Irregardless of Murder (Miss Prentice Cozy Mysteries) Page 5

  “Hello, Miss Prentice. Am I interrupting anything?”

  I let go of my foot, slipped my shoe back on, and limped over to the mirror above the fireplace. “Not really, Mr. Dickensen. We were just playing, as Meaghan told you.” I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket and scrubbed at my face.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked, my back turned to him.

  All this scrubbing wasn’t doing much good, not even with a little surreptitious spit on the cloth. Apparently, Li’l Lady Cosmetics required soap and water, if not turpentine, for removal. I gave up and turned to face Gil.

  “I wanted to ask you a few questions about last night,” he said, holding up a notepad and glancing down at Meaghan.

  I picked up the makeup kit. “Let’s clean this up, Meaghan,” I ordered gently.

  To my surprise, she complied without an argument, carefully replacing the cosmetics in their allotted compartments.

  “Why would you need me?” I asked Gil over her head. “You were there, yourself, weren’t you?”

  “Yes, but not the whole time. Just a few questions.”

  “Hand me that lipstick on the coffee table, sweetie. All right, mais pas devant l’enfant. Meaghan, would you like to play that piano over there for a while?”

  She eagerly climbed on the stool and began pounding tunelessly.

  “Come on, I’ll make some coffee. Or tea?”

  “Oh, coffee, definitely. Black.”

  Gil followed me to the kitchen and took a seat at the table, watching silently as I bustled around. His presence unnerved me, as it always did.

  Meaghan was attempting “Chopsticks,” repeating the first two measures incessantly. I wracked my brain for a witty comment, but none came. In fact, neither of us said a word until I poured out the coffee.

  “Well?” I ventured at last.

  “Well, what?” He took a sip from his mug. His eyes, regarding me over the top, had more wrinkles around them than I’d remembered.

  “Your questions?”

  “Oh, yes. I guess I was just listening to the music.” He smiled, patted his jacket, and extracted a pen from an inside pocket.

  Meaghan abandoned “Chopsticks” and began what might have been loosely called a “Variation on a Theme from ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb.’ ”

  Someone pounded on the front door.

  “I’ll get it!” Meaghan’s excitement at another possible visitor could only have been exceeded by that of a particularly energetic terrier. Her tiny sneakers pounded across the foyer. This time, though, I was immediately behind her, just in time to be confronted by a red-faced Detective Dennis O’Brien, bellowing orders to his bewildered daughter.

  “It’s time to go. Go get your coat.”

  Whimpering her objections, Meaghan turned and ran down the hall.

  Dennis turned to me. “Where’s my wife?” he barked, “and why isn’t Meaghan in school?”

  “Dorothy’s guiding a tour at the Whaley-Stott House,” I began, “and the plumbing at St.—”

  “Never mind,” he interrupted as Meaghan returned with her jacket and toy bag. “Let’s go,” he said, swinging the child and her bundles into his arms. Without another word, he was down the steps.

  I stood, stunned, at the open door, watching him buckle Meaghan in the back of his squad car. Not until he drove away with a roar and a screech of tires did I close the door and press my cheek against the cool glass.

  What had just happened? I covered my face with my hands, wincing as I touched the bandage. My eyes felt hot. I struggled with the lump that rose in my throat. It was too much. Black tears ran down my cheeks and onto my hand. I took the makeup-smudged tissue from my pocket and wiped them up.

  Then I remembered. I wasn’t alone.

  I was frantically planning an escape to the bathroom upstairs when I heard Gil’s voice. “Amelia? What was that all about?”

  I froze. I couldn’t let Gil Dickensen see me this way. I turned to make my exit, but all at once, there was an obstacle: Gil’s shirtfront. As his arms came around me, I gave up trying to escape, sagged against him, and let fly the sobs.

  Nothing, not even the disturbing events of the last twenty-four hours, surprised me as much as finding myself in Gil Dickensen’s arms again. But surprise or not, it was too late to stand on ceremony. I cried.

