Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries) (2 page)

“M-most assuredly!” How pompous I sounded! I accepted the handkerchief and blew my nose vigorously. “I’m sorry, Dennis. It’s just that I’m so terribly embarrassed, you know.”

Dennis looked up sharply from his notebook. “Embarrassed?” he said, frowning, “Embarrassed!”

“Yes, embarrassed,” I said, a little surprised at his strong reaction. “Of course. To fall like that . . . and be found unconscious in the public library . . . ”

I spotted my neighbor, Lily Burns, seated at a nearby table, straining to hear our conversation. She held up my purse, then eagerly read my gestures and hurried over.

“Oh, Amelia,” she said, “this is just so awful!” She embraced me and a cloud of
Toujours Moi
engulfed us both. “Now don’t you worry about a thing. You can come spend the night at my house. I’ll make cocoa and you can tell me all about it.”

She patted my hand and cocked her head sympathetically, but her carefully lined blue eyes sparkled with anticipation. Lily was a one-woman Fox News.

“Mrs. Burns, I must ask you to step back to that table, please,” said Dennis.

Lily was unruffled. “Don’t worry, Detective. I’ll only be another second.”

“Lily, I’m afraid there’s nothing to tell. I just tripped in the copy room and hit my head. Why all this fuss, I can’t imagi—”

Lily gasped. “She doesn’t know!”

Dennis began sternly, “Mrs. Burns, I told you to—”

“Don’t know what? Dennis, what’s going on?” I demanded angrily and pressed a hand to my throbbing head.

Dennis ran his hand through his hair again and opened his mouth to speak, but Lily cut in once more.

“It’s Marguerite LeBow, Amelia. She’s dead. On the floor in there.” She pointed at the copy room. “It must have been her—her body that you tripped over.” She gave a tiny hysterical giggle and fell uncharacteristically silent.

“What? But, I don’t understand, Lily. I . . . I was just making copies,” I tried to explain. At the time, it seemed important that everyone understand. “Sixty-seven copies—a woodcut of the Globe Theatre—you know, the one Shakespeare—”

I looked down at my sleeve. “Oh! Dear God, blood!” It was a prayer. “Lily, there’s blood on me!” I plucked at it frantically, pulling the stained fabric away from my skin.

“It’s okay, dear,” Lily reassured me. “It’s yours. From that cut on your head. You must have bled like a stuck pig before Laura found you. They think Marguerite had a stroke or heart attack or something,” she finished rapidly, casting a defiant eye at Dennis.

“That’s enough for now,” he snapped. “Perkins, see that Mrs. Burns gets back to her seat. We won’t be needing any more of her input.”

Perkins stepped forward, gripped Lily’s elbow firmly, and steered her toward another table.

“Miss Prentice,” said Dennis. “You need to get home to bed. Perkins will give you a lift, and I’ll be around later to ask you few more questions.”

I nodded dumbly. At the moment, however, Perkins was fully occupied, trying to persuade a protesting Lily to sit without resorting to his nightstick. In his place, I would have been tempted. Lily’s arms were folded over her fashionably sweatered chest, and her small frame was rigid, tacitly daring him to use force.

Others at neighboring tables watched this whispered exchange with interest: gentle Laura Ingersoll, shaking her head slightly in protest at Lily’s behavior; a girl from my third period class whose name often escapes me—Destiny? Serendipity?— staring frankly as she nervously nibbled a cuticle.

Only my student Derek Standish seemed oblivious to the little drama. The boy had attained his impressive six-foot-and-then-some stature during a growth spurt last year and made an intimidating sight, even when seated. I remembered his English essay that I had corrected not an hour before. Derek loved disagreeable, creepy subjects: beheadings, witchcraft, monsters. Our very own Stephen King in training. Right now, he was hunched alone at his table, scowling darkly in the direction of the copy room and systematically cracking his large knuckles.

After a minute, Lily apparently capitulated, and Perkins headed my way. The assembled multitude resumed whatever nervous habits gave them comfort and waited to be interrogated.

“Ready, Miss Prentice?” said Perkins. He helped me into my coat, located my purse, and we headed for the exit. Just as I stepped through the door, someone pinched my elbow.

“Amelia, listen,” Lily hissed, “I’ll call you later—”

“Mrs. Burns!” roared Dennis from across the room.

