Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries) (13 page)

A pale, round face with an apologetic expression appeared at my right shoulder and Marie LeBow asked in a hesitant voice, “Miss Prentice, can I talk to you?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Marie was apologetic about the scene at JJ Peasemarsh. “But you scared me to death, y’know?”

She was sitting with us in a booth at the fast food restaurant, holding with both hands the hot chocolate Vern had bought her. She sipped it hesitantly, as though we would ask for it back at any moment. She had declined the offer of a sandwich, but Vern and I, realizing we had missed lunch, were sampling the place’s highly touted hamburgers.

“I mean, when I left yesterday, they told me not to talk to anybody, especially not you, Miss Prentice.” She nodded in my direction. “They—well, it was Dennis O’Brien, really—he seemed a little mad when I told him I’d called you. Told me to spend some time over here at my sister’s. Wouldn’t even let me take my car. Maybe he thinks somebody wants to get me, I don’t know. We did have a couple of hang-ups on the telephone since I been here. Was that you?”

“No, of course not, Marie. I didn’t know where you were until just now.”

“That’s what I thought, but Dennis was real strong on me not talking to anybody. So when you started saying my name in the store like that, well, I just didn’t know what to do!” She bowed her head over the chocolate and allowed herself another small sip.

Thus fortified, she continued, “So after I left the store, I started feeling bad about running away.”

She looked directly into my eyes. “This not talking to you stuff, that’s crazy. You were always so nice to my girl, so I just made up my mind. I know there’s no harm in you, Miss Prentice—”

“Please call me Amelia.”

“I mean, Amelia—and if the police don’t like it, well, too bad!” She set down her cup firmly, splashing a few drops on the table. A dark curl fell down over one eye, and she pushed it back angrily. “It’s still a free country!”

She pulled a paper napkin from a dispenser and mopped up the spill. “I was supposed to stay out at the farm with my sister Valerie, but then I remembered the Peasemarsh sale was today. I never miss that sale, y’know,” she told Vern. “I go every year. So Val drove me into town this morning. After she gets through paying bills and doing some grocery shopping, she’s supposed to meet me here.”

“Mrs. LeBow, what did you want to see Amelia about?” Vern asked abruptly. “Does it have to do with Marguerite?”

Marie took in a sharp breath and looked at him. Her dark eyes filled with tears.

“Maybe it hasn’t sank in yet. I for—forget, sometimes, you know?” she said in a wobbly voice. “Then, all of a sudden, something reminds me. It hurts a lot. A whole lot.”

She filled her lungs deeply several times, then wiped her eyes with a napkin. “Okay. I’m okay now,” she said firmly.

She turned her attention to me. “Marguerite had this book for you. It was like a diary or something, tied shut with a ribbon and everything. She said you got her started writing in it.”

“A journal,” I said unsteadily. “I have all the seniors keep one for a month. You mean she still wrote in it?”

“That’s right. Of course, I never bothered it ’cause it was private.” Marie pulled out another paper napkin and began pleating it as she spoke. “But yesterday morning, I was going through her stuff for—for—” She broke down, sobbing into the napkin.

I slid into the seat on her side of the booth and wrapped my arms around her. For several minutes, none of us said a word. Then, all at once, Marie’s courage returned to her. With touching resolution, she pulled herself gently from my embrace with a faint smile, cleaned up her face, and continued the story.

“I was hunting for a little daisy ring of hers. For her to, um, wear, y’know? Etienne bought it the day she was born. It was the only thing she had from her father. Just a little tiny opal thing shaped like a daisy,” she said, framing an imaginary ring on her finger. “That’s what he called her. Marguerite’s French for daisy, you know. It wasn’t expensive or anything, but, oh, it might’a been one of those movie star rings, she thought so much of it.”

She blew her nose and added, “To tell the truth, her father—Etienne, his name was—wasn’t all that much to write home about, y’know?”

Vern squirmed in his seat. I recognized the symptoms: male discomfort at female confidences. “Excuse me, I’m going to get a refill on my drink. Anybody want anything?”

Marie gave him her empty cup to refill. He slid out and took his place in line at the counter, limping slightly.

“Oh, Etienne was handsome, y’know, and real romantic. All
‘Marie cherie’
this and ‘darling’ that, let me tell you! I loved him a lot, and he loved me back, he really did, but after a year of bills, and then the dirty diapers, I guess he couldn’t take it any more.” She shrugged apologetically.