  Not, I’m ashamed to admit, ladylike, hanky-dabbed-at-the-corner-of-the-eye crying, but a succession of uncontrolled whoops and hiccoughs the likes of which I hadn’t experienced since I was ten. All the while, Gil held me, stroking my hair and murmuring meaningless words of comfort.

  Once, briefly, the sobs abated somewhat, but the surreal quality of what was happening struck me again, and I was thrown into renewed spasms. Somewhere inside myself, I knew why. Because all this was as meaningless as the soft sounds Gil was making. He was merely being kind to a fellow human being in distress. Admittedly, it wasn’t a role I had ever pictured him in, but there it was.

  Gil lowered me gently into a chair and went into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. More kindness.

  “I’m sorry,” I managed to gasp after a few sips.

  He knelt beside my chair and smiled. “Don’t be,” he said.

  Remember, Amelia, he’s just being kind.

  His finger lightly tapped my bandage. “That thing hurt much?”

  “Only when someone does that.”

  He pulled his hand back. “Oh, sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” I smiled wetly at him and blew my nose on what was left of the tissue. “It doesn’t really hurt very much.”

  He pulled out his handkerchief. “Here. Reinforcements.” He pulled himself to his feet with a groan.

  “Amelia,” he said, pulling a chair over near mine. “Are you up for a little constructive criticism?”

  I knew it. Here it comes. The zinger.

  “No, thank you very much. I don’t need any cheap shots about hysterical females or—”

  “Wait, hold it. Nothing like that.” He shifted his weight in Mother’s antique sewing chair and smiled a tiny smile. “I was just going to observe,” he said slowly, “that you bear a striking resemblance to an infant raccoon.” His smile was up to full candlepower now, and he turned it on me.

  A muscle somewhere in my chest tightened.

  His eyes searched my face speculatively. “No, I take that back. More like a Disney character. Something from Bambi, maybe.”

  Once again, I approached the mirror over the old fireplace and beheld my painted countenance. Despite the recent flood, there was still a considerable L’il Lady residue, especially around my eyes, which had the added allure of being red and swollen from crying.

  “Meaghan’s beauty treatment. It does look ghastly, doesn’t it?”

  Gil came and stood behind me. He spoke to my image in the mirror.

  “Until O’Brien showed up,” he said softly. “I thought you looked kind of cute.”

  I looked down at the mantel’s surface. Dust! I had just dusted there day before yesterday! I took a swipe at the surface with Gil’s handkerchief. My hand shook.

  “Amelia,” said Gil, “I have a confession to make.”

  I ran the handkerchief over a figurine—a shepherdess—and replaced it on the mantel. “You do?” I straightened it.

  “I didn’t come here to get information for the paper.”

  “You didn’t?” I reached for another figurine. A shepherd boy this time.

  “No, I came to see what Vern was carrying on about—would you cut that out and look at me?”

  I set down the figurine and looked up into the mirror. His face, over my shoulder, had lost all traces of amusement.

  “What about Vern?” I demanded, none too graciously.

  “Well, his mother had told him all about you. I mean, about you and me, you know.”

  “Yes, your sister Carol. I see. Go on.”

  “And he got his crazy idea that, well, anyway, after he met you today, he came home raving about this terrific—”


  I turned around. “Home? Does he live with you?”

  “Yes, sleeps on a camp cot in the kitchen, but only till he can find a place he can afford, which may be never, at the rate he’s looking—look, are you going to let me finish?”

  I folded my arms. “Finish.”

  “Vern kept telling me what an idiot I had been to let you go—”

  “But—”

  “I know, I know, he doesn’t have the whole story. But he was so darned enthusiastic I just came by to see what kind of spell you had thrown over him.”

