Murder in the Past Tense (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series Book 3) (17 page)

“Terence?” I called hesitantly and knocked twice on the cabin door. I waited, then knocked again.

No answer.

The camp’s security was certainly loose. I pulled on the short, ragged rope latch and gently pushed the door open.

It was dark as night inside. The shutters of the cabin’s one window were closed. Despite the warm day outside, a fire was dancing merrily in a small stone fireplace, providing the only light. I thought of our own cozy house. It had begun as a lakeside camp. Could it once have been as bleak as this?

The floor was dirt, firmly packed. On my right, a rough wooden shelf held two dented aluminum pans, a coffeepot, and a five-pound Maxwell House can. An old metal folding chair, bearing evidence of many coats of paint, held a battered tackle box.

“Terence?” I said again. I stepped into the gloomy cabin, and asked, “Remember me? It’s Amelia Prentice. Are ya day-sent?” I quoted with a light laugh.

There was a sound behind me, a low laugh that turned into a cough.

“Little Amelia, my drama queen, is it really you?” Terence Jamison stepped forward.

In the firelight his cheekbones seemed distressingly prominent. His red mane was now a shining white. He was appallingly, painfully thin. There was a map of wrinkles all over his face. He was wearing a checked cotton shirt under a heavy cable-knit pullover, jeans, and deck shoes with thick socks. He still had the bearing and good posture of a dancer, but there was an unmistakable sense of the invalid about the man.

“It is. Dierdre told me where you were. I should have tried calling you.”

“You probably couldn’t get through anyway. The reception out here is rotten.”

“Well, I came to see how you are.”

I must have been silhouetted in the flames, because he took a look at my bulk and gestured in the direction in of the chair. “My, my, you’ve certainly, er, grown over the years. Please, take a load off.”

“Thanks.”

I transferred the tackle box to the floor and sat gratefully. The chair made a metallic groan. I redistributed my weight on the seat.

“Aren’t you
hot
in here?”

“Nope. I love a nice fire.”

He held a stick in his left hand, which he thrust into the fireplace. The makeshift torch burst into flame. He held it up so it illuminated the whole cabin.

“Tell me, Amelia, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” He tossed the stick into the fire.

“Well, Dierdre told me you were here. We live about a mile in that direction.” I pointed. “When I called, she said you might enjoy talking.”

He frowned, tossed the stick into the fire and coughed into an elbow. Suddenly I felt uncomfortable.

“About what?”

“You know, the summer theatre,
The Last Leaf
, things like that. I’d love to hear all about how you came to be the Storybook Dragon too.”

“I see you’ve followed my career with interest, but the poor old Dragon faded from the picture quite some time ago. It’s not a very interesting story.”

Obviously, cheering Terence up wasn’t going to be easy. I tried being whimsical again. “I’m just one of your humble subjects, come to see the Emperor.”

He chuckled mirthlessly. “It’s been a long time since anyone called me that. The Emperor has gone the way of the Dragon, I’m afraid.” He stared into the flames. “And Dierdre thought this visit would cheer me up?”

“Well, not in so many words. It was more my own idea.”

“Hmm. Sweet and well-meaning of you, but . . . unnecessary.” He coughed again. “I don’t mean to be unwelcoming, but to tell you the truth, I’m not very good with company these days. I do humbly beg your pardon.”

He wasn’t getting rid of me that easily. “It’s all right. I was just thinking about all the things that happened the summer I worked for you.”

He leaned on the mantelpiece and talked into the wall. “Halcyon days.”

“Yes, well, I enjoyed most of it. Except some of the stuff at the end. Especially that time when Danny fell off the ladder. Did you ever figure out how that happened? Or maybe who did it?”

He shook his head and coughed again.

He must be feeling roasted, standing so close to the fire.

“My husband and I were talking about it the other day and decided that either Neil Claussen or Chris Gold fiddled somehow with one of the rungs.”

