Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series) (11 page)

“Custom fishing shelters.” He deposited his burdens on the floor of the garage and looked around. “Prefabricated, convertible, and tailored to the individual fisherman. That is the difference. It will set us apart, right, Bert?”

“Whatever you say, Fr—boss,” Bert concurred as he dragged an unwieldy sheet of plywood inside. “You want this here?”

I left Etienne and Bert to their worthy endeavors and headed indoors. Deftly evading Hester’s ubiquitous offer of snacks and ignoring the kitchen wall telephone, I made my way into the dining room, across the entry hall, and through the open door in to Marie’s office. She was using her own phone, and cocked a questioning eyebrow at my entrance.

I held up thumb and pinkie to indicate that I, too, wished to make a call.

“Would you hold, please?” Marie clapped a hand over the receiver and stage-whispered, “Room B; it’s empty. Use the phone in there.”

I nodded. Guest rooms at Chez Prentice lacked televisions, but each was now equipped with its own telephone.

Marie adjusted her facial expression and resumed her telephone conversation. “What kind of discount can you give me if—”

I mounted the stairs in a philosophical mood. Chez Prentice had clearly become a going concern, but it was still the house where I grew up. How did it look to a stranger’s eyes?

I’m a guest, heading for my room. Hmm, the carpet runner on the stairs is a bit worn, but elegant nonetheless. I like the smooth feel of the banister under my hand. No dust, that’s good. Room B, she said. Here’s A.

Room A, formerly my parents’ room, now boasted a queen-size bed tucked in the nook under a gable window. Current occupant, Mrs. Felicity Daye of Toledo, Ohio.

In his improvement of my family’s old house, Etienne had covered the hardwood floors of the hallway with a new oriental-style runner carpet, so I was silent as I moved past Room A.

Room B, the smallest of the bedrooms, was logically between A and C. In another incarnation, it was probably sleeping quarters for the maid who served the occupant of room A. We had surmised this when renovations revealed that Room B’s tiny, shallow closet had once been the doorframe for the communicating door between the two rooms.

I sat down on the charmingly dressed twin bed and looked around, trying to imagine myself a servant here a century ago. What an overwhelming job it was, taking care of this place. I knew from experience.

I reached for the telephone on the bedside table and paused. There was a voice coming from beyond the doorframe, someone in room A, engaged in intense conversation.

“No, I won’t stop!” a woman’s voice rang clearly. “It’s got to be done! Don’t give me any more nonsense about it.”

I heard no reply.

“How much liquid have you had today?”

Strange question.

Her next comment was muffled, and it was then that I realized I was eavesdropping. Mrs. Daye was talking on the telephone with someone, and it was certainly none of my business.

Shaking off my curiosity, I turned to my own telephone call, picked up the receiver with one hand and with the other, undid the button of my slacks. The waistband was biting into my middle a bit, the result, no doubt, of too much driving and too little walking.

“Martin?” I asked when he answered the phone, “It’s Amelia Dickensen.” Years ago, Martin Rousseau, J.T. and Dustin’s father, had worked at my father’s lumberyard. “About the boys,” I began, “I was in school yesterday when they were arrested. I called to see if I could help in any way.”

“Gee, thanks, Miss Pren—I mean Mrs. Dickensen. I don’t know. They’re in hot water, all right, but the judge let me take ’em home.”

“I’m glad, Martin. This must be terrible for you.”

“It’s hard, I gotta admit. All this craziness makes it tough to get to work.” Martin worked at the local paper manufacturing plant. “And all the stuff people are saying! I mean, they’re good kids, Miss. You know that. I mean, the stuff they done before didn’t hurt nobody. They just got high spirits.”

“Of course, Martin. And call me Amelia.”

“But it’s eating at me. They’re not telling me everything. I know my boys.”

“It’s important they tell what they know, at least to their lawyer,” I said. “Are they aware that he has to keep anything they say confidential?”

“I dunno, maybe. They watch lots of TV, so I guess they do. I’ll tell ’em, though, just in case.”

“That’s a good idea.”

Martin Rousseau sighed heavily. “I wish their mom was here, but then I’m glad she’s not, y’know?”

“It’s certainly understandable. Listen, Martin, I’ve got to go, but if there’s anything at all I can do—”

“I know something!” he said suddenly.

