Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries)

by E. E. Kennedy

  “I’m so sorry. It’s just that I knew that if we told Judith anything about Marie, it would be all over town. You heard the woman.”

  “Well, I can see the Coolidge family has no secrets from her.” Vern grinned.

  “Here—hand me your check. I owe it to you now.”

  “For an injury like this I’d say you owe me dessert too.”

  “Don’t push your luck, buddy.” I began to work my way down the now-crowded aisle to the cash register. “All right, how about some candy or gum or something? We’ve got lots to do this afternoon.”

  Vern settled for two Hershey bars, which he immediately consumed in the car. He also insisted on doing the driving, but I didn’t mind. I needed to concentrate on the tasks at hand.

  “Head back to my house. I want to call Lily and Marie.”

  As we drove up my street, however, I changed my mind. “Go on, Vern. Don’t stop. Go on, please.”

  “What’s with you?” he asked, irritated. He glanced at my house and smiled. “Oh, I see. That’s Gil’s car. And there he is on the porch, ringing the doorbell, like a nice little newspaper editor. What did the poor guy do, anyway? Don’t you want to become my Auntie Amelia?” Playfully, he laid his head on my shoulder, not an easy—or safe—thing to do while driving at thirty miles per hour.

  “Sit up and behave yourself,” I said sharply, trying not to laugh. “Can’t we just be friends?”

  “No!” he said with affected babyish petulance. “I want a commitment! I want stability. I want a aunt!”

  I sighed. “Turn here. We’ll run over to Marie’s. I can call Lily from there or what’s a long distance card for? Really, Vern, you don’t understand about Gil and me. We have a history and some of it is—”

  “Then tell me. I can take it. I’m—” he glanced at his watch, “almost twenty-one. I read a lot. I’ve heard about looove . . . ” He moaned the word.

  I had to laugh. “Cut it out!”

  He settled back down. “No, really. This thing’s got Gil by the throat. He’s hooked, you know. Okay, I know, I mixed a metaphor, but anyway, the whole time I’ve lived at his place—at least a couple months—he’s been kind of, oh, I don’t know, serious and well, sort of old. I mean, he’s happy, he loves his work, don’t get me wrong, but—when I came back to the apartment the other day and told him about this woman I’d met, well—”

  At a stop light he stretched his long arms and continued, “Mom told me about Gil’s once being engaged. It was like a family legend. To hear her tell it, it was the romantic tragedy of the century.”

  “Carol was a dear friend.” I nodded sadly.

  “But nobody told me your name, see. Or maybe I didn’t remember it. Anyway, I’d been ragging on Gil to find himself a woman. You know, just kidding around. And then the other day at lunch I told him about this really cute little teacher lady I drove in my cab.”

  “‘Cute?’ Is that what you called me?”

  “Sure—it fits. Don’t you think you’re cute?”

  “It never occurred to me. Go on.”

  “That was after I drove you the first time. And he says, ‘I know her. We almost married once.’ And I go, ‘That’s the one? Well, you were an idiot to let her go!’ ”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Sure, I did. Then, when I got the call to pick you up again a couple hours later, I knew it just had to be fate.”

  “Fate? Oh, Vern.” I remembered. Fate and small world were words he had used. I hadn’t given them a second thought. After all, whoever heard of a matchmaking taxi driver?

  “Anyway, after I drove you the second time, I stopped at the paper and talked to Gil some more. Finally, he goes, ‘How do I make you shut up?’ and I go, ‘Get over to her place and give it one more chance and I’ll never mention it again.’ So he cleans up a little—you know, combs his hair and straightens his tie—and leaves.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Sure. And when he got back that night—you kept him out a little bit late, you know—he was different. He didn’t say much, but he was pumped!” He grinned sheepishly.

  I wasn’t sure what pumped meant in this context, but judging by his tone of voice, it was something good. “Vern, I think you’re reading a little too much into—”

  “Hear me out, please. Next morning, he leaves me this note that says, ‘Keep an eye out. Stick like glue.’ He was worried about you after that thing with Marguerite. And sure enough . . . oops, here we are.” He pulled up by the curb at Marie’s house.

