Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries)

by E. E. Kennedy

  He patted the table. His diamond ring sparkled. “Exactly. And this is the perfect house.”

  “There are six bedrooms upstairs, but just one bathroom on each floor.”

  He nodded. “Ah. Of course, small changes are needed.”

  He left the table and strode into the next room. “But look—over there, I would put the reception. And here, the dining.”

  He moved to the staircase and put his foot on the first step. “May I?”

  I smiled and shrugged. “Certainly. Go ahead.”

  At first, I was careful to keep a safe distance between us. However, in the space of the next five minutes, as we explored my house, I completely forgot that Steve Trechere might be a murderer. With just a few words and a couple of articulate gestures, he had me visualizing a thriving inn, filled to capacity with happy tourists, eager to spend their money. He hummed with enthusiasm, like an engine, full of ideas about the place.

  “And no televisions in the bedrooms,” he said firmly as we descended the stairs.

  “Of course,” I said, “it’s more peaceful that way.”

  He nodded. “More peaceful. And more cheap!”

  “Well, anyway, as I said, Mr. Trechere, I’m afraid it’s not for sale.”

  “I understand. But . . . ” He smiled slightly and tilted his head. His brown eyes twinkled eagerly.

  Had he looked at Marguerite that way? Her poor little romantic heart would have melted to a puddle. But his other lady love seems to be able to resist him. What does this other woman know about you, Steve?

  He reached in his jacket and pulled out a handful of business cards. “I’ll be at the Lakeside Hotel for two more days, then back to Montreal. Please think about it. Here’s my address and telephone. Uh, oh . . . ”

  Cards cascaded out of his hand and across the hall floor. “Always somebody gives me a card. I have too many. I need a case for them,” he complained as we searched the floor for the last of the cards.

  “There are many other houses in the area,” I told him at the door. “I’m sure you’ll find the perfect one for your lady.”

  He shook his head. “Not so perfect as Chez Prentice,” he said. “Goodbye.”

  “Goodbye,” I said. “Bonne chance.”

  His eyes widened in pleased surprise. “Merci. A bientot.”

  I closed the door and looked at the card he gave me. An elegant, stylized logo in silver, his name, Montreal address, and phone number.

  “I can’t imagine I’ll ever need this,” I told Sam, who had reappeared at my feet. “But you never know. Right now, I’m hungry.”

  I was headed for the kitchen when I spotted something white peeking out from under the edge of Grandmother Prentice’s oriental rug. It was another of Steve Trechere’s business cards. “Well, now we have an extra, Sam,” I said. “One for the refrigerator door, and one for—” I turned over the second card. Three capital letters were written in ballpoint across the back.

  UDJ. And a question mark.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Upheaval. Danger. Jeopardy.

  I tried out another trio of words that might fit those letters.

  “What’s the use, Sam? Maybe it means nothing. A coincidence. That could be it, couldn’t it?”

  The cat was curled up on the kitchen rug. He lifted his head, blinked at me twice, and resumed his curled position.

  “No, I don’t think so either.”

  I sighed and looked around me. There were crumpled papers all over the table, where I had written phrases, then given up on them in disgust. I unfolded one.

  Underdeveloped Derivative Juveniles. One of my more interesting attempts.

  “Derek and Steve Trechere—what do they have in common? They both knew Marguerite and this . . . ” I tapped Trechere’s business card with my fingernail. “UDJ.”

  What did it mean? Did I dare ask either one of them? Or should I just give this information to the police? Would they take me seriously? Probably not. Maybe I could tell Dennis, but maybe I’d already gotten him in enough trouble.

  “Uh, oh, Sam,” I said, “I did it again. I forgot to report about the carjacking.” I went to the phone. I would tell Dennis everything. I called his home. His wife told me that he was out on a case.

  “Dorothy, would you ask him to call me whenever he gets the chance? Thank you, dear. Oh, yes, you’re very welcome. She’s such a sweet child. I was glad to do it.” Apparently, Dennis hadn’t told Dorothy about that ugly scene at my house.

  I hung up the phone and looked around. “Ugh. This place is a mess,” I told Sam.

