Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series) (32 page)

As I approached our car where Gil was opening the trunk, I spotted another familiar figure; this time, a live one. “Vern! Hello!” I called, waving at the tall blond young man who was carrying a six-pack of cola and taking long strides away from the store. Without a glance my way, he continued walking and quickly was well out of earshot.

I sighed. “I think he heard me. Apparently, he’s still not speaking to us.”

Gil moved aside a case of bottled water and an emergency snow shovel to make room for the groceries. “And you’re surprised?”

“Well, I thought after everything died down, maybe.”

We lifted the groceries into the trunk.

Gil said, “Honey, you’re underestimating the grudge-carrying power of my side of the family. That kid may never speak to us again.”

“But we did the right thing!”

“I know that, and you know that, but well . . . ” Gil shrugged, slammed the trunk door and grabbed the folded tabloid I was carrying. “Since when have you taken to reading those?” he asked teasingly. He was trying to change the subject and cheer me up.

He read the headlines aloud: “Aliens Endorse Academy Award Winner for President,’ ‘Medium Martinka Yeka Boldly Predicts American Idol Winner.’ ”

With a sad glance in the direction of our disappearing nephew, I said, “Since today. There’s somebody I know in it. Or rather, somebody I once knew.”

“You know that psychic woman? How do I get an exclusive?”

Gil held tabloids in even lower regard than I did. It was a matter of professional pride. He was, after all, editor of our town’s only real newspaper,
The Press-Advertiser,
which was struggling mightily in these hard times.

“What does she predict about us?” Gil slid behind the wheel and turned the ignition key. He grabbed my hand and pulled it to his lips. “Will it last?”

I looked down at my round tummy and smiled, sending up a quick but fervent prayer of thanksgiving, “It better.”

I picked up my copy of
Worldwide Buzz
and turned to page eight. Impatiently, I skimmed the illustrated retrospective of Charlotte Yates’ career from her humble beginnings as a rubber-faced extra in a roller skating movie to her recent best supporting actress Oscar for a Tennessee Williams remake.

There were just the barest facts about Danny diNicco. He’d met Charlotte in the mid-nineties on a movie set where they were both bit players. The marriage lasted a little more than a year and produced no children, but their split was apparently amicable. After the divorce, Danny had become a theatrical entrepreneur, owning and managing a string of dinner theatres and dance clubs across New York, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey. To my frustration, after having imparted these newsy tidbits, the reporter dropped the subject of Danny and moved on to Husband Number Four.

The next mention of Danny was under a small photo at the bottom of the page. The picture was in black-and-white, a grainy, angled shot of an ordinary office desk, topped by a pen in a holder, a computer monitor, a keyboard, and a large blotter. This orderly still life was freely spattered with ominous black stains.

I read the caption: “Scene of the Crime: Danny diNicco’s lifeless body was found in this Manhattan office last January, shot twice in the head, execution style. Police are said to have no leads in the case.”

“What’s the matter?” said Gil.

“Huh?” I looked up.

“You made a funny noise.”

“I did? What kind of noise?”

“I don’t know. A kind of a groan; sort of high-pitched. A feminine kind of a groan. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you.”

“Why not?”

“It’s about an old crush of mine. Are you the jealous type?”

Gil smiled his irresistible smile. “What do you think?”

So I told him. It had all been a long time ago, but once I got into telling about it, Gil remembered. He’d been there . . .