  She was back, that was obvious. No longer was the rake lying across the sidewalk, and the leaves were gone from the lawn. Three large, neat, black plastic lawn bags lined up on the curb gave evidence to where they were. Marie’s small white sedan was parked in the same place as the other night. Behind it was her sister Valerie’s battered but imposing maroon van, bearing Vermont license plates.

  “She’s back. Come on.” I opened the car door.

  Vern hesitated.

  “Are you coming?” I said impatiently.

  He emerged from the car, staring at me with an odd expression. “I don’t think you heard anything I said.” He slammed his door and leaned against it, arms folded.

  “Vern,” I said, coming around to his side, “of course I heard it, every word. I just don’t put the same interpretation on it you do. Gil and I—”

  He waved his hands. “I know, I know. You told me. Well, from now on, I quit. You’re on your own. I’m history. Come on, let’s do this thing.”

  He neatly sidestepped my attempt to give him a friendly pat on the arm and stalked up Marie’s walk. Upon reaching the porch, he stood scowling at my much slower progress.

  I was still wearing my church shoes.

  “Tell me again why we’re supposed to be here,” he grumbled as I plodded up the two steps to the front door.

  “We’ve come to formally offer our condolences. It’s traditional to bring food. I wish I’d thought to stop at the Food Basket for some fruit or something.” I pressed the doorbell. This time, it was answered immediately.

  “Miss Prentice.” Hester Swanson, attired as usual in an apron, was also wearing a self-conscious expression. She spoke in a half-whisper. “Come in. Marie will be so glad to see you.” Her questioning glance at Vern prompted a hushed introduction.

  She ushered us into the house. I tried to disguise a limp. Why didn’t more people follow the Japanese custom of removing shoes at the front door, I wondered. Right now, it seemed like a wonderful idea.

  I could smell coffee and something else. Pie? Beef roast? There were muffled voices coming from somewhere in Marie’s tiny bungalow, but the living room was deserted.

  “Everybody’s in the kitchen,” Hester explained.

  We followed her down a dark and abbreviated hallway lined with framed pictures of Marguerite from babyhood to recent past. This wasn’t going to be an easy visit.

  “Miss Prentice!” Marie embraced me as I entered the tiny kitchen. Her face was white and puffy and her eyes were red, as might be expected. “Thank you for coming. This is Marguerite’s teacher,” she explained to the gathered handful seated around the tiny white-painted kitchen table.

  “We were just eating,” said a small, wrinkled man with long white hair and Marie’s eyes. He thrust empty plates at Vern and me. “Come on, sit down—Pierre, go get some of them chairs from the front room,” he instructed a slightly built teenager. “I’m Jack Garneau, Marie’s father.” He gestured toward a tiny black-clad figure in the corner. “That’s her maman over in the recliner there. Yvonne, this is Miss Prentice, the lady Marie’s been telling us about.”

  Maman Yvonne, lying back in a worn plastic recliner, was in no condition to speak. She raised her head. Her pain-filled eyes met mine and she nodded. She held a large handkerchief to her mouth with a miniscule arthritic hand. I returned the nod solemnly.

  “That’s Father Frontenac with her,” he added, indicating the young man seated on a stool next to the recliner, holding
Yvonne’s other hand. The priest smiled at me kindly, then turned back to the old lady, whispering to her in French.

  “You’ve met Valerie, I think,” said Jack.

  Marie’s sister blinked at me, stone-faced. She folded her arms over her ample chest and leaned back in her chair.

  Jack continued the introductions. “This here’s Valerie’s boy, Pierre, and that’s the Mister over there.”

  Valerie’s sleepy-looking husband acknowledged me with a faint smile. He was holding a glass of red wine.

  “Mrs. Swanson’s been helping out too.” Marie’s father waved his hand vaguely.

  Hester dipped in a near-curtsey.

  Vern hastened to assist Pierre with the chairs and shortly we were seated at the tightly-packed table. The kitchen was hot and the table covered with the unappealing evidence of a half-finished meal, but my feet were grateful for the rest. I slid out of my shoes and declined the offer of food or wine, citing my recent lunch.

  “Coffee, then,” insisted Jack Garneau, setting a steaming cup before me.

