Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries) (20 page)

Clearly, Sam agreed. Having just finished his after-meal wash-up, he had already claimed his favorite spot in the middle of the rag rug. Rather than make the laborious trudge up the stairs to my bedroom, I lay on the tapestry settee in the front parlor, pulling Mother’s crocheted afghan over my shoulders. “I think I’ll just stretch out a minute,” I said, remembering her quaint term for a nap.

A light wind blew the tips of the maples just outside the tall windows, sending multi-colored gusts of leaves flying past. In a little less than two weeks, Halloween would rear its sometimes-ugly head, and I would be swamped by hoards of elementary school ghouls in pre-printed, variety store costumes. Hopping up every two minutes to distribute candy was a nuisance, but my parents had loved it, especially Mother.

Even in her last illness, she had insisted on holding court in her wheelchair on the front porch, swathed in blankets. “And who are you? Cinderella?” she’d ask a tiny child, “How beautiful you look!” or “What a scary ghost!” Her words weren’t particularly original, but her joy was genuine, and the kids knew it, even the rowdy ones whose only costume besides street clothes was a mask and a pillowcase to bear away the goodies. They all, to a ghoul, favored her with a shy smile and a sincere “Happy Halloween!” as her bony, shaking hand dropped candy into each open bag. Though the evening air became nippy and the trick-or-treaters thinned, she had insisted on remaining outside until well after ten o’clock.

“Thank you, darling,” she’d whispered to me through lips blue with cold, but smiling. “It was wonderful. All those children.” The effort had totally exhausted her and she’d slept solidly for the next two days. “It was worth it, though,” she’d said when she awoke, her eyes shining with the memory.

She knew it was her last Halloween. She didn’t even make it to Christmas. After she died, I’d put her still-wrapped presents in the attic.

A tear trickled onto the upholstery. What made me think of Mother just now? Of course, she had been in the forefront of my thoughts until December of last year, but I’d been determined to put the memories of her last agony behind me.

“I hate it that you’ll be alone,” she’d whispered to me a month before her death. “When your dad died, I had you, but now you’ll be left alone.”

“Don’t worry,” I said as brightly as I could, “I’ll have Barbara.” We had long ago dispensed with the polite fiction of her recovery.

“Barbara’s place is in Florida with her family.” Her frown was deeper than in her moment of deepest pain. “Besides, you know what I mean—alone. ‘It is not good that man should be alone,’ ” she quoted. “ ‘I will make him a helper fit for him.’ ”

In spite of myself, I laughed. “Mother, doesn’t it also say somewhere: ‘To the unmarried and the widows I say that it is well for them to remain single as I do?’ ”

She smiled back. “Corinthians.” She patted my hand. “But you’re no St. Paul, that’s for sure. I’ll just have to pray about it.” She’d closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

The next day, she’d rallied incredibly, sitting up, joking, and polishing off a bowl of soup with crackers. The joy in her face was unmistakable. “Everything’s going to be all right, darling,” she’d told me breathlessly as Sam purred in her lap. “God’s given me a peace about it. I asked Him for a sort of Christmas present.” She would say no more, only, “Everything’s going to be all right.” She repeated the phrase like a motto in the ensuing weeks. They had been her last words.

“Oh, Mother,” I said, sniffing into a tissue. “I
am
alone. And I miss you and Dad so much.”

My father had seemed indestructible, like a force of nature. My sense of security had been badly eroded at his death. Mother had possessed the gift of delight. Some twinkling sense of joy had faded away when she did. Life was so different without them.

Sam hopped up on the settee and nudged insistently for a place. “Come on up, you old cat.” I hugged him and lifted him so he faced me, nose to nose. “Did Mother tell you to comfort me when I needed it? Was that your assignment?”

It made sense. I hadn’t really cried until the night of Marguerite’s death. And Sam had been there for me.

Believe what you like
, Sam’s look said. He wriggled out of my grip and bounded away.

“Speaking of assignment,” I said, “I’ve got a lesson plan to prepare.”

Reluctantly, I pulled myself up from the settee. My feet were still sore from the high heels. The telephone rang and I answered it.

“Hello. My name is Burns. You probably don’t remember me, but once upon a time, we were friends.”

