Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries) (17 page)

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s cold out here. Can I come back in and explain?”

Vern continued his filibuster in the entry hall. “Take a look at the evidence: Friday, he put a down payment on the Fields house over on the lake shore. How long has he lived in that rat-hole apartment of his? Ten years? In a couple weeks, he’s moving to a three bedroom bungalow, with a white picket fence.”

“I’m happy for him, but—”

“Wait, hear me out! Yesterday, in the space of one hour, he maxed out his charge card at Bailey Menswear. Haven’t you noticed how he was dressed today?”

“Some people would call that midlife crisis,” I said dryly.

“Yeah, but in just two days?”

“Sudden midlife crisis.” I sat down heavily on a lower stair step and yawned.

Vern joined me. “Okay, but what was he doing pricing diamond rings at Statler’s?”

“The jewelry store next to Bailey’s?”

“That’s the one. Convenient, huh?”

“How did you learn about this shopping spree? Were you with him?”

“No, but I know a girl who works at Statler’s. She called me this morning to find out what gives, so I checked it out. There were a half-dozen bags from Bailey’s in his bedroom and I found the sales slip in his trash can.”

I massaged my forehead. “Quite a detective, aren’t you? And the house?”

“Oh, Gil told me about that.”

“Well, did he tell you exactly why he was doing all this?”

“Not in so many words,” Vern admitted. “But it all adds up, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” I was dead tired and becoming confused. I humored Vern out the door with a promise to think about what he’d said, then trudged up the steps to bed.

As I brushed my teeth, I glanced at the clock. Three a.m. “I’ll never get to sleep after the day I’ve had,” I told Sam, who was already drowsing on the rug.

As is frequently the case, I was wrong.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Sunday school went fairly well. The lesson was on Jesus’ first miracle at the wedding at Cana, and the class entered eagerly into a discussion of its significance.

The girls, for their part, were generally agreed that the passage illustrated God’s endorsement of marriage. Some of the boys, on the other hand, tried earnestly to assert that it demonstrated His approval of alcoholic beverages.

While conceding that people in the Bible did drink wine, I tried to point out the passages condemning drunkenness. “Sometime soon, you may be offered alcohol—” I began my little impromptu sermonette.

“Try last night!” Gavin Porter said, snickering.

“Yeah!” chorused several other of the boys. Knowing grins were exchanged along the back row.

I sighed. Life was being thrust upon them earlier and earlier.

“You say you saw some drinking going on last night?”

“That’s right,
saw
,” several agreed, establishing themselves as innocent bystanders, all the while poking one another with gleeful elbows. Many of the girls were giggling now too.

“And the ones you
saw
drinking—how did they act?”

“Stupid!” Gavin said with a snorting laugh.

“Beat a guy up!” a smaller boy said in awe.

“Then puked his guts out!” Another boy added to the hilarity. “Lucky it happened, or Bob’d be dead by now.”

“No way—Bob’s just a wimp,” boasted Gavin. “I’m not afraid of Derek—” he broke off and looked wide-eyed at me.

I pretended not to notice. “Tell me something,” I asked the boys who were now scowling reproachfully at one another. “Did this—drinking person—look handsome?”

Quizzical looks all around.

I continued. “Did he look attractive? Did he appear intelligent?”

Heads shaking.

“Do you think God would approve of the way he was acting?”

Light bulbs came on around the room.

“No, ma’am,” said Janet Smythe, the class idealist.

“Can you see the difference between serving a little wine at a wedding and getting knee-walking drunk?”

Several involuntary barks of laughter, in surprise that I would use such an expression, then unanimous nods.

“Good.” I looked at my watch. “It’s almost time for church, so let’s pray. Martin, would you please?”

The class broke up quietly, and I proceeded to wipe off the blackboard and collect the lesson books left on the seats. I was stacking them in the storage closet when several of the boys returned to the room.

“Great! There’s doughnuts left!” said one.

“Hey, dork, what’s with spilling your guts about the party last night?” said another.

Clearly, they didn’t know I was there.

“Don’t worry, Miss P’s cool, she won’t tell,” he answered, his voice muffled by doughnut. “Besides, we didn’t say anything much. Gimme one of those chocolate ones.”

