Murder in the Past Tense (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series Book 3)

by E. E. Kennedy

  “But how could Danny be involved? I mean—”

  “He had to have told the old man where Eileen was hiding. Maybe he even caught up with her that night.”

  That was different from what I had imagined, and even more terrifying. A familiar face, a man who had danced with her, even kissed her passionately onstage (and perhaps seduced her offstage) suddenly turned killer? Despite the stifling heat of the cabin, I shivered.

  Terence stroked the gun. “I know I shouldn’t have kept this after, well, after everything, but I had a sort of sentimental attachment to it. Don’t you recognize it?” He turned it sideways so I could see the handle.

  The initials “T. R.” on the small silver plate were unmistakable.

  “The San Juan Hill gun! He was killed with the Teddy Roosevelt gun?”

  He scratched his forehead and his thick, white hair shifted on his head. Could Terence be wearing a wig?

  He shrugged. “It was kind of . . . ironic, wasn’t it?”

  That reminded me of something. “Where’s Pat? Patricia? Your wife?” Surely she wouldn’t have condoned this thing.

  His tone was sardonic. “Again, I’m aware of who you mean. She died of lung cancer, eight, no, eight and a half months ago. We went to one of those big treatment centers in the Midwest like you see on television? It cost almost all our savings. She fought right up until the end, wouldn’t quit, but she was too far gone. She died in my arms on Christmas Eve. I became a widower that day, imagine that.” He shook his head.

  “I loved her, I did. But now I’m glad she isn’t here to . . . well . . . and I’m not sorry Danny’s dead, though,” he added, staring across the cabin at a blank wall, “I know it’s a sin that I’m glad, but I’m beyond redemption anyway.”

  I was feeling distinctly uneasy, being in the same room as that enormous gun, but I couldn’t help saying, “No, you’re not, at least, not spiritually speaking. You grew up in the Church. You once said you were a good Catholic. Remember the thief on the cross? He wasn’t beyond it. And neither are you. If you repent and—”

  I was talking faster and faster, my apprehension growing.

  I should never have come here.

  He interrupted me. “I’m glad you still believe that stuff, Amelia. I can’t seem to any more.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said sympathetically. To a murderer.

  Why was I always so polite? I tried to think of him as the Storybook Dragon, but it didn’t work. The expression in his watery blue eyes carried all the weight of the guilty world, plus a dash of ruthlessness. I didn’t like the speculative look on his face.

  “Hmm.” He turned a sad smile towards me. “What am I going to do with you, Amelia?” He laughed, and it sounded painful. “I remember your audition. You stood out. Cute little thing, but I’d never seen such over-acting in all my life. You’ve always been a handful, you know?”

  He took hold of my wrist and pulled me to my feet.

  “I know, Terence. I’m s-sorry.”

  “So’m I.” Using his free hand, he opened the round portion of the gun that presumably carried bullets, checked it, and snapped it shut with practiced ease.

  “Look, Terence—”

  “Hush now, dear.” He frowned and rubbed his nose with the wrist of his right hand. “I need to think. You pose a bit of a problem. I’m going to have to change my plans.”

  There was another volley of coughing. His grip on my wrist loosened a little, but quickly tightened again.

  “Just how sick are you, Terence?” The yellow coloring in his face was not only from the firelight.

  “Very sick,” he said absently. His eyes were darting all over the cabin. I wondered what he was thinking. “I was going to put an end to things today. To myself, you understand. But now I can’t leave things as they are.”

  Why not? I wanted to shout. Instead, I apologized again.

  “Oh, Terence, I’m so sorry.”

  And I was. I had once liked this puzzling man. I tried to strike an optimistic tone.

  “You could turn yourself in. I can help you. I know Dennis O’Brien—you know, the police detective? He’s a good friend of mine. He could—”

  “No.” Terence was swinging the gun hand up and down, his other hand still gripping my wrist. “I couldn’t do it to Dierdre. My sister’s giving me a retirement party, you know that? I’ve got family to consider here.”

  But so do I! Baby Janet ran a foot across the inside of my belly. My hand came up to feel the little heel through the layers of flesh and fabric. Relax, Sweetie. Your Mama’s here. Everything will be all right.

