Read Online Fowl Prey by Mary Daheim - Free Book Online Page A

he remarked in feigned shock. “What next, porno stars in Parliament?”
    â€œI thought we had one, sir,” murmured Forbes, “from West Fortescu.”
    â€œEh?” The bulky man turned around to stare at the young patrolman. “So we do, I forgot about Ms. Labelle.” He cleared his throat and put out a hand. “I’m Detective Angus MacKenzie, Port Royal Homicide Division. You poor young ladies discovered the body, I take it?”
    â€œWe did,” replied Judith, warming to Angus MacKenzie at once. “We were going out to dinner and the elevator came and there was Bob-o. Dead.” She held up her hands in a helpless gesture.
    â€œDead indeed, poor old soul.” MacKenzie shoved his hands into the pockets of his trenchcoat and whistled a few dirgelike notes. “You recognized him, eh?”
    â€œOh, yes,” Renie put in. “My husband and I—he’s not here this trip—have been coming to the Clovia for years.”
    â€œIndeed.” Angus MacKenzie nodded approval. “The Clovia has staunch fans, especially among you Yanks.” He glanced at Forbes, who produced the notebook. “Yes, I see…names, addresses, very good.” The detective lumbered over to the window and looked out in the direction of Prince Albert Bay. “Lovely night. Frost by morning, I should imagine.” He whistled again, soft and unrecognizable. “Well.” He swiveled about, the dark hair falling almost into his eyes. Judith judged him to be about fifty, and clearly an old hand at homicide. “Did you hear the shot?” he asked in a voice that sounded as if he’d surprised himself with such a sordid question.
    The cousins exchanged glances. “I think so,” said Judith. “It was more like a thud. Or a whump. We thought it was firecrackers.”
    MacKenzie nodded and chewed on his long upper lip. “That makes sense. I don’t suppose you noticed the time?” He sounded apologetic.
    Again, the cousins made a visual consultation. Judith hazarded a guess: “About seven? I know we got back to our room just before the hour. Renie couldn’t get rid ofthe clam dip so she changed, and that was when we heard the noise, right?”
    â€œRight,” agreed Renie, her spirits on the rise with the advent of Angus MacKenzie. “Clam dip has an oil base. The elevator was on the seventh floor. We walked down.”
    â€œNasty stuff, clam dip,” mused MacKenzie. “On seven, you say? Locked to stay put, eh?”
    â€œThat’s right,” replied Judith. “Whoever shot Bob-o must have gotten out there. I suppose the question is, was he coming up or going down?”
    â€œIndeed.” MacKenzie prowled the sitting room, studying the breakfront with its collection of English bone china, the silver wall sconces shaped like fleur de lis, a Turner print of Venice. “Very observant.” He gave Judith and Renie the benefit of a toothy smile. “You heard nothing else? Saw nothing unusual?”
    Judith shook her head. “No. We’d come down the hall just before seven, from Suite 800. Maybe five or ten minutes before we heard the noise. Nobody was around when we went out to the elevator.”
    MacKenzie frowned, then turned to Guildford and Forbes. “Would that mean that no one in this entire hotel used the elevator for—what?—ten, fifteen minutes?”
    The other two policemen looked blank. “It’s possible, sir,” Guildford finally replied. “It’s really quite a small place. Under a hundred rooms, I believe. But of course they may have tried to call for the car, given up waiting, and used the stairs. As Mrs. McMonigle and Mrs. Jones did.”
    â€œIndeed.” MacKenzie let out a heavy sigh. “Thank you, ladies,” he said with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry you had such an unfortunate incident spoil your visit. Please don’t let it warp