Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries) (7 page)

Gil was leaning, arms folded over his chest, in the doorframe, watching.

“Give me a hand here, would you, Gil?” she trilled.

“I’ll help you, Sally,” I said.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw what appeared to be a large gray fur pillow dead-center on my tapestry bedspread. Sam’s eyes narrowed and challenged me to make something of it. I decided not to air dirty family linen. It was my own fault, anyway. If only I hadn’t relaxed the rules last night.

“Why, Amelia!”

Sally seemed astonished to see me. What did she expect? It was my house. She retracted the flat metal tape with the press of a button and leapt lightly from the chair, then stepped into a waiting pair of three-inch alligator heels. Almost as a reflex, I looked down at my prim black flats. Next to Sally, I was a dweeb, I thought, quoting Hardy Patschke to myself.

“Oh, poor Miss Prentice. What a time you’ve had.” She embraced me. She was wearing a cashmere sweater and smelled wonderful. The top of my head came just to her chin. She and Gil were exactly the same height if she wore the heels.

And a shrimp. I was a dweeb and a shrimp. Miss Prentice, indeed. We’d graduated from high school together. Sally Dodd had been head cheerleader, girls swim team captain, and queen of the junior prom. I was French Club, chorale, and attended the prom with my cousin Bob.

In every way that was possible to measure, Sally was one of life’s winners: popular, beautiful, successful, rich, and married to Barry Jennings, the most sighed-over boy in the Class of ’82. She’d done it all herself, too, starting from scratch, as it were, with no help from her widowed father. I had to hand it to her.

She held me at arm’s length and surveyed my face with its bandage and the remnants of Meaghan’s Li’l Lady makeover. “My, you do look all done in. We mustn’t wear you out.”

I smiled bravely. “Not at all, Sally. I’m just a little surprised to see you. Why don’t we adjourn to the parlor?” Ever so calmly, I led them downstairs.

“Now, Miss Prentice—Amelia—you mustn’t blame Gil,” said Sally. “It’s all my doing. I explained to him how we’ve talked about your selling this place.”

“You talked about it, Sally, not I.” It was a running thing with us, practically the only foundation for our continued association.

I escorted them into the front parlor and turned on the ginger jar lamp that had always sat on Grandmother Lloyd’s cherry wood drum table.

“Yes, but you did promise to think about it, now didn’t you?”

It was true. I had—once—but only to get rid of her. “I have thought it over, Sally, and—”

“Wait!” She held up a slim hand.

I couldn’t help staring at her gold bracelet, from which dangled a single large disk, bearing elaborately entwined initials. I had seen one in the Neiman-Marcus catalog last Christmas. A little twelve hundred dollar stocking stuffer. (Engraving extra.)

“Before you say another word, let me tell you: I’ve found a buyer!”

Obviously, that clinched it for Sally. I opened my mouth to answer, but she went on, “A very eager buyer. One who’ll pay handsomely for a house—” She paused and shrugged, shaking her head sympathetically. “You’ve got to admit it, Amelia—a house that’s past its prime and in need of a lot of work.”

She waved her hands, inviting us to survey the wreckage. “For instance,” she added, “I noticed your doorbell’s not working and a front step is loose.”

“Sally, I’m sorry you went to all this trouble,” I said evenly, “but this is my home. I grew up here and I’ll probably—” I stole a glance at Gil, whose face was a blank, “die here. I have no intention of selling. Ever.”

“Now, Miss Pr—Amelia. I know you’re not feeling a hundred percent this evening, so I’ll give you just a little more time to think it over, okay? I’ll be getting back to you later next week.”

She walked to the foyer where her camel coat was draped over the mahogany banister. “Uh, oh,” she said, donning the coat. “This wobbles a bit. Better have it fixed. Goodbye, dear, take care.”

She embraced me. When had we become such friends?

She paused at the front door, pulling on her kidskin gloves. She handed me a business card. “Here. Call me the minute you change your mind.”

I read the card: “Ursula ‘Sally’ Jennings, Vice President, Jennings Real Estate.” Barry, of course, was president of the firm, but it was common knowledge that she was its life and soul. A line at the bottom announced that she was a Gold Star Member of the Million Seller’s Club, supposedly an intoxicating inducement to potential clients. Once again, Sally had come in number one.

“You already gave me one of these.”

