Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries)

by E. E. Kennedy

  At the center of the book was a tasseled bookmark bearing Kipling’s poem “If.”

  For the next few pages Marguerite seemed taken with Kahlil Gibran, then a fascination with Shakespeare’s sonnets took over.

  Abruptly, the rambling entries stopped. A new, heavily-underlined title page read, “Unofficial Investigative Journal,” and numerical dates crisply marked each short entry.

  “Bingo,” said Lily. “The police wouldn’t listen to her, so she went undercover on her own.”

  “Oh, Marguerite,” I breathed, “how I wish you hadn’t.”

  The journal entries began to tell a story: “September 10—Informed known drug users that I was interested in making a score.”

  “Making a score? Where’d she get this stuff?”

  “TV, most likely.” I turned a page.

  Lily pointed at a pair of names. “Look, those must be the drug users. Do you know them?”

  “I sure do,” I said grimly, “and I’m not surprised.” They were former students.

  “September 21—Spent $380 from savings account on cocaine. Expensive! Evidence stored in mattress. (Remember to ask about reimburse.) Contact wouldn’t reveal name of source—yet. Will keep trying.”

  I looked at Lily. “That’s how she got the reputation of being involved in drugs.”

  Lily frowned. “Because she was. Poor idiot kid.”

  After several similar entries, it became apparent that Marguerite was having difficulty getting any more information. She was reduced to speculation, which she wrote in a unique code of her own.

  Chief Suspects

  Gray Lady—near kids, can get drugs, too sweet to be real

  Fisherman—near kids, moves around a lot, foreigner?

  UDJ—moves around a lot, mean, has lots of $$$

  Mustache—unsuspected, near kids, mean . . .

  Lily laughed. “Fisherman! That’s gotta be you, Alec!”

  From the driver’s seat of his truck, Alec sniffed. “So I was a suspect, eh? Maybe that’s why she wrote me that terrible letter.”

  “And Mustache. Do you suppose that could be Gerard Berghauser?” I said. “I wonder if he got a letter, too. Gray Lady’s obvious. That’s Judith.”

  There was another list.

  People I Can Trust

  Miss Prentice

  Father Frontenac

  Derek Standish

  My Mom . . .

  Lily laid a hand over mine. “Oh, Amelia, look.”

  The last name was underlined.

  My Dad

  I looked at Lily. We were both blinking back tears.

  “Here.” Lily handed me a tissue from her pocket and took one for herself.

  After a good blow I said, “Her grandfather told me Marguerite had never stopped loving her father.” Eagerly, I turned the next page. “It’s blank!” I turned more. “It’s all blank from here on out. She must have died before she could write more. Lily, this isn’t evidence. It’s probably useless to Dennis.” I closed the book. “We’ll give it to him anyway and see what he can make of it.”

  With a sigh, I replaced the journal in the envelope.

  We traveled the rest of the way into town in silence. As Alec pulled up in front of my house, we heard a loud, insistent honking from behind. Gil’s car came careening around us and screeched to a halt at the curb.

  Gil leaped from the car, ran to the truck, and jerked open the door. “Where is she?” he asked Lily, helping her down.

  She gestured to me in the cab, and Gil reached out his arms. “Come here.”

  Damp, shivering, and tear-soaked, I fell into his arms, and he carried me up the steps onto the porch. “I heard a police report on my scanner. They said you’d been attacked,” he said, slightly out of breath.

  Lily had stepped ahead of him, found my extra key taped to the bottom of the mailbox, and unlocked the door. “Here,” she ordered, “take her upstairs.”

  I felt a little like Scarlett O’Hara as Gil swept me up the staircase and into my bedroom, but the illusion ended when he dumped me on the bed and bent over, heaving from the exertion.

  “Good work. Now, get out,” Lily said, and ushered him to the door. “Go down with Alec and put on some water to boil.”

  Gil shot her a quizzical glance.

  “For coffee. For coffee. All she has is instant.” She shut the bedroom door firmly.