“Oh, Lily, I’m so sorry. I was just about to—”

“Don’t even bother to make up excuses. You forgot.”

“I forgot. I’ve been doing that a lot lately. Please forgive me.”

“As long as you admit it,” Lily said.

“You sound better.”

“Well, that’s because I am better,” she said brightly. A little too brightly. “And I have a mutual friend sitting right here who will tell you so. Come here. Say hello to Amelia,” she ordered. I heard rustling.

“It’s true, Miss Amelia. She’s all right,” said Alec. “Fit as a fiddle!”

“ . . . and ready to be checked out!” Lily finished with a laugh, taking back the phone.

“Now? Today?” I looked around for my shoes. “Just give me a couple of hours—”

“No need, dear. Arrangements have already been made. Right, Alec?” Her silvery laughter rang out again.

“Alec’s taking you? I thought you said he stepped off a box of fish sticks,” I pointed out suspiciously.

“And I meant every word, Amelia, dear.”

She was up to something, all right. “Lily, what’s going on?”

“Amelia,” she continued silkily, “Al-ec brought me a present—did you know that? It was can-dy. One of those
s
am-plers. So sweet!”

Oh, boy, now I knew. Flowers were the gift of choice for Lily. For reasons known only to herself, she had always considered a gift of candy extremely
déclassé
. I, on the other hand, would have been delighted. Poor Alec.

“We’ve had the most fas-cinating talk.” Lily bit off her words in a manner I recognized. I only hoped Alec hadn’t perceived the depth of her irritation.

“After I thanked him for saving my life—because that’s what he did, you know—I told him all about my ordeal in the water. Amelia, did you know I actually heard something while I was going under for the last time?”

“Lily, what have you done?” I didn’t like her tone at all. She was entirely too pleased with herself.

“It went like this—Weeeooooo! Weeeoooo! I saw something, too—a kind of big shadow in the water. Of course, I thought I must have been hallucinating, but Alec thinks differently.” I could hear her eyelashes batting.

“I’ll just bet he does! Lily, he’s trying to conduct scientific research. You could set his work back years.”

“Oh, I certainly hope so!” she squealed girlishly.

I called Lily a name, a bad one. It was beneath me, but I was under duress.

“As usual, you hit the nail on the head, darling Amelia. But don’t you worry about a thing. Alec and I have everything under control. Bye!”

I could really use that tea now. While I filled the kettle, I considered warning Alec about Lily. Could I frame it in terms subtle enough to spare the man’s feelings? I didn’t think so.

“Alec, please remember to take what Lily says with a grain of salt,” I tried experimentally. “She has such a vivid imagination.”

If Alec had an ounce of perception—and I was pretty sure he had—he’d see through that one in a second.

What if I just said, “Alec, Lily is just pretending to like you. She thinks you’re a fraud. She really can’t stand you.” Whew! It would take a pretty strong ego to withstand that.

All at once, I remembered Alec in the elevator, his eyes wild in outrage, his hairy hands crumpling the corner of the candy box. I shuddered.
It’s Lily I’d better warn,
I resolved. Then I headed for my desk and my lesson plans.

By the time the tea kettle whistled, I had it all worked out: I would play my audio recording of
As You Like It
, performed by the Shakespeare Company of Stratford, Ontario. The students could follow along in the text while they listened. This was one of my favorite lessons. Shakespeare wrote words to be spoken aloud rather than read silently. I hoped they would come alive for my students.

It would involve making over a hundred copies of one particular scene. This time, though, I would go to school early and take my chances in the teacher’s workroom.

I poured hot water over the teabag and looked out the kitchen window. Dusk would fall in the next hour, and there was a light wind. I pulled on a sweater and carried my mug of tea outside, holding the door open for Sam, who seemed to need fresh air, too.

The wide front porch wrapped around the front half of our—my house. I looked out over our—my yard. It was all mine, now. I frowned at the tall clump of evergreen bushes that sheltered this end of the porch from the cold wind. Sally Jennings was right. They did look sick. And the leaves needed raking again.

I inhaled the steam from my tea—orange and spices. The warmth of it trickled inside of me, and at least for now I was impervious to the cold.

