Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries) Read online

  Clearly, they didn’t know I was there.

  “Don’t worry, Miss P’s cool, she won’t tell,” he answered, his voice muffled by doughnut. “Besides, we didn’t say anything much. Gimme one of those chocolate ones.”

  I have learned from long experience that eavesdropping is sometimes a helpful tool, if used in moderation. I stood very still in the closet and listened.

  “No way! You said Derek’s name. He’ll kill you for that.”

  “No, he won’t! He’s all torn up about that girl that got killed. Said he’s looking everywhere for who did it, even in Vermont. Said when he finds ’um, he’s gonna kill ’um.”

  “He will, too,” piped a shaky tenor.

  “Come on, hurry. Church is starting. My mom’ll kill me if I’m late!”

  More sounds of the wax paper sack rattling. Presumably, they were filling their pockets.

  I stood thinking for a while. Right after church, I resolved, I’d call Dennis O’Brien.

  The unexpected chance to gather information had thrown my carefully-timed Sunday morning schedule into disarray. Instead of walking briskly to the choir room, slipping into a robe, taking a few seconds to pat my hair and gather up my music, I was forced to hurry—in high heels—down a crowded hall choked with a cheerfully chattering congregation. Halfway there, I had to restrain myself from pushing a sweet, white-haired senior citizen over her walker, but I managed, smiling all the way.

  The choir room was reproachfully empty as I snatched my robe from its hanger and my music from its cubicle, and dashed into the choir loft, panting. Everyone was polite as I slid past them to my seat in the alto section, but I earned a tiny disapproving wrinkle of the brow from the choir director. Raising his arms, he signaled the first chords of the opening anthem and I joined in, gratefully if breathlessly.

  All hail the power of Jesus’s name,

  Let angels prostrate fall . . .

  I sang from my heart, caught up in the magnificent thought of all creation in joyous praise of God. The hymns, as much as any sermon, always spoke to me in church. There were times when the wisdom and truth of the words so moved me I would have to fight back tears.

  The first congregational hymn was “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” my favorite. My heart soared. God was reassuring me of His love, and that He had everything under control. My gratitude to Him was overwhelming.

  I felt the warning tickle of tears in my eyes and was reaching for the tissue I kept for emergencies in the front of my hymnal when I glanced at the congregation. An usher was escorting a latecomer down the aisle to a vacant spot on the front pew.

  It was Gil Dickensen.

  Immediately, I dropped the tissue, but there was no need to attempt the clumsy task of retrieving it, because my tears of joy had dried up.

  What’s he doing here? I thought angrily.

  Not in so many words, but by way of snide remark, sarcastic comment, and glib editorial, Gil had long ago led me and the entire community to believe he had no respect at all for organized religion.

  “Isn’t that Gil Dickensen?” whispered Margery Berton behind her choir folder. “What’s he doing here?”

  You could say that again. Probably just showing off his new suit from Bailey’s. It was navy blue and fit him well. It set off the gray in his hair to good advantage too. He did look nice, I had to admit.

  Just then, his eye caught mine. He smiled. As I nodded coolly in return, the acrobat who had taken up residence in my chest did another double somersault. Oh, no you don’t! I told it.

  With ostentatious care, I turned my attention to locating the music for the offertory special. It was an arrangement of “Sheep May Safely Graze and Pasture” from Bach’s Peasant Cantata. This was a perennial favorite and we all knew it by heart.

  Once again, I threw myself into the music, turning only the slightest of glances Gil-ward. No eye contact this time. He was staring at one of the stained glass windows, apparently lost in thought.

  Not for one minute did I believe Vern’s assessment of Gil’s recent actions. I had known him in one capacity or another all his life, and a person didn’t change overnight.

  “Sheep may safely graze and pasture,” we sang.

  And what about those kisses? They were meaningless, I told myself. It was all precisely as I suspected, a superficial flirtation.

  “ . . . in a watchful shepherd’s sight.”

  But hadn’t he demonstrated his concern, sending Vern to watch over me and coming all the way to Burlington after Lily’s accident?