  Vern, who had consumed a half-pound hamburger, a quart of milkshake and two Hershey bars in the last hour, filled his plate to overflowing from the fragrant array that covered every surface in the kitchen.

  “This pie is great!” he said, chewing a gargantuan bite, then washing it down with a gulp of wine.

  “Oh, that’s tortiere, Canadian meat pie,” Hester Swanson put in proudly. “I made it from Marie’s recipe. There’s beef and pork, and mashed potatoes in there. The piecrust is made extra rich, with real butter. Have all you want. I made plenty.”

  “It was good of you, Hester,” Marie said automatically. She picked up her fork, poked at her food, then put it back down.

  Valerie snorted and squirmed in her hard wooden chair. “Supposed to be for Christmas,” she muttered, “not funerals.”

  “It don’t matter, Val,” said her husband. “It’s the thought that counts.” She slid a sharp look his way and he retired into contemplation of his wineglass.

  “Funeral’s at ten a.m. on Tuesday, Miss Prentice,” Marie said, clearly trying to change the subject. “Our Lady of Victory Chapel. We got people coming from all over—downstate, Vermont, Quebec,” she said, giving the Canadian province the French pronunciation: ka-beck. The potentially long list of mourners seemed to give her a certain quiet satisfaction.

  “I’ll be there too,” I assured her. “Marguerite was special.”

  Jack Garneau squinted, reached in his back pocket to fetch a huge handkerchief, and blew his nose loudly. “That’s true. She was, for sure.” He drained his wine glass and poured himself another.

  “You get the package?” Marie asked me suddenly.

  “Not yet. It’ll probably come tomorrow.”

  “If it don’t, you tell me,” she said.

  What could she do, I wondered, but assured her I would.

  “Mrs. Burns okay?” Marie asked.

  “Yes, she’ll be fine. They’re keeping her in the hospital a little longer just to make sure.”

  “Terrible thing, that was. Falling in the water like that. Scary.”

  Marie stared into the middle distance and her voice faded. She was trying to be the courteous hostess, but she was clearly on automatic pilot.

  The table settled into a contemplative silence, broken only by the gentle voice of Father Frontenac, murmuring the rosary with Maman Yvonne.

  I sipped coffee and watched Vern eat. The size of his bites was extraordinary.

  All at once Valerie heaved herself out of her chair and trudged wordlessly from the room. Her husband pantomimed the smoking process to Jack Garneau. The two men excused themselves and stepped out onto the back porch.

  “Guess I can clear this away now,” said Hester, picking up Jack’s nearly-full plate. “Marie, you’re nearly out of wine. Soon’s I clear up, I’ll pick up some more for tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Hester,” said Marie listlessly. “Excuse me a minute.” She followed her sister down the hall.

  Young Pierre and I sat silently as Hester bustled around, clearing the table. There seemed to be nothing to say. Vern continued to eat.

  From down the hall came the sounds of an argument. Marie’s voice, muffled, protested in response to Valerie’s alto growl.

  “Mais il y a son pere!” I heard Valerie shout.

  Then Marie, sobbing.

  “Father—” Pierre called apprehensively.

  “I’m coming.” The priest jumped from his seat next to Maman Yvonne and dashed down the hall with the boy.

  Hester opened the back door. Cold air and cigarette smoke swept in. The men looked startled.

  “There’s a problem,” she told them. “You better see about it.”

  Jack and Valerie’s husband tossed their cigarettes aside and dashed into the room. Following the raised voices, they continued down the hall.

  “I need to go to the store,” Hester announced as she untied her apron. Pulling on her coat, she was out the back door before I could make any reply.

  The arguing down the hall continued.

  I tried not to listen. Most of it was in rapid French—too rapid for me to understand—but the tone of the voices told much of the story: Valerie was outraged over something and seemed to blame Marie, who was becoming more distraught by the second. It was apparent from Father Frontenac’s calm, deep tones he was trying to diffuse the situation but wasn’t making any headway.

  I looked over at Maman Yvonne. She remained in the recliner, her eyes shut tight, her small gnarled hands gripping a rosary and handkerchief to her chest. Her thin legs, encased in black stockings and ending in matching orthopedic shoes, were propped on the chair’s footrest. It was an undignified position, but probably good for the circulation. Her feet shook slightly, I noticed. In fact, her whole body was trembling.

