Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series) (24 page)

Marcel shifted in his seat, and perhaps I only imagined that he emitted a low growl.

Fleur stroked her daughter’s arm lightly. “Tell what happened then.”

“Not a lot, really. He left out one morning and just didn’t come home that night, and I waited for him to show all the next day—it was my day off. But he never came. He didn’t answer his cell phone, neither.”

“The bum wouldn’t let her have one,” Marcel muttered.

“We couldn’t afford it, Dad, that’s why.” Yvonne turned back to me. “Well, anyhow, I asked off the next day at the restaurant, in case he would call home, but he didn’t and they wouldn’t give me the next day off, and told me I was fired if I didn’t come in. I didn’t know what to do, because the rent was coming due, and Matt always paid that, and I didn’t have anywhere near enough to pay it, and I figured he’d be mad if we lost the apartment, so I got kind of scared.

“I didn’t think Dad wanted to hear from me, at least that’s what Matt’d told me—they’d had kind of an argument—so I couldn’t call home.”

I glanced at Marcel again. His eyes were filled with tears.

“But I remembered that Melody Branch was a nice person in school, and she was in the Gamma sorority at the college, so I called over there, and they give me her number, and, well, she came.”

I heard a soft sob coming from Marcel. He’d pulled out a large handkerchief and was blowing his nose vigorously.

“Mom and Dad showed up at the Gamma house the next day, Miss Prentice, and they were really nice about everything. I mean, they asked me to come home and stuff.” She directed a shy smile at her mother.

Fleur reached over and patted my hand. “That was your doing, Amelia.”

Marcel had recovered enough to mop his face and say, “Tell ’er what you’re going to be doing from now on, Yvonne.”

The girl looked shyly over at me. “I’m going to college next semester. I’m going to major in education; become a teacher.” She pressed her lips together and looked away.

“She’s so good with little children, Amelia,” Fleur added.

The prodigal has truly come home
.
Thank You
, I prayed. Then another thought popped dramatically into my head. “Yvonne, could I ask you a couple of questions?”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

“What exactly did—does Matt do for a living?”

I ignored a derisive snort from Marcel.

“Um, he does computer things, puts programs on discs and stuff. And he’s also kind of a salesman. He had boxes and crates of things coming to the apartment, and then he’d take them different places, and then he’d bring home some money. At first, I thought he was doing ebay, but I changed my mind, because he always got cash. You have to do credit cards on ebay, I think, and stuff.”

I nodded sagely, though I had only a vague idea of how ebay worked. “When he left, did he take the computer with him?”

“No; I know because I thought about pawning it for the rent but was kind of scared to. I mean, if he came back, and it was gone, well—” Her face held such alarm, I regretted asking the question.

“I’m sorry. This is bringing back painful memories.”