“Anything,” I replied, and wondered somewhat ungrammatically what I was letting myself in for.

“Their homework. They’re not allowed back at school right now, but I don’t want ’em to miss their homework. Dustin might not graduate on time if he gets behind. Could you see they get some lessons to work on?”

“There are workbooks that we use when students are out for extended periods due to illness,” I mused aloud. “I imagine they’d serve the purpose. I’ll check on that.”

“Great.” Martin’s voice held a more positive tone for the first time. “That’s the ticket, workbooks. And I’ll see they do ’em, don’t worry!”

Well,
I thought as I hung up,
the boys probably won’t thank me for it, but it will be helping.

Next I called the local animal shelter. Yes, they still had Sam’s description in their lost cat files. No, there hadn’t been any feline fitting that description found since we first called. Yes, they’d let us know as soon as he turned up. I wasn’t to worry. These cats had amazing survival instincts. Had I seen the movie
Incredible Journey
? I hadn’t and rather doubted that my elderly cat was Hollywood material, but thanked them anyway.

Finally I called the Lion’s Roar and got a reservation for eight o’clock. I was lucky, they told me. This was their busiest night, but there had been a cancellation.

After hanging up, I gathered my purse and coat and cocked an ear again in the direction of Room A.

Silence. Mrs. Daye had apparently finished her telephone call.

I stood and re-buttoned my waistband. We were going to dinner in the county’s most elegant restaurant. In my wallet resided a venerable and virtually unused charge card for downtown’s last remaining department store. There was much to be done before eight o’clock tonight.

At 7:55, riding in Gil’s four-wheel drive green Cherokee, we were dressed in our best, though under our thick, sexless parkas, it was hard to tell. The North Country’s winter conditions made glamour difficult, at least outdoors.

“And no more fretting about Sam or the Rousseaus. I want you to forget all about anything negative for the next few hours,” Gil ordered as I leaned my head back against the headrest.

“Okay,” I said, but with a minimum of enthusiasm.

The prospect of our romantic evening out had begun to pale. I felt tired, sleepy, and a little queasy. I lowered the passenger’s window to let a thin stream of cold air blow on my face.

Concentrate on the present,
Amelia, I scolded inwardly.
Think about your glamorous new velvet cocktail dress—albeit fifty percent more expensive and one size larger than the old one—and enjoy yourself.
I took several deep breaths and rolled the window back up again.

“I haven’t been to this place in years,” I told Gil. “I hear the food is still great. I wonder if they have the same menu.”

“They do,” Gil assured me. “I’ve eaten here lots of times.”

I filed that bit of information in my mental database.

The Lion’s Roar, located on the lakeshore road about four miles from our house, was the premiere dining spot in the county. Built in the early 1800s and named for a British warship, it began life as an inn. Tradition held that in the 1920s bootleg liquor was purveyed there.

I’d been told that unless one subsisted solely on the famous basketsful of tiny, handmade yeast rolls and limited one’s liquid refreshment to ice water, a meal was likely to run up a hefty tab, not including dessert. And one didn’t want to miss dessert at the Lion’s Roar.

“I’ve only been once in my life, when Papa took us to celebrate Barbara’s high school graduation,” I said.

“It has been a while. You must have been about sixteen. Remember what you ordered?”

“Distinctly. It was prime rib. I ordered it because I’d seen the name in a book. I’d thought it was just a fancy name for spare ribs, and when they brought that great big bloody slab of meat, oh, my!”

Mute with horror, I’d nibbled at the wild rice and green beans that accompanied the entree—being careful to avoid the pink liquid that trickled all over the plate—and consumed at least a dozen of the feather-light, golf-ball-size rolls. So many, in fact, that I was almost too full for dessert. But Papa had ordered the specialty of the house for everyone, Bavarian cream with butterscotch. The warm, rich sauce and the delicate fluff made me forget my horror.

My offending entree was wrapped up in waxed paper and taken home to our nonexistent family dog. It was much more appetizing after being stewed for several hours in Mother’s homemade vegetable soup.

“And ever since that meal, I’ve compared every dessert I ever had to the Lion’s Roar,” I told Gil.

“Here we are,” he said.

