Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series) (16 page)

At last, the way was clear and Vern stepped on the accelerator. We were back on a main street in thirty seconds, leaving the melee far behind.

“My hero,” I said, patting Vern’s elbow. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along. And Vern, one of the boys told me to tell you—”

“Let’s talk about it later, Amelia, okay?” He jerked his head in the direction of the back seat and at that moment I realized he had another passenger.

I shifted in my seat and found a hand thrust directly before my face. “Cobb, James Cobb,” said a handsome man in his late twenties wearing a loosened tie and white shirt under his heavy, unzipped parka, “I just moved here from Syracuse. I’m in the public defender’s office. Defense counsel for the Rousseau brothers.”

I shook his hand, but didn’t offer my own name.

He leaned his forearms on the back of my seat and continued, “Quite a mess out there. Good thing this guy came to your rescue, I’d say.” He patted Vern on the shoulder and instructed, “Just continue around the block, okay, buddy? And stop at the end of the street. I’ll leg it from there.” He looked back at me with unblinking gray eyes. “Who are you, by the way, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Before I could come up with a quip that would indicate that I did mind, Vern put in, “She’s just a family friend of the Rousseaus.”

“Oh.” James Cobb sat back in his seat. “Well, those boys can sure use all the friends they can get right now.”

“A person always needs friends,” I observed rather pompously. “But surely you don’t think they’ll be convicted.”

“Not allowed to say,” he said, “but if you’re a betting woman, well . . . ” he trailed off significantly.

An hour ago, I’d been unsure of the boys’ innocence, but this man’s attitude got under my skin. “I can tell you, these are good youngsters. I’ve known them for years. An injustice is being perpetrated—”

“Keep on saying that, lady,” Cobb interrupted, “keeps up the pressure on the local Barneys. That’s the tack to take: The cops are prejudiced against them because of their record of mischief.” He seemed to warm to his topic. “Just look at the way they were arrested: brutally manhandled at school, right in front of their classmates, their teachers! If that’s not prejudicial, I don’t know what is!”

“They weren’t manhandled,” I pointed out sharply. “I saw the arrest. The police did everything by the book.” I was thinking of Dennis and his scrupulous decency.

“Not where I come from,” said James Cobb lightly. “The way I see it, this town is like all small towns—a hotbed of corruption, from the mayor on down, especially the DA, and the boys are just convenient scapegoats.”

“For what? What corruption?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? There’s bound to be something if we turn over enough local rocks.” He leaned forward again. “For instance, I know for a fact that last year a girl was murdered right in the public library!”

I had close, personal knowledge of that particular unfortunate event and opened my mouth to explain it in no uncertain terms, when Vern slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the curb. “There you are, sir. You can get out at this corner and walk up to the house. That’ll be seven dollars and fifteen cents.” He scowled at me and put his finger to his lips.

The man counted out the fare carefully before gathering up his briefcase and stepping out onto the sidewalk. “Thanks, buddy.”

I watched with some malicious satisfaction as he reached the middle of the block and was pounced on by the ravenous horde of news people.

Vern muttered a derogatory word under his breath as he did a three-point turn in the middle of the street. “Stupid lawyer didn’t even give me a tip. Maybe that’s the way they do it in Syracuse.”

I sat silently as Vern headed the taxi in the direction of Chez Prentice. “You okay, Amelia?” he asked after several blocks.

“Yes, but I was thinking that in order to get the Rousseau boys off, that man is going to try to destroy the reputations of a number of good people in this town. And if he doesn’t, and the boys are convicted, well, that’s also unthinkable. This is just a huge mess. What are we going to do, Vern?”

“What do you mean ‘we,’
kimo sabe
?” Vern squinted at the traffic. “I’m just the cab driver.”

“Don’t try to pretend you’re not involved in this somehow, mister,” I said. “J.T. told me to tell you to keep something. Now, what is that all about?”

“Hmm.” Vern frowned. “Oh, I know. I promised to get them their French homework so they won’t fall behind.”

“Nice try, but I already got their assignments from Miss Leary. That’s what my visit just now was all about. And for that matter, why did the police really want to question you? Tell me, Vern, or do I have to get Gil to break out the thumb screws?”