  As I gathered up the crumpled paper and put it in the trash can, my eyes fell on the stack of mail I had brought in yesterday. There were several bills, I remembered. Might as well pay them now and mail them off tomorrow.

  “Power bill,” I recited, shuffling the stack, “Book of the Month Club, Frasier’s Florist—Oh, goodness, I’ll need to order some flowers for Marguerite’s funeral first chance I get tomorrow.”

  I made a mental note as I pulled out a peach-colored slip from the handful. “Attempted delivery,” the slip said. The sender was listed as M. LeBow.

  “Marguerite’s journal!” I told Sam.

  The slip informed me that the package would be waiting at the post office during regular business hours.

  “Drat that wretched tiny mailbox!” I said, not for the first time. “That does it—I’m buying a bigger one tomorrow!”

  The telephone rang.

  “Amelia,” Vern said breathlessly, “I just called 911, but I think I need more help. I mean, she does, and he does, and you’re the only woman I know—I mean, awww,” he moaned. “You gotta come over here right now!”

  “Vern, calm down and tell me what’s going on.” I heard a clunk and a rustle. “Vern? Vern!”

  “Sorry, I dropped the phone while I was pulling up my jeans.”

  “You what? Vern, where are you?”

  “I’m at Mrs. Dee’s house. She shot this guy. You know, what’s-his-name? She shot him, Amelia. He’s bleedin’ and I think she’s havin’ a heart attack or something. You gotta come, Amelia, please!” I had never heard Vern like this, desperate and childlike.

  “Steady, Vern. I’ll be right there. Just hold on.”

  As I hung up, I realized a hard fact: I had no readily available car. I was willing to walk, even run, over to Judith Dee’s house, but it would take much too long.

  “No time to stand on ceremony,” I mumbled and dialed Gil’s number. His answering machine took an inordinate amount of time getting to the point.

  Finally: “Beep!”

  “Gil, it’s Amelia. I’ve had a call from Vern and he’s in some kind of trouble. I’m going to try at your office—”

  “Amelia? What is it?” Gil’s voice, breaking in, was brisk.

  “Just come, Gil. My house. I’ll explain when you get here!”

  I had no sooner pulled on my coat and locked the front door than Gil’s car slid to a halt at the curb. Before he could get out, I hopped in.

  “Judith Dee’s house. On Mason. Do you know it?”

  He did and pulled out into the street immediately. “Now tell me what’s happened.”

  I repeated Vern’s message as best I could remember. “I think she must have had a prowler. I have no idea what Vern was doing there. He sounded so awful, like a terrified little boy.”

  “In some ways, he is,” said Gil.

  He took a corner at an outrageous speed and just missed running a red light, but I kept my mouth shut, for once. As we stopped in front of Judith’s gray clapboard ranch house, a fire truck, an emergency vehicle, and two police cars pulled in the driveway. Two policemen beat us to the door.

  Vern let them in. The lights were on in the house. Even at a distance, I could see that there was blood on his light gray sweatshirt.

  “Vern!” I cried.

  “You’ll have to stay back, folks,” another policemen said as he stepped into our path. “This is a crime scene.”

/>   Paramedics with two stretchers ran inside.

  “My nephew’s in there, officer!” Gil protested.

  “Sorry.” With a shrug, the man was gone.

  “What do we do?” I asked Gil, whose eyebrows were tightly knotted.

  “I’m not sure.” He swung his gaze all about, then returned it to my face. “I don’t know.”

  “So we wait here.”

  “I guess so.”

  He pulled a cell phone from his breast pocket. While he alerted his office of an incoming story, I leaned against the hood of his car and prayed silently.

  Judith’s living room drapes were open, and we could observe some of the activity from our vantage point by the curb. While paramedics came in and out with equipment, kneeling over someone unseen on the floor, a policeman sat next to Vern on a couch near the picture window and interviewed him.

  The boy looked tired and shook his head frequently. The officer wrote in a notebook. He seemed to have an endless list of questions. At one point, a paramedic approached and gave Vern a cursory examination. Apparently no treatment was needed. I sighed my relief and pointed this out to Gil, who was still conferring on his phone.

