We sat right down in a snowdrift. She put her head on my shoulder and began to sob.
“Mom’s going to jail. She’s pleading guilty! She’s telling everything she knows so she’ll get a better sentence. What am I going to do?”
Even as I rocked her, stroked her hair and fished in my coat pocket for a tissue, something in the back of my mind said, If this it true, then perhaps J.T. and Dustin are cleared! Oh, thank you, Lord!
“My life is over,” she said, blowing her nose.
I decided to try some tough love. “Who are you and what did you do with Serendipity Shea?”
That got her attention. “What?”
I was surely winging it now. “Where’s the Serendipity who, uh, led every fashion trend at the high school? Where’s the Serendipity who . . . who . . . ” I groped about in my memory for another one of her attributes, “ . . . whose, um, will and personality were so strong that nobody ever dared call her Dippy, not even in grade school?”
Her eyes widened. “That’s true. How did you know?” She blew her nose.
“Teachers hear things.” I stroked back her tousled hair. “You’re stronger than you think, Serendipity. And no question, you’re smart. You know exactly what you’re doing in my class, don’t you?” I was remembering her crumpling the test paper.
She looked down at the tissue in her hands, sniffed, and hiccoughed. “It is kind of fun pulling your chain sometimes.”
From the corner of my eye, I could see a police car entering the parking lot. Vern approached it and began talking to the officers, gesturing in our direction.
I said, “You know, I looked it up. Serendipity means a fortunate surprise.” I’d paraphrased Webster somewhat, but no matter. “You could surprise a lot of people by going back to school and being the Serendipity we all know.” I added, “With one big exception, of course.”
“I know.” She rolled her eyes. “You want me to study.”
“Why not? That would really surprise everybody, wouldn’t it?”
She gave me the tiniest smile. “I guess so.”
“And I’ll be there to help you any time you need it. I promise.”
She shrugged. It was hard to know if I had reached her, but at least she was safely off the ledge.
Vern approached hesitantly, with a female police officer close behind.
I said, “Now, Serendipity, Surprise Girl, you need to let the police officer take you home. I want you to go back and start helping your dad through this mess. He needs you.”
“I didn’t think about that,” she admitted.
“Well, he does. And your mother does, too, believe it or not. And remember, I’ll be praying for you.”
She nodded. With astonishing meekness, Serendipity allowed herself to be led over to the police car.
The male police officer approached us. “Could you folks meet us back at the station to answer a few questions?”
“Sure,” said Vern. He winked at me. “Déjà vu, ain’t it?”
“Sir?”
“Just a little joke, officer,” I said, sighing happily.
Vern had winked! Surely that meant he had forgiven me?
As we headed to the VW, the officer said, “Uh, oh. Looks like you folks have a flat there. Here, I’ll help you change it.”
As the officer and Vern opened the VW’s front trunk, I asked, “Why are you driving this car, anyway, Vern?”
“Martin loaned it to me this morning when I went to visit the guys. Ironically, mine has a flat tire, too. I should’ve expected something like this. This car’s a real piece of junk.”
They began to unfasten the spare tire from its moorings. As they pulled it out, something tiny and metallic bounced off the side of the fender and into the snow.
“I’ll get it.” The officer dug the thing out with his gloved hands and held it up. “What d’you know?” he said, “It’s a bullet!”
HESTER’S VERSION OF MICHIGAN SAUCE
North Country natives may recognize the reference to Michigans in Death Dangles A Participle. Hester Swanson, who worked for many years at the college cafeteria, came up with this version and dictated it to Amelia. She makes no claims of authenticity, but says, “It surely tastes like what I remember!”
3 lbs finely ground beef, sautéed and well-drained
10 tsp chili powder
14 oz. can Hunt’s tomato sauce (or less)
Scant ¼ cup Frank’s or other good hot sauce (Not Tabasco! Even less if your kids will be eating it.)
3 tsp garlic powder
3 tsp onion powder
2 tsp black pepper
3 tsp ground cumin
Make sure the beef is cooked into tiny particles. (Hester uses a pastry cutter to achieve this, chopping the ground beef even more before cooking.) Mixture should ultimately be just barely moistened, so add the tomato sauce very sparingly. Blend all ingredients well before cooking. Cook for two hours, stirring frequently. Results are best if you use non-direct heat, such as a crock pot or double boiler.