  Twenty minutes later, I descended under my own speed, freshly showered and clad cozily in a long flannel nightgown, terrycloth robe, and fuzzy slippers. My wound, once cleaned, turned out to be a small nick along the top of my ear and a graze on my scalp. Disfiguring, certainly, but not grotesque. A couple of standard, skin-toned bandages covered the damage. Lily insisted she knew a plastic surgeon who could repair it all in no time. I didn’t think it was necessary.

  Alec and Gil were sitting companionably in the parlor, sipping from coffee mugs.

  “Miss Amelia, ye look fresh and enchanting,” said Alec, rising, “like a bonnie child.”

  Suddenly embarrassed, I avoided eye contact with Gil.

  “She thought that bathrobe was immodest. I told her it’s more than she wears teaching,” Lily said.

  “Amelia,” Gil began conversationally, “Alec and I were looking for your cat.”

  Forgetting all about the modesty issue, I stood stock-still, experiencing again my ordeal in the lake: Sally, beating on my fingers, growling, “They’re all gone! Your parents, your cat—”

  “My cat! Oh, dear Lord!” I dashed for the kitchen. “Oh, please! Sam! Sam!”

  There was no sign of him near his bowl, which I always kept full of dry cat food. I opened the back door and looked around. Vern had leaned the broken porch swing against the house, and I spotted movement underneath it. There was a faint whimper. I jerked the swing to one side and knelt beside Sam, who lay listlessly on the floor, his round stomach protruding, not even bothering to curl up in his customary ball.

  “Oh, Sam!” I cried. “What did Sally do to you?”

  Sam blinked slowly, once.

  “Lily! Look how bloated he is! He’s been poisoned! Oh, Sam—”

  Lily didn’t waste time lamenting. “Give him here.” She scooped Sam up in her arms. “Come on, Alec, we’re taking him to the vet! Amelia, you call ahead and tell them we’re coming.”

  I was glad Gil was there. “You’ve got to stop blaming yourself, Amelia,” he insisted after I made the call. “You didn’t poison the cat.”

  I paced. “No, but I never really liked him. That makes it worse. Poor old Sam.”

  “Sit down over here.” He patted the place next to him on the loveseat invitingly.

  “I can’t. I’m too strung out. Would you do me a favor?” I grabbed the padded envelope from the hall table and gave it to him. “Would you take this to the police station? I’m not even sure if it’s legal for us to have it.”

  “They won’t arrest me, will they?” he asked, smiling. He wrapped his arms around me and spoke into my hair. “Okay, but promise me you’ll go right to bed and try not to worry. The bad part’s over.”

  “Oh, Gil,” I sighed, “I hope you’re right.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I slept surprisingly well that night. “Maybe the bad part is over,” I told myself as I stretched.

  The sun glittered through the stained-glass window panels as I came down the stairs. I began my morning chores cheerfully and had located the box of cat food and bent over Sam’s still-full bowl, ready to refill it, when I memory returned.

  “Oh please,” I prayed inwardly, “let Sam be all right!” The veterinarian hadn’t found any evidence of poison, but he was keeping the elderly cat under observation.

  Last night, Dennis had interrogated me over the phone on the condition that I come into the station the following afternoon. I had already lined up a substitute at school and made plans to attend Marguerite’s funeral Mass at ten. There was no reason to change them, despite last night’s excitement. I had listened to the radio and
searched the newspaper for some new information about Sally, but aside from a cursory statement that she was being sought to help the police in their investigation and an announcement that Judith would be released this morning, there was nothing.

  I’d decided to walk to the church. It was a long way, but the exercise would do me good and I had some thinking to do. My eyes drank in the bright colors as the autumn leaves fell around me, but my mind was far away, flailing helplessly in the black waters of the lake.

  I saw a large, dark van go down the street and wondered vaguely where Sally had gone. It was strange, but I wasn’t afraid of her now. Sally clearly had a strong sense of self-preservation, and I had no doubt that she’d decided that discretion was called for. I wished I could have told Dennis more about those mysterious friends of hers.

