A Birder's Guide to Murder Page 21

  “What was Marty Ritter doing in the middle of a deserted penitentiary in the middle of the night?” Detective Locke wanted to know.

  Too bad I had no answer. Esther merely spun a tale of meeting some third party who shall remain nameless. He was a contact of Marty’s who was helping them piece together whatever was going on. He had gotten away.

  “How should I know? What did Mr. Ritter tell you?” Floyd, Karl, Esther and I could thank our lucky stars that we hadn’t been rounded up along with Marty.

  “I never got the chance to ask him the question.”

  “How is it that the police happened to go to Eastern State Penitentiary last night in the first place?” I asked. “Did you receive a tip?”

  “Not us. The police in Philly got a call from a resident who happened to see some odd goings on, as they put it. The police responded. Ritter was caught just outside the prison and taken into custody. Lucky for the police, he snagged his coat on a chain-link fence and couldn’t wrestle out of it in time to disappear into the night.”

  “So what happened? I mean, how did you lose him?”

  Locke glared at me. “I did not lose him. The police transport lost him.” He rubbed his palms against his cheeks as if hoping to erase all traces of himself. “It seems there was an incident on the road.”

  “What kind of incident?”

  “Two banged up cars on a remote intersection. A bloody accident victim lying on the pavement. The driver got out to assist. When he got back…” A long sigh filled what would have been an otherwise awkward silence. “Ritter was gone.”

  “I hadn’t heard.”

  “Like I said, we’re trying to keep it under wraps for now. We haven’t released news of the escape.”

  “Why not?”

  Detective Locke shifted his feet. “We are working some angles,” he said rather unconvincingly.

  Working some angles or trying to avoid being embarrassed by recapturing Marty before the public caught wind of his escape?

  Or was there something going on that Detective Locke was not being made privy to? That would hurt him right where it counted. In the ego.

  So Marty had vanished. Where was he now? Back at the apartment? With luck, I’d find Marty and Esther at Laurel Cove. I knew better than to mention that to the detective. I needed to find Esther first and see what was going on before putting the police on her trail.

  “I did some checking up on their backgrounds,” continued Detective Locke. “Did you know there are serious holes in their pasts and in their stories?”

  “No, I can’t say I did.” Why had I never thought of that? At least, when it came to Esther. Maybe I had never been curious enough or didn’t think it had mattered. Pasts were just that, the past. Except in this case, the past might have something to do with what was going on now. “What sort of holes?”

  His lips twisted like a worm on a hot sidewalk. “Holes. If I knew, they wouldn’t be holes now, would they?”

  The detective was losing his cool.

  “One thing I am not clear about,” I said. “According to the news reports, Marty Ritter is believed responsible for the deaths of JJ Fuller and Peter Porter. What makes the police so sure?”

  For the first time since I’d laid eyes on him that day, the detective smiled. “I guess you didn’t hear everything.”

  “I guess not.”

  “He confessed.”

  I sucked in a breath. “Does Esther know?” She must be devastated.

  “You tell me.”

  “Did Ritter say why he committed the murders?”

  “Ms. Simms, he didn’t even give us a hint.” Locke’s hands went back into his pockets as if seeking refuge. “And now he’s gone. His ID listed an apartment in West Philly. We interviewed his neighbors.”

  That didn’t match with the apartment I knew him to be living in as Klaus Bergdorf, which meant that the police were probably unaware of it. “And?”

  “And the few people we talked to claim never to have seen him. Even the manager of the place only saw him the day he moved a few sticks of furniture in.”

  “How does he pay his rent?”

  “The guy in the apartment next door claims Martin Ritter is some kind of trained assassin.” Locke chuckled. “Ritter told him himself one night when they were knocking back a bottle of Bacardi and the guy believed it.” He shook his head. “Some people sure are gullible.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Fill me in, Ms. Simms.” Locke pulled his right hand from his coat pocket and wiggled his fingers.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tell me about Ms. Pilaster’s past. Where is she from? Who are her friends? Does she have family? Specifically, does she have any family or friends in the greater Philadelphia area?”

  “I know very little about her, detective.”

  “I’ll take anything you’ve got.”

  “Like I said, I don’t know much.” That was suddenly a scary thought. Who was the crotchety old woman I shared a house and business with? Was she a trained assassin who could sneak up on me while I slept and slit my throat?

  “Come on, Ms. Simms. The woman works for you. You share a house with her and you don’t know anything about her? Where is she from? Where did she go to school? Does she have any family? Hell,” he tossed his arm, striking a passing man, “does she have a dog?”

  “I know she has a sister.”

  “A sister, good. That’s good.” He massaged the back of his neck. “Tell me about her.”

  “Her name is Gertie. Gertrude Hammer. I bought my house from her. She lives in Ruby Lake.” I could have added that she was a curmudgeon but that probably was not pertinent.

  “What did Esther do before she came to work for you?”

  “I honestly don’t know.” Esther had said she’d been some sort of agent once. I still didn’t quite believe her. Was there a tombstone at Laurel Hill with her name or some alias of hers on it too?

  I did not want to know. That would be creepy. What did I know about Esther besides the fact that she doted on a real or perhaps imaginary cat?