  I wished I believed it myself.

  “Be quiet now, Amelia. I must think.”

  I looked into Terence’s face, but he wasn’t seeing me. His eyes, jerking rapidly, were watching some long-ago scene. Or plotting out how he’d dispose of me—correction, us.

  All at once he seemed to make up his mind. “All right, come along now.” He jerked on my wrist and tried to pull me toward the entrance. “I said, come on!”

  I remained where I stood. His grip wasn’t very strong and I definitely outweighed him.

  “Why? What are you going to do?”

  Fear and stress certainly takes it out of a person. All at once my entire body was the definition of agony. Nausea, trembling, a twinge of abdominal pain.

  Lord, didn’t You hear me?

  My answer was what seemed to be an unusually violent kick from the baby. I grunted softly and grimaced from the pain.

  Terence’s expression hardened. He pressed the barrel of the gun into my chest.

  “I haven’t time for this. Come now or I—BEGAD, WOMAN!”

  He jumped back, letting go of my arm, and nearly dropping the gun. He scowled down at the floor.

  “You peed on my shoe!” The suede of his left loafer was black with wetness.

  “I did no such thing!” Outrage overtook my fear. “I would never—” I looked down, feeling with growing humiliation the moisture that was pouring down my right leg. “Oh, dear!”

  A wave of pain swept my abdomen. A force was pulling my insides down and out of my body. I sat, heavily, back down on the chair. It tilted, but held. I rocked helplessly, gripping my abdomen, until the pain subsided.

  “I didn’t pee,” I explained weakly. “My water broke. I’ve got to get to . . . ”

  “You’re pregnant?” Terence staggered back a step and directed his gaze at my middle. “Stupid, foolish girl! Why didn’t you tell me?” He thrust his fingers into his hair.

  “I didn’t think it would be so soon; they told me I probably had a couple of weeks left.”

  I savored the subsidence of the pain. In that short space of time, I had forgotten how good it felt not to hurt.

  “I don’t know why it’s happening now.” I had also forgotten the gun.

  He reached into his pocket and extracted a cell phone. “No bars!” he muttered and thrust it back inside. He looked around frantically.

  I pulled my own cell phone from my pocket and handed it to him. He opened it, shook his head and muttered, “What can we do? What can we do?”

  I clung to that “we.” When my water broke, I had no idea what Terence had been about to say, or—even more important—do. But he was all I had right now.

  Terence looked around the sparsely furnished hovel. “You can’t give birth here. It’s filthy! Where’s your car? I’ll drive you, if you promise not to tell.”

  Another wave of pain began. Before it engulfed me completely, I managed to croak, “No car. I walked. My house is just—aaaaaaah!”

  I gave myself over to the pain.

  As the tide of agony ebbed away again, I heard Terence cursing. “Dierdre won’t be coming for hours yet. Oh, wait, I know! Dr. Ridley has a camp a little bit further down the shore. We can head for there.”

  “But he’s a . . . a . . . urologist!” I objected, my awareness returning with the relief from pain. “He’s my husband’s doctor!”

  “What does it
matter at this point! They all have to learn the plumbing, don’t they? Any old port, I always say!” He lifted his sweater, thrust the long barrel of the San Juan Hill gun into his belt, and pulled me to my feet. “We’ll take the old Joseph boat. Come on, go faster!”

  He gripped my elbow and tugged mightily, trying to propel me along. It was a useless effort. Terence, ravaged by some fearsome, fatal disease, was weaker than I.

  Nausea teased my body, but I managed to propel myself forward. “We’ll have to hurry,” I warned. “The pains—they’ll come back.”

  Waddling now, I made my way desperately to the door, where I leaned, panting, for a moment before proceeding into the cooler outdoor air. A mosquito with a one-inch wingspan landed on my bare upper arm. I swatted, hard, leaving a bloody smudge.

  Would a mosquito bite hurt the baby? my right brain wondered. Only if it carries malaria, wryly answered the left brain, causing speculation of a new menace to multiply like post-rain mushrooms on a lawn: Oh, no, malaria?

