Fowl Prey by Mary Daheim Page B

than I am,” protested Renie.
    â€œBecause 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.
    â€œMargaret 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.
    â€œSo 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.
    â€œWe 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.
    â€œMargaret 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?”
    â€œShe’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.
    â€œMugs was so hoping Bob-o had made friends here,” explained Judith. “Did he have much company?”
    â€œHim?” 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.”
    â€œHow 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