  A uniformed officer stepped between us. “The captain wants you at the station, sir. The guys from Philly are here.”

  “Oh, joy. Has there been any word on Ritter?”

  “Not that I’ve heard,” related the officer.

  “The DA is busting our butts on this,” Detective Locke addressed me. “We need to solve this case before the Expo ends and everybody spreads to the four corners of the world. We can’t expect people to stay in town once everybody packs up,” he complained. “There’s too many of them. Bad for tourism, too, according to the DA and the mayor.”

  “I understand your concern but I don’t know what I can do, detective.”

  “What you can do, if you see Ms. Pilaster,” Detective Locke said, sounding beaten down yet unrelenting, “is let me know. Better yet, hold her until I get there. Promise?”

  “I’ll do my best.” Equivocation is one of my best qualities. Just ask my mom.

  26

  With the detective out of my hair, I was free to ruffle Ilsa Skoglund’s feathers. “You never did give me a good explanation for why you were meeting with Peter Porter, Ms. Skoglund.”

  “You again?” Ilsa looked up. “We were just talking. It was nothing.” She signed her name to the title page of her latest book, a memoir of her year-long Central American birding adventure.

  “Thanks.” I stuck the book in my purse. “Then why all the skullduggery?” I had ambushed her at the signing table near the hall entrance.

  Lucky for me, she didn’t seem too popular at the moment. Her fans might have already come and gone but I had a feeling there would be fewer adoring fans flocking around her since her so-called discovery of the ivory-billed woodpecker blew up in her face. “Why meet in the middle of the woods?”
>
  When she made no reply, I continued. “Before he was murdered, Peter Porter told me that someone had paid him to point the finger at Esther. That was you, wasn’t it?”

  She clicked the cap of her signing pen furiously, sounding like an angry blue jay. “Don’t be ridiculous, Simms. I told you already, I wouldn’t harm anyone, let alone kill them. Leave, please, I have books to sign.”

  I took a quick look behind me then back. “Sorry, I appear to be the end of the line. Tell me why you were meeting with Peter Porter and I’ll get out of your hair.”

  Ilsa scanned the area to be sure she wasn’t being overheard. “If you must know—and I’ll deny this if you so much as tell a single soul,” she warned aiming the pen at me. “Porter heard about the announcement of my discovery and the reward. He said he felt he deserved a share.”

  “Oh?”

  “It seems he had figured out or at least suspected that I may have been involved in some chicanery.”

  “I’d call theft and murder more than chicanery.”

  “I told you,” Ilsa Skoglund hissed at me. “I did not kill anyone. JJ was already dead when I found him. Besides, I wasn’t the only woman Peter Porter was trying to squeeze money out of.”

  “There were others?”

  “Try Lorna.” Ilsa’s face, normally so pretty, was dark and full of anger.

  “JJ’s wife?”

  “Wealthy widow, you mean.” Skoggie shoved me aside and shot past me. I let her go.

  Watching her go, I couldn’t help thinking that hearing the truth out of anyone lately was about as likely as seeing a long-tailed São Paulo marsh antwren on the streets of downtown Philly.

  Not very.

  Skoggie had pointed me in the direction of Lorna Fuller but I didn’t have to look for her. She was looking for me.

  She grabbed my arm and yanked me towards the ladies’ room. “What did you say to Phoebe?”

  “Uh…” I struggled to remember. “Nothing special.” I glanced at my reflection in the ladies’ room mirror. Hideous. What was it about mirrors in bathrooms that always made my face look pasty and my shape look so flabby? Were all mirrors designed and manufactured by men?

  I turned toward the stalls. Anything was better than looking in the mirror. Lorna seemed to have no trouble facing herself. She had dressed for the last day of the American Birding Expo in a black silk pantsuit and pearls.

  “She said you upset her, practically accused her of having had something to do with JJ’s death. And the death of that other silly man.”

  “Silly man? You mean Peter Porter?”

  “Imagine, a grown man getting dressed up like a zombie. It’s preposterous.”

  “In case you hadn’t noticed, the convention hall next door is crawling with them.”

  Her face displayed utter distaste. “I wish you would leave poor Phoebe alone. She’s going through a difficult time.”

  “Believe me,” I said, not understanding where all the anger was coming from, “it was never my intention to upset her. We were only talking.”

  “About murder you were talking. This is a birding convention. Why don’t you talk about birds for crying out loud? I’m surprised. You are a birder. Why can’t you be more like JJ?”

  “You mean dead?”

  “No, Ms. Simms. Birds. Birds are practically all JJ ever wanted to talk about. Try it. There are thousands of people here dying to talk to one another about birds.”

  “Murder trumps birds, Lorna,” I replied. “I think even JJ would have agreed.”

  “My husband’s death has nothing to do with Phoebe or me or anyone else around here. The police have their killer in custody.” She pulled open her purse and extracted a cigarette.

  A passerby snapped at her. “This is a no smoking facility.”

  She cursed him out and tossed the cigarette back in her purse.

  “Is that a gun?” I had noticed what appeared to be a black pistol grip wedged down inside the purse.