It would get much colder later, though, I reminded myself. Time to call the oil company. In just one standard North Country winter, the furnace in the basement consumed hundreds of gallons of fuel oil.

I glanced over at the old porch swing. It was way past time to put it in the cellar for the winter, but it was where I did my best thinking, and one more swing would do me good.

A simple wooden affair painted yellow to match the house, it was suspended from chains connected to the ceiling above. For the past twelve years, Sam and I had operated under a time-share agreement. If either one of us reached the swing first, the other would stay off. There was no negotiation about this. Sam had made that abundantly clear.

I scanned the darkening front yard. There was no sign of the cat. Sam must be off somewhere, perhaps sitting wistfully on Lily’s back stoop, enjoying memories of sour cream.

Mug firmly in hand, I made my move, but my assumption of Sam’s whereabouts had been mistaken. Out of nowhere—most likely the brown bushes just below me—Sam leaped from below and made a lightning dash for the swing, his form reminiscent of his days as a young tom.

“Oh, Sam!” I said, annoyed.

I knew that haste was useless. Fat as he was, he had animal speed on his side.

What followed seemed almost part of Sam’s magnificent leap. When he landed, the swing arced towards the house, but one corner on Sam’s end simply detached from its support chain and dumped him on the floor.

“
Sam!”

At the same moment, the cat gave an unearthly yowl and literally disappeared from the porch in a gray streak. There was a rattle as the chain pulled itself from the support above, depositing rungs in an untidy pile on the floor. The swing, hanging by its other chain, rocked and spiraled, the wood of the seat scraping the porch.

“What happened?” said someone coming up the front steps behind me. I turned to face Steve Trechere.

“Miss Prentice? You are all right?” said Louis Jourdan’s face in that devastating accent.

“My cat had a little mishap,” I said, indicating the swing. “I just hope he’s not hurt.”

“He looked fine when he went by me,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll be okay. Your swing broke, though,” he said, picking up the metal screw that held the chain to the chair. “It came loose, I think.”

“I was going to put it away for the winter, anyway.”

“You could have been injured,” he pointed out, frowning, “but for the cat, eh?” He smiled and dropped the hardware, dusting off his hands. “Miss Prentice, may I disturb you a little bit? There are some things I want to discuss.”

“No disturbance at all. I was just having some tea. Come in and I’ll pour you a cup.”

“That would be nice.”

He didn’t speak as he followed me into the kitchen, only looked around with interest. He was dressed more casually today, in a lambskin shearling coat, plaid shirt, and pleated Docker pants. Not exactly a Louis Jourdan outfit, but very attractive, anyway.

“No sugar, please.” He didn’t sit right away, but explored the kitchen, surveying the countertops and running his finger along the cabinets.

“And this room? For storage?” he asked, pulling open a door.

“Yes. The pantry. And that’s the breakfast room.”

“It’s pretty old fashioned,” he observed.

“It’s supposed to be. It’s the original kitchen—1888—with the addition of electric appliances, of course.” I took a seat at the kitchen table. “But it’s not for sale, Mr. Trechere,” I added firmly.

He waved his hand in the air and nodded. “But Mrs. Jennings—Sally—said . . . ” He made one of those pleasant French grimaces.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve tried to tell her many times.”

He pulled out a kitchen chair and joined me at the table. “It’s all right. I understand. It’s a charming house. You live here a long time, eh?”

“All my life.”

“All alone?” he asked, lifting his mug to sip.

“Yes. Well, since my mother died last year.”

“Very sad. But you are a teacher, I think?”

All these questions were beginning to make me nervous. It was like an interview. Or an interrogation.

“Yes. High school English.”

“This girl. The one who—died. She was your student?” He frowned.

“Marguerite?” I nodded. “She graduated two years ago. She was a sweet girl.”

“You were close to her, eh?”

“Not any more than any other student. But I liked her.”
Two can play this interrogation game, Buster. Now it’s your turn
. “You knew her, too, I believe?”

He stared. His face held no expression at all.

“I mean, you knew her socially, someone told me. Had lunch together, things like that?” I stirred more sugar into my tea and tried to keep my tone light.

“Well, yes . . . I met her once . . . ” He ran his finger around the rim of his mug.

I sat silent, letting him squirm.
I don’t believe you,
I thought
.