Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series)

by E. E. Kennedy

  “Now listen—” Lily protested, but I was fired up.

  “And all this time, the man’s been a perfect gentleman, hoping against hope you’d come around. It seems to me, Lily, if Alec’s dumped you, well, he’s finally come to his senses.” I took a quick breath and plunged in again. “I know from experience you probably won’t take my advice, so all I can say is, do whatever you want. And . . . and . . . .don’t call us, we’ll call you!” I slammed down the phone, my chest heaving.

  “Amen, sister!” called Gil from the bathroom.

  I smiled halfheartedly. The lingering shadows of my nightmare gave this new spat with Lily a momentous feeling, as if I were cutting some kind of lifeline. After all, months ago, when I really was drowning, she’d been there for me.

  As I settled back into bed, I was already feeling guilty. Lily Burns was vain, opinionated, exasperating, and a terrible gossip, but she was my oldest friend. And if not for her, Alec, and the grace of God, I would surely have become a large, overeducated portion of fish food in the inky waters of Lake Champlain.

  “What did Mother Teresa want this time?” Gil asked as he returned to bed, smelling pleasantly of expensive hotel soap. “And how did she track us down?”

  “Tell me, Mr. Editor.” I cupped his face in my hands and kissed him. “Do you really want to talk about Lily Burns?”

  “Nope,” said Gil, and grinned.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Student?” I was totally mystified. We were standing in the foyer of Chez Prentice, my old family house recently converted into a bed and breakfast, staring at the manager Marie LeBow. “What student?”

  “The one Mrs. Burns called me about. The one who was gonna commit suicide. Did you call him? Is he okay?” Marie’s voice held a tone of desperation.

  Gil and I exchanged glances. So that was the whopper Lily had used to get our phone number last week.

  “Is he okay? Did you get to him in time?” Her face was pinched in anguish. Her own twenty-year-old daughter had died last year, but it was typical of self-centered Lily not to give a thought to how such a tall tale would affect Marie. “I’ve been worried about it all week. Is he gonna be all right?”

  I took a deep breath. “Everything’s just fine now.” I hugged her. “I’m afraid I can’t say anything more about it, though.”

  Marie’s right hand had been pressed to her heart. She dropped it. I noticed the skin of her once chronically chapped hands were now a creamy olive, and she had an elegant white-tipped French manicure.

  “Oh, thank goodness!” She sighed, then immediately resumed her manager persona and became all business, leading us into her office—formerly Papa’s study—to show us her schedule book.

  “We’re doing pretty good these days. The laundry’s quite a job, but I’ve got a couple of high school girls coming in part-time to help Hester out. You know, just fill in here and there. Still, we need to put more people in these rooms if we want to pay the bills. The ice festival will help bring them in, but there’s plenty of spots still open.”

  She tut-tutted and shook her head at the blank spaces on the calendar. “It’s getting better, though. Mrs. Daye—that lady reading the paper in the parlor—she’s from Ohio. Paid cash in advance ’n everything. She tells me she’s got family here in town, so she’ll probably be back, off and on. And there’s always the drop-ins, and we’ll be full up for another whole week in June with the education conference. Plus, of course, the Kiwanis have their weekly breakfast meetings in the dining room.” She pointed to large K’s in each Friday square. “And the mayor’s daughter wants to have her wedding reception here in August. I guess a little bird told her how good yours turned out,” she said, twinkling.

  “A little bird named Etienne, perhaps?” I twinkled back. Marie’s husband Etienne was my partner in the business.

  “Oh, Amelia, he’s so proud of this place!” Even after two weeks, her face still glowed as she spoke of her once-prodigal husband. “He’s got another wonderful idea for putting us on the map—but I’ll let him tell you that later.”

  Their reconciliation must be going well, I thought. Another prayer answered.

  Marie squared her shoulders and buttoned her well-tailored navy wool blazer. “And I’m gonna make you real glad you give me this job.”

  “I already am, Marie.”