  I had come close, extremely close, to dying last night. I was of two minds about that. On one hand, once I became reconciled to the inevitable out there in the cold water, I had actually found myself looking forward to the experience. If one believed as I did, the process of death was fearsome, but the destination was not. On the other hand, I had also had regrets. So many that my mind couldn’t enunciate them in those decisive few seconds.

  “And that house!” I said aloud, and smiled. I wondered if the Fields’ house would still be for sale. I—well, lusted was not too strong a word—I lusted after that house.

  And there was more. I turned my mind to the très attractive Steve Trechere. I liked his idea. A bed and breakfast would be the ideal way to put Dad and Mother’s house to use. I could see Mother’s face, eagerly preparing for company. She had loved having visitors, and now the house—Lord willing—would always be full of guests. I thought about the special woman Steve had in mind to operate the place and hoped fervently she would accept his offer. I even had an idea of who she was.

  I’d been thinking furiously for ten blocks. As I approached the church, I looked at my watch. A full hour early. There were very few cars in the lot across the street and none at the curb near the entrance. As I stood uncertainly, wondering what to do, a side door opened, and Father Frontenac stepped out, accompanied by Steve Trechere.

  The two men spoke in low, friendly tones and, as they reached the sidewalk, shook hands warmly. All at once, they saw me and froze. The priest glanced uncertainly at Trechere, then smiled at me.

  “Miss Prentice. You’re a little early, as you can see. Come right on in.” He held the heavy door open for me.

  “In a few minutes, thanks, Father. I need to have a word with Mr. Trechere.”

  Trechere’s faint nod indicated assent and the priest retired, looking, I thought, a little guilty.

  “I’ve been thinking about your business proposition,” I said. “I like it.”

  The tense expression in his face relaxed. “Oh, that’s very good. I believe that we can come to a good agreement.”

  “Why don’t you come by my house tomorrow afternoon, say four? And we can plan,” I suggested. “You will be here in town tomorrow, won’t you?”

  “Of course!” he smiled vaguely and moved slightly away, as if to leave.

  “Aren’t you staying for the Mass?”

  He looked distracted. “What? Is there a Mass?” He waved his hands in the direction of the church. “No, I must be on my way. You will excuse me?”

  “But you’ll be back. I know that much,” I said recklessly.

  He blinked furiously and frowned at me. “What, be back? For what?”

  I stepped forward and gently laid my hand on his arm. “For your daughter’s funeral, Etienne,” I said softly. “Etienne, French for Stephen, father of Marguerite, French for daisy.”

  He stared.

  His dark eyes filled with tears, and he waved his gloved hand in an irritated gesture. He said nothing.

  “It’s a cruel thing to find her, and then lose her again,” I said. “But you did find her, didn’t you? And she did know that you loved her.”

  His chin trembled and he nodded. “I shall always be grateful to God for that,” he whispered.

  “Does Marie know it’s you?”

  He shook his head. “Marguerite and Father Anthony were trying to help me. To break it to her gently, you know. She’s still mad at me. The whole family is.”

  “Except for your daughter.”

  His face broke. “Except her,” he mouthed, “but I didn’t know about this other thing, the drug thing. If I had . . . ” A dark expression crossed his face.

  This man could be a dangerous enemy. It gave me a certain guilty satisfaction that when and if Sally Jennings ever turned up, I’d have to take a number.

  “But Marguerite . . . ” His face lightened slightly at the memory of his daughter. “It was wonderful finding her again. She was sweet, so . . . full of plans and secrets. I laughed with her, but I didn’t pay much attention to what she said about those plans. There was something about this UDJ thing. I saw her, you know—spoke with her in the library—it must have been just a few minutes before . . . before . . . she died. We were supposed to meet later that evening. I waited for an hour. Then I drove back to the library and all the emergency trucks and police cars were there. If only I—” Grief overtook him again. “Oh, mon Dieu!” He waved one gloved hand helplessly.

  I snatched it in mid air and held it firmly. “Whatever happens, please know this. Your daughter loved you all her life. Even when you weren’t there. Marie saw to that.”

  He nodded silently as he struggled for composure.

  I continued holding on to his hand. “And it’s my belief that you’ll see her again —someday.”

