Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries) (22 page)

“She fixed it at Peasemarsh, didn’t she?” Gil asked dryly. “Didn’t you drop your drawers there?”

“Hush,” I said, “His pants were torn then.”

“Right, and of course I didn’t want to let her cut up my only other pair of clean jeans. It was kind of funny, really. We both were a little embarrassed, so I offered to go home and come back in some cutoffs, but she said it was too much trouble. She went and got an old bathrobe of her husband’s—did you notice this is the second time in one day I’ve borrowed a dead man’s clothes?—then she told me to take my pants off and put it on. And she left the room to give me some privacy.”

Gil smirked. “How discreet of her.”

I shushed him again.

Vern adjusted his position on the pillows and continued, “Honest, Gil, she’s a nice person. While I was changing, the doorbell rang. The kitchen door was shut, but it’s a small house and I could hear everything.”

“Derek Standish,” I said.

“Right. And he was drunk. At least he sounded drunk. He talked kind of low, so I didn’t get worried right away, but then he started talking about who killed Marguerite. And that it was her.”

“She,” I said, too quietly to be heard.

Gil leaned forward in his chair. “He said Judith killed Marguerite?”

“Yeah. Stupid, huh? He was drunk. Anyway, I was there in the kitchen in that old bathrobe, trying to decide whether to come out right then or call the police first. I took the robe off and started to pull on my jeans, but then I heard a crash, so I ran out there in my sweatshirt and underpants.”

“Oh, man.” Gil laughed.

Vern grinned slightly. “Yeah. It’s funny to tell now. It was good I went out there, though, because he had his hands around her throat.”

“Oh, no!” I cried.

“I mean, it was like a TV show or something. I didn’t know what to do. Of course, I’m tall, but he was way too big to pull off her, so I grabbed his hands and pulled back his pinkies.” He demonstrated on his own hand.

“Ew!” I felt weak.

“Did that work?” Gil asked.

Vern smiled. “Well, kinda. Besides, I think it startled him to find somebody else there. He looked at me standing there in my underwear, and let go of her. Then he went for me.”

“Oh, Vern,” I gasped.

“I ran around the furniture a little, but he has these long arms and he grabbed hold of the back of my sweatshirt. I thought I was dead. And then, boom!”

“She shot him?” Gil asked.

Vern nodded. “I’d forgotten all about her, but she must’ve pulled the gun out from somewhere. Well, Derek fell, and I fell, and when I got up, he didn’t. There was blood all over us. She was standing there with that gun in her hand, staring at me, and for a second, I thought she was going to shoot me too.”

“Poor Vern,” I said.

“Then she fell too. Keeled right over and dropped the gun.”

“Fainted,” I said.

“That’s what I thought at first, but I wasn’t sure. So I called 911, and then I called you.” He yawned again.

“That’s enough for now.” I slid off the bed. “Vern, we’re going to let you get some sleep.”

Vern reached for my hand. “Wait. There’s something else. The whole time Derek was choking her, he kept shouting something. It wouldn’t have meant anything to me, except that you mentioned it yesterday.”

Gil shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

“I think I know.” I stared at Vern. “‘UDJ.”

“Yup,” he said, his eyes drooping, “that’s it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Okay,” said Gil as we descended the staircase, “what’s with this UPS stuff?”

“UDJ.”

“Whatever.”

“Let me reheat some of that chicken soup and I’ll tell you all about it. I’m hungry, aren’t you?”

“I will be,” he said, pulling out his cell phone, “as soon as I call the paper.”

We finished off the rest of the soup and half of another can. While we ate, I told him about the carjacking, identifying Derek as the intruder.

“Obviously, the letters meant something to Derek.”

Gil’s reaction mirrored his nephew’s. “And you didn’t see fit to tell all this to the police?”

“Don’t wave that spoon at me, Gil Dickensen. I just didn’t think that Derek would—”

“You got that right. You didn’t think. Doesn’t it occur to you that if you’d turned him in right away, he might not be in the hospital now?”

“So now you’re psychic? Don’t make me feel any worse than I do already, please.”

He reached across the table, pulled a fresh stack of saltines from the box and tore it open. “Okay, I’ll concede you couldn’t know he’d go for Mrs. Dee or that she’d have a gun. Where’d he get the idea she’d killed Marguerite, anyway?”

