Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries) (27 page)

I could hear Alec and Lily talking to one another on shore and occasionally I saw them silhouetted in the bright lights of the house. I turned my gaze out onto the silvery surface of the lake, where a mist was rising.

I crouched there for some time, keeping watch. Despite Alec’s orders, I had decided to call out a warning at the first sign of the rowboat’s approach.

The lake’s surface remained placid, ruffled only slightly by gusts of cold wind. The lights of the house were reflected out over the water. In the distance I saw a flock of white birds ascend to the skies like a snowy cloud and fly away, calling to each other hoarsely.

Where was Sally? Surely she would have had time to row back by now. I whispered my question to the silent lake, which only continued to gently rock the
Sweet Afton.

Lily and Alec returned just as I began shivering uncontrollably. Lily scolded and Alec chided as they hustled me back into the warmth of the cabin.

“Go!” I said between chattering teeth, “G-get going! Sh-she might be back any m-minute!”

Alec saluted. “Will do.” He gunned the motor and we were off.

Lily sat beside me with a secret smile on her face. “Don’t you want to see what we found?” she asked coyly, and pulled a sealed, padded manila envelope from inside her coat.

It was addressed to me.

On the ride home in Alec’s truck, Lily and I read Marguerite’s journal. Of course, we fully intended to turn it over to the police once we got to town, but it was evidence and there was no telling when we’d get to see it again. And, by golly, as Lily pointed out, Marguerite had meant it for me!

“Journal of Marguerite Angelique LeBow,” said the title page.

“Lovely handwriting,” Lily remarked. “Why, Amelia, you only gave her a C.” She pointed to a red letter in the upper corner.

“She didn’t follow directions,” I explained. “She added quotes. It was supposed to be all her own writing.”

How stupid and arbitrary that seemed now. Why shouldn’t
she have put meaningful quotes in her own personal journal?

I turned the pages in the thick black-and-white marbleized notebook until I came to the end of the assignment.

A full page had been devoted to my critique of her work in red ink. I winced at the brisk impersonality of my comments. I had been tired when I corrected the journals, but there was really no excuse for my harshness. It made me feel thankful and humble that Marguerite had forgiven me this.

The next page was touchingly entitled, “Private, Top Secret, Eyes Only.”

I had only the vaguest idea what Eyes Only meant. No doubt Marguerite had borrowed the term from a spy movie.

Once she had completed the school assignment, it was clear that Marguerite felt free to make the journal truly her own. Very few entries bore dates. For a full fifteen pages, in a variety of colored inks, she rambled philosophically on a wide array of subjects: the meaning of life, the existence of God, the opposite sex, money, injustice, evil, fear and forgiveness, among many others, covering both sides of the pages and bearing down hard with her pen. Even though her handwriting became hard to decipher in the heat of her enthusiasm, I could see how passionately idealistic she was. Sometimes she pasted newspaper clippings in among her thoughts.

“In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart. —Anne Frank,” Lily read aloud, her finger tracing the words.

Here and there, she illustrated her ideas with tiny doodles and figures. Most frequently, a stick-figure angel would insert a comment in a cartoon-style balloon.

“Be not overcome with evil, but overcome evil with good. —Romans 12:21,” said the angel, and, in another place, “One man with courage makes a majority. —Andrew Jackson.” There were many more such notations.

At the center of the book was a tasseled bookmark bearing Kipling’s poem “If.”

For the next few pages Marguerite seemed taken with Kahlil Gibran, then a fascination with Shakespeare’s sonnets took over.

Abruptly, the rambling entries stopped. A new, heavily-underlined title page read, “
Unofficial Investigative Journal
,” and numerical dates crisply marked each short entry.

“Bingo,” said Lily. “The police wouldn’t listen to her, so she went undercover on her own.”

“Oh, Marguerite,” I breathed, “how I wish you hadn’t.”

The journal entries began to tell a story: “September 10—Informed known drug users that I was interested in making a score.”

“Making a score? Where’d she get this stuff?”

“TV, most likely.” I turned a page.

Lily pointed at a pair of names. “Look, those must be the drug users. Do you know them?”

“I sure do,” I said grimly, “and I’m not surprised.” They were former students.