  “Spell?” For some reason, I felt stung. “Spell? Oh, yes, by all means. Let me go upstairs and look up the Vern Spell in my book of spells. Something to do with eye of newt, I think, and . . . ” My original intention was to stalk indignantly out of the room, but once again, Gil Dickensen short-circuited my plans.

  He kissed me.

  It was apparent from his technique that Gil had put in some practice since we had last done this. As for me, I had to rely on memory and trust that, just like riding a bicycle, it would all come back to me. I gave it my best.

  Of course, I wasn’t totally without experience of this sort. There was a time when I was in my thirties that everyone’s eligible visiting nephew had taken me to whatever was playing at the Strand Theatre, but it had never led to anything substantive. Perhaps I lacked enthusiasm or my attention was elsewhere, but when the moment for the goodnight kiss came, I either managed a skillful dodge, or made a lackluster response. I think somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I believed I was frigid, or whatever odious term current so-called experts might use.

  Now here was Gil, doing me the favor of showing me I had been absolutely, totally, and completely mistaken. I responded, all right. Responded my little heart out. It was quite a moment, and, if you want my opinion, could have gone on for quite some time, but the phone rang. We tried ignoring it, but almost immediately, there was a delicate rapping at the door.

  Gil whispered an oath under his breath, then said, “Go on, answer that. I’ll get the door.”

  It was Lily Burns. “Hope I didn’t wake you, dear,” she began. I looked at the kitchen clock. It was four-twelve. What kind of sluggard did she think I was?

  “No, Lily,” I said, smiling to myself, “you didn’t.”

  “Well, I just wanted to tell you I’ll pick you up at eight-fifteen tomorrow morning. A little bit early for a Saturday, I know, but I want to catch the first ferryboat.”

  “Pick me up?”

  “You know, the sale at JJ Peasemarsh. Don’t you remember?”

  “Oh, yes, I do now.”

  “You can go, can’t you? I mean, your head is all right, isn’t it?”

  “It’s fine. And yes, I suppose I can go.”

  “You suppose? Don’t do me any favors, Amelia.”

  “Oh, forgive me, Lily, but I’ve got company.” I could hear Gil conversing with someone out in the hall. The voice was female. Probably Marie LeBow, I thought, remembering her promise to come over.

  “Company? Oh, really? Who is it?” Lily’s ears pricked up so fast, her earrings positively rattled.

  “Uh, it’s a long story. I’ll have to tell you about it tomorrow.”

  Surely I could come up with a plausible cover story by then. You give people like Lily Burns and Judith Dee a couple of sentences, they write a novel.

  “So if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “Wait! There was something else. What was it? Oh—Marie LeBow called me after lunch today and said she’d tried to get you at school. They told her you’d gone home, so she called you there, but no answer.”

  I must have been in transit in Vern’s cab.

  Lily continued, “She said—um, let me think—she said, she couldn’t come tonight, but she still wanted to give you something important.”

  “Important? Did she say what it is? Did she want me to come to her house?”

  Lily heaved a huge sigh. “Amelia, how on earth should I know? I’m simply passing on the message. Marie seemed to think you’d understand, poor woman. Maybe it has to do with funeral plans. She did sound a bit out of breath. Maybe she was crying. I couldn’t tell. Why don’t you call her and find out for sure?”

  “I will.”

  “Well, then. Tomorrow at eight-fifteen.”

  I hung up and headed back into the entrance hall. “Gil, that was Lily—Gil?”

  Nobody was there. I heard the faint sounds of conversation somewhere above my head. I followed the voices upstairs to my bedroom, where I found Gil together with Sally Jennings, the real estate agent. They were not exactly in a compromising position, but it was certainly a curious one.

  Sally was standing, stocking footed, on tiptoe on Aunt Daisy’s antique vanity chair, extending her arm high above her, tape measure in hand, apparently trying to determine the exact height of the ceiling. It was a pose that displayed her spectacular, leggy figure to best advantage.

  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 open
ed 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.”