  “My husband was murdered. I intend to protect myself.” Lorna snapped her purse shut.

  “You said yourself that JJ’s killer is in jail.” I didn’t bother to update her on Marty’s escape.

  “Really, Ms. Simms, you can be quite tiresome.”

  I ignored the dig. “Did your husband know Martin Ritter? Can you think of any reason he would have wanted to murder your husband?”

  “I was not privy to all of JJ’s friends and acquaintances. Thank goodness. Whether he knew the person who killed him or not, I could not answer. I’m sure the police will get to the bottom of the matter. And you should leave it to them, Ms. Simms.”

  “Your husband had expensive habits and a lavish lifestyle.” There was no sense rubbing salt in the wound and pointing out that he shared that extravagant lifestyle with multiple playmates—mostly on her dime. Even the most successful birder is still that, a birder. They couldn’t possibly command movie star or NBA money.

  Lorna’s eyes darkened. “If you are trying to imply something—”

  I cut her off. “I’m not trying to imply anything. I’m only saying that it’s good that you won’t have to worry financially.”

  “My finances are none of your business.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t think they were any of Peter Porter’s business either, did you?” I noticed a flash of anger and continued. “I’ll bet it made you angry when he asked you for hush money.”

  Lorna bit down on her lip. “Who told you that?”

  “Ilsa.”

  “That b—” Lorna caught herself. “He tried to.” Lorna appeared amused. “Porter told me he had seen me coming out of JJ’s dressing room around the time of the murder.”

  “So you did meet with Porter. How did you react to his accusation?”

  “I laughed in his face,” she said with a smile. “In the first place, JJ was my husband, so I had every right to be there. Nothing suspicious about it at all.”

  “And in the second place?”

  She thought about my question a moment. “In the second place, I’ve explained everything to the police. To their satisfaction, I might add. Now, I really must go.”

  And go she did. But after a hip-swaying three steps, she twirled and faced me. “If you ask me, Porter was nothing more than a cheap hustler. I believe he tried that same I know what you did line on a lot of people after the murder.

  “Surely in an attempt to blackmail them to one degree or another. Unfortunately for Mr. Porter, one of them took him seriously and decided to put an end to his ambitions. Maybe your Esther.”

  “What about Phoebe?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did Porter try his line on her?”

  Lorna’s eyes turned to nasty slits. “Don’t be ridiculous. Phoebe is completely innocent. You think she murdered JJ? Why?” Lorna demanded. “Why would Phoebe kill him?”

  Lorna didn’t give me time to answer. “Leave Phoebe out of this, Ms. Simms. Better yet,” she said pointing a red-nailed finger at me, “keep your nose out of it. Two murders are enough, don’t you think?” she added with an evil grin.

  That was a good question—not about whether two murders were enough. Two murders were more than enough. No, the question was why would Phoebe want JJ dead? I had thought it might be because she was furious with him because she had left her husband to be with him.

  But if Phoebe was actually involved with Lorna, what if Phoebe then murdered JJ because she wanted him out of the way?

  Permanently.

  That way she could have Lorna to herself. And the Fuller estate. The two women would be free to share everything.

  Could Phoebe have been part of all this? She was at the Expo Center all day, every day. She would have known where JJ’s dressing room was. She had probably assigned it to him herself.

  Maybe Porter had tried to shake P
hoebe down. And maybe, instead of succumbing to blackmail, Phoebe’s answer to him had been a knife.

  And maybe, just maybe, Lorna had an inkling of the truth and was worried that I was getting too close to the truth about Phoebe. Maybe Lorna was afraid that Phoebe would crack.

  The problem was that life was filled with too many maybes. I needed some answers but the farther in I waded into the waters of the truth, the more tangled everything was becoming.

  And what was that crack of Lorna’s about keeping my nose out of it? Was she trying to tell me something? Had she sent me that brick?

  Parting the dense sea of last day visitors, I headed for the Birds & Bees booth. I was happy to see a flock of customers in attendance. Derek and Karl were handing out flyers with our store’s website and info about our town location along with the remaining samples of my mom’s bird bars.

  The folks next door at Back to Nature Tours were slammed with customers eager to sign up for their tours. I’d been reading through some of their brochures in my spare time. I had seen one to Belize that I was hoping maybe Mom and I, and Derek and his dad, could take in the spring.

  Fingers crossed.

  I hadn’t broached the subject with any of them yet, but intended to the minute we got settled back home. Once they’d forgotten all about spies and murder and mayhem and zombies—which could take a while.

  “Derek, have you seen Esther?”

  He excused himself from a customer at the table. He planted a kiss on my lips. I returned the favor. “Nope. Detective Locke was by earlier and I told him the same thing. What’s up?”

  The dear man looked harried. I appreciated that he kept his complaints, and he must have had a dozen, to himself. I owed him big time. Maybe a new set of golf clubs. “I don’t know.” I pulled him aside and whispered in his ear. “I saw Detective Locke myself. He’s looking for Esther.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Marty’s escaped.”

  Derek whistled. “Wow.”

  “Wow is right.”

  Derek nodded somberly. “It doesn’t sound good.”