“I can’t imagine. This morning I did overhear some kids saying Derek had threatened to get whoever killed Marguerite.”

“And Miss Prentice, in her infinite wisdom, still saw no reason to go to the authorities.”

“I’ve tried to call Dennis twice,” I protested.

I tasted another spoonful of my soup. It was getting cold fast.

Gil popped an entire saltine in his mouth and chewed. Then he picked up his soup bowl and drained it. I now knew where Vern had learned his manners.

“Ahh,” he said, “just like Mother used to buy.”

I put down my spoon and moved my bowl aside. It was time to clear the air.

“Gil, what’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“The other day, you said I’d thrown a spell over Vern. I’m beginning to think Vern has thrown a spell over you.”

He wiped his mouth with his napkin, crumpled it, and dropped it into his empty bowl. “Meaning?” His gaze was direct and disconcerting.

The acrobat inside me was getting restless. “Meaning . . . ” I cleared the table, putting the dishes in the sink. It gave me time to frame my words carefully. “Have you or have you not maxed out your charge account at Bailey’s Menswear?”

“What if I have?” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “I needed a little spiffing up.” He adjusted the collar of his new and very handsome sport shirt.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” I swept cracker crumbs off the table and into my palm, willing my hands not to shake. “Next question: Have you really put a down payment on a certain cottage by the lake?” I dumped the crumbs in my empty soup bowl.

“I’m considering it. I’ve been throwing away my money on rent for years. It’ll be a better investment. Besides, it has a yard for Vern to play in.” There was a familiar twitching at the corners of his mouth.

I took a deep breath. “Right. And now for question number three: What were you doing at Statler’s Jewelry store?”

He stood abruptly. “That Vern! I’m going to finish what the Standish kid started—”

He stood and whirled dramatically, giving me just enough time to reach him before he headed for the stairs. I couldn’t help it. I was laughing as I tugged on his shirt.

“Gil, cut it out! Sit back down here. We need to talk.”

He obeyed.

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but Vern seems to think it involves me. Does it involve me?”

He folded his arms again. “Maybe.”

“All right, then. In that case, I think we need to understand each other.”

“God knows I’ve tried,” Gil said, smiling.

“You see, that’s just what I mean, speaking of God. You were at my church this morning.”

“You want me to apologize, or what?”

“It’s just that, knowing how you feel about religion—”

“And now you’re psychic? How could you possibly know the state of my soul? Didn’t it occur to you that I might want to learn more? Aren’t you supposed to welcome me with a fatted calf or something instead of sneering?”

“I wasn’t sneering. It’s just that you were so abrupt.” I had a flash of insight. “That’s it! That’s what it is about you that drives me crazy. You keep doing things so abruptly, without thinking.”

Gil looked injured. “I like to call it spontaneous. Besides, how do you know I don’t put a lot of thought into what I do? Kinder people might call me decisive.”

“Decisive, spontaneous, whatever, you just never give a person any warning, any hint about what you’ve got in mind. You just decide. Years ago you up and decided we were getting married. Boom, without warning. You caught me off guard.”

“So you told me at the time,” he mumbled.

“And here you show up at my house out of nowhere on Friday and turn into Romeo, wanting to neck at any given opportunity—”

“You didn’t seem to mind. Not at first, anyway.”

“That’s just it, Gil. I didn’t—don’t mind.” I laughed shakily. “If you just weren’t so cotton-pickin’ abrupt.”

Gil had been sitting forward, his elbows on the table. He looked at me a long time, sighed
,
and said, “I see.”

I shook myself free of his gaze and looked down at the paper napkin I had been holding. It was in shreds.

“Well, anyway, that’s how I feel.”

I just couldn’t look at him any more. The chair legs scraped loudly against the floor as I got up. I walked to the kitchen sink and stood there, staring at my reflection in the window above Mother’s collection of humorous salt shakers. My face looked like it had been drawn in chalk on a blackboard.

Gil’s face appeared behind me. “It’s true. I am impulsive. I do go on instinct, and it’s served me well in the past, but this time, I want to do things properly.”

Gently, he turned me around, took my hand, and led me to the front parlor. “It seems more, well, proper in here, somehow.” He sat beside me on Mother’s antique loveseat, my hand in his. “You’re right. I have made some big decisions in the last few days. But you’re wrong about one thing: I did put in a lot of thought into it.”

