Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries) (16 page)

Where are all the people who own these cars?

“Turn here,” said the voice as we neared a sign marked Exit.

Quickly I turned and realized—too late—that I had gone in the wrong direction. We were heading back into the parking deck.

The voice called me a shocking name.

“I’m—I’m sorry,” I said, “I’m nervous. I’ve never been in this place before.”

My body was shaking as violently as ever, but a cold, calm thought flashed into my head:
Keep playing dumb
.

The parking deck was built in several levels, stacked in a spiral so that one could drive in circles, avoiding the exit chutes, until he reached the top, then spiral back down to street level. My plan, conceived in this instant, was to do just that, hoping to buy time to think of a better means of escape.

I accelerated and sped past another Exit sign.

The voice growled an oath and the pressure on my neck tightened.

“Oh, no, did I miss it again?” I asked.

We continued to circle.

“You know,” I observed, trying to sound reasonable, even friendly, “we’re wasting time here. I could let you have my purse and my watch, and you could get away right now. I’ll even let you have the car—though it’s not mine—”

“That’s not what I want,” the voice said.

I snapped my mouth shut. I didn’t want to think about what he did want.

The voice continued, “I just want to know something.”

“Kn-know what?” I passed another Exit sign, but he didn’t seem to notice.

He pressed his weapon into my neck so hard, I gagged. “Stop the car.”

As smoothly as possible, I applied the brake. The car rolled to a halt. I could feel the breath of my assailant in my ear, tickling. He had been drinking.

A hand came around my throat and tightened. The voice spoke slowly and deliberately.

“I want to know—what’s UDJ?”

“What?” I mouthed. Breath enough to speak was hard to come by.

“You know!”

“No,” I said soundlessly, “I don’t.” A frantic laugh was bubbling inside me. I stifled it.

My gaze flew about wildly. I tried to make out a face in the rear-view mirror, but the headrest obscured my view.

“If you don’t tell me, I’ll kill you!”

“Please,” I croaked, “I don’t know what it means!”

Miraculously, the hand loosened and the cold weapon was withdrawn. In the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of white sleeve.

Throwing the automatic shift into park, I slumped in the seat, rubbing my neck and taking gulping breaths. My heart was beating visibly against my breast, or so it felt. I knew who it was, now, but dared not reveal the fact.

“You better not be lying,” the voice warned me, “ ’cause if I find out different . . . ” The voice, deep as it was, cracked.

The next moment, Derek Standish had thrown down the tire iron and was out the door and gone.

“What kept you?” Vern asked as he hopped in the car a few minutes later.

I had already decided to give myself a little time to think about what had just happened. “I’ll tell you about it in a minute. I’m awfully tired. Would you mind driving?”

Vern was a good chauffeur. He didn’t try to fill the time with useless conversation, and that gave me a chance to think.

I was certain my assailant had been Derek Standish. He’d returned to finish our interrupted conversation, his anger fueled by alcohol. Those last few words, spoken in the cracking bass, along with the quick glimpse of his white jacket sleeve, had given him away. Pinning down who it was made me feel much better because I couldn’t believe Derek would have actually harmed me. However—I stroked the side of my bruised neck and remembered his last English paper, filled with gruesome, torturous executions—I could be wrong.

And that question: “What is UDJ?” The same one Marie had asked me. She had dismissed it as trivial, but clearly it wasn’t.

What is UDJ?
I asked myself. Well, it indicated a connection of some sort between Marguerite and Derek. Could Derek have been responsible for Marguerite’s death?
Of course not!
my heart said.
Maybe,
countered my head, which had begun to ache once more. I laid my head back, closed my eyes and did my level best to think of nothing at all.

I remained that way until we had put a good deal of road behind us, then, my eyes still closed, I asked Vern, “What would you think the letters UDJ stood for?”

“Isn’t that a Jewish ladies organization? Or maybe something to do with organized labor?”

I sat up straight and frowned at him. “I’m serious. Are you positive you’ve never heard of it before?”

Vern shrugged. “I don’t think so. Where’d you hear it?”

Hesitantly, and keeping my suspicions about Derek to myself, I told Vern what had happened in the parking garage. He reacted exactly as I had feared, insisting that we turn around immediately and report the incident to the police. After considerable wrangling, I managed to persuade him to let me wait until I got home.

