Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series) (17 page)

“But I thought you—oh, never mind.” I sighed. I was never going to get the hang of computers at this rate. I was just grateful, I decided, that I hadn’t done any actual damage.

Vern squinted intently at the colorful label decoration. “Here’s what it is,” he said quietly, almost whispering. “Right here, this shiny part on top. There’s room to burn more information on it, on the wrong side. If anybody was to look at it, even play it—the right way,” he added, turning a wry cocked eyebrow at me, “they’d think it was a real music CD. It’s very, very clever.” He replaced the CD in the slot and resumed his examination of the numbers.

“So it isn’t a real CD?”

“Sure it is. They just altered it.”

“Who?”

“Good question.”

“And why would anyone do that?”

Vern frowned. “I don’t know.”

“Those look rather like Social Security numbers.”

“Of course!” Vern said, leaning back in his computer chair. “The dashes should have told me. Wow.” He clicked on one of the numbers. Immediately, the screen changed and a name and address appeared.

I folded my arms and leaned forward. “There must be hundreds, maybe thousands, of numbers here. What is this? Some government document?”

“Maybe.” Vern brought his face close to the screen. “No, I don’t think so.” He fumbled in the silver lunchbox, extracted the George Strait album from its case and examined it closely. “See that silver band? It cuts off part of his cowboy hat and slices off a corner of the title, too. Somebody altered this CD, just a little.”

He exchanged it for the Broadway show album in the computer, being careful to put it in silver side up, and pressed Enter again. This time, the screen was filled with pale green rectangles with printing and fingerprints and small head-and-shoulder photos.

“What are those, driver’s licenses?”

“Nope,” Vern said, leaning forward. “Look, it says Permanent Resident Card. They’re green cards, or rather pictures of them.”

“Vern, where did you get these things—the CDs and the silver case, I mean?”

The boy looked down at his hands and said nothing.

“This is clearly illegal material! We’ve got to get this to the police!”

“We can’t.”

“What?”

Vern was taking long, deep breaths. He said in a near-whisper, “You see, I promised.”

“Promised what?” I could feel my blood pressure begin to rise.

“To help some . . . friends. They asked me to help them figure out how to get this . . . lunchbox thing back to whoever it belonged to.”

Whomever
, I thought to myself. “It’s the Rousseau boys, isn’t it?”

Vern sighed. “Yes, but listen, they didn’t have any idea what this thing was. Neither did I, for that matter. They gave it to me last week in school, before they got busted. Dustin said they sort of accidentally walked off with this thing and wanted to figure out a way to return it.”

He turned a pleading face toward me. “I thought I could help. I mean, if I could find out who owned it and get it back to them without a fuss, everything would be cool, but then this, um, murder happened, and I was in a bind, you see?”

“You can’t shrug off responsibility here, Vern. This obviously has something to do with making false IDs. Do you think the boys could be involved in an illegal—”

“No way!” He glared at me.

“We need to call the police.”

“No!”

“But it’s stolen property!”

“Accidentally stolen.”

“That may be, but Vern—”

A blast of cold air sweeping down the hall and into Vern’s open door announced Gil’s arrival. “Hello? Anybody? Where’s my little family?”

I sighed. “Here, Gil.”

Vern widened his eyes, pleading.

My husband appeared in the doorway. “Amelia, didn’t I warn you that this room would swallow you up like a Venus Flytrap? What’s going on?”

Vern shot me another glance containing the deepest pathos. I ignored him, but not without an inward wince. This would probably mean the death of our cordial auntie-nephew relationship.

“Come look at this,” I said to Gil, indicating the computer screen. As he sat in Vern’s chair and leaned forward, squinting, Vern turned his back with a ferocious snort of disgust.

“Wow,” he said under his breath. “Where did this come from?”

I showed him the lunchbox and repeated what Vern had told me.

“Ooo-kay,” he said when we’d finished. He bit his lip and looked up at me. “Amelia, do you have O’Brien’s home number?”

Vern whirled around. His expression was heartrending. “Gil, isn’t there some other way to handle this?”

