Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series) (18 page)

“Suit yourself,” she said airily.

I pressed the button marked End as forcefully as my near-frostbitten finger would allow. It was now obvious why she didn’t want company. It would interfere with her trysts with Blakely.

So there it was. I was on my own.

The next afternoon as I trudged among the exhaust-stained piles of snow on my way from school to Chez Prentice, I tried to think how I could conduct my own investigation.

My answer came literally in a flash as I crossed the street and looked down Dover Avenue toward the old downtown section. In the distance was a ten-foot sign bordered by neon lights, reading:

“Shea’s Quality Sporting Goods”

What better place to do research on ice fishing? Truth be told, I would have preferred to go to the REI store out at the mall, but that was a long drive and I was currently on foot. Due to my unfortunate involvement with Serendipity, I might be considered
persona non grata
around here, but Shea’s was a large store and hired any number of shaggy young men who were knowledgeable about all things sports. The likelihood of my meeting anyone of the Shea clan could be limited if I kept my eyes open.

Besides, it’s a free country, isn’t it?
I reminded myself.
And the store is open to the public, is it not?
I was part of the public.

I entered and winced as a bell fastened to the front door announced my presence. I paused and looked around.

Good
. Nobody was anywhere in sight.

The store was arranged much like any variety store, with long aisles between tall shelves.

I moved carefully, trying not to let my boots make much noise on the wooden floor. I was passing a display of canteens—who would imagine there were so many types?—when I heard a low conversation between two young male voices. I paused and listened.

Yes, as a general rule, I frown on eavesdropping, but I was conducting an investigation. Besides, we were in a public place, and they had no expectation of privacy. (Or so I had heard on television.)

“ . . . been squirrelly ever since she let Dus go.”

“Yeah, I wondered about that. Why’d she do that? He do anything wrong?”

“Don’t think so. Maybe she knew he was a killer even back then.”

“I don’t think he did it, Jack. Or his brother neither.”

Hear, hear! You dear, ungrammatical young man
, I thought.

“Sure they did. They stuck the guy’s head in—”

I stepped around the corner. “Excuse me.”

Two young men in plaid flannel shirts looked up, startled. I had interrupted them as they unpacked pairs of snowshoes from a huge carton and arranged them in a display.

One of the young men stood and dusted off the knees of his jeans. “Can I help ya?”

Oh, how tempted I was to correct him:
May
I help you?
But I was no longer Miss Prentice, English teacher, but Amelia Dickensen, Intrepid Detective, who also happened to speak all the local dialects. It was also time to stow any Latin idioms that might pop,
non vocatus
, into my head.

“Yah, maybe ya can.” I swept my gaze around the store. No sign of a Shea, so far.

“I need to see your ice-fishing tents.”

He looked down at me with some amusement. “You fish?”

I glanced down at my prim wool coat, medium-heeled winter boots, ladylike leather purse on one arm and leather satchel containing workbooks for the Rousseau boys in the other. “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?” I demanded, inwardly kicking myself for not getting into costume for this excursion into another world. Overalls, perhaps.

“No, I guess not,” said the young man, scratching his neck uncomfortably. He beckoned. “The tents are back here. C’mon.”

And it was, indeed, another world. As I scurried to keep up with the youngster’s long stride, I observed row upon row of mystifying objects and cartons. On the way, I identified ropes, fishing hooks, soccer balls, small axes, Thermos bottles, weights of various sizes, elastic bands, lanterns, running shoes, and ice chests. At last we reached a back corner of the store where several ice-fishing tents were displayed.

“Where ya plannin’ to fish?” he asked.

“On the lake,” I said. I would have thought that was obvious. I lifted a tent’s flap. This looked like what I’d heard described third-hand as the tent the Rousseau boys encountered. “May I—I mean, can I?” I asked, indicating that I’d like to enter.

The young man shrugged. “Sure. Go ahead.”

Still carrying my purse and school supplies, I stepped easily inside without having to bend my head at all. This structure was about the same size as the shanties Etienne and Bert were building.

I looked down, surprised. There was a plastic floor equipped with three snap-shut fishing hatches for the convenience and comfort of the fisherman. But the boys had described a floor of ice.