“Okay, Amelia, but only because you look so lousy. You need to get home.”

“Thank you, I think,” I said, peering at myself in one of Lily’s deluxe lighted car mirrors. “Ugh! You’re right.”

It was well past nine o’clock when Vern pulled up in front of my house, but the motion-activated exterior lights were blazing away, front and back.

“Someone’s there!”

“Stay here!” Vern ordered and sprang from the car.

I couldn’t let him face the intruders alone, so despite a headache and a case of acute trepidation, I emerged from the car and did my best to follow where Vern’s tall, striding form had disappeared behind Grandmother Prentice’s lilac bushes.

Halfway across the front lawn, I heard voices and laughter—a woman’s.

Then, Vern’s deeper tones, questioning.

Another laugh, and Real Estate Saleswoman Extraordinaire Sally Jennings came strolling around the house on the old driveway, reduced over time to little more than a faint footpath, with Vern and Steve Trechere in tow.

“ . . . but we didn’t mean to alarm you,” Sally was saying. “We were just pacing out the lot. By the way, I don’t like the look of those evergreens over there. They may be sick. Oh, hello, Miss Prentice,” she said, deigning to take note of me. “You remember Mr. Trechere, don’t you?”

“Of course. And this is my friend, Vern Thomas.”

In the dim light, the two men shook hands amiably.

Sally put a hand on my arm. “Miss Prentice, we’ve been admiring your house. Mind if I show Steve around inside?”

“I’m sorry, Sally, but it’s been a long day, and I’m not exactly up to company.”

“We’ll only be a—” Sally began, but was interrupted by Trechere.

“It’s not necessary to bother this lady so late,” he said, with that slight trace of French accent. “We will say good night now. Perhaps later.” His dark eyes were level with mine.

“Thank you for understanding,” I said. He was a charming man, and it was tempting to invite him in, if only to hear more of that smooth voice, but my head was sore, my neck hurt, and I was bone-weary.

He nodded and turned away.

To my surprise, the pair headed back behind the house. Vern and I were on the front porch, jiggling the key in the lock when Sally’s red sports car roared around on the old driveway.

“What d’you know?” Vern said, “They parked around back. Think they were trying to break in?”

The front door jingled open at last. I shook my head. “Not in the criminal sense, no, but maybe just to look around. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if they hoped I’d forgotten to lock up. Sally’s bound and determined to get me to sell this place.” All at once, Sam appeared on the front porch, mewing. I laughed.

“What’s the joke?”

“I was just picturing Sally trying to crawl through Sam’s cat door. Say, Vern, are you hungry?” I asked. “Because all of a sudden, I am. I just remembered, I haven’t had dinner. How about coming in for an omelet?”

I knew the answer before I asked the question, and within ten minutes I was measuring out instant coffee while Vern tended the eggs. “I’m all out of the ground kind,” I told him.

“Hey, the caffeine fix is the same.” Vern grinned as he deftly slid an omelet onto a plate. “Here. This is yours. By the way, you’re looking better.”

“I feel better. I must be getting my second wind.”

“I’m glad you took that bandage off. Your bump doesn’t look as bad as I’d expected.” He waved a finger at my head.

I leaned over and examined my reflection in the toaster. “Well, the swelling has gone down some and the wound seems to be healing. I wish the bruise wasn’t so dark, though.”

“Just pull your bangs down over your forehead.”

I pulled down a few strands. “Like this?”

“Terrific! It’s almost invisible!”

“Well and tactfully said, sir. You have now truly earned your dinner.”

Minutes later, as he was mopping jelly from his plate with the last scrap of toast, Vern looked up suddenly. “That’s it!”

“Finish chewing and say again—what is it?”

“I know where I’ve seen that guy before. That Steve guy. Omigosh!”

“Calm down. Where was it?”

“You know that Japanese restaurant on Montcalm? The dark one with all the booths?”

“The Mikado. Yes.”

Vern took a gulp of coffee and continued. “Well, I was there Wednesday, picking up some takeout for Gil. I paid up front, then they sent me to the kitchen to pick it up ’cause they were short-handed—”

“Go on,” I urged impatiently.

“And I saw him—Trechere—in one of the booths. But Amelia, he wasn’t alone. He was with Marguerite LeBow!”