I have learned from long experience that eavesdropping is sometimes a helpful tool, if used in moderation. I stood very still in the closet and listened.

“No way! You said Derek’s name. He’ll kill you for that.”

“No, he won’t! He’s all torn up about that girl that got killed. Said he’s looking everywhere for who did it, even in Vermont. Said when he finds ’um, he’s gonna kill ’um.”

“He will, too,” piped a shaky tenor.

“Come on, hurry. Church is starting. My mom’ll kill me if I’m late!”

More sounds of the wax paper sack rattling. Presumably, they were filling their pockets.

I stood thinking for a while. Right after church, I resolved, I’d call Dennis O’Brien.

The unexpected chance to gather information had thrown my carefully-timed Sunday morning schedule into disarray. Instead of walking briskly to the choir room, slipping into a robe, taking a few seconds to pat my hair and gather up my music, I was forced to hurry—in high heels—down a crowded hall choked with a cheerfully chattering congregation. Halfway there, I had to restrain myself from pushing a sweet, white-haired senior citizen over her walker, but I managed, smiling all the way.

The choir room was reproachfully empty as I snatched my robe from its hanger and my music from its cubicle, and dashed into the choir loft, panting. Everyone was polite as I slid past them to my seat in the alto section, but I earned a tiny disapproving wrinkle of the brow from the choir director. Raising his arms, he signaled the first chords of the opening anthem and I joined in, gratefully if breathlessly.

All hail the power of Jesus’s name,

Let angels prostrate fall . . .

I sang from my heart, caught up in the magnificent thought of all creation in joyous praise of God. The hymns, as much as any sermon, always spoke to me in church. There were times when the wisdom and truth of the words so moved me I would have to fight back tears.

The first congregational hymn was “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” my favorite. My heart soared. God was reassuring me of His love, and that He had everything under control. My gratitude to Him was overwhelming.

I felt the warning tickle of tears in my eyes and was reaching for the tissue I kept for emergencies in the front of my hymnal when I glanced at the congregation. An usher was escorting a latecomer down the aisle to a vacant spot on the front pew.

It was Gil Dickensen.

Immediately, I dropped the tissue, but there was no need to attempt the clumsy task of retrieving it, because my tears of joy had dried up.

What’s he doing here?
I thought angrily.

Not in so many words, but by way of snide remark, sarcastic comment, and glib editorial, Gil had long ago led me and the entire community to believe he had no respect at all for organized religion.

“Isn’t that Gil Dickensen?” whispered Margery Berton behind her choir folder. “What’s he doing here?”

You could say that again. Probably just showing off his new suit from Bailey’s. It was navy blue and fit him well. It set off the gray in his hair to good advantage too. He did look nice, I had to admit.

Just then, his eye caught mine. He smiled. As I nodded coolly in return, the acrobat who had taken up residence in my chest did another double somersault.
Oh, no you don’t
! I told it.

With ostentatious care, I turned my attention to locating the music for the offertory special. It was an arrangement of “Sheep May Safely Graze and Pasture” from Bach’s
Peasant Cantata
. This was a perennial favorite and we all knew it by heart.

Once again, I threw myself into the music, turning only the slightest of glances Gil-ward. No eye contact this time. He was staring at one of the stained glass windows, apparently lost in thought.

Not for one minute did I believe Vern’s assessment of Gil’s recent actions. I had known him in one capacity or another all his life, and a person didn’t change overnight.

“Sheep may safely graze and pasture,” we sang.

And what about those kisses? They were meaningless, I told myself. It was all precisely as I suspected, a superficial flirtation.

“ . . . in a watchful shepherd’s sight.”

But hadn’t he demonstrated his concern, sending Vern to watch over me and coming all the way to Burlington after Lily’s accident?

He was simply using his reporter’s instincts, I answered myself. As a suspect in Marguerite’s murder, I’m a potential news story, no doubt about it. Vern’s just one of his stringers, that’s all.

“Those who rule with wisdom guiding . . . ”

And what about his trip to Bailey’s Menswear and acquisition of the Fields’ admittedly charming house? It was just as I told Vern, an acute case of midlife crisis.