  For the past two decades, after being abandoned by her husband, Etienne, Marie had eked out an adequate living for herself and her daughter doing whatever honorable work she could find, from waiting tables to pumping gas. When the opportunity finally arose, Marie eagerly accepted the position of manager at Chez Prentice as a chance to prove what she could do.

  It was an inspired choice. Marie was shrewd and intelligent, with a gift for administration that had gone unnoticed in her other jobs. Her long-term goal was a college degree in hotel management, which she was working toward in small steps during her free afternoons and evenings.

  “The flowers in the foyer are lovely,” I said.

  Marie seemed to shrink slightly. “D’you think it’s all right? Chuck Nathan says he can let me have a bunch a week for half price. I didn’t tell Etienne yet.”

  “All right? Of course it is! It’s a beautiful, gracious touch.”

  “And to get such a good deal from that tightwad is quite an accomplishment,” Gil added wryly.

  “Before I forget, I got something else you need to sign,” Marie told me. “While I find it, you go on back to the kitchen and get some coffee. It’s just made. Val’s boy brought some fresh baked stuff this morning: apple strudel and croissants. I want you to try one of them with Hester’s McIntosh apple butter.”

  I turned to consult Gil, but he was already on his way to the back of the house.

  Marie’s sister Valerie, an amazing cook, lived on a family farm in Vermont. Her wonderful baked goods were delivered across Lake Champlain thrice weekly by her teenaged son.

  I heard conversation as I entered.

  “Part of the fun’s not knowing what Val’s gonna send us, y’see,” explained Hester Swanson, who came in daily to help with breakfast preparation and cleaning. “Tuesday it was prune Danish and raisin walnut bread.”

  Hester, no slouch at cooking herself, rolled her eyes in enthusiastic memory, nearly missing Gil’s cup as she poured his coffee.

  “Things are really shaping up around this place,” Gil commented, gesturing with his cup at the fresh wallpaper and newly painted glass-front cabinets.

  Hester parked fists on her generous hips and gazed around the high-ceilinged old kitchen. She was built like one of the heftier carved figureheads on the bow of an old sailing ship, feminine but substantial.

  “We got things buttoned up in here,” she agreed, “but Etienne and me’s got a bit more to do in a couple other rooms, for sure.”

  She turned back to the kitchen counter and cut the two sandwiches she had made into diagonal quarters. “Bert’s lunch,” Hester informed us, and after tenderly sliding them into plastic bags, she laid them in a silver-sided dome lunchbox. “He’ll be here to pick it up later today.”

  She opened a jar of apple butter and laid a spoon next to it. “There. Try that on some of the rolls. I made a great big batch last week. Etienne wants to get some labels printed up.”

  She ran a hand around another, unopened jar. “It’ll say ‘Chez Prentice’ right on top here, then, ‘Hester’s Authentic McIntosh Apple Butter’ right there.”

  Our section of New York State is famous for its apple orchards, specializing in McIntosh apples, and Hester was McIntosh’s biggest fan.

  “This is delectable, Hester,” I said.

  Gil, his mouth full, nodded enthusiastic agreement. “Mmm.”

  “Yeah, delectable, that’s what it is. You’re always coming up with the big word. Guess it comes from being an English teacher. Delectable. I like that. ’Course I do all that stuff the health department says I have to, but my apple butter’s not what you call health food or nothing,” Hester warned. “
It’s got sugar in it, of course. Marie keeps saying our guests are gonna want health food. I told her alls I know is Bert Swanson’s been eating my cooking for twenty-five years and if he ain’t healthy, I’m that Audrey Hepburn woman.”

  She patted her short gray hair and smiled crookedly. She had made her point; her burly husband positively radiated good health.

  “Here’s that paper to sign, Amelia,” Marie said, coming into the kitchen. “It’s an entry form for the snow sculpture contest. It’s all filled out. I’ll run it over to the mayor’s office as soon as you sign it. Etienne and me—and I?—thought it would be good publicity, out there in the front yard. We’ll line somebody up to make it, so you don’t have to do a thing.”

  I watched Marie as she spoke, exuding enthusiasm. It was a nice change from the depressed person she had been before.

  “I think it’s a great idea,” I said.

