Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries) Read online

  IRREGARDLESS OF MURDER

  E. E. Kennedy

  A Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery

  Book 1

  Charlotte, Tennessee 37036

  Irregardless of Murder

  Copyright © 2001 by Ellen E. Kennedy. Revised edition copyright © 2012 by Ellen E. Kennedy.

  Published by Sheaf House® a division of Sheaf House Publishers, LLC. Requests for information should be addressed to:

  Editorial Director

  Sheaf House Publishers, LLC

  3641 Hwy 47 N

  Charlotte, TN 37036

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  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, audio recording, or any other form whatsoever—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012939630

  ISBN: 978-1-936438-18-1 (softcover)

  Cover by Kelsey Spann.

  12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21—10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Also by E. E. Kennedy

  “The Applesauce War”

  Harvest Home anthology from Barbour Publishing

  Forthcoming

  Death Dangles a Participle

  Book 2, Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series

  Sheaf House, 2013

  “Irregardless. Should be regardless. The error results from failure to see the negative in -less and from a desire to get it in as a prefix, suggested by such words as irregular, irresponsible, and perhaps especially, irrespective.”

  —William Strunk, Jr., and E.B. White, The Elements of Style

  PROLOGUE

  Thursday night, 6:01 p.m.

  Marguerite LeBow painfully suppressed a sneeze and watched the library’s copy machine spit sheets into a neat stack. Her eyes were dry and scratchy, there was a relentless tickle in her nose, and an encore explosion was inevitable. Definitely time for another allergy capsule.

  She squinted across the tiny room. There was just a little light coming from the stacks through the half-opened door. This place did double duty as a cloakroom. The staff’s outerwear hung on pegs along the wall above a narrow bench with galoshes crammed underneath.

  On the floor next to the bench stood a tiny refrigerator. A new, roomier library building had been promised for several years now, but in the meantime, the staff made do.

  Somewhere under all those coats was Marguerite’s purse. Another tickle and reflexive intake of breath. She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a tissue just in time to catch the sneeze.

  Whew! She mopped her nose. That was a big one! It was better not to stop a sneeze, she’d heard. You could bust your eardrums.

  She patted the coats along the wall, feeling for the familiar leather lump that held her essentials. Here was Ms. Ingersoll’s coat. She could smell the Estee Lauder Youth Dew even with her stuffed nose. And this squeaky parka that reeked of cigarette smoke had to be Brenda’s. That girl was a chimney. But . . .

  Marguerite smiled. He smoked. Lately she’d come to love the smell of cigarette smoke. He was truly wonderful, just as she’d always dreamed. And so handsome. “Meet me at the restaurant,” he’d whispered just now, and headed out the door.

  Marguerite’s eyebrows came together in a small frown, then lifted and relaxed. Mom was a problem, of course, but she’d come around. With God’s help, everything would be all right. Father Anthony had said so himself.

  She resumed her search. Ah, here it was. She plunged her hand in the bag and pulled out a small prescription bottle to examine the contents in the dim light. Only four, maybe five left. She’d have to get the prescription refilled.

  The hum of the copy machine had stopped. Her task here was done. Ms. Ingersoll wanted those copies right away.

  Marguerite stood irresolute, medicine bottle in hand, while another sneeze began to rise behind her sinuses. Go ahead, she told herself, swallow the thing and get going!

  But she couldn’t. Not without water.

  She looked down at the tiny brown box of a refrigerator. She’d long ago consumed the contents of her own lunch sack and thermos, but there was bound to be something else in there she could . . . borrow.

  Heck, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d done something a little questionable in a good cause. Marguerite grimaced as she fumbled around in the refrigerator. She’d hate for Mom to find out what she’d done lately, at least not right away. But soon, everybody would understand—when the time was right—and she, herself, would be a hero. And UDJ would be in trouble, big-time!

  Here it was: a bottle of Brenda’s Evian. She pays a fortune for that stuff. And it comes in such small bottles. Hey, she thought, shrugging and unscrewing the cap, I’ll bring her another bottle tomorrow.