“ . . . bring to hearts a peace abiding . . . ”

And as for Statler’s Jewelry Store—well, I was a bit too busy to think about it right now, thank you very much! I modulated my voice to the delicate ending of the piece.

“ . . . bless a land with hearts made free.”

The final notes faded away and the choir sat slowly and reverently, tucking the song folders in the side receptacles and extracting Bibles in readiness for the scripture reading.

I consulted the program for the sermon title. “Marriage—An Honorable Estate Blessed by God.” I made a point not to look in Gil’s direction for the rest of the service.

After church, there was no way I was going to mill around in the midst of a hugging, back-slapping crowd containing Gil Dickensen. I wasted no time pulling on my coat, then threaded my way through the throng and onto the sidewalk.

I hurried. There were a few things I needed to do: Call Lily as promised, find out if Marie had returned home yet, and try to locate Derek. Somewhere in there I would also find time to prepare for Monday’s classes.

If I was quick about it, I could also call Gil’s apartment and catch Vern alone. He could bring Lily’s car and, if he chose, accompany me on my errands. It would be especially good to have him along if I happened to find Derek.

Not that I believed for one moment the boy would intentionally hurt me, but I’d experienced first-hand how overwrought he could become, and after all, “the best-laid schemes o’ mice and men gang aft agley,” as Alec—or Robbie Burns—might say. Come to think of it, Alec knew something about extremes of emotion, too, I remembered.

“Wait a minute . . . ” I stopped walking and looked around. I was standing on the corner of Jury and Elmore Streets, directly in front of Danny’s Diner. I had been thinking so furiously, I’d overshot my house and ended up downtown.

I stood staring at the silver, lozenge-shaped building, watching steam rise from the exhaust chimney. It was cold out here and I could smell bacon frying. My stomach growled and my ever-present dull headache revved into overdrive again. Why not have a bite of lunch here? No reason at all.

As I opened the door, the strip of sleigh bells attached to the doorknob jingled.

“Miss Prentice!” said Danny Dinardi, his bald head shining in the neon light.

He was standing at the grill, pressing a hamburger with the back of his spatula. A row of bacon strips sizzled nearby. Just beyond, six perfectly browned slices of toast popped out of the toaster with a light metallic rattle.

The faces of the six patrons seated at the counter turned and smiled in unison. Danny waved his free hand expansively. “Come in and get warm! Shirley—pour the lady a cup of coffee. You here for lunch?”

“Soon as I make a couple of calls,” I promised and headed for the ancient pay phone on the wall. “It smells good in here. How about one of your famous BLT’s?”

“Good choice! The best in the country!” he declared immodestly.

But he was right. “It’s the tomatoes, you know,” he explained, as he always did, to the admiring assembly. “I get ’em homegrown from a lady out in the country. This time of year, she keeps ’em wrapped in newspaper in her cellar.” It was a familiar, oft-repeated story, varying only slightly with the seasons. I could have chanted it along with him.

I dialed Gil’s number. “Come on! Come on!” I muttered, as the phone rang for the fifth time. “Gil’ll be home any minute.” On the next ring, I heard a click, then Gil’s recorded voice, saying, “You have reached the—”

“What?” roared an outraged male voice, breaking into the recording.

“Vern?” I ventured timidly.

“Amelia? Gosh, I’m sorry. You got me out of the shower. The furnace pooped out last night and it’s c-colder than a—it’s freezing in here. I didn’t want to leave the hot water, but you kept ringing.”

I explained my idea about Lily’s car. “I’m at Danny’s. If you come over right away, I’ll treat you to lunch.”

“I’m there! W-well, not exactly,” he added, his chattering teeth clearly audible. “But just l-let me get out of this towel and into my parka. Tell Danny I want a chili cheeseburger!” he ordered and hung up.

I put more coins in the telephone and dialed Dennis O’Brien. No answer on his personal phone. He was either on duty somewhere or at church with his family. I’d have to call later.

My sandwich and I arrived at our booth at the same time. I loved Danny’s Diner! Bowing my head, I murmured a blissful blessing, then carefully lifted half the sandwich and opened my mouth to receive the ambrosia.

“Amelia?”

A drop of tomato juice hit the front of my suit jacket at breast level. Reluctantly, I set down my sandwich and blotted the stain with a paper napkin.