  She was wearing smart, low-heeled leather boots and pulling on a red wool coat with black velvet tabs at the collar. It was a radical departure from her ubiquitous old green and yellow parka. She grinned at Gil’s surprised expression while pulling on sleek black leather gloves.

  “Been shopping. Etienne says I need to look kind of executive.”

  Gil toasted her with his cup. “You’re CEO material, Marie.”

  She dimpled and blushed.

  While sipping Hester’s excellent coffee, I skimmed the document and proudly

  signed: Amelia Prentice Dickensen. My new name.

  “Thanks.” Marie snatched up the paper and headed out the back door. “I’ll be right back.”

  Hester poured more coffee all around and joined us at the kitchen table. “This job’s been the saving of her,” she told us, nodding toward the door Marie had used. “You saw her, Amelia, after Marguerite died, all kind of fading away. She’d been living for that girl, and when the kid died, well, she was going down for the third time, you might say.”

  Hester had been Marie’s next-door-neighbor before Marie and Etienne moved into the new downstairs suite at Chez Prentice. “But you come along and needed her help, you see. And you’d been sweet to her girl. She told me.”

  “But what about Etienne?” Gil asked as he smeared more apple butter on a remaining morsel of croissant, “Didn’t he help Marie too?” He popped it in his mouth and chewed happily.

  “That was Father Frontenac’s doing. He told Etienne not to show himself till later, you see? It was good he waited, you ask me. She wouldn’t’ve ever been able to kiss and make up, all weak like she was at first.”

  Hester knocked on the table to drive her point home, then sat back to let her words sink in. She took a big swig of coffee.

  “Hester, you’re a natural psychologist,” said Gil, and turned his high wattage smile on her.

  It was his secret weapon. Until recently, it had had the power to render my own respiratory system temporarily unreliable. A concentrated honeymoon dose had given me a certain tolerance.

  Hester simpered. “Well, I dunno about that.” She popped up from the table and looked around vaguely. “Excuse me. Laundry. Gotta go fold some towels.” She scurried away, so flustered she left her half-finished coffee behind.

  During most of the lifetime I’d known Gil, I’d refused to let myself admit how attractive he was. The evidence had been there all the time: thick, wavy hair (now steel gray), warm hazel-brown eyes, expressive black eyebrows and blitzkrieg smile. There was also the solid-but-not-fat physique and a tiny dimple near his chin, but it was the smile that could do the most widespread damage. Best of all, I didn’t think Gil was completely aware of the power he possessed.

  “Any coffee left?”

  A white-haired, plump woman peeked in through the kitchen door. She introduced herself: Mrs. Felicity Daye from Toledo, Ohio. Her husband would have come, she said, but he was busy working.

  She had relatives in the area, she said, and added, “But I don’t want to be a bother, so I decided to stay here.”

  “That’s what Chez Prentice is here for! Come on in. Have a seat.” Gil rose to place his empty plate in the sink, “There’s plenty of coffee left. And it’s fresh. Be sure to have a roll with some of that great homemade apple butter.”

  “Want to run around the block and see the Widow Burns?” he asked as we left through the old familiar front door.

  Lily’s house stood back-to-back with Chez Prentice.

  “I don’t think so, Gil. She’s probably furious with me.”

  He frowned. “She’s got no reason to be. You told her the truth.”

  “Maybe, but the truth wasn’t what she wanted to hear. And I was pretty rough on her.”

  “Give it time, Amelia.” Gil put his arm around my waist. “You two have been friends forever. She’ll come around. I did, didn’t I?” He kissed my cheek quickly. “Woof! It’s cold out here! Come on; let’s go home. I want to carry you over that threshold before I lose my nerve.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was seven miles from town to our lakeside cottage.

  “Okay, sweetheart,” Gil said when we reached the front porch, bending over to hook an arm under my knees. “Up you go!”

  I backed away. “Gil, we can’t do this. There’s ice on the porch. Look.”

  “Hmmm.” He stroked an ear thoughtfully. “Maybe you’re right; it might be risky.” He pulled me close and looked down into my eyes. “Think you could give me a rain check?”

