Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries) (3 page)

“Thank you so much, but it’s not necessary.”

“Well. If you’re sure, all right then,” he conceded, adding, “I’m afraid I was right about the LeBow girl. A shame, a real shame, but then, she was never really stable, was she? And when it comes to these drugs . . . ”

“Drugs!” I squawked. “There was no question of drugs! It was some kind of seizure or something.”

“That’s not what the
Press Advertiser
says.” I heard the rattle of newspaper as he read aloud: “‘Sources close to the family revealed that drugs had recently become a problem and that such an outcome was no surprise to those who knew Marguerite.’”

What sources? What did they mean, no surprise?
I knew Marguerite, too! I’d read her journal, filled with tumultuous adolescent idealism. Marguerite was quite literally an open book, but a clean one.

I remembered her words: “It just isn’t right!” she’d said, when I’d challenged some emotional comments she made during a classroom debate her senior year.

“I know, Marguerite, but there are better ways to get your point across without personally attacking your opponent. That’s called an
ad hominem
argument, and it’s, um, bogus,” I pointed out, trying to use terms to which she could relate. “You make a better point attacking his logic, using facts to refute it, rather than calling him names.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Prentice,” she’d whispered, still quivering with emotion. I was reminded of a hummingbird. “I got carried away. It’s just so, so . . . evil!”

The subject of the debate was the legalization of drugs.

“It’s always drugs these days,” Berghauser was saying.

Not always.
“Well,” I said, “I don’t know about that. But anyway, I’ll be there right on time.”

“Good,” he said, and hung up.

Groaning, I climbed out of bed and headed for the dresser. The face in the mirror was pale, with an irritated, world-weary expression. I winced as I pulled away the edge of the bandage and squinted at the wound.

A tiny white butterfly-shaped adhesive held together the edges of the bulging cut, which was dark maroon and surrounded by purple bruising. No, I wouldn’t be able to dispense with the big white bandage yet.

Sunshine streamed through the stained-glass panels in the entryway as I came down the wide old stairs. My sister Barbara had been married in this house and descended this staircase, her long satin train rippling down behind her, just the way we had planned as little girls. The family had filled the house then, uncles and aunts, now dead; and their children, now far flung and lost to one another. Still, it was a lovely memory and I smiled.

There was a brisk tap-tap-tap at the door announcing Lily Burns, a casserole in her hand and lively curiosity in her eyes.

“Isn’t this doorbell working? I rang and rang.” She stepped inside. “Now, Amelia, I’ll take care of everything. Don’t say a word.”

She swept past me into the kitchen. She didn’t mean it, of course. She was hoping I’d say many words, all on one particular subject.

She opened the refrigerator. “I would have come last night, but that miserable Dennis O’Brien kept us at the library for hours. I almost came over irregardless. Did you know your porch lights were on all night?”

“Regardless. Yes, I did, but Lily, I can’t.”

“Don’t mention it. I was going to bring you the box of chocolates my broker gave me last Christmas. Tacky gift. But I know you like candy and it should be all right, because it was in the freezer the whole time. But I decided at a time like this you should eat healthy.” She held up the casserole proudly. “It’s chicken divan. Not a thing unhealthy in it except a little butter and a touch of sour cream. Four hundred degrees for half an hour and it’ll be all ready to eat. I’ll come back at noon and fix it for you, if you like. I’d stay all morning, but today’s the women’s auxillary meeting, you know, and I’ve promised to plan the . . . what’s that?”

Having finished his business on the back porch, Sam was pulling himself with some difficulty through his newly-installed plastic cat door. I was gratified to see him actually use it, but it didn’t do much for his dignity. When he finally completed his struggle, his fur was sticking out in every direction and he had narrowly avoided stepping in his food dish.

“Why looo-oook,” said Lily, stooping to stroke behind his ears. “It’s Samuel! How is oo? Did oo wike the snack I weft for oo yesterday?” She smoothed down his fur. “I had some leftover beef stroganoff from the covered dish supper and it seemed a shame to waste it,” she explained, looking up at me. “Besides, Sammy woves sour cweam, doesn’t oo, tweetheart?”

Sam arched to reach Lily’s outstretched hand. As they caressed and whispered sweet nothings to one another, I realized that a mystery had been solved: how Sam remained solidly obese on a diet of expensive lo-cal cat food. If it was possible for a cat to have a double chin, Sam did.