There is some controversy about using tomato sauce. Some say there should no tomato in this sauce, but this recipe turns out a very authentic-tasting result. It makes enough to top a whole lot of hot dogs! (At least 25.)
This is best (in Gil’s opinion) if served over a good-quality, steamed hot dog in a bun, topped by a thin line of yellow mustard and sprinkled with coarsely chopped sweet onions. To quote Gil Dickensen, “Ambrosia!”
MURDER IN THE PAST TENSE
Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series, Book 3
By E. E. Kennedy
Coming Fall 2014
CHAPTER ONE
I wish to state at the outset that, until the day in question, I—Amelia Prentice Dickensen—had never in my life bought a supermarket tabloid.
That’s not to say I never sneaked the occasional surreptitious glance at a lurid headline as I unloaded my grocery cart. And it’s also true that I’d once become so desperate that I actually encouraged one of my more recalcitrant English students to read them, just so he read something. Still, as literature, I understand that if you use a little vinegar, they’re great for cleaning windows.
But on that particular evening, as I placed a sack of overpriced seedless red grapes on the conveyor belt and let my eyes drift absently over the rack of colorful papers, magazines, and thin paperback cookbooks, my attention was snagged by a familiar face. Not just a famous one, but an actual, familiar, I-know-that-person face.
My heart made an audible thump. I read the caption: “Charlotte with third husband, Danny diNicco, on their honeymoon. Last year, the theatrical producer was found brutally murdered in his Manhattan office.”
Surely it wasn’t who I thought it was. But how could there be more than one? I looked again.
There he was, grinning into the camera with that wide, sensuous mouth, his hand carelessly draped over Charlotte’s shoulders, some long-ago breeze lifting the dark wave that always dipped just above his forehead. It was a small color picture, printed on cheap newsprint, but those glittering black eyes with the long, black lashes were unmistakable.
I pulled the paper from its metal stand and skimmed the front page. Apparently the murder of an erstwhile husband was just another event in the colorful life of character actress Charlotte Yates who, in the face of overwhelming misfortune, kept picking up the pieces of her life and carrying on, her pointed little chin held high and famous squawking voice ever ready to entrance her audience.
There was a picture of Charlotte with Husband Number One (an acting teacher), from whom she was divorced; and with Husbands Number Two (a stockbroker) and Number Four (a rock musician), who had shuffled off this mortal coil due to motorcycle accident and drug overdose, respectively. More details and photos would be forthcoming on page eight.
Fascinating as that was, it wasn’t Charlotte Yates who interested me. It was her third husband.
“Amelia?” said Gil, “Are you going to buy that, or what?”
I looked up. Apparently all our groceries ha
d been checked, bagged and paid for by my spouse while I was doing my reading. “I’m buying it.” I fished a few dollars from my pocket and tendered them to the clerk, who, I noted with embarrassment, was one of my students, though I hadn’t seen her in a long time.
“That’s a good issue, Miss Prentice,” said Kim Mallard, smiling conspiratorially, “Especially that spinach diet.” She leaned forward, her eyes on my expanding middle. “How’re you feeling? Any more morning sickness?”
Everybody knew everything in a small town. “No, I’m over that now. Just tired all the time. Thanks for asking.”
The girl sighed. “I hear you! Between swollen ankles and trips to the ladies room all day, I’m exhausted!”
That’s when I realized that her loose smock covered the same condition as mine. “Oh, my,” I said.
Kim, by my figuring, was seventeen.
She waved a hand airily. “Oh, it’s okay. Brian ’n me’re getting married as soon as the baby’s born and I can fit into a wedding dress!” She glanced over her shoulder and pointed to a magazine rack. “Hand me that Modern Wedding, would’ja?”
When I complied, she eagerly turned to a large full-color illustration of a thin, ethereal-looking young woman in an elaborate, stark-white wedding gown. “That’s it!” She tapped the page with an overlong fingernail decorated with a silver peace sign and turned a glowing smile at me. “Got it on layaway at Formal Dreams over at the Mall.”
“It’s lovely, Kim.”
“This magazine costs fifteen bucks. Better put it away.” Guiltily, she slapped the huge magazine shut and allowed me to replace it. “Of course, it all depends on Brian getting a job at that new foundry.” She looked at me speculatively. “I’m seven and a half months. How far along are you?”