Vern shrugged. “Sorry, Amelia, can’t help you.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

He grinned at me, and it was hard to stay angry with him. “A little bit of each. Come on, Auntie. Give me a little credit. I know what I’m doing.” He pulled up to the curb in front of Chez Prentice. “There you are, dear sweet, adorable Aunt, special delivery door to door, free,
gratis
, on yours truly.”

“No, thank you,” I said, pulling out my wallet and handing over some bills. “I pay my own way.” I slid down in my seat and folded my arms. “But I’m not leaving this cab until you tell me.”

“Cut it out, Amelia. I’m on a time clock here. The LaBombards are depending on me.”

I pointed at the short-wave radio. “I haven’t heard any more fares come in. Come on, Vern, give.”

“Give what? That the Rousseau boys think I’m cool? I would have thought that would be a given.” He linked his hands behind his neck jauntily, but I wasn’t buying it.

“Did they tell you everything that happened on the lake that day?”

Vern dropped his hands and stared at the steering wheel, stone-faced, a sure sign that I was on to something.

“They were driving across the lake on the ice. Gil told me that,” I prompted. “Then what? What did they tell you?”

“If I thought for a minute that you weren’t trustworthy,” he began.

“Yes, but you know I am. Come on. What is it?”

He put his hands over his eyes. “Nope. Sorry. No can do. I did promise, and I’m a man of my word.”

“Vern, if you know something that can help the Rousseaus, you must tell Dennis!”

He took my hands in his. “Like I said, Amelia, I know what I’m doing. Please trust me,” he pleaded. “Please?”

I sighed. “For now.” I slid out of the passenger seat and stood in the open door. “But eventually, I’ll know.”

His relief was palpable. He nodded. “Eventually; probably.”

What a frustrating afternoon, I thought as I made my way up the sidewalk to the porch of Chez Prentice. What could Vern possibly know that could help prove the Rousseaus innocent? Or—

I stood, frozen by a terrible, more plausible thought: Or would it prove them guilty?

“Through Vern’s Room with Gun and Camera,” I entitled an imaginary documentary as I circled around, gathering up coffee cups, saucers, plates, and utensils, all with the dried-on residue of snacks consumed long ago.

It had been three days since I’d last tried to tell Gil about the pregnancy, and I’d fallen into a state of vague semi-denial. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow had crept along in its petty pace, and somehow inertia had taken over. Right now it seemed easier to just let nature take its course. In early September when labor pains began, maybe then I’d tell him. Meanwhile, I had dinner to prepare, not my favorite chore by a long shot.

“Honestly,” I chided the absent Vern, withdrawing a greasy fork from under a sneaker, “if I didn’t need all these dishes and things to make dinner.” It was definitely going to be a long time before I got food on the table because everything was going to require some energetic scrubbing.

Most of the cups were stacked in several precarious little towers on his computer desk. I sat down at the desk and tried to consolidate my load, but gravity would have its way, and as I pulled it toward me, one of the stacks wobbled and fell over, causing me to overcompensate.

All the cups on the desk fell, separating themselves and heading in countless different directions. Fortunately Vern’s discarded clothing on the floor made an effective cushion and none of the cups broke. One of them did, however, roll under the desk, and it was while I was retrieving it that I encountered the silver lunchbox.

It was wedged up against the wall behind the rectangular computer entity that muttered and flashed from time to time as it breathed and ruminated.

“How long has this thing been here?” I muttered. “Any leftovers in here should be really ripe by now.”

Seating myself on the floor, I pulled the box onto my lap. It was rather heavier than I’d expected, and the closure was a bit more elaborate than the usual lunchbox latch. It had a keyhole, but apparently wasn’t locked, and it wasn’t hard to deduce that in order to open the box, one slid the metal square to one side, rather like luggage.

“Vern, what have you been—” I began, and stopped at the sight of the contents: approximately a dozen music CDs in their plastic jewel cases. “What a novel idea,” I said, and lifted out several, “and a good way to protect your music.” The walls of the case were thickly lined with some kind of stiff packing foam, and fit around the CDs tightly.

Vern’s collection was eclectic, to say the least. Most of the names were unfamiliar to me, but I did recognize one by George Strait and another CD featuring the original Broadway cast of
The Last Leaf
, a musical that held unique memories for me. I ran my finger down the list of songs.

