A Birder's Guide to Murder Page 16

  I sensed she was bluffing. Was it because she was a killer, that she knew Porter would never admit to blackmail or was it something else altogether?

  “No,” I ventured because I could suddenly picture a possible alternative scenario, “maybe not a murderer—”

  “But, Amy—” complained Esther, who seemed determined to pin JJ Fuller’s murder on his biggest rival.

  I waved my fingers at Esther to hold her tongue while keeping my eyes on Ilsa Skoglund. “But you wouldn’t mind picking the pockets of an already dead man, would you? Or in this case, shall I say picking the camera of a dead man?”

  Her hard blue eyes beat against me for several seconds before she blinked. “JJ was already dead. I really had no idea if the photos of the ivory-billed woodpecker would be on his camera. I figured there was no harm in looking.”

  “Weren’t you worried about getting caught?” I asked. I couldn’t believe the nerve of the woman. The first thing I’d have done after finding the body would have been to run right out the way I’d come. And then phoning for help. “Or leaving fingerprints?”

  “Of course I was worried. I got in and out of there as fast as I could. And I was careful to wipe off the camera.”

  “That explains why the police didn’t find any fingerprints on it,” Esther said. “They’d been hoping to find mine. You probably hoped they would too. I’d go to prison for murder and you’d be fifty thousand dollars richer and even more famous, you little b—”

  “Weren’t you even a little concerned that what you were doing was unethical?” I interjected. Let alone illegal.

  “JJ was dead.” Ilsa Skoglund felt that absolved her of any misdeeds or untoward behavior. “He wasn’t going to miss the photographs.”

  “And if he couldn’t get the credit for the discovery, why shouldn’t you? Isn’t that what you were thinking?” I asked.

  “I intended to give the reward money to a bird and wildlife nonprofit organization.”

  Esther rolled her eyes. I joined her. Ilsa’s deplorable behavior and defense thereof was worth at least two sets of eyes rolling.

  “How did you happen to discover JJ’s body?”

  “My dressing room is next door. I heard a disturbance.”

  “Did you tell the police?”

  “Of course.” Skoggie looked genuinely surprised. “I told them that, when I opened my door, I saw her.” She was pointing at Esther.

  Once again, all roads led to the Pester.

  It was Esther’s turn under the spotlight as Ilsa Skoglund and I pelted her with most curious eyes.

  “Ladies’ room.”

  As Esther scooted away, I asked Ilsa Skoglund my next question. “Did you see anyone else loitering around?”

  “No. If I had, I would have informed the police.”

  “You didn’t see Peter Porter?”

  “No. Apparently he saw me.”

  “That’s odd.” I scratched my shoulder blade. “Was there anything else on the memory card besides the photographs of the ivory-billed woodpecker?”

  “Sure, a bunch of stuff. Nothing important.”

  “Such as?”

  “Lots of birds. A few people. Just…stuff.”

  “Did you recognize any of the people?”

  “Actually, a couple. JJ had been at a birding festival in Louisiana. There were some shots from the location and some of the attendees and vendors. I was there myself for a day or two.”

  That gibed with what Lorna had told me about her husband’s recent whereabouts previous to the expo. “Did you save copies of any of those photos?”

  “No. Why should I? The only ones that mattered were the shots of the woodpecker. I copied those onto my hard drive and deleted the rest.”

  “But why plant the blank card in Esther’s purse?”

  “The police already suspected her. So did I, to tell the truth. So why not? It had JJ’s initials on it. I knew it would look suspicious.”

  I could have answered because it was planting incriminating evidence against an innocent woman but I didn’t think she’d find it nearly as immoral as I did.

  I wondered what was taking Esther so long. I glanced toward the back of the bar. “Must be a long line at the ladies’.”

  “I don’t think so.” Ilsa Skoglund was smirking.

  “What?”

  “In case you didn’t notice, your friend took her purse with her.”

  “And?” I’d done the same thing on more occasions than I could count. As a matter of fact, I felt just such an occasion coming up in my near future. That pink drink was shooting right through me. The waitress had dropped off my refill and half the glass had already magically disappeared.

  “And she might have started in the direction of the restrooms but she detoured around and snuck out the front.”

  “What?” My hands gripped the table. I twisted my neck and looked at the door.

  “Doesn’t it strike you odd that your friend left the minute an explanation for her being outside a dead man’s door was due?”

  That it did.

  19

  Ilsa left me stewing in my own juices. That and what was left of my pretty pink poison.

  I’m not a violent person but I could think of several things I’d like to do to Esther the next time I laid eyes—and my hands—on her.

  And the next time she claimed she was going to the bathroom, I was going with her and standing watch outside the stall door.

  My phone chimed announcing a text. I lifted it from my purse and read the screen. It was from Derek. I felt a stab of guilt.

  He’d written that he was feeling left out and wondering where everybody was.

  I called him. “What’s wrong, dear? Miss me?” I teased.

  “You and everybody else.” Derek yawned. I heard the sounds of a television in the background.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Decent, considering.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Karl and Floyd aren’t there?”

  “No. Floyd texted me a little while ago. Apparently, they took you up on your harebrained idea.”