I opened my mouth to speak, then shut it.

“I’ve been living alone for a long time, and it’s not—good.”

“‘It is not good that man should be alone,’ ” I quoted.

“What?”

“Nothing. Sorry I interrupted.”

“Amelia, I want you to have the time you needed all those years ago—to decide.”

“And what you want me to think about is . . . ”

“Whether you will marry me.” He compressed his lips nervously.

I looked into his eyes, which didn’t avoid mine. I couldn’t detect a trace of the old mockery in his expression. What I saw was anxiety and, I thought, sadness.

“And you are asking me this because . . . ” I prompted shamelessly.

“Because I love you,” he said as gravely as a diagnosis of terminal disease.

I put my arms around his neck and kissed him. It was a good kiss and I was rather proud of it, considering the limited opportunities I’d had to practice.

“No,” I said softly.

There was a moment of shocked silence as he gathered himself. His eyes widened and he shrugged, but he didn’t let me go.

“Okay.” He bent down and kissed me back. “Live in sin, then?” he said, whispering against my lips.

I leaned back and traced a finger around his mouth. “How about this: We take our time. We date. We court. We keep company. We get to know each other all over again. And then, maybe.” I held up a stern finger. “The marriage thing, not the sin thing!”

Gil’s face was a blank. He shrugged.

“Sounds reasonable, I guess.”

We sealed the bargain.

“Now I’m going to have to stop avoiding you all the time,” I told him some minutes later.

“And I you. Why do they call this thing a loveseat, anyway?” Gil grumbled. “You can’t do anything on it.”

I slapped him playfully on the chest. “I mean it. We’ve been antagonistic for so long, it’s going to take some adjustment.”

“Just how long is this adjustment supposed to take?” he asked, holding my hand to his cheek.

I stroked his face. It was a nice one, with lots of pleasant places to kiss. A slight roughness was beginning to form on his chin and cheeks. I ran my fingers across them, enjoying the texture.

“As long as it takes,” I whispered.

“Well, Miss Prentice,” he groaned, lifting himself from the seat and pulling me to my feet. “If you really meant what you said about the living in sin thing, I’d better be getting home.”

We found his jacket and I walked him to the door.

“Take care of my nephew.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “He needs you, you know.”

I was surprised. “Me?”

“He still misses his mother. You’re the closest he’s come to having one in a long time. You’ve been good for him.”

“Right. As long as I don’t get him shot or something.”

“And don’t forget—tell O’Brien!” he said, tapping my nose.

“I’m trying,” I said meekly.

“Just do it. Promise?”

I did, and he left.

It was embarrassing how wonderful I felt. Dear, sweet Marguerite LeBow was dead. Judith Dee had been attacked, and poor, mixed-up Derek Standish might not pull through. On top of that, Vern lay upstairs, prostrate from the evening’s trauma. I knew all this, and yet I couldn’t quench the desire to sing.

“Never gonna give you up; never gonna let you down . . . ” I crooned as I washed the dishes, remembering a song Gil and I had danced to long ago.

I heard a rustling noise at the back door. I squinted at the window, but there was nothing but blackness outside. Frantically, I grabbed the first thing that came to hand with which to hit the intruder—a large jar of mayonnaise—then jerked the back door open.

“I’m baaack!” said Lily Burns.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Thanks, but that’s not my brand,” said Lily as she strolled into the kitchen. “I like Miracle Whip myself.” She took the jar from me.

I hugged her. “You’re looking well. Are you?”

“I’m in amazingly good health for a woman my age, to quote an under-aged adolescent who pretended to be a doctor,” she said, opening my refrigerator and replacing the mayonnaise inside. “Where do you keep the ground coffee these days? I’m longing for a cup.”

“I’m out,” I said, handing her a jar of instant and a spoon. “I haven’t had time to go to the store.”

“Just don’t get between me and that microwave,” she said, running water in a mug. “I’m going fix myself a cup, we’re going to sit at that table, and you’re going to tell me everything that’s been going on. And I mean everything.”

So she did and I did.

Telling her lasted through three cups of coffee and two slices of buttered toast, which Lily prepared herself, all the while listening intently. Of course, I left out the part about Gil and me, especially when she flatly refused to discuss her treatment of the Professor.