His reply came out so low I almost didn’t hear him. He was nodding. “It might have been Chris Gold. He’s dead, you know—an overdose about ten years ago. Or it could have been Claussen. He couldn’t catch a break in New York after that summer, I know that much. DiNicco or his uncle probably put the word out on him. Or,” he said, turning around so I could see his saturnine expression highlighted in the firelight, “it could have been me.” He put his splayed hand on his thin chest.

“I don’t believe that. Why you?”

“Oh, Amelia, it’s such a long story, and I just don’t feel like telling it again.”

He turned away once more.
Clearly, he was in no mood to be cheered.

I stood. “Well, we can get together another time. I can see you’d like to be alone. To tell you the truth, all I really wanted to do was ask you about that girl who disappeared.”

“About who?”

Whom,
I thought.

“About Janey Johnson. You know, the girl who—”

“I know who you mean,” he snapped. “Eileen, that was her real name, remember?”

Whom you mean,
I thought. I couldn’t seem to turn off my inner teacher.

“I always wondered where she went. That night, I mean. Did you ever hear from her again? I felt so bad for her. The way she talked that night, how scared she was. She seemed to think she was in real danger. I’ve always wondered if something happened to her.”

Terence scratched the back of his neck. “Oh, yes,” he said grimly. “Something did. She’s dead. She’s been dead a long time.”

“Oh.” I felt curiously deflated and sad. “And now so is Danny DiNicco. I can’t help but think there might have been a connection.”

 “She was such a little fool,” he said, more to himself than to me, it seemed. “I blame myself. If I’d known the danger, I’d have hopped in my car and driven her back out West the day she arrived.”

He shook his head. “She thought she could get away from those . . . thugs. I told her it was dangerous, but I had no idea how bad it really was. They had—and still have—tentacles everywhere.” He smothered a cough.

“Tentacles?”

“Of course! Like some big—big—octopus.” He waved his hand. “The Mob.”

 “Mob? You don’t mean Danny DiNicco?”

“Of course I mean DiNicco! Why else do you think that he—” He barked out the words and then stopped abruptly, frowning at me. He shrugged and finished his sentence. “—was killed?”

And that’s the moment I saw the gun. The huge, shiny gun. It had been in a shadow on the crude and weathered mantelpiece. Now it was in his hand, only a few feet away from me.

I sat back down. “Is that it?” I said in a small voice. “Is that what killed Danny?” Nausea rose in my throat.

He looked down at it. “Yes.” He sighed. “This is the one. It was justified, though, his death. He murdered Eileen. Or as good as, poor girl.”

“What do you mean murdered?”

He looked at me pityingly and shook his head. “I looked for her that night, remember? I didn’t stop looking for her, even after the summer was over. I went to see her father downstate. He had no idea where she’d gone. I called him every few months to check. He never heard from her again. Obviously she was dead. And the evidence pointed straight at DiNicco. Don’t you read the papers? Or listen to the news? His miserable thug of an uncle admitted it. They buried her somewhere up in those woods where nobody can find her. I knew that’s what happened the minute I heard about it.”

“But how could Danny be involved? I mean—”

“He had to have told the old man where Eileen was hiding. Maybe he even caught up with her that night.”

That was different from what I had imagined, and even more terrifying. A familiar face, a man who had danced with her, even kissed her passionately onstage (and perhaps seduced her offstage) suddenly turned killer? Despite the stifling heat of the cabin, I shivered.

Terence stroked the gun. “I know I shouldn’t have kept this after, well, after everything, but I had a sort of sentimental attachment to it. Don’t you recognize it?” He turned it sideways so I could see the handle.

The initials “T. R.” on the small silver plate were unmistakable.

“The
San Juan Hill
gun! He was killed with the Teddy Roosevelt gun?”

He scratched his forehead and his thick, white hair shifted on his head. Could Terence be wearing a wig?

