Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series) (26 page)

It would truly be miraculous if they managed to escape the consequences of this particular breach of the rules. As I headed down the front steps of Chez Prentice, I sent up a prayer for this stressed father and his wayward boys, all the while scanning the passing crowd.

Jury Street was long and lined with large old homes built at the turn of the twentieth century. Some of the houses bore signs with Greek initials. The elaborate contest entries in their front yards told me Vern and Alec had stiff competition.

My favorite of the snow sculptures was a giant jewelry box the size of a large automobile, lying open with various brightly-colored jewels cascading out of it. The centerpiece was a necklace featuring a string of clear ice “diamonds,” each as big as a man’s head. An accompanying sign said, “Gamma Sorority, Gem of the Campus.” So this was the Gamma house of song and story! I had seen the place many times, but had never really noticed it.

“Mrs. Dickensen!” I turned to see Melody Branch walking my way, followed by several of her sorority sisters. “Are you headed to the awards ceremony too?”

Why not?
I thought. It would be as good a place as any too look for the Rousseau boys.

Melody took my arm and whispered in my ear, “Please don’t breathe a word about our helping Vern. I’d be in trouble if it got out that my roommate and I worked on another sculpture!”

I nodded my compliance and changed the subject, asking about Melody’s family, just as my own parents had done in ye olden days. She was the daughter of a dentist, and her mother kept the office. One brother, one sister.

She didn’t seem to mind this gentle inquisition, but responded with questions of her own about Vern. I explained that his mother had died only about two years ago, he had no siblings, and his father, a retired Air Force sergeant, was a car salesman.

“There’s a problem between them, I think,” she said, “with the father, I mean, though he doesn’t talk about it much.”

“I think you may be right.”

“We all have our secrets,” she said cryptically, sighing, then brightened. “Here we are! Wow! Look at all that!”

Our staid, granite city hall had the giddy air of an overdressed matron who has had a few too many cocktails. A slightly crooked welcoming banner, a twin of the one Gil and I had seen stretched over the street, spanned the roof of the portico. Two wide red carpets sprinkled with glitter ran up the broad front steps. The small light poles on either side of the stairs sported huge colorful jester’s caps, and a podium bearing the city crest stood center stage.

Flanking the entrance were two impressive snow sculptures, a full-color one that recreated the nearby law library’s life-size painting of the swashbuckling Samuel de Champlain and an all-white snowy depiction of the Lincoln memorial.

Melody and I found a place off to the left, where we could perch on a stone wall and see a little above the heads of the crowd. Just as the mayor and a handful of other local dignitaries strode up to the podium, someone stepped roughly between us. I teetered on the edge of the wall, but was caught around the waist by a strong arm.

“Hold on there!”

“Vern!” Melody said delightedly.

The young man in question wrapped his free arm around her and planted a quick kiss on top of her dark head. “Brr! It’s cold. Get close and warm me up!”

The anxiety and a little of the anger that had haunted Vern for days was still in his eyes, but there was also a spark of pride. He nodded toward Melody.

“How do you like her?”

“She’s lovely,” I said sincerely, surprised that he would express himself so openly.

“Shh!” Melody cautioned. “They’re starting!”

After the usual minor adjustments were made to the public address system, our distinguished District Attorney Elm DeWitt stepped up to the microphone and announced the awards, beginning with the smallest. One by one, the winner raised his gloved hand, polite applause was given, pictures were taken and one of the three costumed school mascots—a hornet, a wolf, and a bear—handed over a small, golden loving cup to the recipient.

I scanned the crowd for the missing boys, but had no luck.

As the fourth prize was awarded, Vern bent down and muttered, “Nothing so far. That means either we won big or we got nothing! The suspense is starting to get to me!”

Melody consoled him with a gentle smile and a comforting pat on the chest.

Third prize, second prize, then first prize was awarded. As this winner was handed his cup, Vern shrugged and turned around. “Ah, well. Better luck next year, eh? Come on, who’s for hot chocolate? The Kiwanis Club’s got a trailer across the street—”

At the same time he said these words, I heard Elm DeWitt declare in a loud voice, “And the Grand Prize Winner is . . . Chez Prentice!”