  Without bothering to get back into my high heels, I rose from my seat and took the priest’s place beside the old lady. Lightly, I laid my hand over hers. Her eyes popped open, she blinked several times, then her mouth curved slightly in the faintest of smiles. Tears trickled down the deep creases along her eyes. She took my hand in one of hers and squeezed tightly, then closed her eyes again.

  Vern and I looked at each other across the kitchen.

  The arguing continued. The beads of the old lady’s rosary pressed into my skin. The kitchen clock, a yellow plastic cat with a waving tail, said two-twenty. I tried to time my breathing with the movement of the tail.

  Breathe innn, four swings.

  Breathe ouuut, four swings.

  I looked down at Maman Yvonne. She had stopped trembling, but still had my hand in a desperate grip.

  Vern scraped the remains of his second lunch into a trash can, then placed the plate in the sink. The hall door stood open and the sounds of the argument were clearly audible. With a look at me, he gently closed it. Then, retrieving an old newspaper stacked for recycling, he carried it over to the table and began reading.

  The muffled voices continued for several more minutes, then ended with a sharp retort and the slamming of a door. In the silence of the kitchen, I heard a soft, regular snore and realized that the feeling had returned to my hand and Maman Yvonne had fallen asleep. Sheepishly, one by one, the men returned to the kitchen.

  I managed to hush them with gestures towards Maman Yvonne. Clean wine glasses were distributed and filled. There was no sign of Marie or Valerie.

  “Marie’s lying down and Valerie’s left,” Father Frontenac whispered to me as he returned. “It’s a bad thing, all this. As you probably heard, there’s an awful lot of bitterness over the past. Marguerite had been trying to help in the healing process, but . . . well. Tragic.” He sighed. “How’s she doing?”

  He smiled down at the old lady. His face was rounded and almost bald, like a baby’s, with the same expression of innocent friendliness. With exquisite care, he pried the crooked old fingers from mine and gently replaced it with his plump one. Maman Yvonne stirred slightly, but continu
ed snoring.

  “Thank you for coming,” the priest whispered. “I’m glad you were here. They need their friends right now.”

  I patted him on the arm and backed away.

  Quietly, we said our good-byes to the trio at the table.

  Jack Garneau insisted on escorting us to the door. “The girls—always, they fight. Valerie the most, though. She always hated Etienne—Marguerite’s father, you know?—and she’s mad as the devil he’s not here. It’s Marie’s fault, she says. If Marguerite had her father, she’d be alive.” He drew in a long breath through his teeth. “Ahhhh, the things they say. It’s no good.” He shook his head. “I try to tell her, you don’t say this stuff. Not now. But she don’t listen. Poor Marie.”

  “Do you know where to find Marguerite’s father?”

  “Not for twenty year.” He stood staring into the distance. “Little Marguerite, she always loved her daddy. But she never really had one. Pauvre petite . . . ” His face crumpled.

  Energetic and outgoing as he seemed, Jack Garneau was fully as old as his frail wife and, at this moment, he looked it. Blinking frantically, he regained his composure.

  “It’s real good of you to come, real good. Marie—she’ll be okay. She’s a good girl, that one.”

  “Mr. Garneau,” I said. It was a bad time, but I might never have another chance. “Did you ever hear of something called UDJ?”

  He wiped his nose on a handkerchief and replaced it in his pants pocket. “No, never. What is it?”

  “I’m not sure, but if you have the chance, will you ask the people in your family? It might help the police.”

  “Sure. Sure. What’s it again?”

  I told him.

  He repeated the letters. “Funny. But I’ll do it.”

  “If anyone knows anything, please have them call me.”

  “I will.” Jack seemed distracted. It was past time for us to leave. “Thanks again for coming.” He closed the door gently behind us.

  “You forgot to make that phone call to Mrs. Burns,” Vern reminded me as we climbed into the car. “Don’t worry, it’s safe to go home now. I’m sure the coast is clear.”

  “Now you listen just a minute—” I began, but stopped suddenly, laying my hand on Vern’s arm as he started the ignition.