“September 21—Spent $380 from savings account on cocaine.
Expensive
! Evidence stored in mattress. (Remember to ask about reimburse.) Contact wouldn’t reveal name of source—yet. Will keep trying.”

I looked at Lily. “That’s how she got the reputation of being involved in drugs.”

Lily frowned. “Because she was. Poor idiot kid.”

After several similar entries, it became apparent that Marguerite was having difficulty getting any more information. She was reduced to speculation, which she wrote in a unique code of her own.

Chief Suspects

Gray Lady—near kids, can get drugs, too sweet to be real

Fisherman—near kids, moves around a lot, foreigner?

UDJ—moves around a lot, mean, has lots of $$$

Mustache—unsuspected, near kids, mean . . .

Lily laughed. “Fisherman! That’s gotta be you, Alec!”

From the driver’s seat of his truck, Alec sniffed. “So I was a suspect, eh? Maybe that’s why she wrote me that terrible letter.”

“And Mustache. Do you suppose that could be Gerard Berghauser?” I said. “I wonder if he got a letter, too. Gray Lady’s obvious. That’s Judith.”

There was another list.

People I Can Trust

Miss Prentice

Father Frontenac

Derek Standish

My Mom . . .

Lily laid a hand over mine. “Oh, Amelia, look.”

The last name was underlined.

My Dad

I looked at Lily. We were both blinking back tears.

“Here.” Lily handed me a tissue from her pocket and took one for herself.

After a good blow I said, “Her grandfather told me Marguerite had never stopped loving her father.” Eagerly, I turned the next page. “It’s blank!” I turned more. “It’s all blank from here on out. She must have died before she could write more. Lily, this isn’t evidence. It’s probably useless to Dennis.” I closed the book. “We’ll give it to him anyway and see what he can make of it.”

With a sigh, I replaced the journal in the envelope.

We traveled the rest of the way into town in silence. As Alec pulled up in front of my house, we heard a loud, insistent honking from behind. Gil’s car came careening around us and screeched to a halt at the curb.

Gil leaped from the car, ran to the truck, and jerked open the door. “Where is she?” he asked Lily, helping her down.

She gestured to me in the cab, and Gil reached out his arms. “Come here.”

Damp, shivering, and tear-soaked, I fell into his arms, and he carried me up the steps onto the porch. “I heard a police report on my scanner. They said you’d been attacked,” he said, slightly out of breath.

Lily had stepped ahead of him, found my extra key taped to the bottom of the mailbox, and unlocked the door. “Here,” she ordered, “take her upstairs.”

I felt a little like Scarlett O’Hara as Gil swept me up the staircase and into my bedroom, but the illusion ended when he dumped me on the bed and bent over, heaving from the exertion.

“Good work. Now, get out,” Lily said, and ushered him to the door. “Go down with Alec and put on some water to boil.”

Gil shot her a quizzical glance.

“For coffee. For coffee. All she has is instant.” She shut the bedroom door firmly.

Twenty minutes later, I descended under my own speed, freshly showered and clad cozily in a long flannel nightgown, terrycloth robe, and fuzzy slippers. My wound, once cleaned, turned out to be a small nick along the top of my ear and a graze on my scalp. Disfiguring, certainly, but not grotesque. A couple of standard, skin-toned bandages covered the damage. Lily insisted she knew a plastic surgeon who could repair it all in no time. I didn’t think it was necessary.

Alec and Gil were sitting companionably in the parlor, sipping from coffee mugs.

“Miss Amelia, ye look fresh and enchanting,” said Alec, rising, “like a bonnie child.”

Suddenly embarrassed, I avoided eye contact with Gil.

“She thought that bathrobe was immodest. I told her it’s more than she wears teaching,” Lily said.

“Amelia,” Gil began conversationally, “Alec and I were looking for your cat.”

Forgetting all about the modesty issue, I stood stock-still, experiencing again my ordeal in the lake: Sally, beating on my fingers, growling, “They’re all gone! Your parents, your cat—”

“My cat! Oh, dear Lord!” I dashed for the kitchen. “Oh, please! Sam! Sam!”