“Look at this stuff.” Gil pointed at the computer screen. “There’s nothing else we can do. Listen, Vern,” he added, not unkindly, “just be glad we have a friend on the force who might be inclined to believe your story.”

Vern sat heavily on his unmade bed and stared at his hands, clasping and unclasping them. “I’m a dead man.” He threw a dark frown at me.

Gil dialed the number I gave him. Dennis was home.

“He wants us to meet him at the station,” Gil said after finishing the muttered conversation. “C’mon, Vern, let’s pack this thing up.” He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and used it to remove the CD from the computer and replace it in the jewel case. “No need adding another set of fingerprints to the mix,” he pointed out, putting the assembled lunchbox in a grocery bag I’d fetched for him.

“I’ll say a prayer for you,” I said as uncle and nephew suited up for the trip into town.

Vern’s expression was pure resentment. “Yeah, you do that.” After a dramatic zip of his parka, he slammed out the front door.

Gil kissed me. “I won’t lie and tell you the kid’s not in trouble, but I’ll do all I can. Keep your chin up.” He started down the hallway, then turned around. “Do me a favor and call Ned about this. I doubt he’ll be any help, but he has a right to know.” Gil scratched his forehead.

“He moved to Saratoga last spring. Use directory assistance or something.” He threw me another kiss. “Don’t wait up.”

I stood in the doorway and watched them drive away.

I actually did pray for Vern right then and there, while sitting at the kitchen bar next to the telephone. I prayed also for Gil and for the Rousseau brothers and finally, for myself and my baby. Less than six months ago I had complained in prayer that I was alone. That prayer had been answered bountifully, overwhelmingly. Now I had new things to pray about.

Of course, when opportunity came my way, I had cooperated fully with Providence and many good things had resulted. “Lord,” I murmured, quoting a T-shirt I’d seen somewhere, “please give me the strength to endure my blessings!”

It was time to hunt for Edward Thomas, Vern’s father. It wasn’t a chore I relished, and not only because I’d be the bearer of bad news. Vern’s late mother, Carol, had been Gil’s sister and her death several years ago from a virulent form of cancer had so embittered Ned that his son had moved away and taken up residence with his uncle.

The subject of Ned was
verboten
in our household, at least in front of Vern, but Gil managed to keep tabs on his brother-in-law, probably using his many journalistic connections.

“Saratoga, huh?” I said, and called directory assistance. There were six Edward Thomases in Saratoga, but only one Ned, so I tried the number.

“You know the drill,” a recorded voice growled cryptically. At the tone, I suddenly realized that my news wasn’t the sort one should deliver via voicemail.

“Uh, Ned, this is Amelia Prentice, you know, Gil’s wife? Amelia Dickensen, that is.” I gave a little mirthless chuckle and cleared my throat. “It’s about Vern. Your son.”

Good grief, Amelia, of course he knows the name of his own son!

“Well, he’s all right, but there has been a, um, well, a difficulty has arisen. I mean, he has a problem, and we think you need to know about it. Call us, please.” I added the numbers of both our telephone and Gil’s cell.

As I hung up, it occurred to me that I wasn’t even sure I had the right Ned Thomas. And what would I have told him if he had been home? I wondered.

Ned, Vern is at the police station. He’s involved with a murder investigation and may be in trouble for withholding evidence. He may even be a suspect, but Gil and I know he’s not guilty of anything except being young and loyal to his friends.

For that matter,
I added to myself
, his friends aren’t guilty of anything, either; I’m certain of it.

I fixed myself a glass of milk and a peanut butter sandwich, moved to the couch, and turned on the television. I ate my dinner answering arcane questions posed by Alex Trebek, then watched as a sinister-looking fellow with a punk haircut extolled the virtues of some kind of chamois cloth costing $19.99, but wait, if I called in right away . . .

I dozed.

Cold air coming from the front door woke me. I sat up and caught a glimpse of the back of Vern’s coat as he slipped into his room and slammed the door shut. I glanced at my watch: nine thirty-seven.

“They’re not holding him right now, letting him go to classes and work, but they told him not to leave town and to keep completely mum about the lunchbox. I’m calling a lawyer in the morning,” Gil whispered, joining me on the sofa.

