Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series) (21 page)

“Now, Miss Prentice, let’s not get into a battle over semantics. A complaint has been issued against your behavior, and, despite your past excellent record, I must give it due consideration. You can see that, can’t you?”

“I think so, but—”

“Do you deny that you went to the store?”

“No, I don’t deny it, but it wasn’t my intention to—”

“Do you deny that you were involved in an altercation with Mrs. Shea?”

“Oh, come now, are you actually going to assert the ‘he started it’ defense?”

It was a joke among teachers, the universal excuse, “Yes, I gave him a black eye, but he started it.”

“Mrs. Shea has furthermore asserted that you have been giving her daughter failing marks because of a prejudice against her.”

“Now look here! You of all people know that’s not true. Serendipity’s academic performance has been totally abysmal! My grade book here is proof.” I held it up.

“Perhaps, but it is
your
grade book, isn’t it, Miss Prentice? You are free to put anything you choose in it.”

“There are her returned papers,” I began. “I encourage the students to save them.” My voice petered out. I knew the answer before I asked the question. “Has she saved them?”

Mr. Berghauser shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It isn’t a requirement, you know.”

“Well, it should be,” I muttered.

“Perhaps, but that’s an issue to be taken up with the board of education at a later date.”

The mention of the almighty board brought me up short. They had the power to discipline me, fire me, arrange so I could never teach again. The utter unfairness of it all caused tears to prick behind my eyes. I frowned fiercely to squeeze them back.

I won’t cry. I won’t cry.

I stood. “If you’ll excuse me.”

The room was closing in on me. I hadn’t eaten recently, and the queasiness was returning.

“Wait.” Berghauser rearranged the pencils on his desk. “There’s another matter.”

My legs gave way and I sat back down.

I suppressed an illogical urge to laugh. What on earth could it be now? Skipping

assembly? Using too much chalk?

“It has been brought to my attention that you received flowers from a male member of the faculty and openly displayed them in your classroom. As a married woman, I don’t need to tell you that this is questionable at best.”

I put my head in my hands and murmured, “Dangling participle.”

He leaned forward. “What did you say?”

A hysterical giggle would not be stifled. “You used a dangling participle. You’re—you’re not a married woman, I am.” I snorted.

“Miss Prentice! I mean, Mrs. Dickensen! This is a matter of ethics! You don’t seem to be regarding this with the gravity it deserves.”

I pulled a tissue from my pocket and dabbed at my eyes. “Believe me, sir, I am.”

“Did you or did you not receive flowers from Blakely Knight?”

“I did, but it was just one flower, not flowers, plural. And I assure you, sir, that I am very happily married!”

He dismissed this with a wave. “Nonetheless, you displayed it in your classroom, giving rise to a most unfortunate conclusion on the part of your students.”

“What students are those? Mr. Berghauser, that flower, one flower, singular, was given to me by Mr. Knight on a whim. If anybody else, Mrs. Dee, for instance, had been in the copy room, he might have given it to her. Ask Blakely, um, Mr. Knight, about it.”

Berghauser squirmed uneasily. He cleared this throat. “I did, but he refused to be forthcoming about it. He used some most unseemly language.”

I could imagine.

Berghauser added, “And he didn’t give it to Mrs. Dee, he gave it to you.”

“So why isn’t Blakely in trouble?” I asked sharply.

Berghauser folded his hands on his desk with smug assurance. “He’s not married. You are.”

Of course, that explains it.
Another thought occurred to me. “Who told you about the flower?”

He coughed. “That’s irrelevant. You admit that you were given the flowers, uh, flower, and that settles the matter. That, combined with the matter we have already discussed, puts you in quite a precarious position career-wise.”

I closed my eyes. I was sinking, drowning again in the deep, inky waters of Lake Champlain, and there was no one there to rescue me, no Lily, no professor, nothing. I’d have to swim, or try to.

“Mr. Berghauser, what do you propose to do?” I asked in a low voice.

He leaned forward. “In light of your long and commendable past record, I rather thought I’d leave it up to you. Of course, your behavior with regard to Mr. Knight is to be henceforth above reproach.” He actually shook a finger at me. “If the slightest hint of more impropriety gets back to this office, there will be Steps Taken, I assure you!”

I sat, stone-like and staring, while a volcano raged in my stomach, threatening to erupt.

