Birds of Prey : Previously Copub Sequel to the Hour of the Hunter (9780061739101) (41 page)

“Any other questions?” she finished.

“No, ma'am,” I said. “I don't think so.”

“Good then.” With that she turned back to the door, which she had left open. “How's it going, Margaret?” she bellowed into the stairwell.

“Fine,” Margaret called back. “I'll be up in a minute.”

Lars turned away from the window. “I'm sorry about that, Dulcie,” he said.

She waved aside his apology. “Don't worry about it, Lars,” she said. “Your grandson isn't the first man to make that mistake, and I doubt he'll be the last.”

There was a creak on the stairs. I looked back toward the door as an old woman stepped into the room. She had a widow's hump that left her so bent over that her face was totally concealed. Her peroxide-blond hair was covered by a white-haired wig arranged in an armor-plated pageboy. She was dressed in an outfit—a silk, nautically themed sweat suit—that looked as though it might have come straight from the
Starfire Breeze
gift shop. In fact, it was almost a duplicate of the one Rachel Dulles had been wearing the first time I saw her.

“What do you think?” Margaret Featherman asked. “Will this do?”

I was impressed. “You could have fooled me,” I said.

Lars nodded. “Me, too,” he said grudgingly.

“You have to watch out that you don't undo the Velcro,” Dulcie warned Margaret. “The outfit comes off easily. That's the whole idea. It isn't designed for street wear.”

“I'll be careful,” Margaret said.

“Now, how do we go about getting back to the ship?” I asked. “I told First Officer Vincente that we'd be there within half an hour.”

“No problem,” Dulcie said, picking up the phone. “I'll have someone bring the car around.”

That car turned out to be another Suburban. Instead of the standard Quixote Club pink, this was one of the shiny black ones favored by the FBI and Secret Service. It came complete with a deluxe full-leather interior and heated seats. I didn't see how many miles were on the odometer, but it smelled brand-new.

The driver was the same young woman who had driven Lars and me to the club earlier. If she had danced a number in the show, there was no sign of that now. Dressed once again in her driving togs, she hurried around the Suburban, opened the door for us, and helped a stooped and frail-looking Margaret Featherman into the middle seat. I followed Margaret. Once seated, I turned around in time to see Dulcie Wadsworth envelop Lars Jenssen in a smothering bear hug. She gave him a smooch that left a bright smudge of red lipstick on his cheek.

“It's so good seeing you again, Lars,” she said. “Come again soon. Don't be such a stranger.”

“Doubt I'll be back again,” Lars muttered with a shake of his head. “Don't travel as much now that I'm not fishing. You know how it is. I'm not as young as I used to be.”

Dulcie laughed. “None of us are.”

“But you've done a good job here, Dulcie,” Lars added. “A real good job.”

“I couldn't have done it without help,” she said, hugging him again.

I thought about that kiss during the better part of the ride into town, which only took a few minutes. It was mid-afternoon by the time we were back at the dock. I left Margaret and Lars to get out of the car while I hurried over to the crewman, Security Officer Angeleri, who was checking passengers prior to their boarding the tender. As soon as I told him who I was, I expected him to hand over an envelope. Instead, he waved me aside. “Please wait until I finish loading this tender, sir,” he said.

Simmering with indignation, I wanted to argue with him about it, but I couldn't. There were far too many returning passengers milling around on the visitors' dock and clambering into the tender. It was no place to make a scene, especially in view of the fact that Lars, trying to be helpful, had escorted the decrepit and shuffling Margaret right up to where I stood. I consoled myself with the thought that at least the two of them made a believable-looking couple.

It didn't take all that long to load the tender, but the time passed slowly, especially since I wanted us to be on the tender rather than standing on the dock waiting for the next one. At the time my biggest fear was that we'd run into someone we knew—someone who would recognize Margaret Featherman or Lars Jenssen or me. The last thing we needed was for someone like Claire or Florence Wakefield to show up. They'd take one look at the convincing old lady Margaret Featherman had turned into. Then they'd go straight to Beverly and blow the whistle.