I stuck my head out of the tent, remembering just in time to use the vernacular. “Ya got any tents with no floors?”

He gave me a quizzical look, but jerked a thumb in the direction of some smaller tents. “Just one model, over there. We’re almost out of ’em, on account of the ice festival, y’know,” he said, trying his hand at a little salesmanship. “They fold up real neat. They’re only a couple hundred bucks, so they move fast.”

Sure enough, there in the corner was a blue, dome-shaped shelter much smaller than the first tent.

I stuck my head inside and looked around. It was a good deal smaller than the tent my mind had sketched, but apparently it sat directly on the ice, allowing a would-be perpetrator plenty of space to accomplish, unobserved, any number of nefarious tasks and leave the body to cool.

“ ’Tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door; but ’tis enough, ’twill serve,’ ” I murmured.

“What?” the young man said. “You gonna have church in that?”

I laughed out loud. “No, I was just thinking of something else.”

“Jason,” boomed a disembodied voice, “phone for you on line one.”

“Um,” said the young man, “We’re kinda short-handed. I gotta go for a second.” He gestured toward the back of the store.

“Please, go ahead. I’ll continue to browse.”

He loped away, making heavy sounds with his boots on the wood floor.

I went back inside the small tent and sat down, tailor fashion. I tried to imagine it as bare ice. Judging by the hatches in the bigger tent, holes broken in the ice for fishing were about twelve inches across. There would be room in here for one hole, perhaps two persons (sitting, one hoped, on stools) and perhaps two standard large ice chests.

I heard footsteps outside the tent, lighter ones, then the tinkling sound of a cell phone ringing. A woman answered, “Hello? Hello? What?” Abruptly, she changed to “Who is this?” a hoarse, angry whisper, “Listen, pal, if you think you’re scaring me, you’re wrong! Who is this?”

I made a mistake at this juncture. I should have just remained in the tent until she walked away, but curiosity impelled me to crawl forward and pull back the tent flap.

Brigid Shea must have been looking right at the tent. She pocketed the telephone and demanded loudly, “What are you doing here?”

With all the dignity I could muster, I said, “I’m looking at ice fishing tents.” I raised myself up on my knees, emerging disheveled from the tent.

“What d’you think you’re doing?”

“I just wanted to see your stock of tents” I repeated, clumsily retrieving my satchel from inside.

“I’ll bet you’re spying for that husband of yours. Trying to run us out of business with those lousy rental shanties!”

“But that’s not my husband!”

“Get out!” She stood trembling with rage, pointing a finger in the general direction of the egress.

Apparently it wasn’t enough that I complied. She then felt the need to come from behind, grab my shoulders and push me toward the door, talking all the way.

“I shoulda known it was you when Jason told about the nutty woman with the books. I knew right away who it was.”

“Nutty? I tell you, I just wanted to look at the tents.”

I tried to squirm away from her grip, but her hands were vise-like. Clearly, this woman had been using those weights I’d seen earlier.

“Yeah, to scope out the competition, you mean!” As we approached the entrance, she came around and shook a finger in my face. “You tell that Frenchman you’re married to to leave us alone!” She let me loose with a shake.

A workbook fell from my arms, and I stooped to retrieve it. “But I’m not married to—”

“That’s your problem. And you’re not much of a teacher, either. We all know you’ve had it in for my Serry ever since she started high school.”

“Now see here, Mrs. Shea!”

She pointed her finger again. “Out! Out! Out-out-out-out-out-out-out!” She sounded like a barking dog. A terrier.

As I headed back town the street, slightly twisted Latin phrase popped into my head, courtesy of my student Hardy Patchke:
Veni, vidi, concouri.

We came, we saw, we ran.

“You know, Miss—Mrs. Dickensen,” J.T. said as he vigorously erased a wrong answer in his workbook and blew away the debris. “You’re a lot nicer here with us than you are in school.”

“Shut up,” Dustin whispered between his teeth. He was hunched over his math lesson.

“But it’s true. In school you’re sort of a tight—uh.” I could see him searching his vocabulary for a word that wouldn’t offend me.

