Fowl Prey by Mary Daheim

Author:Mary Daheim
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

TEN

THE PHONE RANG, startling both cousins. Judith picked it up, and a broad smile spread over her face. It was Joe. Renie stopped stuffing spinach into her mouth long enough to let out a little groan.

“What’s the death count up to by now?” Joe asked by way of greeting. “I’m surprised I got through. Your line was busy for over an hour a while ago.”

“Yeah, well, we’re busy people,” replied Judith, her eyes fixed on the flowers. “We’ve been crank-calling the Mounties.”

“I’ve got some news for you,” said Joe. “Paul called me back about five, our time. That’s the middle of the night in London, so I hope you appreciate this.”

“You didn’t wait to call him until morning?” inquired Judith, surprised.

“No, I decided it would be more fun to annoy him. Of course he had to show off, so he got some poor junior diplomat to run all over London annoying other people.” Joe didn’t bother to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Okay,” he went on, all business, “you got a fax machine at the hotel?”

“A fax machine?” Judith glanced at Renie, who shrugged, “I don’t know. Let me check.” She pulled out the plastic card from under the telephone and scanned the directory of services. “I’ll be darned, they do. Here’s the number.”

Joe took it down. “It should be there in about ten minutes. I don’t know how much help this stuff will provide, though. I take it you haven’t cracked the case on your own?”

“We’re working on it,” replied Judith. “Did Paul—or his flunky—find out anything juicy?”

“You’ll be seeing it all shortly. Hey, Jude-girl, I’ve got to run. I’m meeting a friend at Mick O’Flaherty’s for dinner. Let me know how this all turns out.” Joe hung up.

“The son of a bitch,” muttered Judith who had turned very red in the face. “I hate him!”

“Huh?” said Renie, breaking open her third petit pain. “What now?”

“That big creep was in such a rush to get off the phone that he couldn’t even talk about the case! He had a dinner date! At Mick O’Flaherty’s! Damn his rotten Irish hide!”

Renie raised her eyebrows. “Mick’s? Or Joe’s?”

“Never mind,” fumed Judith, in one of her rare pouts. “He’s scum, that’s what. My mother is right.”

“I guess you didn’t even get a chance to thank him for the flowers, huh?” Renie was giving Judith a sly little smile.

“What?” Judith stared at the huge arrangement, then assumed a prim expression. “No, I didn’t. This thing is probably just a joke.”

“About a hundred-and-fifty-dollar joke, from the looks of it. Who’s his dinner date?” inquired Renie in a more serious vein.

“Who knows? Some…friend.” Judith’s pout lessened a bit. “To be honest, he didn’t say it was a woman. But I know it was,” she added hastily.

“You don’t know any such thing, you twit,” declared Renie, licking salad dressing off her fingers. “The guy knocks himself out for you calling London, puts himself on the line with his brother, sends you flowers that are worth

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