“I wake up one morning and he’s gone. Never seen him again, and good riddance. But I always made sure my girl knew her daddy had loved her. He didn’t leave me much, but at least I got Marguerite out of it . . . ”

Marie stopped speaking abruptly and looked at me, the painful realization returning. With what must have been an incredible feat of will, she squeezed her eyes closed for a moment and went on with her explanation, nodding with determination.

“Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, I found the ring in her dresser drawer and with it was this diary-thing. I knew right away what to do with it, because Marguerite told me, ‘If anything happens to me, I want Miss Prentice to have it.’ I says, ‘What d’you mean? Nothing’s gonna happen to you.’ But she says, ‘You never know, Mom,’ and I guess she was right. Anyway, you were real important to her, Miss Prentice.”

She smiled, a wide, sparkling smile, her eyes bright with tears. Marie had been beautiful once, and there were times when she was still.

My barely-eaten hamburger had long since become stone cold. I wrapped it up with shaking fingers. “Marie, I am honored to receive it.”

“But you can’t have it!” Marie said.

“Can’t have what?” asked Vern, returning with the drinks.

“The book,” said Marie, looking back and forth between us. “Not yet, anyways. I mailed it to you this morning. It should get there in a day or two.”

It was silly of me, but I was deeply disappointed. “That will be fine,” I said, then remembered something. “Marie, what did you mean by those letters you mentioned? UDJ?”

“Oh, them. That’s nothing. Just something Marguerite wrote on the little memo pad in her purse. Your name was there, too. That’s why I asked.” She waved away the question. “She was always digging in that purse and talking on the cell phone. Anyway,” she added, taking a big swig of her cocoa, “I decided. I’m going back tomorrow, police or no police. Miss, um, Amelia, what’s going on with that Dennis O’Brien? He seems awful mad at you. Did you have fight or something?”

I shook my head. “Honestly, I have no idea.”

Marie said, “Well, I’m going home whether he likes it or not. I got lots of things to see to, and it’s not making me feel any better by sitting over here, stewing and hiding out. Val’ll drive me home. The funeral’s on Tuesday. Can you come?”

I took Marie’s hand. “Of course I can.”

When she arrived, Marie’s older sister Valerie turned out to be a stout, no-nonsense woman who regarded Vern and me with undisguised suspicion. She took in Marie’s puffy eyes and glared at us accusingly.

“You’re not supposed to see anybody from home,” she scolded in French as Marie gathered up her purse and her parcels.

“
Mais c’est important
,” Marie began to protest, but Val was brooking no argument.

“
On y va
! Let’s go!” she said sharply, and suited her action to her words, hurrying her sister to the battered van that waited in the parking lot.

Marie waved to me from the window.

“Is she going to be all right?” Vern asked as they pulled away.

I sighed. “She’s had it hard her whole life. She’s a survivor. At least, I hope so.”

“Well!” Vern took a last, loud pull on the straw in his soft drink. “Now that we’ve consumed this sumptuous repast, shall we hie ourselves to yon hospital?”

“Vern,” I said.

He drooped slightly. “Too much?”

I patted him on the back. “Just a little, but I love you for it. Come on, let’s go.”

CHAPTER NINE

“Aren’t you hungry?” Vern asked as we headed down a hall to Lily’s hospital room. “You hardly ate a bite of your burger.”

“Not really.” Just the thought of that greasy thing made me feel sick, especially now, surrounded by medicinal smells.

“You sure? I could use a little something, myself.”

A nurse frowned at us.

“Shh! Remember where you are. How could you think about food now?” I whispered crossly.

The corridor leading to Lily’s room was a long one, and each open door framed a human tragedy. In one room, an oxygen tank was connected by tube to a mask covering a pale face. In another, a woman leaned solicitously over the bed, gently stroking a trembling hand. Each successive patient’s plight seemed graver than the last. I felt oddly reverent.

As we neared Lily’s room, we saw two men standing just outside, bowing their heads as people will when speaking in hushed tones. Gil and Alec.

The sight of Gil Dickensen as he looked up and smiled at me caused another lurch in my chest. Well, if I was suffering a heart attack, this was the place to have it.