  Placing the large capsule on the back of her tongue, Marguerite upended the bottle and drained the contents. Then she closed the refrigerator and dropped the empty bottle into the wastepaper basket next to the copier.

  Marguerite sneezed again as she replaced the medicine bottle in her purse. She’d sure picked up some great place to work. This old library building must be a hundred years old. The mildew and dust were murder on the sinuses.

  It’ll take a little time for the medicine to kick in, she reminded herself, sniffing as she gathered the stack of copies. This allergy was a beast, all right. She felt really lousy.

  Really, really lousy.

  Holding the papers to her chest, she shuffled over to the bench and sat for a moment, panting. It was hard to catch her breath. The allergist had said she had a touch of asthma, too, but she’d never felt this bad. Her heart was pounding against the papers. This was kind of scary.

  Marguerite swayed and copies slid to the floor in a rustling cascade. This was awful! She wanted to throw up. Could she make it to the wastepaper basket in time? Would she ruin those copies by stepping on them?

  Why couldn’t she breathe?

  She crumpled to the floor with a muffled thump, every muscle in her chest straining to pull in air. As she writhed, now unmindful of the wrinkled and ruined pages beneath her, her lips formed words of distress, but there was no breath to propel them to listening ears.

  To Marguerite it seemed a long time, but it was only another agonizing ninety seconds before she lost consciousness. Then, less than three minutes later, surrounded by a hundred thousand books and over a dozen well-meaning souls, Marguerite LeBow died alone.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Miss Prentice? Can you hear me? Miss Prentice?” Someone was shouting very close to my face. Someone who had eaten garlic recently.

  “Of course I hear you,” I answered indignantly. I didn’t sound quite right, so I repeated myself. I felt curiously vulnerable. Where was I?

  “Thank God!” someone said. Who was that? Sounded like Laura Ingersoll, the Head Librarian. But what would she be doing—ah, I remembered now. The public library. My usual Thursday evening of correcting English papers. But this situation didn’t seem usual at all . . .

  I seemed to be lying on a hard, flat surface. I opened my eyes and tried to close them again, but a thumb held them mercilessly open, one at a time, while a flickering bright light made the whole proceeding even more uncomfortable. It was Mr. Garlic Breath.

  “Good. Equal and reactive,” he told someone. “Don’t worry, she’s coming around.”

  “Thank God,” Laura said again.

  “Hello, Toby,” I said.

  My
tormentor was one of my former students, Toby House, a paramedic. “Ello-hay, Entice-pray!”

  “Ello-hay, yourself, Oby-tay . . . ” I began, and struggled to sit up. I fanned my face weakly. “Whew! Arlic-gay!”

  He laughed squeakily. Toby had always squeaked when he laughed.

  “I’m sorry! We were in the middle of dinner when the call came in. Linguine with clam sauce. Probably good and cold by now,” he added wistfully.

  At these close quarters, I could see that Toby had developed a slight double chin since graduation. Missing one meal probably wouldn’t hurt him.

  He turned away. “She’s okay, sir. She’s sharp enough to answer me in pig Latin. That’s a good sign—whoa, hold on now, we’re not through yet!” This last was directed to me, as I began to slide to the edge of the polished library table.

  My skirt had hiked halfway up my thighs. I yanked it down decisively, embarrassment heating my face. I was unaccustomed to being seen in such a vulnerable position. Worst of all, I was surrounded by a small crowd, among whom I recognized my neighbor Lily Burns, the kindly and thankful Laura Ingersoll and, to my surprise, another former pupil, Police Detective Dennis O’Brien.

  “Pig Latin?” said Dennis to Toby.

  “Sure, didn’t you have pig Latin way back when?” Toby seemed amazed. “You know—you’d be Ennis-day Oh-Ryan-bay, or is it, Ho-Bay—well, anyway, it’s kind of silly, I guess.”

