Free Fowl Prey by Mary Daheim

MacKenzie’s feathers get unruffled, he won’t care if we take off for the North Pole.” Trying a more reasonable tactic, she tugged at Judith’s ivory sleeve. “Don’t let this screw up our vacation. You need it even more than I do. Come on, we’re only half an hour late for dinner. Let’s eat.”
    Judith, who hadn’t quite given up her stare-down with Josephine, spoke out of the corner of her mouth. “What about Maria?”
    â€œWhat about her?”
    Finally conceding victory to the Empress, Judith looked up at Renie. “She acted scared, or at least upset, remember? Ten minutes later, somebody is dead in the same hotel. Somebody, I might add, who you said had a photograph of Maria in his apartment.”
    â€œOh.” Renie was chastened. “Well, what’s that got to do with us going out to dinner?”
    Slipping into her shoes, Judith slid off the bed. “I should go see her first. Then we can eat dinner.”
    Renie started to protest, noted the set of Judith’s wide shoulders, and gave up. “I’ll wait here,” she said, “and call the cafe to see if we can get in by eight-thirty. We’ve probably lost out by being late.”
    â€œIt’s Monday, a slow night in the food business. The Meat & Mingle used to close from Sunday until Wednesday,” said Judith, halfway out the door.
    â€œThat was because of the Health Department.” But Renie’s comment went unheard by her cousin, who was already going through the sitting room. At the door to the corridor, Judith paused: The police and whoever else had joined them were still there, making quite a commotion. Judith changed her mind about going to Suite 800 in person and dialed Maria on the phone.
    There was no answer. Either the Rothside party had left for dinner or they were congregated out in the hall, making nuisances of themselves with the authorities. Judith returned to the bedroom. “How do you feel about room service?”
    Renie was still trying to find her glasses so that she could look up the Prince Albert Cafe in the phone book. “Why? Are we under house arrest?”
    Judith glared in the direction of the hall. “It’s a jungle out there. Do you want to face that mob?”
    â€œI just want to face a menu,” said Renie glumly. “Hey,” she brightened, dropping the phone book and going to the door which adjoined the next suite, “if we couldget into 803, I think the fire escape goes out that way into Hepburn Street.”
    Judith stared at the door which boasted a sturdy but old-fashioned Yale lock. She cocked her head at Renie. “Hairpin, bobby pin, paper clip? How did we do it when Cousin Sue used to lock us out of her bedroom to keep us from reading her diary?”
    Renie was rummaging in the deep recesses of her handbag. “Here,” she said, producing a turkey skewer. “You asked me to lend you some for Thursday, remember? I brought them along this morning so I wouldn’t forget.”
    â€œClever girl.” Judith knelt down and began probing the lock. “What was it Sue wrote about her first kiss?”
    â€œIt felt like a sink plunger,” replied Renie promptly, summoning up the description from forty years ago. “Who was the guy, Pudge Rollins?”
    â€œNo, he was the one who got ringworm for her junior prom.” Judith kept twisting the skewer in different directions. “I think it was Tommy Lee Bascomb, that walleyed kid who…Hey, I got it!” She raised her fist in triumph.
    The lock gave; the door swung open. A moment later, Judith and Renie had collected their coats and were standing in a darkened bedroom. They waited for any sign of life from other parts of the suite, but all was quiet. Judith turned on a light, revealing complete disorder. The canopied bed was unmade, clothes were strewn across the floor, cosmetics littered the Louis XV dressing table, a white fox