  He was simply using his reporter’s instincts, I answered myself. As a suspect in Marguerite’s murder, I’m a potential news story, no doubt about it. Vern’s just one of his stringers, that’s all.

  “Those who rule with wisdom guiding . . . ”

  And what about his trip to Bailey’s Menswear and acquisition of the Fields’ admittedly charming house? It was just as I told Vern, an acute case of midlife crisis.

  “ . . . bring to hearts a peace abiding . . . ”

  And as for Statler’s Jewelry Store—well, I was a bit too busy to think about it right now, thank you very much! I modulated my voice to the delicate ending of the piece.

  “ . . . bless a land with hearts made free.”

  The final notes faded away and the choir sat slowly and reverently, tucking the song folders in the side receptacles and extracting Bibles in readiness for the scripture reading.

  I consulted the program for the sermon title. “Marriage—An Honorable Estate Blessed by God.” I made a point not to look in Gil’s direction for the rest of the service.

  After church, there was no way I was going to mill around in the midst of a hugging, back-slapping crowd containing Gil Dickensen. I wasted no time pulling on my coat, then threaded my way through the throng and onto the sidewalk.

  I hurried. There were a few things I needed to do: Call Lily as promised, find out if Marie had returned home yet, and try to locate Derek. Somewhere in there I would also find time to prepare for Monday’s classes.

  If I was quick about it, I could also call Gil’s apartment and catch Vern alone. He could bring Lily’s car and, if he chose, accompany me on my errands. It would be especially good to have him along if I happened to find Derek.

  Not that I believed for one moment the boy would intentionally hurt me, but I’d experienced first-hand how overwrought he could become, and after all, “the best-laid schemes o’ mice and men gang aft agley,” as Alec—or Robbie Burns—might say. Come to think of it, Alec knew something about extremes of emotion, too, I remembered.

  “Wait a minute . . . ” I stopped walking and looked around. I was standing on the corner of Jury and Elmore Streets, directly in front of Danny’s Diner. I had been thinking so furiously, I’d overshot my house and ended up downtown.

  I stood staring at the silver, lozenge-shaped building, watching steam rise from the exhaust chimney. It was cold out here and I could smell bacon frying. My stomach growled and my ever-present dull headache revved into overdrive again. Why not have a bite of lunch here? No reason at all.

  As I opened the door, the strip of sleigh bells attached to the doorknob jingled.

  “Miss Prentice!” said Danny Dinardi, his bald head shining in the neon light.

  He was standing at the grill, pressing a hamburger with the back of his spatula. A row of bacon strips sizzled nearby. Just beyond, six perfectly browned slices of toast popped out of the toaster with a light metallic rattle.

  The faces of the six patrons seated at the counter turned and smiled in unison. Danny waved his free hand expansively. “Come in and get warm! Shirley—pour the lady a cup of coffee. You here for lunch?”

  “Soon as I make a couple of calls,” I promised and headed for the ancient pay phone on the wall. “It smells good in here. How about one of your famous BLT’s?”

  “Good choice! The best in the country!” he declared immodestly.

  But he was right. “It’s the tomatoes, you know,” he explain
ed, as he always did, to the admiring assembly. “I get ’em homegrown from a lady out in the country. This time of year, she keeps ’em wrapped in newspaper in her cellar.” It was a familiar, oft-repeated story, varying only slightly with the seasons. I could have chanted it along with him.

  I dialed Gil’s number. “Come on! Come on!” I muttered, as the phone rang for the fifth time. “Gil’ll be home any minute.” On the next ring, I heard a click, then Gil’s recorded voice, saying, “You have reached the—”

  “What?” roared an outraged male voice, breaking into the recording.

  “Vern?” I ventured timidly.

  “Amelia? Gosh, I’m sorry. You got me out of the shower. The furnace pooped out last night and it’s c-colder than a—it’s freezing in here. I didn’t want to leave the hot water, but you kept ringing.”

  I explained my idea about Lily’s car. “I’m at Danny’s. If you come over right away, I’ll treat you to lunch.”

  “I’m there! W-well, not exactly,” he added, his chattering teeth clearly audible. “But just l-let me get out of this towel and into my parka. Tell Danny I want a chili cheeseburger!” he ordered and hung up.