She glanced over her shoulder, not the slightest bit intimidated. “Can you believe it?” she whispered. “I remember when he couldn’t hit our front porch with a newspaper and now they let him carry a gun! Coming, Detective O’Brien,” she sang out, and winked at me.

CHAPTER TWO

I was disappointed in the police car ride. As I slid into the back seat, I looked about for some remnant of the many fiends and felons who must have occupied this space, but, though a bit shabby, it was pristine. No grimy hand prints, no spent shell casings, no empty syringes. I sighed and pressed the unbandaged side of my face against the cool glass.

“No siren, either, I take it,” I said aloud. I was getting a little punchy.

In the rear view mirror, the stone face smiled at last. “No, ma’am. Emergencies only.”

It was still a beautiful October night in the Adirondacks, cool, but not bitter. I’d walked to the library tonight, enjoying the brisk wind gusts, sniffing the hint of smoke in the air. (Lily Burns had broken the air pollution law again and burned her leaves.) I loved that smell. It had been a great evening to be alive . . .

Alive.
A wave of guilt swept over me. I sat back in the seat and tried to think of nothing.

Inasmuch as my house was only around the block, it was a short ride, but I was grateful and told Officer Perkins so. I couldn’t have walked back tonight. I hadn’t felt this shaken up in years. It was a real tragedy, too, since Marguerite was her mother’s only child. It was amazing how he had handled Lily, being so calm and all—

All these things and more I babbled to the impassive Perkins as we navigated the long front walk and the porch steps. At the big front door, the dear, big, heavy, obstinate portal that had greeted me so many happy times in the past, Perkins cut to the chase and held out his palm.

“Oh, yes, of course.” A tip. I blearily fumbled in my purse for my wallet until—

“Your key, please?”

“Oh! My key! Sure!”

Perkins unlocked and opened the door without any of the jiggling, thumping, and lip-biting that had become my ritual. Apparently all the door needed was a firm hand. I marveled.

My farewell to Officer Perkins was effusive, as it always was when I was especially glad to see someone leave and felt a little guilty about it. Thank him so very much, he had been more than kind. Yes, I would be fine. No, thanks, I didn’t need him to come in and look around for intruders. I’d be fine. Thanks again. I was the original brave little soldier, I was.

But once the big door was shut with a brassy jingle and I had driven the bolt lock home, all the starch drained from my legs and I slid slowly to the floor, right on top of my great-grandmother’s heirloom oriental rug. Resting my head against the solid door, I closed my eyes and shut out the world.

“Sam?” I called into the darkness.

It was futile, of course. My parent’s obese, beloved old cat barely tolerated my presence. Sam and I had had a kind of inter-species sibling rivalry that I’d never experienced with my sister. The situation had only gotten worse after Dad and Mother died.

All at once, Sam’s warm, furry bulk filled my lap and he was rubbing his head against my hand. Why he had come was a mystery. He had never once responded to me unless food was involved, but I wasn’t one to turn away a miracle, especially not tonight. I wrapped my arms around him and began to sob into his fur.

I started to tell Sam about the night’s events and to express my shock at the tragedy, but as my monologue progressed, it gradually turned into a prayer. Sitting on the scratchy wool rug in the entryway, clutching an unusually meek Sam to my breast, I told God how I felt about things.

It just wasn’t fair, I told Him. Marguerite, poor ditsy mite of a girl, dying so young and so senselessly. And what of her mother, Marie, abandoned by her husband at nineteen with a tiny baby to raise by herself? Dear, earnest, hard-working Marie, who had experienced so much heartache in her life, now left totally alone.

I knew what it was like, I told Him. Hadn’t I nursed both my beloved parents through the agony of cancer? I had survived somehow, thanks to His help, never once begrudging my sister, Barbara, her beautiful home in Florida, her handsome husband, or her four children.

And speaking of marriage, Lord, I was forty-one already. Was I ever—

The doorbell rang. I froze. Sam struggled free of my embrace and bolted. The bell rang again. Slowly, I began to rise, first on hands and knees, and then gripping the doorknob, pulling myself painfully upright.

Squinting cautiously through the stained glass panels that framed the doorway, I fumbled with the bolt lock. I could see that my visitor was tall, but he wasn’t familiar. I opened the door a tiny crack and saw a police car on the street.

“Yes?”

“Miss Prentice.” A disheveled file was thrust through the crack. “You left your papers on a chair in the library.”