  Neighbors had begun to assemble in curious clusters up and down the street. A dog stood on the driveway next door and barked incessantly at the strangers.

  I was surprised to see a discreet For Sale sign next to Judith’s driveway, bearing the handsome logo of Jennings Real Estate. My old classmate was everywhere, it seemed.

  A stiff breeze blew through Judith’s shrubbery. Where was Judith, anyway? Vern said she’d had a heart attack. I shivered.

  Gil, having finished his call, replaced the phone in his pocket, slid over next to me, and put his arm around my shoulders. I leaned into him and closed my eyes. For some minutes, we stood in the middle of this anxious scene, silently taking strength from each other.

  The front door opened, and a paramedic backed out carrying an IV bag. He was bending over a stretcher that held Judith Dee.

  I ran forward. Due to substantial interference from a policeman, I was only able to catch a glimpse of her face, gray as her hair, and eyes clenched shut.

  Another stretcher was being rolled out. Another IV bag. I stood on tiptoe. The patient’s large feet extended beyond the end of the stretcher. An attendant was hunched over the head, blocking my view. An arm in a bloodstained white sleeve flopped out from underneath the blanket and someone gently tucked it back in.

  Judith had shot Derek Standish.

  The ambulance doors slammed shut. As it screamed away in the direction of the hospital, Vern emerged, wrapped in a blanket.

  A policeman spoke with him before consigning him to our care. “We may have a few more questions later. We’ll call if we do.”

  Vern nodded wearily and stumbled in our direction. “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi, pal,” said Gil. “Ready to go home?”

  Vern gave a shuddering sigh. “Ready.”

  There was a tap on my shoulder. A weary-looking Toby House said, “Miss Prentice, you’re looking a lot better.”

  “Thanks to you, Toby. How is Mrs. Dee?”

  “She’s going to be fine. A bit shocky. It’s that big kid we’re worried about. He’s got a bad head wound.” He nodded in Vern’s direction. “This one’s fine, though. A few bruises. Just needs some rest. Probably ought to take tomorrow off.”

  I had more questions, lots of them, but Toby said, “Look, I gotta go. I’m glad to see you’re better. Eye-bay, Entice-pray.” He patted me on the shoulder and ran to join his colleagues.

  “Thank you, Obee-tay,” I whispered.

  At my insistence, Vern came to my house. “I’ve got five empty bedrooms,” I called to Gil as he climbed into Vern’s car. “Real ones, with real beds. What kind of rest will he get on a camp cot in your kitchen?”

  Gil smiled, nodded, and drove off in the direction of Jury Street.

  “What will people say?” Vern asked wanly from the passenger’s seat of Lily’s car. “There might be a scandal.” The mischief in his voice cheered me no end.

  “I’ll take my chances,” I said, reaching over the seat to squeeze his hand.

  “Maybe Gil could chaperone.” He winked at me.

  “You’re tired, Vern,” I protested a half hour later. “Just eat your soup and go to sleep. You can tell us all about it tomorrow.” I had tucked him in the big bed in my sister’s old room.

  “She’s right, pal,” Gil piped up from the rocker in the corner.

  Vern drained the last of his chicken soup and replaced it on his tray. “No, I want to tell you now.”

  He tried to pull down the too-short sleeves of Dad’s old silk pajamas, gave up, and lay back, pulling the quilt around his shoulders. “But listen carefully, ’cause I’m only going to tell this once more tonight.” He yawned.

  I perched on the corner of the bed. I heard the old rocker creak as Gil leaned forward.

  “We’re listening.”

  “Amelia, you remember when Mrs. Dee offered to re-bandage my leg at lunch? I mean, not really at lunch, but later, at her house?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, it started getting a little sore this afternoon and I was like, thinking about the Coolidge kid, y’know? So I thought, what the heck? So I went over there. She was real nice about it. Took me into the kitchen and got the bandages and medicine ready—by the way, did you know that the mayor has an ulcer?—but I forgot I’d have to take off my pants for her to work on my knee.”

  “She fixed it at Peasemarsh, didn’t she?” Gil asked dryly. “Didn’t you drop your drawers there?”

  “Hush,” I said, “His pants were torn then.”