  I put more coins in the telephone and dialed Dennis O’Brien. No answer on his personal phone. He was either on duty somewhere or at church with his family. I’d have to call later.

  My sandwich and I arrived at our booth at the same time. I loved Danny’s Diner! Bowing my head, I murmured a blissful blessing, then carefully lifted half the sandwich and opened my mouth to receive the ambrosia.

  “Amelia?”

  A drop of tomato juice hit the front of my suit jacket at breast level. Reluctantly, I set down my sandwich and blotted the stain with a paper napkin.

  “Hello, Judith,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Lovely. Didn’t Pastor Broadhead give a lovely sermon? Apparently those nodules in his throat have healed completely.” Nurse Dee was resplendent in a gray velvet toque and matching gray wool coat with velvet collar. Blue-gray eyes and gloves the exact shade of her hair completed the ensemble. Only the red patches on her cheeks broke up the monochromatic theme. “I thought he captured the essence of marriage, didn’t you?”

  I picked up another napkin and blotted again. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know . . . ”

  “Oh, of course, I forgot, dear.” Nurse Dee was a widow. “May I sit down?”

  I nodded, on my third napkin now, hoping against hope I could save my green wool suit. As it was, the stain would require the expert treatment of a dry cleaner, and even then complete recovery would be iffy.

  Oh well, I thought, crumpling the napkin. I’ve done all I can.

  Nothing, neither Judith Dee nor an indelible tomato stain, would prevent me from enjoying my Danny’s BLT.

  “My, that looks good. I’ll have the same, Shirley,” Judith said to the waitress as she passed.

  Danny’s wife nodded impassively and continued on her path. It was common knowledge that Danny had all the personality in the family.

  “Shirley Dinardi’s an interesting woman,” said Judith, leaning into the aisle and peering after the waitress. “Keeps all her emotions in, obviously. That’s why she gets those shingles, of course.” She clucked in pity.

  It was a mystery to me where Judith got her medical information—her practice was limited to patching up public school students—and I had long wondered whether she didn’t cross the line between simple down-and-dirty gossip and a breach of professional ethics. Her information was usually reliable. I had to give her that. Maybe she was a good interviewer, like Gil. Or maybe she could just read minds.

  She smiled at me. I squirmed inwardly and tried not to think of anything personal.

  “Please, please,” she said pleasantly, “enjoy your sandwich before it gets cold.”

  I relaxed.

  Judith pulled off her gloves and eased her coat from her shoulders. Her dress was gray crepe, with a silver brooch on the collar. “Well, I see you got back from Vermont all right. How is Mrs. Burns?”

  My mouth was full, but I nodded and grunted to indicate that Lily was indeed still alive.

  The sandwich was great.

  “The bacon was crisp and the tomatoes flavorful. Danny was generous with the mayonnaise on the gently toasted bread, and the crisp iceberg lettuce added a definite, but not overbearing, textural counterbalance to the smoky flavor of the meat.”

  This was how a food critic from downstate had once described it, and though the review had convulsed the meat-and-potatoes crowd that made up Danny’s clientele, he still displayed the framed magazine article proudly on his wall, next to a large crucifix and a dog-eared, autographed picture of Steve Allen.

  “So she’s better, then? I’m so glad.”

  With difficulty, I dragged my attention back to Judith Dee.

  She leaned out in the aisle. “Shirley,” she called, “bring me a hot chocolate with that, would you please?” She sat back in her seat and just as I took another bite, asked, “When will she be coming home?”

  Chewing as rapidly as was ladylike, I shrugged wordlessly and bobbed my head from side to side.

  It seemed to satisfy Judith. “I see.” She reached across the table and lifted my bangs. “Your head looks much better. It’s coming along nicely. Need any pain medication?”

  I swallowed a gulp of Danny’s wonderful coffee. A little too hot, but it helped clear the palate. In fact, it seared it.

  “No, thanks, Judith. A little Tylenol seems to do the trick.” I reached into my purse, pulled out a tiny bottle, and tipped it on the table. Two tablets rolled out.