  “What harebrained idea was that?” I was only slightly offended. To be honest, I’d had a harebrained idea or two in my short life.

  “The one where you suggested they stake out that apartment. According to his text, they are there now.”

  It took me a minute to process what Derek was saying. “Oh, you mean Bergdorf.”

  “Right.” The droning of the television suddenly ended as Derek turned off the TV. “Who’s Bergdorf?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?”

  “No.” Derek sounded a little annoyed. “I texted Floyd about it. I got back a text from Karl saying that seeing as I was a lawyer it was best that I didn’t know what he and Floyd were doing. Which I find a little scary.”

  “What are they doing? I suggested they simply keep an eye on the apartment. You don’t suppose they…” No, Floyd would never agree to burgle an apartment.

  But Karl would.

  “Don’t suppose they what?”

  “Never mind.” One of us needed to stay out of jail, better that someone was Derek. Because we’d all need a good lawyer. And a good lawyer needs to be on the right side of the jail bars and have plausible deniability.

  I chewed on a pretzel. “Would you mind driving over to Bergdorf’s apartment and checking on them?”

  “I’d be happy to, but they’ve got the van and you’ve got Karl’s rental car.”

  “Right.” I frowned for no one’s benefit but my own.

  “You want me to call a cab?”

  “No. You really should be resting.” The last thing we needed was more people showing up outside Laurel Cove Apartments. That neighbor of Bergdorf’s would probably call out the SWAT team. “Never mind. I’ll swing by on my way back t
o the inn. Are you sure you don’t need a doctor?”

  “A psychiatrist maybe.” I heard the rustling of bedcovers. “You’re heading back?” Derek asked hopefully.

  “As soon as I check on Karl and Floyd and see that they get back too.”

  “Great. Wait, what about Esther?”

  I sighed heavily. “I just talked to her. And Ilsa Skoglund.”

  “Did you learn anything?”

  “Lots.” I promised to fill him in when I returned to the Eagle Inn. For his part, Derek promised to stay awake until I got there.

  I pictured a lovely reunion—the two of us, blissfully alone; no spies, no dead bodies, no coworkers and, more importantly, a warm, sexy body to snuggle with. I paid the bill and headed for the car.

  I hadn’t had so much to drink that I couldn’t still walk a straight line and drive but I was experiencing a fierce headache like some sadist was twisting a glowing hot knife sideways into my left temple and the point was protruding out the right side.

  Whether that pain had been induced by the pink poison I’d been introduced to by Esther or her inexplicable behavior, I couldn’t be certain.

  Probably the combination of the two. It was my own fault. Wasn’t there some old saying about not mixing your poisons?

  What I was certain of was that I had to take control of the situation and my cohorts if I was going to get any peace and pleasure out of this trip.

  I googled the address of the Laurel Cove Apartments and fought my way through the crazy jungle of Philadelphia streets. Give me Ruby Lake any day—one main street and a lake. Even the tourists rarely got lost. When they did, we usually just had to turn them around.

  I cursed as the third car in a row coming toward me honked and flashed their lights.

  “So rude.” My eyes teared up. Then I noticed as I turned down a particularly dark one-way cobblestoned street that my headlights were off.

  I fumbled for the switch and decided to be the bigger person and forgive everyone.

  Deciding it would be best to operate in stealth mode, lest any curious neighbors wonder why half of North Carolina was gathered outside their building, I parked a block and a half away and walked to Laurel Cove.

  My headache had receded but not my annoyance with Esther. I yawned listening to the sound of my own footsteps up the cracked and crooked sidewalk leading me to the apartment complex.

  There were few lights on in the building. I could not be certain if any of them belonged to my target in 3C.

  There was no sign of my van, Karl or Floyd. Was that a good sign or a bad one? I stepped to the shadows next to the building and dialed Floyd’s number. My call went straight to voicemail. Dialing Karl got me the same result.

  “Where are you guys?” I whispered.

  A couple bundled in heavy coats walked past me and entered the apartment building next door.

  Fearing that Karl and Floyd might have tried breaking into 3C, I decided to reconnoiter further. Inside the foyer, I pressed the button for the apartment and received no answer.

  Glancing at the mail boxes, I noticed a name that did ring a bell, Stevens, Travis, 1B.

  Why did that name seem familiar? I stared at the piece of white tape and black marker scrawl. Then I remembered that a Travis Stevens worked for Irving Shipman. If it was a coincidence, it was an odd one.

  Then again, the whole week had been odd.

  Had it really only been a couple of days since we had arrived in Philadelphia? And only a couple of days before that that Phoebe had reached out to me to tell me I could get a last-minute booth?

  If I had to do it all over again, I’d have stayed home. Home seemed far away and my life before this week seemed like a lifetime ago.

  For two people it had been just that.

  Did Travis Stevens know Marty or the still unseen Mr. Bergdorf? There was only one way to find out. If this was my Travis Stevens and he knew anything about the occupant or occupants of 3C, I wanted to know what.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, I knocked on his door.

  A skinny, shirtless man in beltless jeans answered the door. “Amy Simms.”