  “Yeah, mm hmm,” Dennis said absently.

  Toby leaned towards me once more, covering his mouth in a thoughtful attempt to shield me from another blast. It didn’t work, but I appreciated the gesture. I was feeling nauseated.

  “Miss Prentice, you’re probably going to have one heck of a headache tomorrow. Take some Tylenol and try to rest, okay? Don’t forget to keep warm and drink plenty of water. And if you feel dizzy or have trouble with your vision or throw up—”

  “I know, see a doctor,” I interrupted hastily.

  “And you’re going to need to have that dressing changed tomorrow, okay?” he added, replacing his instruments in a black bag.

  I touched my forehead and was surprised to find a large bandage there. When had Toby done that? I couldn’t remember.

  Dennis O’Brien stepped forward, carrying a small notebook. “Miss Prentice, we’ve got a few things we need to ask you about.” Dennis wasn’t all that much younger than I—about five years—but he, along with many people who were decades older, insisted on calling me Miss. It rankled a little, but I’d come to accept it as the occupational hazard of being an English teacher.

  “Detective,” Toby put in, gesturing in the direction of the copy room. “If it’s okay, I’m—um—needed over there—”

  Dennis nodded.

  A man with a large camera entered the library and headed directly for the copy room. What on earth was going on?

  “Eye-bay, Entice-pray,” said Toby, squeezing my hand. “Take care of that head.” He’d always been one of my favorites.

  Dennis directed members of the crowd around us to be seated at individual library tables. Then he stepped closer to me and ran one hand through his thick blond hair. He always did that in moments of sore agitation.

  “Now, I want to ask you—” he began.

  “Me? Ask me what? I mean, what about . . . ” I trailed off, still addled. My head was really beginning to hurt. “I’m sorry. What do you need to know?” I squinted at Dennis’s face and tried to concentrate.

  “What were you doing in the copy room?” he asked abruptly.

  Why did he sound so hostile? Weren’t we old friends?

  “That should be fairly obvious—making copies!”

  I glanced back at the copy room and saw a flash of light. Were they taking pictures in there? Pictures of what?

  “Anything else?”

  “Else? What else, doing the tango? No, actually. Making copies—that’s it.” I could be abrupt, too, when the occasion warranted. This was getting irritating. I had been injured and here was Dennis, acting like a stranger. To my horror, I felt hot tears well up.

  “Where’s my purse? I need my purse.” I swung my legs over the side of the table and slid to my feet. “I need to get home . . . ”

  My knees buckled a bit, but Dennis caught me. The tears were flowing more or less freely by now in a humiliating betrayal of my bravest efforts.

  “Easy now, Miss Prentice. You can go home in a minute. Just a few more questions, I promise. Then I’ll get someone to drive you. Perkins?” he said, gesturing to a uniformed officer nearby. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a notebook and a handkerchief. “Here. Are you sure you can stand?”

  “M-most assuredly!” How pompous I sounded! I accepted the handkerchief and blew my nose vigorously. “I’m sorry, Dennis. It’s just that I’m so terribly embarrassed, you know.”

  Dennis looked up sharply from his notebook. “Embarrassed?” he said, frowning, “Embarrassed!”

  “Yes, embarrassed,” I said, a little surprised at his strong reaction. “Of course. To fall like that . . . and be found unconscious in the public library . . . ”

  I spotted my neighbor, Lily Burns, seated at a nearby table, straining to hear our conversation. She held up my purse, then eagerly read my gestures and hurried over.

  “Oh, Amelia,” she said, “this is just so awful!” She embraced me and a cloud of Toujours Moi engulfed us both. “Now don’t you worry about a thing. You can come spend the night at my house. I’ll make cocoa and you can tell me all about it.”

  She patted my hand and cocked her head sympathetically, but her carefully lined blue eyes sparkled with anticipation. Lily was a one-woman Fox News.

  “Mrs. Burns, I must ask you to step back to that table, please,” said Dennis.