“Now, don’t look at me like that, Amelia. It’s just that he’s a dear widdle fellow, who takes such pleasure in his food, don’t oo, tweetie?”

Her words had a familiar ring. She had once used similar ones to describe her late husband Darryl, a kind, patient, agreeably plump man who died of a heart attack at age forty-seven.

Lily pulled something from her coat pocket. “Here’s your paper, by the way. Don’t read it, though. No need to dwell on the negative. Besides, those idiots at the paper don’t know everything, do they?” She paused, presumably for breath, and examined my coffee machine.

“Lily—” I began.

“Let’s see, how does this thing work? Does it use a filter? Is this where you keep your coffee?” She pulled out the filter basket and began rummaging in my cupboards.

“Lily—” I said again.

“Say, how about instant? I always think the really good brands are every bit as good as the ground coffee. When I—”

Thwock!
I slapped the rolled-up paper on the kitchen table.

“Lily!”

Lily jumped slightly and stared at me, wide-eyed, like a startled deer wearing blue eye shadow. “Yes, Amelia?” She spoke softly and evenly, but I could tell I had annoyed her.

“I’m sorry. It’s just—I mean, it’s awfully sweet of you to go to all this trouble, but . . . ”

“No trouble at all,” she insisted frostily.

“I just don’t have the time to visit. I have to be at school in forty-five minutes!”

“Amelia, you mustn’t!” Lily put down the coffee filter and pointed at my bandage. “It could be a concussion! There could be internal bleeding! I had a great-great uncle who hit his head on the edge of an anvil and a week later, he keeled over, stone dead.” She snapped her fingers.

“I promise you I’ll be careful.”

“And besides,” she concluded, getting to the real bottom line, “you’ll make a spectacle of yourself, showing up at the school with that—” she pointed again, “big white thing half covering your face!”

“I’m just fine. Really. My head doesn’t hurt but a little bit. You know it’s football season and there are half-a-dozen youngsters in school wearing casts and bandages. I should fit right in. Now,” I said, reaching in the cupboard for the coffee can, “I’ve got to get going. Will you have some coffee with me?”

Lily pulled on her coat and gloves. “No, thank you,” she said primly.

Sam and I escorted her to the front door. “Thank you for the casserole. You’re a much better cook than I am.” That was the truth, and we both knew it.

Lily waggled her head modestly, and I could tell I was going to be forgiven. “It’s just one of those things off a box of something. Oh!” she exclaimed. “Forgot to ask you. There’s the sale at Peasemarsh this weekend. Wanna go?”

JJ Peasemarsh was a sportswear company with a factory outlet store across Lake Champlain in Burlington, Vermont. Their clearance sale was a yearly pilgrimage for us.

“I don’t know why not.”

“Great! I’ll call to remind you later. So long, Samuel,” she cooed, scratching him behind his ear. “No, no, dear, watch the stockings! Bye.”

Risking back strain, I picked Sam up to prevent his following Lily. The wretched cat had sold his affections for a dollop of sour cream.

CHAPTER THREE

After Lily left I had to scramble to get to school on time. Usually I walked the five blocks and was glad to get the exercise, but as I stepped from the shower, the clock read 7:30, my usual arrival time.

I pulled on my clothes and considered one of my options: a seldom-used car safely padlocked in the garage out back. As I combed my hair, I tried to remember where I’d put the key. No use, my mind just wouldn’t work under pressure this morning. Besides it was all I could do to lift that heavy garage door on a good day.

“Ouch!” The comb pulled the hair near my wound. That did it. Plan B. I grabbed the phone and called Labombard Taxi.

Fleur Labombard had read the morning paper. Yes, I told her, I was all right. No, I hadn’t seen Marguerite’s body, actually. Yes, it was very, very sad. Now, about that taxi?

Mrs. Labombard was glad I was all right. She’d send somebody right over.

I had expected Mr. Labombard, a reticent soul who drove with incredible speed and sprayed his taxi with strong aerosol disinfectant after each fare. I was never sure whether it was a courtesy for, or an insult to, his customers.

This time, though, it was a brand-new cab operated by an unfamiliar driver: a lanky, blond youngster with a relaxed manner and an infectious smile. In striking contrast to his employer, he began talking the moment I climbed in.