  The worry was rendered moot as the agony began again, forcing me to my knees on the rough, pebbled path, where I rocked and moaned, giving no thought to the unseemliness of it all.

  “Oh, Lord!” murmured Terence, uselessly stroking my shoulder. “Oh, please!” Whether he was directing his requests to me or heaven, only he knew.

  My eyes were level with Terence’s belt. And the gun that he’d stuffed in it. What if that thing went off?

  It’s already killed one man. And he’d been planning to kill himself.

  Another worry forced itself through the haze of pain. What if he accidentally hit the baby? I opened my mouth to ask him to be careful, but only a moan escaped.

  Finally, I gasped, “Let’s go.” I took Terence’s proffered arm, thin and delicate as a wishbone through the plaid cotton of his sleeve, and pulled myself to my feet once again.

  The boat sat bobbing at the end of the short weathered dock. It was sturdy enough to my eye, but not very stable.

  Terence hopped in with relative ease, making a hollow-sounding thump, and held out his hands. “Come on, get in.”

  I put a tentative foot on the edge of the boat, and it wobbled. I withdrew my foot.

  “Come on, Amelia, come on,” he chided, “we’ve got to get you aboard.”

  Moving slowly, I got down on all fours and slung a leg over the side. Clinging to the dock with a death grip, I slid clumsily into the boat, hoping I wasn’t mashing my little one in the process. As if in answer, the pains began their dreaded ascent.

  “Ohh, they’re starting again!”

  I slumped to the floor of the boat. It was a very tight fit.

  “Lie still.”

  Terence went to the end of the boat and started the engine, which sputtered tentatively. He muttered an oath. The engine sputtered, then started.

  “Wha-what’s wrong?” I asked between moans.

  “We’re low on fuel. Say a prayer!” he added grimly and swung the boat out onto the water.

  I said several, inwardly, and then outwardly, with great volume. After a bit, the pains subsided. An irrational talkativeness overtook me. I began a semi-yelled discourse, and once again, tended to be philosophical.

  “I didn’t know what to expect with labor. It’s painful, like they said, but not as bad as I expected. I mean, as an English teacher, Shakespeare and everything, one hears alarming things like . . . “from his mother’s womb untimely ripped,” and all that. What was that from Julius Caesar or MacBeth? Oh, I remember, that was MacDuff who—”

  “The Scottish play! The Scottish play! Amelia, please!” Terence yelled into the wind. “We’ve enough problems without adding bad luck to the mix.”

  “Oh, yes, I forgot. I’m sorry.” I felt better, and managed to crawl to an upright position and take a seat. The wind whipped my face, but I didn’t mind. I was a mess, literally, but soon, God willing, I’d meet little Janet . . .

  I smiled. A twinge signaled the beginnings of another round of labor pains.

  “Ohhh.” I slid back down onto the floor of the boat and rocked back and forth. “Ohhh!”

  “Hang on, dear,” Terence said over his shoulder.

  I did hang on. And I prayed. I thanked the Lord for this man who was helping me instead of—well, doing something else. I gave thanks for Gil and prayed for the good health of my little girl. And I prayed for the soul of this unlikely helper.

  “Here we are!” Terence yelled.

  We pulled up to a small dock. He jumped out, tied up the boat and reached a hand for me. “Can you walk?”

  I nodded. Clumsily I climbed onto the dock and with Terence holding my arm, I made my way toward the large house beyond. All at once, the pains began to grow again and I had to lie down on the broad wooden slats, where I writhed helplessly.

  “Stay here! I’ll get help from the house.”

  I floated in a sea of pain while Terence was gone. The pains were just subsiding when he returned, swearing violently.

  “Nobody home and it’s locked up tighter than a drum!”

  I wiped sweat from my forehead. “Alec’s place—no, wait, he’s probably still in town. Um, my place is not too far, in that direction.” I pointed across the lake from whence we had come. “I should get back in the boat and go with you. The pains are getting closer together.”

  “Your house better not be too far. I wasted most of my gas coming here.” He was out of breath. “Come on.”