While we waited, I recognized several of the guys who had been with us in the audience at the Quixote Club. In preparation for returning to the ship, they had all shucked their high spirits. To a man they seemed subdued and as intent on being invisible as Lars and I were. Even Mr. Twenty Questions made it a point to avoid eye contact. He didn't acknowledge us, and we did the same.

“Now then,” Security Officer Angeleri said finally when the fully loaded passenger tender pulled away from the dock. “You are to go to the far end of the dock. First Officer Vincente has another tender waiting there. It will take the special passenger to the crew gangway. That hatch leads directly to crew quarters. An officer will be waiting there to escort her to the screening room.”

“Her,” I objected. “What about us? We need to be with her.”

“I don't know about that,” Security Officer Angeleri returned dubiously.

“You go on the crew tender,” Lars said. “I'll wait for the next one here.”

Another flurry of passengers approached. The chance of avoiding a scene did the trick. “All right,” Angeleri said, giving in. “Go.”

Margaret started off toward the end of the dock. Before I could follow her, Lars tapped me on the shoulder. “Not a word to Beverly about Dulcie,” he whispered.

I couldn't have agreed more. “I'll keep quiet if you do,” I promised. “As long as you don't say anything about Margaret.”

Lars nodded. “Ya, sure,” he said. “Fair enough.”

“And you'd best wipe that lipstick off your face before Beverly gets a look at you,” I told him. “If she sees that, she'll figure out for herself that you've been up to something.”

Guiltily, Lars scrubbed his face clean, and we let it go at that.

Margaret Featherman and I were the only passengers to ride the specially designated crew tender out to the ship. When we left the pontoon docking platform and stepped onto the ship, First Officer Vincente was waiting just inside the gangway. The look he gave me was anything but friendly, but when he saw Margaret Featherman, he frowned and hesitated.

I could understand his consternation. He hadn't expected me to be on the tender along with Margaret. Not only that, I'm sure that in her absence, Margaret's picture had been circulated among the crew. Even I had to admit that the aged, white-haired woman standing in front of him bore little resemblance to the handsome middle-aged woman whose image had most likely been captured by the ship's ubiquitous photographers.

“This is Margaret Featherman,” I said. “And this is First Officer Vincente.”

As if to put Vincente at ease, Margaret whipped off her wig and held out her hand. “I'm glad to meet you,” she said. “Thanks for all your help.”

Relieved, Vincente, too, offered his hand. “But of course, Mrs. Featherman,” he said solicitously. “I am most happy to meet you. It is my great pleasure to welcome you back on board. Captain Giacometti wishes me to inform you that he is pleased as well. The entire crew of the
Starfire Breeze
is at your disposal and will do everything possible to assure your continued safety. To that end, once you are finished viewing the tapes, Captain Giacometti is pleased to offer you the use of his quarters until this matter is settled.”

“I appreciate that very much,” Margaret said.

I appreciated it, too, but not wanting Vincente to send me packing, I decided to practice being seen but not heard. To that end I kept quiet.

“Now, if you will come this way,” First Officer Vincente added, “I will show you to the security screening room.”

I more than half expected First Officer Vincente to tell me to get lost, but he didn't. I followed them down the corridor and slipped into Antonio Belvaducci's darkened screening room. Once again I did my best to stay out of the way while First Officer Vincente made introductions and issued orders.

Antonio listened carefully, nodding as Vincente posed the problem. By the time the first officer had finished, Antonio was smiling broadly. “I have just the thing,” he said. “There is only one video camera every passenger must pass by,” he said. “That is the one mounted just inside the ship at the top of the gangplank. In Seattle, passengers start boarding at one o'clock in the afternoon. The ship sails at five. So there will be four hours of tape to view, but that is not so very difficult, and it will approach the problem in an orderly fashion.”

“Very good,” Vincente said. “The sooner, the better.”