He shrugged. “It was kind of . . . ironic, wasn’t it?”

That reminded me of something. “Where’s Pat? Patricia? Your wife?” Surely she wouldn’t have condoned this thing.

His tone was sardonic. “Again, I’m aware of who you mean. She died of lung cancer, eight, no, eight and a half months ago. We went to one of those big treatment centers in the Midwest like you see on television? It cost almost all our savings. She fought right up until the end, wouldn’t quit, but she was too far gone. She died in my arms on Christmas Eve. I became a widower that day, imagine that.” He shook his head.

“I loved her, I did. But now I’m glad she isn’t here to . . . well . . .  and I’m not sorry Danny’s dead, though,” he added, staring across the cabin at a blank wall, “I know it’s a sin that I’m glad, but I’m beyond redemption anyway.”

I was feeling distinctly uneasy, being in the same room as that enormous gun, but I couldn’t help saying, “No, you’re not, at least, not spiritually speaking. You grew up in the Church. You once said you were a good Catholic. Remember the thief on the cross? He wasn’t beyond it. And neither are you. If you repent and—”

I was talking faster and faster, my apprehension growing.

I should never have come here.

He interrupted me. “I’m glad you still believe that stuff, Amelia. I can’t seem to any more.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said sympathetically. To a murderer.

Why was I always so polite? I tried to think of him as the Storybook Dragon, but it didn’t work. The expression in his watery blue eyes carried all the weight of the guilty world, plus a dash of ruthlessness. I didn’t like the speculative look on his face.

“Hmm.” He turned a sad smile towards me. “What am I going to do with you, Amelia?” He laughed, and it sounded painful. “I remember your audition. You stood out. Cute little thing, but I’d never seen such over-acting in all my life. You’ve always been a handful, you know?”

He took hold of my wrist and pulled me to my feet.

“I know, Terence. I’m s-sorry.”

“So’m I.” Using his free hand, he opened the round portion of the gun that presumably carried bullets, checked it, and snapped it shut with practiced ease.

“Look, Terence—”

“Hush now, dear.” He frowned and rubbed his nose with the wrist of his right hand. “I need to think. You pose a bit of a problem. I’m going to have to change my plans.”

There was another volley of coughing. His grip on my wrist loosened a little, but quickly tightened again.

“Just how sick are you, Terence?” The yellow coloring in his face was not only from the firelight.

“Very sick,” he said absently. His eyes were darting all over the cabin. I wondered what he was thinking. “I was going to put an end to things today. To myself, you understand. But now I can’t leave things as they are.”

Why not?
I wanted to shout. Instead, I apologized again.

“Oh, Terence, I’m so sorry.”

And I was. I had once liked this puzzling man. I tried to strike an optimistic tone.

“You could turn yourself in. I can help you. I know Dennis O’Brien—you know, the police detective? He’s a good friend of mine. He could—”

“No.” Terence was swinging the gun hand up and down, his other hand still gripping my wrist. “I couldn’t do it to Dierdre. My sister’s giving me a retirement party, you know that? I’ve got family to consider here.”

But so do I!
Baby Janet ran a foot across the inside of my belly. My hand came up to feel the little heel through the layers of flesh and fabric.
Relax, Sweetie. Your Mama’s here. Everything will be all right.

I wished I believed it myself.

“Be quiet now, Amelia. I must think.”

I looked into Terence’s face, but he wasn’t seeing me. His eyes, jerking rapidly, were watching some long-ago scene. Or plotting out how he’d dispose of me—correction, us.

All at once he seemed to make up his mind. “All right, come along now.” He jerked on my wrist and tried to pull me toward the entrance. “I said, come on!”

I remained where I stood. His grip wasn’t very strong and I definitely outweighed him.

“Why? What are you going to do?”

Fear and stress certainly takes it out of a person. All at once my entire body was the definition of agony. Nausea, trembling, a twinge of abdominal pain.