Fowl Prey (8 page)

“Epilady hurts,” muttered Renie. “I like it.”

“Good, I'll borrow it some day and use it on Sweet
ums. 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.”

“Unh?”

“She 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!”

“Huh?”

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.”

“I like it,” repeated Renie, and stumbled back to bed.

“Y
OU
,”
SAID
J
UDITH
to Renie over breakfast in the Clovia's small tartan-covered dining room, “must buy a frock.”

“You,” said Renie to Judith, looking up from the breakfast menu, “must be a freaking wacko.”

“I'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 middle
of 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.

“Why am I Bob-o's cousin?” she inquired at the very moment Spud and Evelyn Frobisher entered the dining room.

“You 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.

“Yuk!” 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?”

“You 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”

“Wait a minute, why me, and not you? You're a lot better at feeding people a line of bull than I am,” protested Renie.

“Because you can do an English accent and I can't. You used to practice when you were a snot, remember?”

Renie's shoulders slumped under her beige and navy houndstooth checked jacket. “Here,” said Judith, pushing a scrap of paper across the table, “this is the address of the apartment house manager. I already called while you were in the tub. Gerda Wittelstein, on the Prince Albert Street side of the building, first floor. She sounds very nice, if loud.”

Renie contemplated the name and address without enthusiasm. “No frocks. I go as I am or not at all.”

Ultimately, Judith relented. An hour later, the cousins were ringing the buzzer to Apartment 101. The front of the building bore the inscription Tudor Arms, and was a far cry from the alley side. It was a model of new Olde English, its pseudo half-timbered exterior boasting a fresh paint job and carefully clipped greenery.

Gerda Wittelstein, however, was neither new nor fresh. She was a large woman with an unfettered figure let loose in a floral frock not unlike what Judith had had in mind for Renie. Guardedly opening the door, Mrs. Wittelstein surveyed her visitors with shrewd black eyes and pursed ruby lips. Judith introduced the cousins as Margaret O'Rourke Grover and her neighbor, Gertrude Walker.

“Margaret is Mr. O'Rourke's cousin from Cornwall,” Judith explained with a jab in Renie's ribs. “I called you about a half hour ago?” The statement hung as slack as Mrs. Wittelstein's shape.

“So you did.” Mrs. Wittelstein manned the door, ushering her guests in like a hen shooing chickens. “Poor Robin, such a tragedy, I'm thinking. I've only a few minutes, seeing as how my son is taking me to the dentist.” Her fluting voice made the appointment sound as if she were meeting with the Prime Minister.

“We won't take long,” Judith promised as Mrs. Wittelstein led them into a parlor that was almost as much of a jumble as Bob-o's, except that the clutter had cost more. Ruffled pillows, knickknacks, teacups, vases filled with artificial flowers, afghans, and piles of popular magazines filled the room. Judith wondered if residents of the Tudor Arms had to qualify as pack rats.

“Margaret moved to Canada just this summer,” Judith explained, accepting a seat on an overstuffed armchair complete with crocheted antimacassars. “She hadn't had time yet to call on Mr. O'Rourke.”

Mrs. Wittelstein, who had planted her massive frame on a faded floral print sofa that clashed with her dress as well as the cabbage roses in the carpet, surveyed Renie with skepticism. “Has she learned how to talk yet?”

“She's shy,” Judith said, giving Renie a tight-lipped smile. “Aren't you, Mugs?”

Renie was trying her best to get comfortable in a rocking chair shaped like a saxophone. “Rath-er,” she said, at her most English.

“Mugs was so hoping Bob-o had made friends here,” explained Judith. “Did he have much company?”

“Him?” Mrs. Wittelstein looked flabbergasted. “Hardly ever. He kept himself to himself, as they say. He had that route of his with the wagon, and talked like a parrot to anyone who'd listen. But as for friends, I'm not recalling. Then again,” she added with pursed lips gone prim, “I'm not one to pry into my tenant's affairs.”