“Keep it for extra.” She looked around again. “You could retire on what you’d make from this place, Amelia. Better be thinking about that, too, you know. Coming, Gil?”

Gil, who had remained mute during this entire exchange, awoke with a start from his sleepwalking. “Huh?”

“I’m sure Miss Prentice is tired. We should let her rest. Come on, I’ll let you walk me to my car.” She took his arm.

“Um, well . . . ” Gil said.

“You can’t leave just yet, Gil,” I said. “We haven’t finished with our . . . business.”

Sally flipped a blonde strand out of her face and arched a doubtful eyebrow.

“Gil was helping me with my . . . newspaper . . . subscription,” I improvised. “That is, I’m thinking of taking out a newspaper subscription for each of my students. We’re studying journalism, you know.”

“And she was trying to get me to give her a big volume discount,” said Gil, shaking his finger at me as he shamelessly took up the lie. “Our Miss Prentice is a real horse trader, I’ll tell you!”

Sally shrugged. “Whatever. Well, I’ll see you later. Think about what I said.”

As Sally’s sleek foreign sports car pulled away from the curb, Gil said, “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Casually, I pushed on the banister, which was solid as a rock. “That’s our Miss Prentice, horse trader!” I waited for a playful reply from Gil, but got none.

He strolled, hands in pockets, back into the parlor, where he stared into the empty fireplace.

“By the way, that was Lily on the phone,” I said. Casual, that was me. “We’re going shopping at Peasemarsh tomorrow.”
Nice going, Amelia. Why on earth would he care?

I continued babbling. “I thought the doorbell was Marie LeBow. She was supposed to come here to give me something. I wish she wouldn’t. It’s from Marguerite and I feel—well, funny, you know? Gil?”

Gil shook his head slightly and blinked several times. “I’m sorry—what were you saying?”

“Marie, Marie LeBow. She was supposed to come here tonight.”

“Why here? Couldn’t you just go to her place?”

“I offered to, but she insisted on coming over. Lily just told me Marie couldn’t come, but still wanted to give me something.”

Gil’s interest was piqued. “Odd.”

“I wish I knew what she wants me to have that’s so important.”

“Why don’t you just call and ask?”

“I was going to, but I was busy protecting my home from a hostile takeover. I’ll do it now. Excuse me.” I went to the kitchen, but was back in a minute.

“What is it?” asked Gil when he saw my expression.

I mopped my eyes with a tissue. “She had—I mean, Marie—the answering machine—the recording? It was Marguerite’s voice. She was trying so hard to sound sophisticated. Oh, Gil, it’s heartbreaking!”

“Did you leave a message?”

“Yes, but could we, I mean, would you mind?” I tilted my head in the direction of the front door.

“You mean go over to Marie’s? Right now?”

“Gil, I’m worried about her. Marie is the hardest working, most reliable person I know.”

Gil stroked his ear thoughtfully. “Well, you’re right there. She delivered papers for us a few years ago. Did you know that? She had to be at the college dining hall to fix breakfast by 6, so she picked up the papers at 3:30. Never missed a morning.”

My eyes were tearing up again. “That’s Marie, all right.”

Gil grabbed his coat. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Just a minute.” I ran upstairs to the bathroom. It took two vigorous applications of a soapy washcloth to scrub off the residue of Li’l Lady. When I had finished, my skin felt tight and sore. I looked in the mirror. I was back to my old look now, shiny-faced, wholesome, and a little dowdy. I combed the damp bangs down over my bandage, applied some lipstick and spritzed cologne on my blouse.

That was better, though without all the war paint, I did look bland. I shrugged. That’s me: a shrimpy, bland dweeb. Take me or leave me.

I looked down the stairs at Gil. He was jingling change in his pocket while he looked at his watch. He had done the very same thing in that very same spot more than twenty years before. We meant something to each other then, but the bitterness that eventually sprang up between us made our current
detente
something of a miracle.

So what was different about him now? Nothing, really.

Sure, we were united in concern for Marie and he’d been kindly comforting to me, but it was only a kiss and what was a kiss, anyway? Not much, in this day and age. I wasn’t a young girl in the throes of infatuation any more, I reminded myself.

Just then, Gil looked up at me and smiled. “Ready?”

Blip. Something turned over in my chest.

Don’t be too sure, Amelia
.

“Ready.”