After a split second of disbelief, Melody screamed and jumped up and down. We raised our arms to be recognized and turned a confused Vern over to a huge human hornet, who led him through the crowd and up the red-carpeted steps.

As we watched happily, he accepted a large blue ribbon bearing the words, “Grand Prize Winner,” which was meant to be placed on the sculpture along with a check for a presumably generous amount. Cameras flashed as the district attorney and the other judges shook Vern’s hand.

Just before he left the platform, Vern leaned over to the microphone and said, “This really should go to the man behind the idea, Professor Alec Alexander, a true genius.”

There was scattered applause and a bit of frowning discomfiture among the dignitaries, some of whom had openly found Alec’s quest for the Lake Champlain monster to be an embarrassment.
Genius
was hardly the word they’d used to describe him.

The awards ceremony concluded. Vern descended the stairs, along with the hornet mascot and a reporter from the newspaper.

“Come on. We’re going to the B&B to take pictures!”

Melody joined him and beckoned to me, but I smiled and shook my head. The chill between Vern and me wasn’t just from the cold air, and besides, I had hunting to do.

The small, happy throng headed off in the direction of Jury Street. I watched them go, smiling. Melody seemed to be a sweet-natured and perceptive young woman, and I could tell Vern was fond of her. This relationship definitely had possibilities.

Not if he goes to jail, it won’t.

Where had that thought come from? Obviously, my mind was voicing the fears that had dogged me for the past few days.

At this thought, I halted in my tracks, and someone bumped forcibly into me from behind. “Excuse me!” I turned to assure them that I was unhurt.

“Miss Prentice!” a child’s voice rang out.

“It’s Mrs. Dickensen, sweetie,” Dorothy O’Brien corrected her daughter, “Remember the wedding you were in?” Meaghan had been my flower girl.

Dennis was justifiably proud of those he called his two girls. They made a most attractive mother-daughter pair, with their freckled cheeks pink from the cold and bright red curls peeking out from under identical colorful stocking caps.

Meaghan’s mittened hand held a festival program. “We’re going to the pancake fling. I’m gonna throw pancakes like they’re frisbees. Daddy taught me how. Wanna come with us?”

Before I could accept or decline, Dorothy said, “I heard that Chez Prentice won the top prize. Congratulations!” She grinned.

“Con-go-lations!” Meaghan echoed.

“Thanks, but it was all the work of Vern and the professor. They’re the ones who built the sculpture. Meaghan, dear, I’m afraid I can’t come with you right now,” I told the child.

Come to think of it, where had Alec gone? He would have been a lot of help in the search for the Rousseau boys.

Meaghan spent no time on regrets, only tugged at her mother’s sleeve. “Come on, Mommy, we’re going to be late!”

A frightful thought occurred to me. “Dorothy, where’s Dennis? He said he had to be someplace right away.” The image of Dennis encountering one or more of the Rousseau boys in this crowd made me shudder.

Dorothy rolled her eyes. “He promised to help with the snowshoe race. We get him back when he’s finished there.”

“Mommy! Come on!”

With an apologetic smile, Dorothy allowed herself to be pulled toward the elementary school.

“The snowshoe race,” I repeated, consulted the tiny map on the festival brochure, and struck out in the proper direction. If I could head the boys off at the pass, so to speak, and get them to return home, perhaps I could keep circumstances from further ruining Dennis’ day off.

The race’s venue, the high school track, was located down a steep incline behind the main school building. Despite the salt and sand that had been lavished on the sidewalk, it was risky going until I arrived at the scene of the snowshoe race.

Half a block ahead of me, a stocky middle-aged man slid into a handily placed snowdrift. When he recovered, slapping snow off his coat and replacing his expensive hat, I recognized Kevin Shea, sponsor of the race. He looked around to see if anyone had seen the mishap, and I tactfully pretended to be pawing through my satchel. He made rapid progress after that, and by the time I reached the ticket stand, he was at the race’s starting point, directing his employees to assist the young entrants with their footwear.

“Hi, Mrs. Dickensen!” The ticket-seller, Hardy Patchke, took my admission fee and filled me in on how the race was to work. “There’s gonna be three heats, for the different age groups. If somebody doesn’t have snowshoes, Shea’s Sporting Goods’ll loan out used ones.” He handed me my change. “The first race is for eight- and nine-year-olds.”