His tone became silky, reasonable. “As to the situation with the Shea family, well, you have a choice. You can issue a written apology to the Sheas; a copy will remain in your permanent record, of course. Or you can be stiff necked and make a fuss that will result in a good deal of difficulty for both the school and yourself.”

He examined his coat sleeve for lint. “I would appreciate your answer now, please.”

I stood. “I . . . I don’t . . . that is, I—”

I was fighting the strongest nausea I’d yet experienced. I gagged and clapped a hand over my mouth.

“I can’t just—” My words were muffled.

Berghauser looked alarmed. “Miss Prentice, are you ill?” He also rose to his feet.

The big desk stood between us, and Berghauser had reason to be grateful for that fact, because just then, I threw up all over it.

~~~

“Oh, I’m glad I’m alive to see this day,” Olive Chapel declared in a fervent singsong whisper as she handed me another damp paper towel. “Here, honey.” She’d responded to the principal’s desperate summons and had helped me to the ladies’ room. “You took that man down a notch, you did, and more power to you!”

I used the towel to wipe my hands. I was seated on a folding chair with my head down, in accordance with accepted first aid practice. I continued to maintain my compliant position as she placed the towel on the back of my neck, but I had to ask.

“What are you talking about?”

She squatted and lifted my chin gently with her index finger. As she gently bathed my face, she said, “Don’t get me wrong, Amelia. Berghauser’s a pretty good man deep down, but lately he’s sort of turned into somebody else, like. Maybe he sees retirement at the end of the tunnel, I don’t know, but it’s getting harder to see the good guy and easier to see the donkey’s tail, if you see what I mean.”

I did. When I’d lost my lunch on his desk, he’d stared at me, wide-eyed, and said, “Really, Miss Prentice!” as he pressed the intercom.

“He did seem to act as though I’d done it on purpose,” I agreed. “I didn’t, you know.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Olive eyed my face speculatively. “But are you going to be all right? You need me to call the nurse?”

“No, thanks,” I said hastily. Nurse Dee’s motherly ministrations would only make me feel worse. “Just a little queasiness and stress. It’s nothing, nothing at all.”

Olive smiled. “Oh, I get it. You haven’t told Gil Dickensen.”

“Told what?”

She smiled benevolently. “About the bun in the oven. Don’t worry, sweetie. Nobody will hear it from me, but you better get a move on because it’s gonna be common knowledge around here by the end of the week.”

I was shocked. “But who would know?”

Olive shrugged. “Hard to say, but people talk. Chances are Berghauser’ll hear of it before tomorrow and, whatever you do, don’t let him off the hook. You got him on the run, girlfriend. Ten to one, he’ll think you could sue him for something. Harassment, maybe. Keep it that way, that’s my advice.”

She looked at her watch. “Uh, oh, the bell’s about to ring. I gotta go back and make sure the janitor’s cleaning up the place.” She went to the door, looked back and pointed at me. “Remember what I said.”

Olive’s prediction about repercussions proved true because very little was said the next day about the incident in the principal’s office. I never received the expected memo or summons in the morning, and Mr. Berghauser even smiled hesitantly at me in the lunchroom line.

“Feeling better?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you. I’m very sorry for—”

“No need.” He waved away my apology and scurried off, carrying his tray.

“If I knew that was all it took, I might’ve tried it sooner,” I murmured to myself as I accepted a bowl of vegetable soup from Mrs. Breen.

“Good choice,” someone said in my ear.

I turned and beheld Alec, holding a tray. “The chicken casserole is a disgrace—I can tell ye that first hand—but I’m told the soup is nice.”

He deposited his used crockery on the appropriate surface and chivalrously took over my load. “Come join us. Vern and I are having a meeting.”

“Here in the school dining hall?”

Approaching the table, I smiled hesitantly at Vern, who responded with a sullen frown while chewing a mouthful of food. He’d been avoiding and ignoring me ever since the Night of the Lunchbox.

I was of two minds on the subject. On one hand, I had turned him in, so to speak, when he asked me to wait; however, if we hadn’t gone to the police, he might have found himself in far deeper trouble later on. Either way, Vern’s attitude, while somewhat understandable, was hurtful to me.