There was no sign of him near his bowl, which I always kept full of dry cat food. I opened the back door and looked around. Vern had leaned the broken porch swing against the house, and I spotted movement underneath it. There was a faint whimper. I jerked the swing to one side and knelt beside Sam, who lay listlessly on the floor, his round stomach protruding, not even bothering to curl up in his customary ball.

“Oh, Sam!” I cried. “What did Sally do to you?”

Sam blinked slowly, once.

“Lily! Look how bloated he is! He’s been poisoned! Oh, Sam—”

Lily didn’t waste time lamenting. “Give him here.” She scooped Sam up in her arms. “Come on, Alec, we’re taking him to the vet! Amelia, you call ahead and tell them we’re coming.”

I was glad Gil was there. “You’ve got to stop blaming yourself, Amelia,” he insisted after I made the call. “You didn’t poison the cat.”

I paced. “No, but I never really liked him. That makes it worse. Poor old Sam.”

“Sit down over here.” He patted the place next to him on the loveseat invitingly.

“I can’t. I’m too strung out. Would you do me a favor?” I grabbed the padded envelope from the hall table and gave it to him. “Would you take this to the police station? I’m not even sure if it’s legal for us to have it.”

“They won’t arrest me, will they?” he asked, smiling. He wrapped his arms around me and spoke into my hair. “Okay, but promise me you’ll go right to bed and try not to worry. The bad part’s over.”

“Oh, Gil,” I sighed, “I hope you’re right.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

I slept surprisingly well that night. “Maybe the bad part is over,” I told myself as I stretched.

The sun glittered through the stained-glass window panels as I came down the stairs. I began my morning chores cheerfully and had located the box of cat food and bent over Sam’s still-full bowl, ready to refill it, when I memory returned.

“Oh please,” I prayed inwardly, “let Sam be all right!” The veterinarian hadn’t found any evidence of poison, but he was keeping the elderly cat under observation.

Last night, Dennis had interrogated me over the phone on the condition that I come into the station the following afternoon. I had already lined up a substitute at school and made plans to attend Marguerite’s funeral Mass at ten. There was no reason to change them, despite last night’s excitement. I had listened to the radio and searched the newspaper for some new information about Sally, but aside from a cursory statement that she was being sought to help the police in their investigation and an announcement that Judith would be released this morning, there was nothing.

I’d decided to walk to the church. It was a long way, but the exercise would do me good and I had some thinking to do. My eyes drank in the bright colors as the autumn leaves fell around me, but my mind was far away, flailing helplessly in the black waters of the lake.

I saw a large, dark van go down the street and wondered vaguely where Sally had gone. It was strange, but I wasn’t afraid of her now. Sally clearly had a strong sense of self-preservation, and I had no doubt that she’d decided that discretion was called for. I wished I could have told Dennis more about those mysterious friends of hers.

I had come close, extremely close, to dying last night. I was of two minds about that. On one hand, once I became reconciled to the inevitable out there in the cold water, I had actually found myself looking forward to the experience. If one believed as I did, the process of death was fearsome, but the destination was not. On the other hand, I had also had regrets. So many that my mind couldn’t enunciate them in those decisive few seconds.

“And that house!” I said aloud, and smiled. I wondered if the Fields’ house would still be for sale. I—well,
lusted
was not too strong a word—I lusted after that house.

And there was more. I turned my mind to the
très
attractive Steve Trechere. I liked his idea. A bed and breakfast would be the ideal way to put Dad and Mother’s house to use. I could see Mother’s face, eagerly preparing for company. She had loved having visitors, and now the house—Lord willing—would always be full of guests. I thought about the special woman Steve had in mind to operate the place and hoped fervently she would accept his offer. I even had an idea of who she was.

I’d been thinking furiously for ten blocks. As I approached the church, I looked at my watch. A full hour early. There were very few cars in the lot across the street and none at the curb near the entrance. As I stood uncertainly, wondering what to do, a side door opened, and Father Frontenac stepped out, accompanied by Steve Trechere.

The two men spoke in low, friendly tones and, as they reached the sidewalk, shook hands warmly. All at once, they saw me and froze. The priest glanced uncertainly at Trechere, then smiled at me.

“Miss Prentice. You’re a little early, as you can see. Come right on in.” He held the heavy door open for me.

“In a few minutes, thanks, Father. I need to have a word with Mr. Trechere.”