Antonio pushed a rolling desk chair in Margaret Featherman's direction. “If you would care to take a seat, I'll cue up the first tape for you.”

Margaret took the offered seat while First Officer Vincente excused himself and left. I found another chair and settled in to wait.

The process took the better part of two hours, and I had a hard time sitting still. Twice I got up and tried calling Rachel Dulles and Todd Bowman. The fact that there was still no answer in either of their cabins was cause for worry, but I didn't see any sense in leaving them a message—not until I had something substantial to report. Not that finding Margaret Featherman alive wasn't substantial.

The real reason I didn't leave a message may have had to do with ego. Once a detective, always a detective. Officially it may have been the FBI's case, but I was in on it now. I had no intention of letting go, not until I was good and ready—not until I had the whole thing sacked and bagged.

As for my being a team player? Screw it! This time I didn't see how anyone could fault me. After all, how could I be a team player if they hadn't let me on the team in the first place?

Time passed. Boredom, the fast-paced tour of Sitka, and the humming quiet of the darkened room all went to work on me. Somewhere along the way I must have dozed off in the chair. At four-fifteen, sixteen-fifteen according to the clock on the screening room's wall and halfway through the boarding tape, Margaret Featherman's excited voice startled me awake. “There she is!”

Jumping from my chair, I stood over Margaret's shoulder and peered at the screen. And there, walking up the covered gangplank, was someone I recognized—Christine Moran, the reporter who had interviewed Marc Alley; the person I had last seen walking back toward the ship with Naomi Pepper, the Wakefield girls, and my grandmother.

“You're sure that's her?” I demanded.

“Of course I'm sure,” Margaret snapped. “That woman tried to kill me. How could I possibly forget her face?” Margaret turned to Antonio Belvaducci. “Now that I've spotted her, how do we find out what her name is?”

“I already know her name,” I interjected. “It's Christine Moran. At least that's the name she's going by on board. She claims to be a journalist. She's here supposedly covering the neurologist meeting; at least that's her cover story.”

“So what do we do now?” Margaret asked.

“We do nothing,” I said, putting the emphasis on the “we” part. “You do exactly as First Officer Vincente suggested. You go to Captain Giacometti's quarters and put your feet up. I'll notify First Officer Vincente.” I turned to Antonio. “Where's your phone?”

Antonio pointed. “A list of pager numbers is posted beside the phone,” Belvaducci said helpfully. “Dial his number and First Officer Vincente will call back.”

I glanced at the clock. It was less than two hours prior to the
Starfire Breeze
's scheduled 6
P.M.
departure time. Doing as I was told, I dialed the phone and then paced the floor and waited. I wanted to try calling Rachel Dulles and Todd Bowman again, but I didn't want the phone to be busy when Vincente called back. But then, instead of calling, he simply appeared in the doorway.

“What has happened?” he asked.

“Mrs. Featherman has located her attacker,” I said. “Her name is Christine Moran. I've met her. She's on board masquerading as a journalist.”

“Very well,” Vincente said at once. “As the officer in charge of security, I will gather a crew of men and take her into custody. Meantime, Mr. Beaumont, would you please be so good as to contact the FBI agents on board and let them know what has happened. I am sure they will handle the situation from here.”

He left and I turned back to Margaret. She was still sitting in front of the screen. In the dim light of the shadowy room, I saw her shoulders heave. She was crying.

I walked over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. “What's wrong?” I asked.

“I don't know,” she said, sniffling. “It's not like me to break down and go all to pieces. What's the matter with me?”

“It's relief,” I told her. “Sometimes that'll get you just as much as anything else. Now, do what First Officer Vincente said. Go to Captain Giacometti's quarters and get some rest.”

Any other time, I would have expected an argument from Margaret Featherman—out of sheer perversity if nothing else. Now she simply nodded. “I will,” she said. “But you'll call me when all this is settled?”

“I will,” I told her. “But in the meantime, be careful. We're not out of the woods yet.”