He wore a sailing-style windbreaker over a polo shirt in blocks of primary color, identifying it as the latest style in casual menswear. I didn’t know when he’d abandoned his signature dirt-brown corduroy jacket with leather on the elbows, but I liked the change.

Whoa, now, Amelia,
I told myself.
This is just adolescent-style infatuation. You’ve had the symptoms before. You dealt with them then, and you’ll deal with them now.

I smiled at Alec. The Professor was looking almost dapper in a plaid sport coat, his hair partially slicked down and his beard combed. He carried a gift-wrapped parcel, which he was showing to Vern, who nodded and smiled.

Gil stepped forward, gently grasped my elbow, and pulled me aside. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, thank you. What are you doing here?”

“Vern called me from Peasemarsh. I took the ferry over right away, on official business, of course. Assigned myself to the story. What happened to the kid?” he asked, pointing at Vern’s knee. I explained.

Gil looked hard at me. “Are you sure you’re okay? The head and everything?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said briskly. “Your nephew has done an admirable job of protecting me. Only he was protecting the wrong person.”

“Not necessarily. Look, you want some coffee?”

I hesitated, looking down at the Peasemarsh shopping bag I carried. “I need to see Lily.”

“You can’t.”

I gasped. “She’s not—”

He guffawed so loudly and suddenly that it caused hospital traffic to pause for a split second and frown at our little group. Chastened only slightly, he leaned over and growled in my ear, “Mrs. Lily Burns is under a self-imposed quarantine, having to do, reliable sources tell me, with the state of her appearance. Even as we speak, a terrified little hospital volunteer is on the telephone trying to find a hairdresser who makes house calls. Film at eleven.”

“Whew! I better get in there!”

“Not till the doctors get through. They brought in a bunch of interns to study her. She’s the center of attention, probably having a wonderful time. While we’re waiting, how about that coffee?”

I followed Gil to a waiting room at the end of the hall. It was newly remodeled, clearly with an eye to the soothing quality of dusty-toned pastels. Soft, misty prints graced the walls, and a silk flower arrangement shared the coffee table with an assortment of ragged magazines. The only jarring note was the metal rolling table bearing a large electric coffee maker and a stack of Styrofoam cups.

He poured himself a cup of black liquid. It looked a bit thick for coffee.

“So you haven’t seen her yet?” I asked.

“Nope. Had to rely on an informed source—the aforementioned volunteer. Want some?” he said, gesturing with the pot in his hand.

“Is it any good?”

“It tastes like battery acid. Just the way I like it. Mmmm.” He took a loud sip.

“And you take it black, of course.”

He replaced the pot on the burner and grinned. “You remembered. I’m touched.” He gestured around the room. “Besides, do you see cream and sugar anywhere?”

“Guess I’ll pass, then,” I said and settled down on a surprisingly firm settee. The pale violet linen-textured fabric, I learned, was actually plastic. Padded with cast iron, I surmised, and shifted my weight uncomfortably.

Gil shoved aside the silk flowers and a pile of
People
magazines and perched on the edge of the coffee table, almost knee to knee with me.

“You look all right,” he said, studying my face.

“So do you.”

“No, I mean after all this.” He jerked a thumb in the direction of Lily’s room.

“Oh, you mean the . . . accident,” I said deliberately and waited for Gil to contradict me.

He didn’t. “Yes. Tell me how it happened.” He pulled a pad and pencil from his pocket and leaned forward attentively.

So I told him, in no small detail, including the hunt for Marie and Vern’s fall. As he had been the night before, Gil was a rapt and satisfying listener, hanging on my every word and only interrupting to clarify a point of interest.

“Then Marie’s sister came and picked her up,” I concluded and sat back, waiting for his reaction.

He tucked the pen and pencil back in his jacket pocket. He had only used it once or twice. Apparently a good memory is a vital tool for a reporter.

“It’s quite a story,” he said, reaching for his coffee cup.

“Quite a story? Is that all you have to say?”

“What do you mean?” He took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “Gechh. Cold.”

“No speculation? No conspiracy theory? No fiendish villains lurking in the corner? Who was Vern supposed to protect me from, then?”

Gil set down his coffee hard, spilling some. He muttered an oath as he tried to mop his pants leg with a handkerchief. “That kid should learn to keep his mouth shut.”