“The food’s cheap, and I wanted to catch up with you, so I asked Vern to meet me.” Alec resumed his chair and opened the top of a large spring-bound legal pad. “The thing is, Amelia, Etienne’s roped us into designing and building the Chez Prentice entry in the snow sculpture contest.”

“I wondered how he was going to manage that.”

“The deadline for submitting our plan is this afternoon at five. We’ve gone through dozens of different ideas, but nothing seemed right, but just now, we had a flash of genius. By the way, we’ve called Etienne, and he’s definitely enamored of the idea. Marie thinks we’re a bit daft, but she’ll cooperate.” He paused and announced, “We’re going to build a miniature Chez Prentice!”

“She won’t like it,” Vern commented, and crammed half a slice of bread into his mouth.

“Nonsense, lad. You see, Amelia,” Alec explained, “Chez Prentice is built along square, straight lines. It would be relatively easy to build in snow. And the details will make it charming, unique, the clapboards, the chimney bricks, everything. It’ll be one-eighth scale or thereabouts. Don’t you think it’s a splendid idea?”

He turned to Vern. “One thing, though, have you lined up a crew yet?”

“But—” I sputtered.

Vern ignored me. “Sure have. I called those students of yours you mentioned, and they’re on board. Melody’s willing to help out whenever she has time. It’s a done deal. They’re setting up the tarps in the front yard as we speak.”

I jumped into the conversation. “You two certainly have moved fast on this.”

“We had to, because of the deadline. Check out Alec’s sketch.” Vern slid an artist’s pad across the table in an almost civil manner.

Sure enough, the sketch was of Chez Prentice, albeit cartoonish. In fact, it seemed to almost put an actual face on the house. Half-drawn shades in the upstairs windows resembled drooping eyelids; the central upstairs gable became a nose of sorts and the front door, a mouth. I smiled in spite of myself.

“Well, it is rather charming. Friendly.”

“It’ll be a fine image for Chez Prentice. And free advertising,” Alec said.

Vern took a look at his watch. “Uh, oh, Gotta run.” He gathered up his papers in one sweeping motion, stuffed them into his backpack, and was gone.

I closed my eyes, mentally blessed my food, and took a deep breath. When I opened them, Alec was gazing at me over his cup of coffee with a glint in his eye.

I picked up my spoon. “What?”

He leaned forward across the table. “Give me your hand, Amelia.”

Puzzled, I extended my right hand.

Alec took it in both of his, and when I drew it back, it contained a red metallic rectangle, smaller than a powder compact.

I opened it. “My telephone? My goodness, it’s tiny.”

“It’s one of the simpler ones to operate. I’ve charged it up and programmed it with my number. Ye’ll know it’s me by the special ring.” He answered my doubting expression, “Don’t worry, Amelia, you’ll learn to love it.”

I doubted that, but said, “Thanks, Alec.”

“But that’s not all,” he whispered gruffly, “I have information.”

Surely no agent of the CIA was more eager. He glanced over his shoulder. He was enjoying himself—Alec the Spy.

“Yes?” I sipped my soup. It was good, as he had predicted.

“Well, I had breakfast at McDonald’s this morning and heard some interesting gossip from a fellow who does janitor work for Gray’s Funeral Home. That woman at Chez Prentice? The guest?”

“You mean Mrs. Daye?”

“The very same. It seems she’s been shopping.”

“Shopping?”

“Well, browsing, actually. For coffins. And funeral plans.”

I shrugged. “That’s not all that suspicious, Alec. Lots of people do that.”

“Yes, but she’s not from here. And is it for herself or someone else?”

“That’s not very juicy gossip. Nor does it implicate her in the murder. Why would the murderer plan the victim’s funeral?” A thought swam into my head. “Unless, perhaps, she’s somehow related to the victim. Have they determined his identity yet?”

Alec shrugged and shook his head.

“Could a little woman like that overpower a grown man, and what’s more, kill him, in such close quarters?”

“You’re right, of course.” Alec sighed and applied a pat of butter to his roll. “I just thought it was interesting. You need to keep an eye on her, though, that’s my advice.” He took a hearty bite of bread.

We ate in thoughtful silence for a little while.

Alec looked over his shoulder and said in a low voice, “That’s valuable information in that lunchbox. There’s a lot of money to be made in false identities, green cards, and suchlike.”