“His hands are tied, honey. When they questioned Vern the other day, he left out the bit about the lunchbox, and now claiming he wanted to return it sounds pretty thin. That, combined with the fact that he’d been meeting with the Rousseau boys regularly—”

“But he was tutoring them!”

“Shh! I know that, and you know that, but it looks, well, suspicious, under the circumstances.”

Tears came into my eyes. “So that’s it? They think they have their culprits?”

Gil yawned. “Could be. But don’t worry, we’ll find him a really good lawyer, not that idiot he has now.” He stood. “Come on. I’m dead on my feet. We’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

I dried my eyes with a paper napkin. “Have you had anything to eat?” Food was becoming ever more important to me these days.

He grimaced and stood. “Some chips and soda from the police station machines. That’ll hold me.” He arched his back and groaned. “You coming?”

“I’ll join you in a while. I’m wide awake right now.”

Gil went to bed. On television, Andy Griffith was cross-examining a witness. I clicked the remote off just as the culprit shouted his confession in open court.

In the silence, my thoughts crowded upon me again. It occurred to me that I possessed knowledge of this situation that no one else had: I knew for certain that all three young men were innocent.

And how would you know that?
The logical side of me asked.

I know them. All three of them. They wouldn’t do this thing.

That’ll really go over well in court! Exhibit A: Amelia knows these defendants, your Honor; the Defense rests!

All I know is that someone else committed this crime.

Who?

I don’t know, but I intend to find out.

I knew this town and the people in it. I’d taught many of them, read their thoughts put to paper, observed how they behaved. I even knew their parents, heaven help me!

“I can do this.”

~~~

I was going to need a compatriot, a sidekick, as it were, with whom I could share this task. In short, I needed Lily Burns, or a close facsimile thereof.

I called her. It was late, but she’d be up, I knew.

“Lily? It’s me.”

There was a long silence on the other end. “What do you want?”

“A favor,” I said brightly, ignoring the ungracious tone. “Mind if I drop by tomorrow after school? Something rather, uh, interesting has come up, and I’d like your opinion.”

“Here? Come here?” The concept seemed new to her. “Tomorrow?”

“That’s right.”

Another long silence, then a sigh. “Look, Amelia, that just isn’t going to be convenient. But what’s wrong with right now? Can’t you tell me about it on the phone?”

“Well, I guess so,” I said.

Lily’s backyard bordered on Chez Prentice’s and from time immemorial, we’d always talked in one another’s kitchen over tea or coffee. Maybe this was her way of keeping our badly injured friendship in traction until the damage healed. More than ever I regretted my sharp words to her, and the least I could do was to comply.

“Just a second.” I didn’t want to wake Gil, so I buttoned up my cardigan sweater and carried the portable receiver to the screened back porch.

I hesitated. I had to go carefully here. There were some things I couldn’t tell her. Lily was good in a crisis, but as I’ve said before, she was also a world-class gossip.

“Now Lily,” I began, “suppose, speaking hypothetically now, that you know someone—a woman, a friend of yours—who has a family member that has some evidence of interest to the police, and . . . ”

“The woman? Or the friend?”

“The woman is the friend.”

“Then who’s hiding from the police?”

“No one is hiding from the police, Lily, in fact, they’ve already gone to the police.”

“The friend.”

“Right. I mean, no, the family member.”

“What evidence does the woman have?”

“She doesn’t have evidence, the family member does. And they’ve already turned it in.”

“Which family member?”

I sighed. My breath was coming out in frosty clouds. “Let me start again.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. Just get on with it. Oh!” She was interrupted by a crash and a series of muffled thumps. “Look what you’ve done! Behave yourself!” I heard her say to someone, then to me, “Hold it just a second.”

She was breathless when she returned to the telephone. “Sorry about that. I knocked something on the floor with my elbow.”

Sure she did.

“Look, Lily, I didn’t know you had company or I wouldn’t have called.” I shivered and stamped my feet.

“Company? Oh, right.” She gave a little giggle. “Don’t worry about that. No big deal. What were you saying?”

I’d had enough. “No, it’s all right; never mind.”