  “Uh, oh. Looks like those are your last two. Here—” Judith rooted around in her handbag, which, of course, was gray leather. “I’ve got a couple of bottles of the hospital brand. They’re capsules, but you take two, just like the drugstore kind. Here. Go ahead, I’ve got plenty.”

  I swallowed my tablets, then tucked the tiny bottle of Judith’s capsules in my purse. She was so anxious to be of help it seemed rude to refuse.

  “Oh, good, here we are!” said Judith.

  Unceremoniously, Shirley slid Judith’s order on the table, following with the hot chocolate in a heavy cup with a chipped saucer. It was piping hot and there was a rapidly melting mountain of whipped cream on top. Nobody came to Danny’s to admire the china, anyway.

  The sleigh bells on the door jangled. At the sight of Vern’s tall frame, I called out to the taciturn Shirley, “We’re going to need a chili cheeseburger over here.

  Shirley nodded.

  Vern stood looking down at me. “You forgot to order it, didn’t you?” His hair was still damp.

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  “Why, hello there!” Judith seemed delighted to see him. “Won’t you join us?”

  I moved over and Vern sat.

  Shirley approached and stood, staring questioningly at Vern.

  “What would you like to drink?” I translated.

  “Chocolate milkshake,” he told her.

  I shivered. “Ice cream?”

  Judith smiled indulgently. Between dainty bites of her sandwich and minute sips of cocoa, she inquired about the condition of Vern’s leg.

  He glanced down, having apparently forgotten the injury. “Uh, yeah, thanks. It’s fine.”

  “It was miraculous the wound wasn’t more serious. If you like, you can drop by my house and I can change the bandage for you.”

  “Uh. No, thanks. It’s okay.” He shrugged.

  “Well, it’s your choice, certainly, but you don’t want it to become infected, do you?”

  “No, I guess not. Maybe I’ll come by later if I have time.”

  “That will be fine. By the way, I’m a little curious,” she ventured with a tiny smile. “Would you mind telling me just who or what it was you were chasing so hard at Peasemarsh?”

  “I, uh, that is, we, thought we saw a friend of ours.” He drummed on the table, then leaned into the aisle and said fretfully, “Where is that burger, anyhow?”<
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  “Was it Marie LeBow?”

  “Uh—” Vern glanced at me.

  “Yes, that’s right,” I admitted. Obviously, Judith had heard me calling Marie’s name outside the dressing rooms. “But he tripped before he could catch up with her, as you know.”

  Judith looked over each shoulder and leaned forward. “I heard she’s terribly depressed over Marguerite’s death.”

  “Well, actually—” Vern began.

  I stepped on his foot with my high heel.

  He made a tiny squeak in his throat, but got the message and clammed up. Judith had a way of worming the most personal of information out of people. But not this time.

  “Actually, it would be terribly strange if she weren’t upset, don’t you think?” I asked sadly. “Oh, look, Vern! Here’s your burger.”

  With her usual grace, Shirley set the heavy plate before him and slapped a hand-scrawled pink check on the table, face down.

  “Shirley . . . ” I said. She turned around and stared. I held up the slip. “Could we have separate checks, please?”

  Scowling, she snatched it from me and retired to re-figure what we owed. By the time she had returned with three slips and handed them around with the same quiet charm, Vern was finishing up, licking chili from his fingertips.

  “Well,” Judith said to me, retrieving her check and sliding out of the booth. “This has been so pleasant, Amelia. Let’s do it again soon. And it was good to see you too,” she said to Vern as she pulled on her coat. “But don’t forget to let me re-bandage that cut. President Coolidge’s son neglected a wound,” she added, her brows furrowing in concern, “and it killed him. Bye, now.” She pulled her purse over her arm and headed down the aisle toward the exit.

  “What’s with her?” Vern asked as he slid out of the booth.

  “That’s just Judith. She’s a little eccentric, but she’s harmless.” I set a couple of dollars on the table for Shirley.

  “And what’s with the thing with stepping on my foot?” he said, lifting his large sneaker to show me the dirty imprint of my heel. “I bet that’s what happened to Coolidge’s son.” He flexed his foot up and down and winced. “I’m going to have a bad bruise.”