  Lily was unruffled. “Don’t worry, Detective. I’ll only be another second.”

  “Lily, I’m afraid there’s nothing to tell. I just tripped in the copy room and hit my head. Why all this fuss, I can’t imagi—”

  Lily gasped. “She doesn’t know!”

  Dennis began sternly, “Mrs. Burns, I told you to—”

  “Don’t know what? Dennis, what’s going on?” I demanded angrily and pressed a hand to my throbbing head.

  Dennis ran his hand through his hair again and opened his mouth to speak, but Lily cut in once more.

  “It’s Marguerite LeBow, Amelia. She’s dead. On the floor in there.” She pointed at the copy room. “It must have been her—her body that you tripped over.” She gave a tiny hysterical giggle and fell uncharacteristically silent.

  “What? But, I don’t understand, Lily. I . . . I was just making copies,” I tried to explain. At the time, it seemed important that everyone understand. “Sixty-seven copies—a woodcut of the Globe Theatre—you know, the one Shakespeare—”

  I looked down at my sleeve. “Oh! Dear God, blood!” It was a prayer. “Lily, there’s blood on me!” I plucked at it frantically, pulling the stained fabric away from my skin.

  “It’s okay, dear,” Lily reassured me. “It’s yours. From that cut on your head. You must have bled like a stuck pig before Laura found you. They think Marguerite had a stroke or heart attack or something,” she finished rapidly, casting a defiant eye at Dennis.

  “That’s enough for now,” he snapped. “Perkins, see that Mrs. Burns gets back to her seat. We won’t be needing any more of her input.”

  Perkins stepped forward, gripped Lily’s elbow firmly, and steered her toward another table.

  “Miss Prentice,” said Dennis. “You need to get home to bed. Perkins will give you a lift, and I’ll be around later to ask you few more questions.”

  I nodded dumbly. At the moment, however, Perkins was fully occupied, trying to persuade a protesting Lily to sit without resorting to his nightstick. In his place, I would have been tempted. Lily’s arms were folded over her fashionably sweatered chest, and her small frame was rigid, tacitly daring him to use force.

  Others at neighboring tables watched this whispered exchang
e with interest: gentle Laura Ingersoll, shaking her head slightly in protest at Lily’s behavior; a girl from my third period class whose name often escapes me—Destiny? Serendipity?— staring frankly as she nervously nibbled a cuticle.

  Only my student Derek Standish seemed oblivious to the little drama. The boy had attained his impressive six-foot-and-then-some stature during a growth spurt last year and made an intimidating sight, even when seated. I remembered his English essay that I had corrected not an hour before. Derek loved disagreeable, creepy subjects: beheadings, witchcraft, monsters. Our very own Stephen King in training. Right now, he was hunched alone at his table, scowling darkly in the direction of the copy room and systematically cracking his large knuckles.

  After a minute, Lily apparently capitulated, and Perkins headed my way. The assembled multitude resumed whatever nervous habits gave them comfort and waited to be interrogated.

  “Ready, Miss Prentice?” said Perkins. He helped me into my coat, located my purse, and we headed for the exit. Just as I stepped through the door, someone pinched my elbow.

  “Amelia, listen,” Lily hissed, “I’ll call you later—”

  “Mrs. Burns!” roared Dennis from across the room.

  She glanced over her shoulder, not the slightest bit intimidated. “Can you believe it?” she whispered. “I remember when he couldn’t hit our front porch with a newspaper and now they let him carry a gun! Coming, Detective O’Brien,” she sang out, and winked at me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I was disappointed in the police car ride. As I slid into the back seat, I looked about for some remnant of the many fiends and felons who must have occupied this space, but, though a bit shabby, it was pristine. No grimy hand prints, no spent shell casings, no empty syringes. I sighed and pressed the unbandaged side of my face against the cool glass.

  “No siren, either, I take it,” I said aloud. I was getting a little punchy.

  In the rear view mirror, the stone face smiled at last. “No, ma’am. Emergencies only.”