“Sort of, you know . . . ” He waved his pencil in the air.

I decided to help him. “Would
formal
be the word you’re searching for?”

J.T. grinned. “Yeah, formal. But you’re not that way when you’re here. You even laughed a minute ago. Why can’t you be like that in school?”

“Golly, J.T., can’t you keep your mouth shut for one minute?” Dustin exploded. “How can a guy get his work done with you yapping all the time? I’m going upstairs!”

He gathered up his pencil, papers and books and headed out of the room. He stopped abruptly at the door, his face losing its stormy expression.

“Um, Mrs. Dickensen, if that’s all right.”

I looked at his face and was reassured. This was not a boy who could kill a man in cold blood.

“Go right ahead, Dustin. If you have a problem or need help, come back down. I’m a little shaky with numbers, but I’ll be glad to do what I can.”

“Don’t worry. I can handle math. It’s the history and English and stuff that gives me trouble.” He backed out the door and took the stairs two at a time.

“Dork,” J.T. murmured after his brother. “He’s a real grouch lately.”

“You’ve both been under a lot of stress.”

“I guess so.” He filled in the last blank on his workbook page. “There, done. You wanna check it now?”

“Sure.”

I rapidly scanned the answers. There was only one wrong out of thirty.

“This is good work, J.T., only obelisk isn’t a bird. It’s a kind of tower, like the McDonough Monument across from city hall. I’m surprised that you, of all people, didn’t know that, after all the things you’ve climbed.”

He ducked his head and smiled shyly. “I guess I do now.”

I smiled back. “That’s right, just about the only thing around here you haven’t climbed. Or have you?”

“
Non, c’est tout, Madame
.”

“
Tres bien
. How is the French coming?”

“It’s not as hard as I thought.”

“
Bon!”

He looked at me thoughtfully. “I think I figured out why you’re so mean at school.”

“You have?” I said, amused.

“Sure. It’s easy. You’re a woman, right?”

“True,” I agreed, wryly remembering how firmly that fact had been brought home to me in recent days.

“And you’re not very big, either. I think you have to be kind of a bi—um, bad
guy
,” he corrected himself, “in school so us guys won’t lean on you too much.” He graced me with a wide smile. “What do you think?”

“I think you need to get back to your work.”

“Is, uh, Vern okay?” he asked, picking up his pencil again.

“Yes. Why?”

“I feel bad about him gettin’ in trouble on account of us. I’m real sorry.”

He stopped and looked over his shoulder. I knew what he was thinking. His father and brother were both upstairs and out of earshot.

“I don’t know what happened with that thing. We sure didn’t tell the police.”

“What didn’t you tell?” I was whispering along with him.

He reddened. “Oh, gosh. I thought you knew—”

“About the silver lunchbox? I do know. Is that what you didn’t tell?”

“Yeah, mostly. I mean, Vern didn’t know and we didn’t know, either, that anybody was dead. We didn’t see any dead body. We just wanted to get that stupid thing back to the mad guy without, you know, without getting in trouble.”

“J.T., when—” I began, but changed my question as Martin Rousseau walked into the kitchen. “That is, when do you think you can have your essay finished?”

J.T. understood immediately. “I dunno. Pretty quick, I guess. I’ll get started as soon as I think up what to write about.”

“You guys doing good here?” Martin asked.

“J.T. is doing very well,” I said firmly. The kind of grammar usage I had heard in this house made it clear that there was a lot of work to do.

Martin went to the refrigerator and looked in. “Gotta get some more food, I guess,” he mumbled.

“The crowd outside seems to have subsided somewhat,” I remarked, more to make conversation than anything.

Though the throng had dwindled to several reporters and a cameraman apparently camping by the curb in a single van, the strain was still making its mark. Martin looked worse than at my last visit. He had lost weight, and I wasn’t sure he had even changed his clothes since the other day.

“Are you able to get to work more easily now?” I asked.

He looked at me over the top of the refrigerator door and shook his head. “No, I took some vacation time. I got three weeks coming. The people at the plant are being real good about it. ’Course, I’m gonna have to get back sometime.”

His gaze returned to the interior of the refrigerator. He pulled out a carton and shook it.