Free Fowl Prey by Mary Daheim Page B

remember?”
    But Judith was at the door, turkey skewer in one hand, handkerchief in the other. Somewhat to her surprise, the knob turned easily. “I didn’t remember it being locked this afternoon. Still, I wonder…”
    â€œWhat?” demanded Renie, nervously following Judith into Bob-o’s apartment. The little flashlight flitted from broken drum to dirty fridge to a picture of Richard Burton. The clutter seemed much the same as it had a few hours earlier. Yet Judith felt something was amiss.
    â€œWhere’s that light?” she asked, more of herself than of Renie. She waved a hand in the air, finally making contact with a knotted string. The single naked bulb flooded the room with a yellow, sickly sheen. Judith switched off the pocket flash and looked around. “Thatkettle wasn’t there,” she said, indicating the stove. “What is it?”
    Renie moved gingerly through the stacks of newspapers and around a deflated inner tube. “Mush. Or very gray meat. But don’t think it’s affecting my appetite. I could eat Tootle about now. Let’s get out of here.”
    â€œTootle!” Judith swung around, peering up at the refrigerator, the curtain rods, the cupboard over the sink. Her gaze traveled downward, scanning every inch of Bob-o’s earthly possessions.
    Next to a small plaster bust of Shakespeare, Judith espied Tootle. She edged closer to inspect the motionless bird. “I guess he’s asleep,” she said but the words were doubtful. Judith touched the parakeet; her hand fell away as if burned.
    Tootle’s neck was broken.

FIVE
    â€œI’ LL HAVE THE lox with capers and the mussels in broth and the angels on horseback,” a rejuvenated Renie told their waiter. “Then I’ll get the Caesar salad, and after that we’ll figure out what we’re going to have for our entrees. Oh—and bring plenty of your wonderful sour-dough bread.” She closed the menu with a big smile.
    The waiter had turned to Judith, who was reading the wine list upside-down. “Madame?” he ventured.
    â€œHuh?” Judith gave a start. “Oh! I’ll have a cup of clam chowder and a petite filet, medium rare. Maybe Petunia Pig over there will throw me some scraps from her first few courses.”
    â€œJeez, coz,” said Renie after the waiter had headed back toward the cafe’s kitchen, “forget the damned diet! We’re on the town!”
    â€œWe’re on the lam. And, unlike certain callous people I know, I can’t put Bob-o and that poor bird out of my mind. I swear, if you’d gone to watch the aristocrats get guillotined, you’d have brought a picnic hamper.”
    Renie’s eyes glazed over. “Filled with French food.Pâté and cheeses and long loaves of bread and tiny button mushrooms with—”
    â€œCan it. Here come our drinks. Why don’t you at least have the decency to say you’d rather get sloshed about now than eat like a hog?”
    Renie’s ebullience faded as she zeroed in on the tragedy at hand. “Shoot, I feel terrible about Bob-o. And even that awful little bird. But starving myself isn’t going to bring them back. Remember, coz, we are on vacation .”
    â€œThe Killer isn’t,” Judith retorted. “Why would anybody strangle a parakeet?” She shivered, recalling the stiff little body with its broken neck. Just seconds after the discovery, the sound of squealing tires at the far end of the alley had flushed the cousins from the apartment. Fleeing in the opposite direction, they had sought refuge in the oak and brass ambience of the Prince Albert Cafe.
    â€œMaybe Tootle fell,” Renie suggested after the waiter had left their drinks and brought the bread basket.
    Judith shrugged and sipped at her scotch. “It’s weird, I’ll admit. Risky, too. That’s assuming whoever did in Bob-o, did ditto for Tootle. I just