  “I’ll remind you when the weather gets better,” I said, smiling sweetly and vowing inwardly to do no such thing, ever. We were both in our forties, and I intended to keep this man in working order as long as humanly possible.

  Gil unlocked the door and we carried in our luggage. The interior was surprisingly well ordered, considering that Gil’s nephew, Vern Thomas, graduate student and known slob, had taken up residence in our spare room.

  I dropped my bags and looked around. It was truly neat, with not so much as a sock hanging over a doorknob. I sighed happily. It was good to be home, in my House.

  Chez Prentice, where I had been raised, was a twelve-room Victorian as luxuriously appointed as my old and moderately well-to-do family could make it. Every room was furnished in the tastes of my forebears, from the hand-painted framed prints out of Godey’s Ladies’ Book in the entrance hall to the delicate china shepherd and shepherdess on the mantelpiece in the parlor.

  While I’d loved my family and still cherished the things that had once been theirs, they had never been truly mine. It was more in the spirit of loving duty than genuine enthusiasm that for most of my adult life I’d played curator of what had virtually become a family museum. I had assumed I’d live and eventually die at Chez Prentice.

  Until the day I saw this House.

  From the moment I stepped into the roughly paneled hall and beheld the deer head with the quizzical expression, the lumpy fieldstone fireplace with the carved wooden plaque reading “1890,” and the screened porch that overlooked Lake Champlain, I knew I had finally come home.

  Papa, who’d owned a lumberyard and knew good building techniques when he saw them, would have been surprised, maybe even aghast, at my choice of a house. The place was drafty and jerrybuilt, with odd rooms added to the original cabin as necessity had dictated. The kindest term one could use to describe the plumbing would be eccentric. The fact that the kitchen had been remodeled only served to point out the shortcomings of the other rooms.

  Things weren’t much better outside. The cedar shakes that covered the exterior made the little three-bedroom house a potential firetrap, and it took ages to get to town by means of a twisty two-lane road.

  Still, this place spoke to me of peace and welcome in a way Chez Prentice never had. While it had taken Gil and me twenty-plus years to finally realize we were meant for each other, it had taken House and me only five minutes.

  “Hello, House,” I purred, “I’m home.”

  “Oh, no, not that House thing again,” said Gil, dragging my largest suitcase down the sing
le step into our icy master bedroom. “You’re getting weird on me, you know that?”

  “Be afraid, be verrry afraid,” I intoned, quoting one of my students quoting movie dialogue. I waggled my fingers menacingly at him.

  Gil grinned. “Come over here and say that again.”

  I did.

  There was a knock on the door. We sprang apart guiltily, then laughed.

  “Caught—like a couple of randy teenagers,” Gil said.

  “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?” I had once used that expression to describe him.

  “You got that right,” he said, bounding to the front door and opening it. “Vern! Did you forget your key again?”

  Ignoring his uncle entirely, Vern took three huge paces into the house and swept me off my feet in an engulfing hug. His khaki parka was still cold from the outside.

  “Auntie Amelia! You’re back at last!” Grinning, he snatched off his watch cap, set me down, and planted a wet and noisy kiss on my cheek.

  Turning to Gil, he stroked him repeatedly on the top of his head and said, in a tone one uses to address a dog, “Good uncle, good uncle! I wanted an aunt for Christmas and you got me one!”

  Gil rolled his eyes tolerantly.

  Vern really was a dear.

  “You’ve cut your hair,” I observed.

  His blond mop was now a severe crew cut with closely shaved sides. He turned his head both ways for my inspection. His cheeks and the edges of his ears were cherry red from the cold.

  “What d’you think?”

  “A drastic change, but it suits you; very masculine.”

  His eyes swept the room. “I cleaned up. Did ya notice?”

  “I did, indeed.”

  “I even vacuumed that deer head.” He pointed backwards, over his shoulder in the direction of the entry way. “Got a new job too. That is, another one.” Vern drove a taxi part time. “I’m tutoring kids at the high school. That makes me kind of a teacher now. We’ll be colleagues.”