“How long had he been here?” asked Judith, shooting a venomous glance at the taciturn Renie.

Mrs. Wittelstein reflected. “Before I moved in. At least ten years. More, maybe, I'm thinking. He paid his rent on time, didn't have a lot of complaints like some I could name, and was quiet. Who could ask for anything more?”

She seemed to be asking Renie. “Rath-er!” responded the ersatz Mrs. Grover. “Robin was always
terribly
self-sufficient.”

Mrs. Wittelstein did not look encouraged by Renie's remark. “I don't remember you writing to him, Mrs. Grover. Are you shy about letters, too?” The black eyes bored into Renie, who squirmed faintly in the uncomfortable rocking chair.

“Rath-er.” She caught her cousin's homicidal gaze and cleared her throat. “That is, I mislaid his address. Early on. Careless.” Renie clucked her tongue.

Mrs. Wittelstein shifted her bulk in a shuddering motion that sent the floral patterns of frock and sofa into combat. “You found it, I see, in time to collect.” She leaned forward, wagging a thick finger at Renie. “Such a thing, to neglect an old man and then hover like a buzzard! Well, I'll tell you right now, there's probably not enough to bury the poor soul. And it serves you right, Mrs. Fancy-Pants Cornwall!”

On reflex, Renie glanced down at her tailored navy slacks. “Really now!” She eyed Mrs. Wittelstein with a touch of well-bred annoyance. “Let's be sporting about this, m'dear. It's taken me weeks just to unpack my shooting trophies. For grouse,” she added hastily, lest there be any misunderstanding given the nature of Bob-o's demise.

Judith, well aware that the interview was going downhill fast, intervened. “It's not like you think. I mean, the money, you see. Mrs. Grover is very well-off. It's the memorabilia she was thinking of. Bob-o—Robin—had all those wonderful pictures. And Mugs is such a fan of the theater. She knew Robin wouldn't want his treasures thrown out.”

Mrs. Wittelstein's black eyes were cynical. “Worth a piece, I'm guessing. Signed by most of the great ones. What does an Oliver fetch on the autograph market?”

“Olivier?”
Renie raised her eyebrows, elated at finally being able to score off Mrs. Wittelstein. “I haven't got the foggiest. I'd hang them in my conservatory. Next to the billiard room, of course.”

Her hostess snorted. “I'll bet,” she breathed, then sat up straight and made strange faces with her ruby lips. “I wouldn't mind having that one of Richard Burton. There was a fine piece of man. No wonder Liz was so crazy about him, poor girl. And that photo of Robin, dressed as an owl.” She heaved herself to her feet and ran a hand through her hennaed hair. “The rest you can have, when the police say so. Oh, maybe I should be keeping one of his daughter. She was a lovely creature, poor thing.” The black eyes scoured Renie. “About your age, I'd imagine.”

Renie and Judith exchanged mystified glances. “Rath-er,” muttered Renie, then gathered her nerve and hazarded a guess. “She died young. So tragic.”

Mrs. Wittelstein softened. “Indeed it was. Poor husband. At least there were no youngsters.”

It occurred to Judith that the beautiful young woman in the photograph must be Helen O'Rourke. “A blessing,”
she agreed, darting a wild look at Renie. “What was it? A car crash? A plane?”

Renie burst into sobs. “Please! I can't talk about it!” she wailed through her fingers.

Giving Mrs. Wittelstein her most appealing gaze, Judith put her hands together in a prayerful attitude. “She won't discuss it. Ever. It must have been terrible.”

“It was.” Mrs. Wittelstein had turned downright sentimental. “A fall on the stairs. Poor Robin wouldn't mention it, either. At least not without going to pieces. Just like her.” She jabbed a fat finger at the apparently convulsed Renie. “How he went on! About ghosts and being haunted and villains and cowards and all kinds of strange things! I always thought,” she continued, dropping her voice, “that Helen's death unhinged him. At least a little. I think that's why he left the stage.”

