain everything.

  Again, probably.

  Speaking of Esther, I was supposed to meet her and it was time I did. She might not be happy that I was bringing Derek along, but I was beyond caring what she wanted at this point.

  I rode down in the hotel elevator with an elderly gentleman and his wife, both of whom I remembered
from the morning birding walk. I said hello. They looked at me blankly.

  I popped into the lobby restroom to freshen up before hooking back up with Derek.

  I screamed.

  “What’s going on out there?” demanded a voice from behind one of the stainless steel stall doors. “Is everything okay?” I heard heels scraping the tile floor.

  “Y-yes, everything is fine.” Not. I sobbed and ran my fingers through my hair. My gray, straggly dead looking hair. Staring back at me, looking every bit as aghast and ghastly as I felt, was Zombie Amy.

  I had forgotten to remove my undead makeup.

  Bird poop.

  To make matters worse, the rain had smeared my zombie makeup in every direction. I now looked completely grotesque, from my pallid skin to my blotchy black lips. I was a hot mess. A dead hot mess.

  What must Phoebe and Lorna have thought when I showed up at their door made up like a freaking zombie?

  And I hadn’t even made mention of it. They hadn’t either. Probably because they were too uncomfortable or embarrassed to do so.

  I groaned.

  Because then there was the desk clerk earlier. And the bartender. And the waitress. What had she said? Nice outfit?

  Plus the businessmen who’d been smiling at me so nicely in the bar. And those parents with their children…

  Bird poop bird poop bird poop.

  I grabbed both faucets and turned them on full blast.

  “What are you doing out there?” the woman demanded again. I heard the sounds of flushing.

  “Just washing up.” I squirted a mountain of soap into my palms and smeared it over my face. I next grabbed a length of paper towel from the wall dispenser, cupped my hand under the running water and started scrubbing.

  “Do you mind?” A woman in a navy dress and pearls glared at me in the mirror.

  “Sorry.” I stepped aside so she could wash up.

  She did so very quickly—using a fraction of the cleaning supplies I’d needed—and stormed out, shooting me one last look of disapproval that I wouldn’t soon forget before she did so.

  Several minutes of hard scrubbing later, I didn’t look any better but at least I didn’t look like I had just stepped off the set of a George Romero zombie flick.