“Marguerite? What were they doing?”

“Having lunch if I remember right. I didn’t pay much attention at the time. I mean, live and let live, right If a girl wants to have lunch with an old guy—hey—” he held up his hands defensively, “that’s none of my business.”

“Was it a date, do you think?”

“That’s the way it looked to me. They seemed pretty chummy. Holding hands and stuff.” Vern got up and spooned more instant coffee into his cup.

“This is so strange. Everybody seems to have a different image of Marguerite. Berghauser and Judith Dee think she was a junkie, Bert Swanson virtually called her a Lolita, the Professor says she was a poison pen, and now this. And if things aren’t confusing enough,” I added, “it seems she tried to become a volunteer narc if that’s the right word for it.” I explained what Gil had told me. “What do you think she was up to?”

Vern returned to the table with his coffee. “Well, judging by what happened to her, nothing good. But I can’t help feeling that she was more of a flake than anything else—no, I mean it!” He shook off my disapproving look. “I think we ought to follow the money. Do you know anything else about this Trechere dude?”

“Just what Sally’s told me. He’s a successful businessman from Quebec and he wants to invest in real estate here. The Millionaire from Montreal they call him.”

“And how did he make his money? Drugs are lucrative. Amelia. What if Marguerite was blackmailing him or something?”

“I don’t think—”

“And you said I was naive! Maybe Marguerite needed money for school. This guy looks pretty well fixed. He could have paid somebody to knock her off. It all fits!” He slapped the table decisively, rattling the crockery.

I righted the salt shaker. “I think he was in the library Thursday night.”

Vern stood abruptly. “And I’ll bet you Marcel’s little yellow taxi the answer’s in that stuff Marie mailed to you!”

“I forgot that!”

Together, we ran to the mailbox, a small wrought-iron container affixed to the house just right of the doorbell.

“It’s a package, isn’t it?” asked Vern impatiently as I groped for Saturday’s mail. “Is there one in there?”

“No,” I said, and sighed. “Just these.” I held out a stack of envelopes. “Bills, mostly.”

“Rats. Oh well, it’ll come next week. Hey, look there!” Vern pointed to a colorful envelope. “You may have won four million dollars!”

“I wish.”

There was a snapping sound from the side of the house and the crunch of gravel.

“What’s that?” Vern whispered.

Before I could stop him, he tiptoed to the end of the porch and leaned around the railing. He looked back at me and shrugged.

“Probably nothing,” he told me at the door. “It’s too dark to see. Just keep your door locked.”

I deposited the mail on the hall table and we trudged back to the kitchen, where I proceeded to prepare two more cups of coffee.

Vern and I talked until well past 2 a.m., going over our theories about Marguerite’s death and what part Steve Trechere may have played. We also covered Lily’s accident and the Professor’s courtship before Vern remembered to scold me about what he called the carjacking.

“It’s too late to call the police now, Vern.”

“The station is open all night—come on, now,” he insisted, extending the telephone receiver toward me.

“But the man didn’t steal anything,” I protested, “and he didn’t hurt me, really. He just wanted to ask a question.”

Vern was adamant. “Doesn’t matter. It’s still a crime. Kidnapping or something. Here—call!”

I put the receiver back on the wall. “This is my business. I’ve got to do it my way. You’re making me sorry I confided in you.” And darned glad I didn’t tell you who it was, I added silently.

Vern assumed an injured expression. “All right, I can’t force you, but—”

“And don’t you say a single word to your uncle about this either!”

He smiled. “I make no promises.” He stood. “Look, I gotta go—” He consulted his watch. “Ohmigosh, it’s two-thirty!”

I followed him to the door.

“I’ll bring back Mrs. Burns’ car tomorrow,” he promised wearily as he left.

“Please don’t mention you-know-what to Gil,” I called out as he descended the steps. “He has nothing to do with this, and I won’t have—”

Vern paused and turned around. “You’re wrong.” He came back up the steps, scowling. “He has everything to do with this. If anything happened to you, he’d be destroyed.”

“Now Vern, don’t confuse a flirtation with—”

He returned to the doorway and stood, shaking his head. “Don’t you get it, Amelia? Gil’s not flirting. He’s dead serious!”