  I don’t remember exactly how I got into the boat again or what happened in the next few minutes. The memory is all a blur. When I did come to my senses and the pain had stepped back for a few minutes, I realized that Terence was swearing again and leaning over the side of the boat with a paddle. His white hair lay in the bottom of the boat. He was completely bald, with freckles dotting his bare, round head. He glanced at me.

  “We’re almost . . . there,” he gasped. “Almost . . . ”

  “The gas?”

  “Gone. Gotta use . . . the paddle . . . ” He swore, then coughed.

  I lifted myself up on an elbow and looked to the shore. I could see my house clearly. The lights were on. Gil was home, praise God!

  I grabbed the wig, which was sliding under a seat, and held it tightly to my chest. Something dark and heavy slid past my hand, out of my reach, and thumped against the side of the boat. The gun? It didn’t matter now. Never mind, we were almost home! We had to be!

  “Terence?”

  “Yes?”

  “Back there in the cabin.”

  “What?”

  “What were you going to do?”

  He was as breathless as I was. “Don’t think . . . about it.” He continued paddling.

  “You’re not . . . a bad . . . man, Terence,” I concluded. “I know you wouldn’t have done it.” I was lying.

  “Whatever . . . you . . . say.”

  I recited the Lord’s Prayer aloud, and Terence joined me, timing the phrases with strokes of the paddles.

  “ . . . hallowed be Thy Name . . . Thy Kingdom, come . . . Thy will be done . . .

  “Ohhh!” The pains returned and I was lost in the terrible mist again.

  Whenever the pain subsided, my prayers were loud and insistent. “Oh Lord, have mercy on us! Please—”

  “And . . . add this thief on the cross, would you, dear?” a gasping voice interrupted me.

  “Of course,” I managed to groan.

  He continued to paddle.

  I couldn’t say another word aloud, but something in my spirit pled for this poor man. Forgive.

  At the end of an eternity, I heard Terence’s voice calling, as strongly as it ever had in the theatre, “Ahoy, the house! Ahoy, the house!”

  I looked up and observed him, standing in the boat, firmly pulling the wig back on his head before he cupped his hands and called again.

  That was the last time I ever saw Terence Jamison.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  As they say in Victorian novels, I will draw a veil over the next few
hours and only point out that they involved a long and bumpy ride in an ambulance, being unceremoniously ushered into the hospital, bounced from one gurney to another and abruptly jabbed with a variety of needles.

  “The Storybook Dragon did it,” I told them, gasping from inside a world of pain. “He saved the day. He was a good guy after all.”

  “Whatever you say, ma’am.”

  “C-section,” I heard somebody say.

  That meant caesarean section. “Caesar wrote about Shakespeare,” I reminded them blearily, “But don’t ever say Julius Caesar. No, wait, it’s MacBeth! Say the Scottish play.”

  “She’s hallucinating. Better get her under right way.”

  “I am not! It makes perfectly good sense—okay, all right, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven . . . ” I descended into a semi-dream.

  “Good job, Mama,” a voice said in the middle of my dream. “It’s a girl!”

  I regained my senses just in time to experience someone painfully kneading my abdomen.

  “I’m sorry. We have to do this,” the nurse said in answer to my groans. “Helps you get back to normal, you know.” She concluded her cruel work after an eon and consulted a clipboard. “Lucky lady, you didn’t need a C-section, after all. You were halfway out of it the whole time. Remember anything?”

  I ruminated a moment. “No.”

  “I must say, your husband got a kick out of all that Shakespeare stuff.”

  “What?”

  “You said something about Scotland—” She was interrupted by the man himself, wearing scrubs. “I’ll leave you folks to visit.” She drew the curtain closed.

  Gil looked exhausted, but he wore one of his radiant smiles. He kissed me on the forehead.

  “That was the most amazing experience I have ever had!”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I said dryly.

  He took my hand. “And you were so brave.”

  “I don’t remember a thing. I’m sorry about the movie, though.”

  “Movie?”

  “You said we’d go see one.”

  He shrugged. “There’s nothing worth seeing, anyway. I checked with the entertainment editor.”