CHAPTER FIVE

It was almost dark when we arrived. In the modest neighborhood of neat, well-kept cottages where Marie lived, hers was the neatest and best kept.

“You said she didn’t answer the phone?” Gil asked. “Her car’s there.”

“But look—no lights on in the house,” I countered. “Not in front, anyway.”

We made our way in the dark by the dim light of a street lamp and the glow from nearby houses.

“Look,” I said as we walked up the sidewalk. I picked up a rake lying half-buried in a pile of leaves near her front porch. “She’d never leave something out like this. Now I’m really worried.” I headed around the house.

Gil trotted up the front steps and rang the bell. I could hear it from outside, but there was no answering sound of movement in the house. No light in the kitchen window, either, but in the back yard, some clothes were hanging on a circular metal clothesline.

I felt a blouse. It was still damp.

“Gil!” I called. “Come around here. Look at this.”

I heard movement in the bushes of the side yard, walked toward the sound, then froze.

A dark figure rounded the corner, but it wasn’t Gil. It was a much bulkier man, silhouetted in the pale light from next door, walking heavily, cautiously, and carrying a club of some kind.

Had he seen me?

Frantically, I ducked under the clothes on the line, and clung to the center metal pole. The laundry, blouses and socks, bras and dishtowels, formed a pitifully inadequate circular curtain around me, but there was no other place to hide.

The line turned in the breeze, creaking.

I could hear his footsteps in the dead leaves, coming closer, then stopping. A circle of light played over the clothing, then a large hand slowly parted the laundry.

“Gil!” I shrieked, backing out of my shelter.

My left foot slid sideways, out from under me. As my other foot teetered on a lumpy, shifting fabric-covered surface, I realized a sickening
déjà vu.

Am I falling over another body?

I landed heavily.

“Who’s that?” a voice demanded. A bright light played over my face and on the obstacle that had tripped me.

Whimpering, I scuttled away from the thing on all fours, then looked back at it by the stranger’s light.

“B-bulbs,” I murmured, still trembling, “A sack of flower bulbs. Thank heaven!” I looked up and was blinded by a harsh, yellow beam of light.

“Amelia?” It was Gil, running around the house.

“What’s going on?” the large stranger demanded. “What’re you doing here?”

“Please—” I began. My head had begun to hurt again. “I—I mean, we—”

“Look here—” Gil stepped in front of my cringing form and stood protectively in the flashlight’s glare. My hero. “We’re just here to see if Mrs. LeBow’s okay. We’re friends of hers.”

“That’s right,” I said as Gil pulled me to my feet. “We couldn’t reach her, so we got worried.”

The man slowly lowered the flashlight. “You don’t know where she went either?”

“She’s gone? When?” I asked.

“This afternoon. My wife saw ’er go.” He waved the beam in the direction of a light blue bungalow some fifteen feet away. “We live next door, y’know.”

“Bert?” a woman’s voice called. The back porch light came on. “Everything okay?”

“Just fine, Hester. Go on back inside. Be there in a minute.” He turned to us. “Look here. Why don’t you folks come over to the house? Maybe we can figure this thing out.”

Shivering, Gil and I agreed.

“I’m Bert Swanson. Groundskeeper over to the college. My wife works with Marie at the cafeteria.” He held the back porch door open for us.

The Swanson house was a cheerful contrast to Marie’s crisp neatness. Their back porch held a jumble of rakes, brooms, mops, buckets, and several huge jugs of cleaning products. At one end was a small chest-top freezer with a large padlock. Piled on top were a fifty-pound sack of dry dog food and a huge net bag of fragrant McIntosh apples.

The apple fragrance grew stronger and mingled with cinnamon as we entered the tiny knotty-pine kitchen. A stout gray-haired woman in jeans and sweatshirt topped by a faded apron reading “Kiss the Cook” stepped forward in welcome, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.

Bert began the introductions, but his wife Hester interrupted. “You the prowlers at Marie’s?” she said, smiling. Her eyes sparkled. “I told Bert you were too noisy for burglars.”

We all shook hands.

“You want pie?” Hester asked. “Just come out of the oven,” she added temptingly.

“Sure they do, Honey,” Bert said, wrapping his arm around Hester’s sturdy waist. “You won’t find better, I can tell ya that. This little lady’s the best baker in the county,” he informed us, and obeyed the instructions on his wife’s apron.

“Oh, shuddup,” she said. “Get outta here.”