“I know, I know, you expected Marcel, but he’s not doing much driving these days. He’s come up in the world. I’m number two in his fleet. It’s brand new. Smells new, doesn’t it? Not like an operating room, like old Number One. What do you think?”

“Very nice, uh, Vernon,” I answered, reading the permit form on the visor. It also informed me that Vernon Thomas was 6’3”, weighed 188 pounds, and had been born just over twenty years ago.

“Vern, please,” he said, twisting around and shoving a large, long-fingered hand within my reach. I shook it.

“And you’re Amelia Prentice. Mrs. Labombard told me. Sorry about what happened last night. I’ll see you get a nice, smooth ride. Now, where to?”

I told him. He turned back around, flipped the arm on the meter and was all business immediately. We arrived at the teacher’s entrance in four peaceful, pleasant-smelling minutes.

“Vern,” I said as I counted out the fare, “that was indeed a nice, smooth ride.” I added a tip. “That’s for you. Good luck on your new career.”

“Thanks, but this is just temporary. I’m getting my master’s in journalism. Gonna be a newsman, like my uncle. Maybe you know him. The editor at the
Press Advertiser
?”

“Gil Dickensen?” I knew him all right; we’d had dealings. An arrogant, opinionated, smug, totally puzzling man.

Vern nodded.

“You’re Carol’s son? Of course!” Gil Dickensen’s sister Carol had married a man in the Air Force. I’d heard she’d died about five years ago. “I went to high school with her. She was a lovely person.”

“Yes, she was.”

I looked carefully at his face. “Your mother’s people all have dark hair. You must resemble your dad. There’s a little of your mother in your eyes, but I wouldn’t have known that you and Gil were related.”

Vern laughed. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Ol’ Gil’s a piece of work, isn’t he?”

“Now I never said—”

The taxi radio squawked.

Vern snatched up the microphone. “I’m on my way! See you around, Amelia,” He put the car in gear and added, “I’ll be sure to give Gil your regards.”

He was gone. I stood thinking. Just how much did he know? What had his mother told him, if anything, about Gil and me? Not that it made any difference, though it was just a bit embarrassing to have ancient history dug up again. The bell rang and I consigned Vern, his uncle, and ancient history to the very back of my mind.

Much of the usual milling around and good-natured hi-jinx of Friday morning classes were missing today. My homeroom students filed in silently, exchanging knowing looks. What interaction there was was accompanied by covert glances at my bandage. I ignored the questions in their eyes and examined the roll book.

“Is Stephanie Aarons in school today?”

My students were delighted to enlighten me: “Home. Sick!” came the yelled answer from the rear of the room.

“David Atwood?”

“He’s sick too.”

“Caught it from Steffy!” someone else called out, and there was general merriment until I called a halt.

I scanned down the list of names. “Derek Standish—is he sick too?”

Silence. A general exchange of glances.

“Derek’s not here, Miss Prentice,” said Hardy Patschke, entering, as was his habit, precisely one millisecond before the sounding of the late bell. He shrugged his plaid flannel shoulders. “Don’t know why, though. I just heard ’em talking about him in the office.” He handed me a folded slip of paper. “Berghauser sent this to you.”

“That’s Mr
.
Berghauser, Hardy.” I knew the principal wasn’t popular, but there was no use encouraging disrespect. “Thank you. Sit down, please.” I slid the paper under my desk blotter and finished my notations in the roll book.

Precisely ninety seconds later, the class bell rang and my classroom emptied of homeroom students, to be immediately refilled with members of my eight o’clock English class. Derek Standish’s seat was empty.

Serendipity Shea entered triumphantly surrounded by an admiring clump of girls hanging on her every whispered word. I saw her gesture toward my bandage and tried to ignore the outright stares.

“Hurry and take your seats,” I said briskly. “I’ve corrected your
Julius Caesar
papers and you need to finish up your Shakespeare folders. I had planned to hand out a picture of the Globe Theatre today, but there was a little problem with the copy machine.”

The school day had begun.

Aside from an ache-all-over feeling that began to overtake me during second period, I managed to conduct business as usual rather well. Strangely, I found I didn’t so much mind this kind of pain, but relished it as a secret badge of endurance. I felt terrible, but I was still here, still doing my job. “ ‘Come what may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day,’ ” I promised myself, rubbing my eyes and trying to remember which of Shakespeare’s plays I’d quoted.