I hastened to the small metal bleachers along the track and climbed several levels in order to get a good view of the track. The seats were cold and a chill had soon numbed my hindquarters.

Rummaging in my bag, I found the tiny cell phone and pressed the appropriate buttons to call Alec.

“Hello, this is Alec Alexander. I’d be grateful if you’d leave a message.”

I sighed with frustration and glanced around to see who might be listening, then, cupping my hands to keep out the ambient noise, I waited for the beep and said, “Alec, there have been complications. The two subjects are out. If you encounter either subject, please make sure they go home right away. I don’t have to tell you what the consequences could be if they are, um, apprehended. Call me for more details, please.”

I snapped the little phone shut and looked around again. Nobody had paid the slightest attention to me. They were all too busy cheering on their favorites.

I stared at the proceedings. It was hard to determine the identities of the various adults who occupied positions along the large oval track. There was a variety of heavy parkas, plaid woolen lumberjack coats, and dark overcoats, not to mention hats of every imaginable form: Russian-style
ushanka
s with fur-lined flaps, whimsical long-tailed stocking caps, and one or two of those Alpine hats that always seemed to be adorned with shaving brushes.

At last I spotted the tallish hatless figure near the finish line, and when he characteristically lifted his hand to brush his hair back, I knew for sure it was Dennis. He never wore a hat, even in winter, trusting in the thickness of his dark blond hair to keep his head warm.

“Everyone to your places!” Kevin Shea announced through a bullhorn. “On your marks!” they chanted, and the crowd joined in, “Get set!” I looked over to see Brigid Shea with her hand held high in the air. “Go!”

A gunshot sent a jolt through the group. Cheers went up and the race was on.

I watched as Mrs. Shea thrust the small starting pistol into her purse and turned a painted-on smile to the crowd. If Kevin Shea was indeed elected mayor—and it was a distinct possibility—that would make Brigid First Lady of our town, not a thought that I relished. As if she sensed my negative thought waves, she whispered in her husband’s ear, descended the stairs of the platform and disappeared into the crowd.

The young racers, mostly little boys, set off gamely, using a curious foot-lifting gait, aided by short, kid-length ski poles. These were not the snowshoes depicted in cartoons, which resemble tennis rackets.

Today’s snowshoes were smaller, lighter, and scientifically designed to work with the walker’s foot to move him swiftly over the surface of the snow. They ranged in price from $39.95 to $199 and could be obtained at a fantastic discount at Shea’s Quality Sporting Goods if the customer produced a ticket stub. Or so Kevin Shea announced to the crowd with his bullhorn.

The adults stationed around the track, I soon learned, were there to help those who fell over and also to ensure against tussles among the participants. As the crowd shouted encouragement, I watched Dennis O’Brien pull apart two over-zealous racers and send them on their way.

Moments later, to my surprise, I spotted Brigid Shea at Dennis’ elbow. Clearly annoyed at the interruption, he frowned and bent to hear something she spoke into his ear. He gestured into the distance; she nodded and melted into the crowd.

My seat was becoming unbearably cold, so I edged my way past the enthusiastic parents to the ground level. “How long does this event take?” I asked Hardy at the entrance.

He shrugged. “Mr. Shea told me to stay two hours.”

“Will you be racing in the teen division?” I asked, and immediately regretted my words.

Hardy’s usually cheerful face registered a second of chagrin. “Nope, my asthma, remember?”

“Of course.” It must be frustrating for an active, enthusiastic boy to be sidelined in such a way, and I had made it worse with my tactlessness.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m making some money doing this, y’know.”

“For your college fund, no doubt.”

He grinned. “Nope, games for my Play Station. You leaving? Here.” He grabbed my hand, pulled back part of my glove and stamped the skin with a Shea’s logo. “You can come back in if you show this.”

I feigned gratitude, but now that I was sure that Dennis and the Rousseau boys probably wouldn’t be within fifty feet of one another for the next two hours, there was no need for me to sit shivering amid this cheering throng.

I bid Hardy farewell and headed back up the hill to continue my search for the runaways. And, incidentally, to find a restroom.