Fowl Prey by Mary Daheim

the years. It was, after all, the hub of Canada’s West Coast. And Bob-o, widowed and childless, had formed a fixation for these splendid performers. It often happened; it was a cliché.
    It was ridiculous of Judith to think that she could solve the riddle of Bob-o. If she and Renie wanted to leave Port Royal by Wednesday, it was more important to prove that they had nothing to do with his death. Surely Angus MacKenzie didn’t really believe that she and Renie could be implicated. The only thing they were guilty of was taking tea with Bob-o in his squalid apartment. Unfortunately, they were probably the only two people who had visited the dead man in a long time.
    Except, perhaps, for the murderer.
    The problem was trying to prove that neither Judith nor Renie was the killer. For on the face of it, the cousins had as little—and therefore as much—of a motive as anyone else. Judith turned over onto her other side.
    She was trying to reassure herself that without any evidence the police couldn’t possibly keep her and Renie in Canada, when she heard a strange noise. Judith tensed, then pulled herself up into a sitting position. Someone was knocking at the outer door. It was a timorous knock to begin with, but now it grew bolder, more insistent. Judith slipped out of bed and threw her robe over her flannel nightgown. She glanced in at Renie, but her cousin was sleeping like a log.
    The Clovia had been built in an era when peepholes were superfluous. Judith slipped the deadbolt, but kept the chain on, opening the door enough to see who was calling after midnight.
    â€œMildred?” Judith gaped, then removed the chain. It was hard to tell which woman was more surprised.
    â€œOh!” Mildred squeaked and squinted. “Mrs. McDoodle! Excuse me, I…oh, dear…” She was all at sea, twittering away in a pale pink wrapper with fuzzy white slippers on her feet.
    â€œCan I help you?” Judith asked for want of anything better to say.
    â€œNo, no,” insisted Mildred. “I was…I made a mistake. I was looking for my Epilady.”
    â€œI may have a Bic,” Judith offered.
    Distractedly, Mildred scanned the deserted hallway. “Never mind. But thank you.” She peered at the number on the door. “Oh! Of course! This is 804! I meant to go to 803, Desiree and Alabama’s room! I’m a bit upset, I’m afraid. That poor old man in the elevator, coming right on top of the troubles with my mother. She’s eighty-five and lives alone in Sweet Home, Oregon, and can you believe someone broke into her house last month? In Sweet Home? Bikers, I think. She’s very frail and so delicate. It’s a wonder she didn’t have a stroke.”
    â€œPoor thing,” commiserated Judith, trying to imagine Gertrude confronting a gang of bikers. Visions of long-haired, drug-crazed hoodlums shaking in their biking boots danced before her eyes. “Was anything taken?”
    Mildred was still darting nervous glances in every direction. “No. Yes, the heirloom silver. We think. Mother can’t remember where she put it.” With an uncertain smile, Mildred waved both hands. “I must get to bed. I’m so sorry I disturbed you. I’m such a silly fool!” On fuzzy feet, she hurried off down the hall.
    A disheveled, sleepy-eyed Renie was hanging on the door to her bedroom. “Whazzit?” she muttered.
    Judith replaced the chain and turned to Renie. “Mildred, with fuzzy feet and furry legs. Or so she’d have you believe.”
    â€œHuh?” Renie staggered slightly as she came into the sitting room.
    Judith switched on a light, dazzling Renie. “She claimed to be looking for her Epilady. She claimed to be looking for Desiree, who, if memory serves, borrowed it. She also claimed to have a mother in Sweet Home, Oregon.”
    â€œMmm?”
    â€œGo back to bed. You’re already back to sleep.” Judith sat down on the