Yvonne rose from the sofa, picked up the box of candy and headed back to the candy machine. “Not really, Miss Prentice. I’m real glad to be home. Of course, it wasn’t all bad. I mean, I felt kind of responsible for Matt after what we’d meant to each other. I mean, I worried that he didn’t always eat right, y’know? That last day when he left in the morning, I wanted to make him a sandwich to take with, but he laughed and said no, he was on his way to pick up a lunchbox.”

~~~

I blurted out my information as soon as he came on the line, “Dennis, I think I know the identity of the dead man on the lake.”

“You do?” Police Sergeant Dennis O’Brien sounded amused. “Where did you get this information?”

I explained about the disappearance of Matt Ramsey and of Yvonne’s involvement with him. “I don’t think she had any idea what he was doing.”

“Maybe you’re right, but I think it’s irrelevant now. His name isn’t Matthew Ramsey,” Dennis said. “We already know who he is, or rather, was. His real identity, that is.”

“But how?”

“Amelia, what do you think? We just sit around eating doughnuts all day? We’re in contact with law enforcement all over the country, all over the world, for that matter. How would you think we’d find out?”

“Fingerprints,” I said, “of course.” Another idea popped into my head. “And his computer?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny it,” Dennis said, chuckling. “Did I use the correct grammar that time?”

“Yes, you did. So he was a criminal?”

“I can neither confirm nor—”

“All right, I can take a hint. But may I ask just one more question?”

In my mind’s eye, I could see Dennis smiling. “You may ask, but I may not answer. You’re married to a newsman now, remember?”

“You may know who he was, but who killed him?”

“That, Amelia, is a good question.”

We left it at that. After I hung up, I realized that I had another question: Who, then, was the real Matt Ramsey, and where was he?

The morning of the sixth annual ice festival, the weather cooperated by dawning clear, sunny, and bitter cold. Gil and I rode into town together, bundled up to our eyebrows in layer upon insulated layer. Even so, for several miles our breaths came out in clouds until the car’s heater was able to raise the interior temperature above freezing.

Over the past few weeks we had watched while all around town preparations for the big day had gradually taken shape. And now, for better or worse, it all came together in a huge community effort.

“I’m going to drive through town first, just to see the sights, then drop you at Chez Prentice,” Gil informed me. “There’ll be so much going on that this may be our only chance to look at it all.

“Well, here we are,” he remarked, slowing at the intersection that marks our town’s downtown area.

A huge banner, reaching from lamppost to lamppost, had been draped across the street, offering welcome in both English and French in deference to the many French-Canadian visitors. We followed the street over a bridge and along the river.

“Look out there,” Gil said, nodding in the direction of the broad, white expanse that was Lake Champlain. “The ice fishing contest has already started.”

The ice was dotted with tents similar to the one I’d seen at Shea’s, oddly-shaped lean-tos, even a number of brave, hardy, and well-wrapped souls sitting out in the open on folding chairs, staring at their set-ups. Here and there I spotted the ten shanties that Bert and Etienne had built, looking for all the world like so many portable toilets.

I lowered the car window and squinted a the lake. “It looks like they sold some advertising, after all. Half of them have signs. I can’t make out what they say, though. Wait a second! Gil, there’s an ad for the newspaper on one of them!”

My husband shrugged. “What can I say? Etienne’s a good salesman.”

Speaking of portable toilets, we spotted half a dozen of them in the parking lot behind the public library. “I suppose they’re necessary, but yuck. I hate to use those things!”

Gil leaned toward me and spoke out of the corner of his mouth, “This is highly secret and confidential, so keep it under your hat, but the restrooms at the Old Episcopal Church are open for the festival workers. I read it in the committee handout we printed.” He handed me a small brochure.

The Old Episcopal Church was a small but impressive gray granite structure located just off the town square, built in a Gothic style, complete with an old-fashioned bell tower. In recent years its congregation had dwindled to a tenacious few, served by a visiting pastor on alternate Sundays. They were a loyal lot, however, and managed to keep things going. Recently they had received a charitable grant from a historical foundation, and many badly needed improvements were being made. I filed the information for later use.

“Good to know.”

Next we passed the high school football practice field, covered with a thick white blanket of snow. “Snow Bowl. Admission two dollars. Kickoff at 4 p.m.,” Gil read on a large crudely lettered sign fastened to a light pole.

“Some of the boys from the high school organized it at the last minute,” I told him. “They’re going to play two quarters of touch football hip-deep in snow and give the proceeds to the food bank.”

Gil chuckled. “Sounds like fun.” He put on his blinker. “Let’s take a look at the snow sculptures. I want to get a look at what they’ve been hiding behind those tarps all week.”