“Oh, here’s ‘What’s Your Pleasure?’ ” I said aloud. It was one of my favorites, a kind of rollicking patter song performed by the show’s star, Jerry Orbach.

Surely Vern wouldn’t mind if I played just one song. I looked around as I pulled the disc from its case. Vern probably didn’t have a CD player any more. All the young people I knew used MP3 players now.

“But you play CDs, don’t you?” I said, addressing the gray rectangle that had only recently stopped making noises like a coffeemaker with sinus trouble. “I’ve seen how Gil does it. You just find the little door.” I pressed a tiny button on the front of the computer and a shallow drawer, clearly shaped for a CD, presented itself.

Carefully turning over the CD to expose the music side upward as we used to do with records, I dropped it in the slot and touched the drawer gently. It responded by sliding back into position.

“What’s going on here?” It was Vern, towering over me, a scowl on his face.

“Um,” I said, and suddenly realized how very odd I looked: kneeling on the floor on a pile of discarded sweatshirts, next to the wide-open lunchbox, surrounded by assorted dirty crockery with an empty CD jewel box in my hand.

“I, uh . . . ” Quickly, I thrust the jewel box back in the silver lunchbox and struggled clumsily to my feet. “I was out of coffee cups and plates and I knew you had some in here. It took a while to find them all,” I added and picked up a rumpled T-shirt from the back of the computer chair. “You keep your place pretty messy, you know.”

Vern, ignoring my accusatory tone, swooped down and grabbed the lunchbox. “What were you doing with this?” He slammed it shut.

“Well, I thought it was a real lunchbox—it surely looks like one—and that it might have some trash in it. I mean, things like this.” I fished a crushed potato chip sack from behind the computer monitor. “Anyway, when I saw it had music in it, well, I like show tunes.”

Vern’s stern expression softened slightly.

I felt a strong sense of shame coming over me. “Oh, dear, this is terrible, isn’t it? I’m so sorry. I seriously breached your privacy. I should have waited until you got home, but I needed the plates and things. I shouldn’t have opened the lunchbox—is that what you call it?—and I promise, I won’t do anything like this again.”

Vern continued to hold the box tightly, but he was clearly in a forgiving mood. He shrugged. “Well, no harm done, I guess. And I should have put the cups and stuff back in the kitchen, so maybe it’s partly my fault.” He shoved the offending item back under the computer desk and helped me to my feet. “Just ask me next time, okay?” He retrieved several cups off the floor.

“Okay,” I echoed meekly, beating a hasty retreat to the kitchen with my arms full of crockery.

I had finished putting the cups in the dishwasher and was scrubbing some stubborn dried cereal off of a bowl when Vern burst out of his room and approached me with a renewed scowl. “Amelia! What did you do with the CD in here?” He held up the empty
Last Leaf
jewel case.

I dried my hands on a dishtowel. “It’s in your computer. I put it in there to play a particular song. I thought you saw me do it. I guess it didn’t play. I’m not very good with computers, I’m afraid.”

As Vern followed, I walked rapidly into his room, sat down in his computer chair, and pressed what I thought was an appropriate button. “I just wanted to hear this song.”

But instead of playing music, the computer screen suddenly, silently, filled with columns of numbers, steadily moving upwards.

“Amelia, what’d’ you do?” Vern barked and edged me rather peremptorily out of the chair.

I wrung my hands. “Oh, dear, I don’t know. I just pressed Enter. Isn’t that right? But it’s not playing show tunes, is it?”

Vern’s tone was suddenly thoughtful. “No,” he said, “it’s not.” He leaned forward and followed the ever-growing list of numbers with his index finger. “It’s kind of familiar, though. These dashes, three digits, dash, two digits, dash, four digits, over and over.”

“But why numbers? It’s supposed to be a music album, isn’t it?”

He turned toward me in his chair and blinked. “Yes, and it is. I’ve played every one of these CDs to make sure. But why is it acting differently now? Show me what you did.”

I leaned forward and pressed the tiny button. “I just put it in to play like this.” The narrow drawer opened smoothly. “See, there’s the CD.”

Vern leaned forward and lifted the disc out gingerly on the edges with his fingertips and grinned. “Oh, I see. You put it in upside down.” He turned it over and examined the decorated top.