“Oh, Officer Perkins, it’s you. Thanks.”

He bent over until his nose almost touched mine. I could have sworn he sniffed.

“You all by yourself, ma’am? I thought I heard voices.”

“Nope, just me. I live alone—well, there’s my mother’s cat around here somewhere.” I gestured back over my shoulder.

Perkins glanced over my head into the hall and gave me a skeptical look. “Um, did the paramedic explain that you’re not supposed to have any alcohol? Just in case it’s a concussion, you know?”

“Don’t worry, Officer, I don’t drink.” I pulled myself straighter and fumbled in my coat pocket for the handkerchief Dennis had given me. “And I know all about first aid and—honk—things.” I wiped the tears from my face and looked around, realizing for the first time that I was still wearing my coat and hadn’t turned any lights on.

“I’ll be going up to bed now,” I announced, and snapped on the porch light.

“Yes, ma’am, if you’re sure you’re okay.”

“I am, I assure you.” I jutted out my chin.

Perkins turned.

“Thank you for bringing the papers,” I called after him. “I needed them.”

As he sped away, I turned on the hall light. And the lamp in the front sitting room. And the light over the staircase. And the bedside lamp, as well as the one in the bathroom.

It wouldn’t do to have the city police department thinking the English teacher was sitting alone in the dark, drinking. Such a thing could be all over town by sunup.

***

“Oh, this is useless!”

I sat up in bed. Only minutes before, I had been desperately exhausted, longing for sleep. Now I couldn’t turn off the movie that played inside my eyelids.

Why did I go to the library tonight? Was I really such a creature of habit? If I’d stayed and corrected papers here at home, my head wouldn’t be hurting, I’d be able to sleep, and I wouldn’t be wearing this huge bandage.

But Marguerite would still be dead.

Marguerite dead. I couldn’t believe it. I closed my eyes, picturing that earnest child with the perpetually anxious expression on her pale face, the unruly brown hair tied at the back of her neck with a ribbon, and the long earrings that bounced as she trembled in uncontrollable enthusiasm over some silly thing or other. It was always something dramatic with Marguerite.

Pig Latin, for instance. To my other students, the silly language had been a brief amusement, a mental toy to enjoy and cast aside. Marguerite, as always, overdid it, writing her name in pig Latin on her books, circulating notes in it, and even doing her homework in it. So much enthusiasm, so much energy—and now she was dead. How could it have happened? She’d seemed so healthy.

I’d tripped over Marguerite in the copy room. I knew CPR. If I had been less clumsy, might I have been in time to save her? Maybe just a few minutes earlier . . .

“This has got to stop!” I declared aloud. “Any more of this and I’ll go crazy.” I glanced around the room. “Sam? Come here.”

From his curled position on Aunt Clarissa’s hand-braided rug, Sam stared at me, his eyes reflecting silver in the moonlight. He tilted his head questioningly.

“That’s right,” I reassured him, patting the comforter beside me. “You can sleep up here. But just for tonight.” I made a kissing noise.

Sam’s leap was graceful, but his four-point landing caused the bedsprings to creak in protest. Even before he curved himself into a ball at my side, his motor-like purring had begun. I settled back, sinking into the sedative rhythm and whispering my gratitude to heaven for the blessing of sleep. My eyes drooped, closed. There was no movie this time, just soothing blackness.

I awoke at six-thirty a.m. to an alarm clock-telephone duet. Sam had deserted me some time in the night, presumably to use the litter box, which I had banished to the back porch. In one fluid movement, I pounded the top of the clock with my fist and picked up the telephone.

“Miss Prentice?” That somber bass could only belong to our principal.

“Mr. Berghauser.”

“I read about what happened in the paper this morning. Are you coming to school today?” That was Gerard B. all over. None of this how-are-you nonsense. Just get to the point.

“It’s good of you to ask,” I said, deliberately misreading sympathy into his question, “but don’t worry now, I’ll be fine. Just a bit of a bandage on my head.”

“Bandage? A large bandage?”

I could hear the wheels turning. Such a spectacle might be distracting to the students. Worse yet, there might be negative publicity.

“Oh, just average-sized, you know,” I said vaguely, enjoying his discomfort.

“We have Coach Gurowski available to substitute . . . ”

Oh no, you don’t!
That man wasn’t going to play havoc with my grade book ever again! It took forever last time to straighten things out.