  He looked at me through a watery smile. “Mine too,” he said in a whisper. “But Marie,” he said, pulling a large monogrammed handkerchief from his pocket, “I can’t ask her to forgive me too. Not after this.” Pain creased his forehead. “Not now.”

  “She will, I know it. Give her time. She kept Marguerite’s love alive for you all these years. That means something.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?” he admitted. “Thank you.” He pulled his hand from mine and gestured in the direction of the street. “I must . . . I mean, excuse me, please.” He turned and walked rapidly toward a dark car parked nearby.

  Poor Marie! I thought. Poor Etienne! What had kept them apart for so long. Pride? Fear? Unforgiveness?

  My mind traced the trail of my own life. What had kept Gil and me apart? Was it the same thing that divided Marie and Etienne? Well, I resolved, it would stand no longer. Gilbert Dickensen was mine and I was his, and that’s all there was to it.

  Oh, Gil, I thought, I do love you! I will marry you! I will! The sooner, the better.

  I glanced at my watch. There was plenty of time to do what I had to do, and I couldn’t have postponed it, even if I wanted to. With a hand to my chest to calm that interior acrobat, I began to walk.

  I had just enough time to tell him!

  My steps quickened as they traced the route. My heart was so full, I barely noticed the traffic until a horn blared as I blithely stepped off the curb, only a block from the newspaper office. Impatiently, I bounced on my toes until the light blinked “Walk” and fairly flew across the street. There was no time to waste. I had delayed this important step far, far too long.

  Despite everything, it had always been Gil. I pictured his devastating smile and my heart felt warm inside me. Somewhere in the back of my head, violins were playing a waltz and I could picture the two of us, dancing. I was in a foamy hoop skirt; his arm was wrapped around my tiny waist as he clasped me tightly and we floated around the ballroom, gazing into each other’s eyes . . .

  How had I lost sight of the fact that I loved him? Why had we let that decades-long coldness build up between us? How could we have been so foolish?

  Entering the building, I mounted the staircase leading to the offices. And now that Gil had broken the ice, why, oh, why was I hanging back? Well, the situation was to be remedied right away! Just as soon as I reached the top of these stairs!


  Breathless both from excitement and exertion, I ran up to the desk of his secretary. “Is he in?”

  She stared at me, wide-eyed. “Well, yes, but—”

  I didn’t even thank her, but flung open the door of the office marked Editor, stepped inside, and gently closed the door behind me. Gil was at his computer, his back turned. His keyboard clacked rapidly.

  “Gil,” I said panting, “the answer is . . . yes.”

  The romantic music soared.

  All nature held its breath.

  He didn’t turn around, but he did stop typing.

  “I know I should have said yes when you first asked,” I added, a little more loudly, “but, well, so much time has passed since we were engaged the first time and you must admit sometimes you’ve been pretty hard to reach, and then there was this thing about Marguerite . . . ”

  He swiveled in his chair. “Oh, hello, Amelia,” he said pleasantly, removing little audio buds from his ears. “What brings you here?”

  The violins stopped abruptly. My adrenaline level began receding fast.

  “I . . . I . . . came to accept your proposal.” There, I’d said it again.

  Gil leaned back in his seat and tilted his head. “My proposal? Of marriage? Really? Now?”

  This was not the reaction I’d expected. At my declaration, Gil should have leaped to his feet and outstretched his arms for me to run into!

  “Y-yes, now, really.” My voice had a petulant, defensive tone. I took a step backward.

  He pulled the ubiquitous pencil from behind his ear and rolled it between his fingers. “Just like that? No more ‘we take our time. We date. We court. We keep company,’ et cetera, et cetera?”

  I had to hand it to him. He’d remembered my little speech virtually word for word and had faithfully replicated my tone of voice, as well. It made me sick to my stomach.

  “Um, yes. I mean, no. I mean—” I broke off.

  Gil stared impassively, still seated, twirling the pencil.

  Quickly, before I could actually throw up, I twirled, slammed open his office door, raced past his secretary and clattered down the steps to the outdoors, heedless of the possibility of falling.