  “Right, and of course I didn’t want to let her cut up my only other pair of clean jeans. It was kind of funny, really. We both were a little embarrassed, so I offered to go home and come back in some cutoffs, but she said it was too much trouble. She went and got an old bathrobe of her husband’s—did you notice this is the second time in one day I’ve borrowed a dead man’s clothes?—then she told me to take my pants off and put it on. And she left the room to give me some privacy.”

  Gil smirked. “How discreet of her.”

  I shushed him again.

  Vern adjusted his position on the pillows and continued, “Honest, Gil, she’s a nice person. While I was changing, the doorbell rang. The kitchen door was shut, but it’s a small house and I could hear everything.”

  “Derek Standish,” I said.

  “Right. And he was drunk. At least he sounded drunk. He talked kind of low, so I didn’t get worried right away, but then he started talking about who killed Marguerite. And that it was her.”

  “She,” I said, too quietly to be heard.

  Gil leaned forward in his chair. “He said Judith killed Marguerite?”

  “Yeah. Stupid, huh? He was drunk. Anyway, I was there in the kitchen in that old bathrobe, trying to decide whether to come out right then or call the police first. I took the robe off and started to pull on my jeans, but then I heard a crash, so I ran out there in my sweatshirt and underpants.”

  “Oh, man.” Gil laughed.

  Vern grinned slightly. “Yeah. It’s funny to tell now. It was good I went out there, though, because he had his hands around her throat.”

  “Oh, no!” I cried.

  “I mean, it was like a TV show or something. I didn’t know what to do. Of course, I’m tall, but he was way too big to pull off her, so I grabbed his hands and pulled back his pinkies.” He demonstrated on his own hand.

  “Ew!” I felt weak.

  “Did that work?” Gil asked.

  Vern smiled. “Well, kinda. Besides, I think it startled him to find somebody else there. He looked at me standing there in my underwear, and let go of her. Then he went for me.”

  “Oh, Vern,” I gasped.

  “I ran around the furniture a little, but he has these long arms and he grabbed hold of the back of my sweatshirt. I thought I was dead. And then, boom!”r />
  “She shot him?” Gil asked.

  Vern nodded. “I’d forgotten all about her, but she must’ve pulled the gun out from somewhere. Well, Derek fell, and I fell, and when I got up, he didn’t. There was blood all over us. She was standing there with that gun in her hand, staring at me, and for a second, I thought she was going to shoot me too.”

  “Poor Vern,” I said.

  “Then she fell too. Keeled right over and dropped the gun.”

  “Fainted,” I said.

  “That’s what I thought at first, but I wasn’t sure. So I called 911, and then I called you.” He yawned again.

  “That’s enough for now.” I slid off the bed. “Vern, we’re going to let you get some sleep.”

  Vern reached for my hand. “Wait. There’s something else. The whole time Derek was choking her, he kept shouting something. It wouldn’t have meant anything to me, except that you mentioned it yesterday.”

  Gil shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

  “I think I know.” I stared at Vern. “‘UDJ.”

  “Yup,” he said, his eyes drooping, “that’s it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Okay,” said Gil as we descended the staircase, “what’s with this UPS stuff?”

  “UDJ.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Let me reheat some of that chicken soup and I’ll tell you all about it. I’m hungry, aren’t you?”

  “I will be,” he said, pulling out his cell phone, “as soon as I call the paper.”

  We finished off the rest of the soup and half of another can. While we ate, I told him about the carjacking, identifying Derek as the intruder.

  “Obviously, the letters meant something to Derek.”

  Gil’s reaction mirrored his nephew’s. “And you didn’t see fit to tell all this to the police?”

  “Don’t wave that spoon at me, Gil Dickensen. I just didn’t think that Derek would—”

  “You got that right. You didn’t think. Doesn’t it occur to you that if you’d turned him in right away, he might not be in the hospital now?”

  “So now you’re psychic? Don’t make me feel any worse than I do already, please.”

  He reached across the table, pulled a fresh stack of saltines from the box and tore it open. “Okay, I’ll concede you couldn’t know he’d go for Mrs. Dee or that she’d have a gun. Where’d he get the idea she’d killed Marguerite, anyway?”