We turned at the corner and drove along College Road. Gracing the front yard of each fraternity and sorority house was an entry in the sculpture contest. The variety was breathtaking. A full-color effigy of SpongeBob SquarePants frolicked next to an unpainted miniature Mount Rushmore. We saw our esteemed district attorney, Elm DeWitt, and three other members of the legal profession closely examining a handsome replica of the capitol building in Albany, complete with gilded dome.

“What’re they doing?”

“Didn’t you read the program? They’re the judges for the snow sculpture contest.”

The elementary school playground was on the left. “Look, they have things for the little children to do,” I said. “There’ll be a blanket toss and junior karaoke, and they’ll get to meet all the high school mascots. Over there, they’re setting up for the pancake fling. Mrs. Breen told me that the cafeteria ladies were going to stay late last night to make up hundreds of pancakes and put them in the school’s big freezer. Here they come,” I added, as recognized that estimable lady pushing a wheelbarrow laden high with foil-wrapped pans.

The bleachers along the college running track had been swept clear of snow, but the track itself was unplowed, with small flags indicating the route. Gil pointed to another banner.

Junior Snowshoe Races, 10 a.m. Sponsored by Shea’s Quality Sporting Goods. Snowshoes provided.

“The paper interviewed Kevin Shea about this race,” Gil said. “It’s mainly for the elementary school kids. He said he wants to highlight the less well-known winter sports.”

“And get his name in front of the voting public.”

“Why you cynical minx, you!” Gil said with a twinkle. “Look, I’m going to be busy at the paper all morning. The big parade begins at noon. Why don’t you come by the paper a little bit before then and we’ll go up on the roof? It’ll be the best place to watch it.”

He pulled up to the curb in front of Chez Prentice, we exchanged a quick kiss, and I emerged from the car to encounter Alec, quivering with excitement.

“Alec, it’s wonderful!” I exclaimed, getting my first look at Chez Prentice, Jr.

It was an accurate, three-dimensional version of Alec’s sketch, fully colored and exuding whimsical charm with many humorous details, even including the porch swing with a kissing couple. I stepped off the walk to get a closer look, but Alec pulled me back. “Thanks, but ’tis no matter. You can look at that later.” He all but shoved me up the walk and onto the porch. “I thought ye’d never get here,” he said in a rough whisper. “Listen, they’ve parked around back. Most of them are there, I think.”

“Who are?”

“Our suspects! They’re in the parlor, all of them! I extended an invitation to a pre-festival coffee at the inn, and they all came! You’ve got a wonderful staff, Amelia, they flew into action, directly I called ’em at the crack of dawn this morning!”

“Suspects? Alec, what do you think you’re doing?”

He was trembling with glee. “It’s brilliant! We can investigate up close! Perhaps even get a breakthrough! Just like Hercule Poirot!”

“And you didn’t see fit to tell me about this on the phone last night? Alec, this could be dangerous!”

Alec held up one finger. “Firrst, it only came to me in the wee hours, too late to call ye back.” He held up a second finger. “And secondly; no, it’s not dangerous. I invited the police in the person of Dennis O’Brien, and he’s inside already, stuffing himself full of dainties!”

It was a
fait accompli
. I sighed. “All right, I’ll join the party, but be careful, Alec.”

I could hear cheerful conversation and laughter coming from the parlor as we entered. The tall pocket doors that divided the parlor from the entryway had been pulled half closed, and a small metal stand at the entrance held a card announcing, “Private Party,” lest B&B guests be tempted to join the group. The red tapestry Victorian settee near the door held a large mound of coats.

“Alec, just how many did you invite?”

“Look out, I’ve got hot coffee!” Scarcely giving us a nod, Hester Swanson bustled past, carrying one of our heirloom sterling silver coffeepots swathed in a clean dish towel. She shouldered her way into the room, bawling warning all the way.

We laid our coats on the pile and joined the group inside.

“Hello, Amelia!” Dennis O’Brien was the first to greet me. “Long time no see! You did a great job on that thing out front.” He waved his hand, and his coffee cup in the other hand rattled slightly.

“That was Vern and Alec’s work. It is amazing, isn’t it?” I added in a low voice, “Dennis, I need to speak to you about something.” I thought I’d better warn him about what Alec had in mind.

“Sure, but don’t forget, this is my day off. I had to really wangle to get it. Excuse me, but I need to top off this coffee.” He edged toward the refreshment table. “Be right back.”

I paused to survey the others in the room.

Mrs. Daye was chatting companionably with Fleur LaBombard and Judith Dee. Yvonne was with her father, looking out the front window, apparently admiring the snow sculpture.

Mayoral candidate Kevin Shea was the only member of the party not attempting to, in the words of Hardy Patchke, make nice. He stood glowering in front of the parlor fireplace, scowling into the merrily dancing flames.

Chuck Nathan was sitting grasshopper-like on a chair that was far too low for him. He set his coffee cup on a nearby table, unfolded himself to a standing position and approached Alec. “It’s real nice of you to invite me to this shindig, Professor, no problem, but I got to get going. We’re finishing up our float for the parade.”