Fowl Prey by Mary Daheim Page A

sofa, picking up the glitz-’n’-glamour novel she’d brought along. “I’m going to read myself into unconsciousness.”
    â€œEpilady hurts,” muttered Renie. “I like it.”
    â€œGood, I’ll borrow it some day and use it on Sweetums. I’ve always wanted a bald cat.” She flipped open the book to chapter three. “Funny,” she mused, more to herself than the sleepwalking Renie, “I thought Mildred was smart.”
    â€œUnh?”
    â€œShe acted addled, as if she were some sort of brainless ninny. That’s not the feeling I got about her at the cocktail party.” Judith closed the book with a snap. “Of course! That’s why she was naked!”
    â€œHuh?”
    Swiveling on the sofa, Judith turned to Renie. Judging from her cousin’s blank expression, it was a lost cause, but Judith spoke her mind anyway: “Under the pile of pastel, our Mildred wasn’t wearing a stitch. This was supposed to be Birdwell’s room. I suspect she wasn’t looking for her shaver, but for a shiver. Furthermore, if her mother’s house got broken into, what more natural thing to do than buy a gun?” Judith saw no reaction from Renie, but had one of her own. “Except why didn’t she leave it in Sweet Home? Did she buy two, with one for herself? Or did her mother refuse to have firearms in the house? I wonder.”
    â€œI like it,” repeated Renie, and stumbled back to bed.

SIX
    â€œY OU ,” SAID J UDITH to Renie over breakfast in the Clovia’s small tartan-covered dining room, “must buy a frock.”
    â€œYou,” said Renie to Judith, looking up from the breakfast menu, “must be a freaking wacko.”
    â€œI’m serious. You are about to become Bob-o’s English cousin. As you know, all English women wear frocks.”
    It was almost nine o’clock, an overcast November morning in Port Royal with the threat of rain heavy in the air. The frost which Angus MacKenzie predicted had never materialized. Instead, low-lying dark clouds had rolled in over Prince Albert Bay. The Clovia fortified itself against the weather with mingled smells of grilled meat and fresh-baked scones along with a roaring blaze in the stone fireplace on the far wall. The hotel’s dining room was busy, with as many business types as guests crowded around the linen-covered tables. Clan crests and racks of antlers ornamented the oak partitions. A wrought-iron chandelier with light-bulbs shaped like candle flames hung from the middleof the room. The plaid carpet was worn down by the tread of capable waitresses and hungry diners. Renie had given the food high marks, which appeared to be justified, judging from the number of satisfied customers stowing away everything from kippers to kumquats.
    Now that Renie had had her first cup of coffee and was looking forward to pancakes, ham, and eggs, she was almost ready to deal with matters of the moment. But not with buying a frock.
    â€œWhy am I Bob-o’s cousin?” she inquired at the very moment Spud and Evelyn Frobisher entered the dining room.
    â€œYou have to be some kind of kin to ask his landlady personal questions, that’s why. Floral, with a little white collar, maybe.” Judith smiled demurely, feeling quite smug in her matching charcoal-gray sweater and slacks.
    â€œYuk!” cried Renie, startling the dignified man in pinstripes at the next table. “I hate frocks! Can’t I at least get a cashmere sweater and a Black Watch kilt?”
    â€œYou wore that in high school when you were a snot. I’ll go along as your neighbor.” Judith didn’t pause for breath as she followed the Frobishers’ progress across the dining room. “You’ve only lived in Port Royal a short time, and hadn’t yet managed to call on Bob-o”
    â€œWait a minute, why me, and not you? You’re a lot better at feeding people a line of bull