The car crunched across the gravel driveway, the snow already bearing the tracks of dozens of vehicles. I pressed my face to the chilly window and squinted at the old inn, illuminated by floodlights. The Lion’s Roar was a barn-like building, made of dark, aged wood. The front steps and the broad, welcoming front porch had been swept clean of snow and decorated with small evergreen bushes in weathered half-barrels.

“They put great big rocking chairs out here in the summertime,” Gil said.

“I remember,” I said, smiling.

There was music floating on the frigid air as we navigated the slushy ruts in our good shoes. Our breaths came out in individual clouds.

Other cars were already pulling into the parking lot. A pair of hooded parkas entered the building ahead of us; a man and a woman, judging by the legs.

Assisted by Gil, I shed my wrap in the entryway and turned to smile greetings at the other couple.

“Amelia!” said Lily Burns.

She had just slid out of her coat and was wearing an elegant pink angora sweater dappled with tiny spangles and matching wool slacks, a new outfit, I was sure, because I’d never seen it. Until recently, we’d had intimate knowledge of each other’s closet.

She was sporting a new hairdo, too, blonder, shorter and feathery around her face. No doubt about it, Lily Burns was an attractive woman.

She stepped back in surprise, and rearranged her features to reflect a controlled coolness. “And Gil,” she added in a silky voice, “back from your honeymoon at last.” She gave me a direct look that left no doubt that she remembered our rancorous telephone conversations.

She turned to her companion, who was hanging his coat on a peg on the wall. “I think you both know Blakely Knight.”

“Of course,” I said in an overly polite tone. “How are you, Blakely?” Apparently his pursuit of Lily was moving apace.

“Doing very well.” Blakely aimed a repellant smile down at me, lowered one eye in a slow wink, and turned to extend his hand to Gil.

The two shook hands firmly in the distant but civil manner men have.

Clutching a tiny, silver evening purse, a Christmas gift from me, Lily linked her arm through her escort’s. “Come on, Blakely.” she said, airily adding, “See you later,” with a waggle of her Passionate Plum fingernails.

The two proceeded through the entrance. I could hear music playing inside.

“Well,” said Gil, “is she still mad? Could you tell?”

“As a wet hen,” I said, “a wet hen dating a . . . wolf.”

“Animal metaphors?” Gil’s face registered surprise.

“It fits doesn’t it? We all know what wolves can do to chickens. I don’t know how Lily can stand him.” I sighed. “Wonder what Alec is doing tonight, poor guy.”

“Honey, Alec’s not one of your school kids. He doesn’t need your pity. He can handle this.”

“You’re right!” I blinked and shook my head. “What am I doing? I’m wearing a brand-new dress, I’ve just landed the most eligible bachelor in town, and we’re out at the ritziest restaurant.” I kissed Gil’s cheek and took his arm, waving at the door where Lily and Blakely had entered. “Let’s go have that romantic dinner for two we promised ourselves.”

It was remarkable how unchanged the place seemed. The same huge fireplace—this evening housing a bonfire-sized blaze—the same dark-paneled walls and heavy tables topped with chintz tablecloths, fresh flowers, and small oil lamps. A massive antique church podium just to the left of the entrance served as a reservations desk. Behind it, a staircase rose to the second-level gallery leading to former guest rooms. A small sign indicated that they were now available for meetings and banquet rooms.

“Something smells delicious,” I murmured to Gil as we approached the podium. Suddenly I was starving.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Dickensen, right this way,” said the maitre d’ in response to Gil’s inquiry. We followed him through the busy dining room. The live music was coming from somewhere in the rear, in what I remembered as an enclosed porch overlooking a small brook. By the sound of it, there was a three-piece combo, skillfully playing old standards. I recognized the last few bars of “As Time Goes By” as we entered and “New York, New York” as we arrived at our table.

As Gil pulled back my chair, I slid into the seat with a feeling of happy unreality. I’d lived so long as a single that the two-ness of us was still wonderfully novel. I watched adoringly as my husband moved around the table and sat.

He caught me staring. “What?”

I gave him my dreamiest smile. “Just appreciating you.” I took his hand, strong, square, and larger than mine. “I like the way those few hairs on your arm peek out from your shirt cuff.”

Gil blushed. “Cut that out.” He pulled his hand back and fingered his cuff, pulling it over his wrist, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. With his lips barely moving, he whispered, “Listen, woman, don’t go starting anything we can’t finish here and now.”