“Eight and a half.” I glanced over my shoulder at the line forming behind me, and then at Gil’s back as he strode out of the store, pushing the cart. “I guess I’d better be going. Good to see you, Kim. Take care of yourself.”
Waving goodbye, I folded my tabloid under one arm and scurried after my husband, who was once again exhibiting the signs of his besetting ailment.
Rather than agoraphobia—fear of the marketplace—Gil suffers from what I call Fear of Shopping. Accurate statistics are hard to come by, but I have it on good authority that approximately half the male population of this country is afflicted. I discovered this terrible secret on our honeymoon, but like the valiant comedienne, Charlotte Yates, I had decided to bravely get on with my life, embracing the good with the bad.
Making this job far easier was Gil’s solid, manly physique and head of thick, semi-silvery hair. Not to mention an IQ roughly the same number as the price of a loaf of multi-grain bread and a smile that—well, considering my condition, you can guess the rest. My students certainly did.
As I approached our car where Gil was opening the trunk, I spotted another familiar figure; this time, a live one. “Vern! Hello!” I called, waving at the tall blond young man who was carrying a six-pack of cola and taking long strides away from the store. Without a glance my way, he continued walking and quickly was well out of earshot.
I sighed. “I think he heard me. Apparently, he’s still not speaking to us.”
Gil moved aside a case of bottled water and an emergency snow shovel to make room for the groceries. “And you’re surprised?”
“Well, I thought after everything died down, maybe.”
We lifted the groceries into the trunk.
Gil said, “Honey, you’re underestimating the grudge-carrying power of my side of the family. That kid may never speak to us again.”
“But we did the right thing!”
“I know that, and you know that, but well . . . ” Gil shrugged, slammed the trunk door and grabbed the folded tabloid I was carrying. “Since when have you taken to reading those?” he asked teasingly. He was trying to change the subject and cheer me up.
He read the headlines aloud: “Aliens Endorse Academy Award Winner for President,’ ‘Medium Martinka Yeka Boldly Predicts American Idol Winner.’ ”
With a sad glance in the direction of our disappearing nephew, I said, “Since today. There’s somebody I know in it. Or rather, somebody I once knew.”
“You know that psychic woman? How do I get an exclusive?”
Gil held tabloids in even lower regard than I did. It was a matter of professional pride. He was, after all, editor of our town’s only real newspaper, The Press-Advertiser, which was struggling mightily in these hard times.
“What does she predict about us?” Gil slid behind the wheel and turned the ignition key. He grabbed my hand and pulled it to his lips. “Will it last?”
I looked down at my round tummy and smiled, sending up a quick but fervent prayer of thanksgiving, “It better.”
I picked up my copy of Worldwide Buzz and turned to page eight. Impatiently, I skimmed the illustrated retrospective of Charlotte Yates’ career from her humble beginnings as a rubber-faced extra in a roller skating movie to her recent best supporting actress Oscar for a Tennessee Williams remake.
There were just the barest facts about Danny diNicco. He’d met Charlotte in the mid-nineties on a movie set where they were both bit players. The marriage lasted a little more than a year and produced no children, but their split was apparently amicable. After the divorce, Danny had become a theatrical entrepreneur, owning and managing a string of dinner theatres and dance clubs across New York, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey. To my frustration, after having imparted these newsy tidbits, the reporter dropped the subject of Danny and moved on to Husband Number Four.
The next mention of Danny was under a small photo at the bottom of the page. The picture was in black-and-white, a grainy, angled shot of an ordinary office desk, topped by a pen in a holder, a computer monitor, a keyboard, and a large blotter. This orderly still life was freely spattered with ominous black stains.
I read the caption: “Scene of the Crime: Danny diNicco’s lifeless body was found in this Manhattan office last January, shot twice in the head, execution style. Police are said to have no leads in the case.”
“What’s the matter?” said Gil.
“Huh?” I looked up.
“You made a funny noise.”
“I did? What kind of noise?”
“I don’t know. A kind of a groan; sort of high-pitched. A feminine kind of a groan. What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know if I should tell you.”
“Why not?”
“It’s about an old crush of mine. Are you the jealous type?”
Gil smiled his irresistible smile. “What do you think?”
So I told him. It had all been a long time ago, but once I got into telling about it, Gil remembered. He’d been there . . .
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
HESTER’S VERSION OF MICHIGAN SAUCE
Murder in the Past Tense
CHAPTER
ONE
Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series) Page 25