  “Hi, Travis.” I was surprised to see him there in the flesh, having more expected that I’d find this was a completely other Travis Stevens. Speaking of his flesh, I’d seen tundra swans with more color.

  “Who is it?” a woman’s voice called from afar.

  “Ms. Simms from the Expo!”

  “Get rid of her.”

  It sounded like I had interrupted Saturday night date night. I could hardly blame the mystery woman for being annoyed. I should have been enjoying just such an occasion myself.

  Travis blushed and cleared his throat. “I’m kind of busy right now.” He thrust his hands in his pockets. “Is there something you wanted?” He poked his head out the door. “How did you find me?”

  “I didn’t. I was coming to visit a friend, a Mr. Bergdorf.” I pointed upward. “He lives upstairs. Maybe you know him?”

  Travis chewed his lip. “Sorry. I’m only subletting. It’s temporary. With the new job, I expect I’ll be on the road a lot.”

  “Of course.”

  “Is there anything else?” He reached for the door knob.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve seen any of my coworkers?”

  Travis pulled his eyelids down. “What? Here?”

  “Yes. Esther, Floyd and Karl. They work for me.”

  “I remember.” His fingers tightened on the door knob. His voice was filling with impatience and wariness. “Why would they be here?”

  “We, uh, were all going to visit my friend, Mr. Bergdorf. It’s a party. His birthday. A birthday party.” Sheesh. I sounded like a blithering idiot.

  “I see.” Though by the tone of his voice it was more than clear that he did not see or care.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll keep the noise down.”

  “See that you do.” Travis shot a nervous look into his own apartment. “Goodnight, Ms. Simms.”

  I said goodnight and hurried up to the third floor. I tiptoed to 3C. Women like the one in 3B have the ears of an owl. She could probably hear me coming from two hundred yards away.

  I whispered up against the marred wood door of 3C. “Mr. Bergdorf?” I tapped lightly. “Are you in?” I pressed an ear to the door and heard nothing but the blood rushing around in my ear drum, I think. Maybe it was the ocean. Some branches of science are a mystery to me.

  I tried the door knob just for the fun of it, knowing it would be locked as would the deadbolt above it.

  It wasn’t. It turned easily and noisily in my hand. I gave a push. The deadbolt had not been set.

  “Mr. Bergdorf? Marty?” I held my breath and stepped inside, shutting the door behind me. “Esther? Are you here?”

  The glow from a desk lamp lit a small, cluttered desk. The room was carpeted in a dark shade of green and filled with furniture I hadn’t seen since the sixties. Judging by the musty odor, the windows probably hadn’t been opened since then either.

  The out-of-date desktop computer with a boxy monitor on the desk was shut down. I didn’t dare touch it. There were a couple of envelopes under a raptor-shaped bronze statuette being used as a paperweight: electric bill and phone bill. The bills were addressed to K. Bergdorf.

  A black plastic rotary phone sat within a hand’s reach of the computer. I hadn’t seen one of those since I was a kid.

  If it hadn’t been for a fear of leaving fingerprints, I’d have been tempted to make a call just for the fun of it.

  A door led to a small bedroom that barely managed to hold a double bed and a tall dresser. The window over the sink of a compact galley kitchen looked out over the street.

  There wasn’t much about the space to indicate the character of its occupant or occupants. The sole thing of interest in the small apartment wer
e the plethora of stamp collecting books filled with stamps of the world and books on the history of stamps.

  Somebody was either an avid stamp collector or a professional philatelist. I flipped through a stamp book on the coffee table wherein stamps mounted on thick black paper were carefully protected by heavy plastic sheets. The stamps were organized by date and country of origin.

  Some of those stamps could have been worth good money. Funny that the occupant had left their apartment door unlocked. A thief could easily make off with an armful of stamp albums.

  Then it struck me or, rather, my nostrils. A whiff of lime, an undertone of tobacco. The all too familiar scent of two grumpy old men.

  “Floyd and Karl.” I closed the stamp album and nudged it back into the position I wanted to leave no trace of my presence behind. Unlike Floyd and Karl whom I now had no doubt had been in 3C before me.

  Had they broken in or had they been invited?

  I shuddered. Had they been bound and gagged and shoved in the closet?

  I checked the small bedroom closet plus the one near the entry door anyway. The closets were far from empty, containing the usual clothes and household items, but they were devoid of hostages or even zombies.

  I turned slowly around the room one more time, taking inventory both mentally and physically.

  The bad news was that I had no idea where everybody was. The good news was that there were no new dead bodies.

  A real glass is half full moment in the life of Amy Simms.

  As I stood in the kitchen wondering what my next move would be, my cellphone went off. I yelped and clawed for it in my purse. I stabbed repeatedly at the screen until it stopped.

  “Karl.” I pressed my mouth to the phone. “Where are you?”

  “Hey, Chief. This is Karl.”

  I narrowed my eyes for no good reason. “I know that, Karl. Where are you? Where’s Floyd?”

  “He’s right here with me.”

  “Where’s here?”

  “We’re at the pen.”

  “Excuse me?” I glanced at the entry door, praying that no one came home and found me chatting on my cell phone in the middle of their apartment.