Judith had just opened her mouth to pursue this line of inquiry when the buzzer rang. Mrs. Wittelstein moved with surprising speed toward the hallway. “It must be Herbie,” she said.

In her absence, the cousins huddled quickly. “Helen wasn't killed in the Blitz,” whispered Judith.

“And Bob-o actually
was
in the theater,” murmured Renie.

“We've got to see those pictures again,” said Judith, and then shut up as Mrs. Wittelstein returned to the parlor not with her son, Herbie, but with Evelyn Frobisher in tow. All three visitors stared at each other.

“Mrs. McMonigle,” said Evelyn in amazement, “and Mrs. Jones.”

“I'm Mrs. Walker,” said Judith “I think you've made some mistake, Mrs. uh, er…”

As bewildered as the cousins, Evelyn tried to recover her aplomb.
‘I'm
Mrs. Brown,” she asserted, “of Cannadian Life Assurance, Limited.”

“I see.” Judith smiled blandly. “This is Mrs. Grover.” She drew the newly composed Renie forward.

“Yes,” agreed Evelyn. “Of course it is.”

“Rath-er,” said Renie, extending a hand.

If bewildered by the confused identities of her callers, Mrs. Wittelstein didn't show it. “I can't let you go snooping around by yourself, Mrs. Brown,” said Mrs. Wittelstein. “In fact, the police have padlocked the place. They let me in to look for the policy, but I couldn't find it.”

Evelyn looked faintly crestfallen. “I'm sure it's there,” she insisted, taking on her professional hard-bitten air. “If you can't find it, you'll have to let me look. It's company policy.”

“Some company,” said Mrs. Wittelstein as a horn sounded impatiently in the street. “Herbie,” she breathed, going to the window. “Finally. We'll be late, mark my words. Of course he'll drive like a fiend.” She turned to her visitors, a majestic sweep of her hand indicating the door. “You'll have to come back later, Mrs. Brown. Out, out, everybody, I'm on my way.”

“I can't leave without the policy.” declared Evelyn, avoiding the cousins' probing eyes and planting herself in the path to the hallway. “Canadian Assurance demands your cooperation.”

Mrs. Wittelstein was struggling into a bright blue wool coat that looked as if it could have given shelter to a homeless family. The horn blasted again. “I'm coming already,” muttered Mrs. Wittelstein. The coat tumbled into place; she bulldozed her way past Evelyn like a freight train. “My teeth demand a root canal,” she said over her shoulder. “As for you, Mrs. Grover, leave your address. I'll send those pictures later.” Mrs. Wittelstein rattled the door. “Let's move, let's go. Herbie hates to wait.”

Reluctantly, the women trudged out of the room. Mrs. Wittelstein closed the door firmly behind them and lurched down to the sidewalk where a gaunt young man drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of a compact car. Judith wondered how Mrs. Wittelstein would fit inside. She was tempted to stay and watch, but Evelyn was already march
ing off down the street. At the corner, she gave Judith and Renie a challenging look. “You think I'm crazy, I suppose.”

Judith shook her head. “No crazier than we are. I assume you want to get out of Port Royal, too.”

“Our kids expect us for Thanksgiving in New York.” said Evelyn, now gazing not at Judith but at a fishing trawler out in the bay. “They're home from college on break. We can't let them go to friends for the holiday.”

She sounded reasonable, but Judith retained mental reservations. “It turns out that Bob-o actually was a performer. At least he did something in a bird suit.” Judith threw the information out like a fisherman making an experimental cast in uncertain waters.

Evelyn was expressionless. “Yes. That was a long time ago, I believe.” She swerved on her black snakeskin heels. “I forgot, I must get downtown to meet Spud. Do me a favor, will you?” she entreated, her usual poise failing her on this damp and chilly autumn morning.

Judith and Renie stared at her. “What?” asked Judith.

Evelyn's fine mouth had turned into a grim line. She actually shivered under her deep purple coat. “Don't tell Spud I was here.”