Fowl Prey Read Online Free PDF Page B

to a pile of packing crates. Tuning out the words, Judith studied Bob-o and recognized that at least he was probably right about his Armistice Day birthdate:His blotchy face showed all of seventy years and the watery gray eyes looked unfocused. Sprigs of white hair stood up around the bald spot at the back of his head. He was of medium height, and perhaps not really as fat as he looked in the billowing cape. His boots were old and worn, yet his brown wool trousers looked new, if cheap. As the words kept tumbling out, Judith had the feeling that Bob-o wasn’t talking to her and Renie so much as he was babbling on cue. Judith snapped her fingers. Bob-o shut up.
    â€œNice to meet you,” said Judith, with a nod. “If you’ll excuse us, we have to go do brain surgery.”
    The watery eyes suddenly focused. “No! Not on me, you don’t!” He held both hands up in front of his face, as if warding off attack.
    Renie took advantage of the gesture to attempt escape, but couldn’t surmount the popcorn wagon. Judith, however, was stricken with remorse. “I didn’t mean that,” she insisted. “I meant we had to be someplace. For tea,” she added rather wildly.
    Bob-o slowly lowered his hands, peeking out between his fingers like a child playing a game. “Tea? Well, there now!” He crooked a gnarled finger at them. “Come on, don’t be shy, I’ve plenty of tea and biscuits, too. Tootle loves company, ’e does, and so do I, especially when they’re pretty lasses.”
    â€œHold it,” cried Renie, digging in her heels.
    But Bob-o had turned into a doorway next to the packing crates. “Shortbread, straight from Scotland, and some loverly creams. ’Ere we go.” The door swung open and he made a lavish bow, ushering his guests into the ground-floor entrance.
    Judith gave Renie a helpless look. Renie’s face hardened, but she knew her cousin too well. Judith was a real sap when it came to people. She actually liked most of them. To Renie, it was often a flaw, yet it was also the reason Judith was such a success in the bed-and-breakfast business. Renie surrendered, and tramped along behind Judith into Bob-o’s tiny apartment.
    It was everything they might have imagined, with newspapers stacked all over the floor, dirty dishes on the table and in the sink, grease running down the grimy stove, dust webs in the corners, and furniture that looked as if the Kaiser’s men had plundered it before running up the white flag in 1918. There were dozens of objects strewn about, all of them old and battered—an accordion, a broken drum, leather ice skates with missing laces, even a conical cap with stars. Photographs, many of them framed, were plastered on the walls and sitting on whatever flat space was available. To Judith’s surprise, they were recognizable: Olivier, Gielgud, the Lunts, the Barrymores, Noel Coward, and Beatrice Lilly.
    â€œHi, sluts!” The voice came from on high. Startled, Judith and Renie looked up in unison. A turquoise parakeet with a sour expression perched on top of a faded floral lampshade. “Tarts, trollops, hussies!” the bird chirped, then flapped its wings and flew off to the refrigerator.
    â€œThat’s Tootle,” said Bob-o, blowing the bird a kiss.
    â€œGee, I thought it was Gertrude,” murmured Judith, wondering if they should attempt sitting down.
    â€œI’ll kill you for this,” Renie whispered back. “He’s nuts, and so are you.”
    But Bob-o was filling a kettle and turning on the stove. Judith removed a foot-high stack of newspapers bearing dates from five years earlier, and cautiously sat down on a rickety chair. Renie remained standing.
    â€œNice and easy does it, ’ere we go, ducks,” said Bob-o, shoving a tartan biscuit tin in front of Judith. “Shortbread, just like I promised. Tootle ate the creams.”
    â€œTootle’s a