Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series) (6 page)

Some students laughed.

He’s good at this
, I thought.
He’s already got them on his side.

He clicked the changer again. “More recently, in Papua, New Guinea, scientists found an undiscovered mammal, the golden mantled tree kangaroo.” The next slide showed a smiling young man cradling a creature the size of my cat Sam with a long banded tail and a sweet-looking, narrow face. The girls in the auditorium responded, “Awww.”

“You see, cryptozoology means the science of hidden animals, the ones we haven’t discovered yet.”

Another slide appeared.

“Someday, many of us hope to add another one to this list. His Latin name is
Champtanystropheus
, but we call him Champ, the Lake Champlain Monster.”

“Cool,” whispered J.T. under his breath.

I’d seen this photo before: an expanse of choppy lake, a row of thick forest on the shore beyond, and a fuzzy something in lower foreground. It appeared to be a long neck and head of a dinosaur-like creature. It had been taken in 1977 by a couple as they frantically scrambled to pull their wading children to shore.

“Five minutes!” Lily Burns had said when she showed me the
New York Post
article about the incident. “Those people supposedly watched that thing for
five full minutes
and the only picture they got of it was that? Hah!” Lily contended that it was nothing more than a man with a dark tan, skinny arms and a pot belly doing the Australian crawl.

There was a time when I’d have agreed with her, but no longer. I had experienced something Champ-like up close and personal the night I almost drowned.

Had it been Champ? Alec seemed to think so, and had added my account to his eyewitness file. “Almost the very same thing happened to a woman in British Columbia in ’74,” he’d assured me.

Alec was continuing his talk. There was another slide, with a larger shadow superimposed over a map of the lake. “Eight to ten thousand years ago, we would’ve called it the Champlain Sea, because it was part of the Atlantic Ocean. As the glaciers . . . ”

While Alec continued explaining the geological history of the lake, my thoughts wandered. I mentally rearranged my lesson plans. Members of the first period class had, unbeknownst to them, dodged a bullet and escaped a pop quiz. I’d have to postpone second period’s vocabulary assignment, but the rest of the day would be relatively unchanged.

Well then, that was all right. I looked up again.

“Ye’ve all heard of the Loch Ness Monster in Scotland,” Alec was saying, “Compared to that creature, our study is in its infancy, but evidence is mounting. There are Native American legends and the explorer Samuel de Champlain described seeing a large creature . . . ”

I thought about my Samuel de Champlain. How would Mother’s poor old cat hold up in this frigid weather? My stomach lurched, whether from hunger or anxiety, I couldn’t tell.

Abruptly, J.T. jarred my elbow as he raised his hand and waved it vigorously in the air.

“Yes? In the front row,” Alec said, pointing.

J.T. jumped to his feet. “Didja ever go fishing for Champ?”

Alec tilted his head, “Well, no. Conventional wisdom would dictate—”

J.T. cut in impatiently, “You know, cut a hole in the ice, fish for him, like? I mean, like ice fishing or something?”

“The creature wouldn’t likely respond to that,” said Alec, shaking his head slowly. “For that matter, I’ve never heard of any winter sightings, I’m afraid.”

One Gervais sister whispered something to the other, and a shrill giggle rang out.

J.T. ignored it. “Do people ever hunt it? I mean, shoot at it with guns and stuff?”

Alec frowned. “No, not at all. I certainly hope no one here is contemplating such a—”

“No, that’s not what I mean,” J.T. said, shaking his head vigorously. “What I mean is—”

Gerard Berghauser shouldered Alec aside, stepped to the microphone and stood on tiptoe. “That’s enough questions, John Rousseau. Sit back down—now!” He gestured vigorously to me.

I put a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Come on, J.T. That’s enough. The girls heard you.” It was no secret that he and his brother had a crush on a pair of pretty twins.

The boy slumped heavily back into his seat. His brother Dustin whispered at him fiercely, then fell silent.

Alec resumed his place at the microphone and took two more questions, dealing with UFOs and the Abominable Snowman, respectively. “I’m afraid these subjects are beyond my area of expertise,” he demurred.

He looked at the rest of the crowd bristling with waving arms and glanced at Berghauser, who shook his head and frowned. “We seem to be out of time, but remember, keep your eyes open, and if ye spot the fella, call me. I’m in the book.” He smiled, sketched a wave in the air and strode off the stage to enthusiastic applause.

The benevolent spell Alec cast over the student body lasted exactly one class period before the habitual ennui returned. Half of my fourth period class claimed to have misheard the deadline date for an essay. Members of my fifth period carried a rapidly spreading case of somnambulism, lapsing into narcolepsy, which I managed to fend off with superhuman effort.

“Coffee. Oceans of strong coffee,” I mumbled as I trudged into the lunchroom at noon. “That’s what I need.”

One look and I skipped the
spécialité du jour
, mystery meat in thick, beige gravy with khaki-toned, watery broccoli and a square of rapidly melting red gelatin. My stomach lurched at the sight.

The only thing one could predict about the food at school was its unpredictability. One day, it would rival that of the elegant Lion’s Roar Restaurant, the next, Dannemora Prison. It was why I kept several cans of chocolate diet drink hidden in the depths of the refrigerator.

“Back on that diet again, eh?” Mrs. Breen remarked as I skirted the lunch counter and headed for the back of the kitchen. “Don’t you want a nice veal cutlet?” Her teasing was usually harmless, but today it really grated on me.

I pulled open the refrigerator door. “Thanks, but I had trouble getting my skirt buttoned this morning and . . . ”

I stopped myself. Why had I said that? I didn’t owe her any explanations.

“Oh, that’s right,” she said archly, “you’ve got the mister to keep happy these days.” She waved a serving spoon at my midsection. “You sure there’s not a little one on the way?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” I said, grateful that the clinking of plates and buzz of conversation had drowned out most of our exchange. In the Gossip Olympics, our cafeteria ladies held the gold medal for Free-Style Supposition.

“Really sure,” I added grimly under my breath. There are some things only one’s gynecologist is entitled to know.

I shook the can vigorously and pressed it to my cheek as I dispensed two cups of coffee and generously creamed them. “Wake up,” I ordered myself.

At a long, empty table near the exit, I spotted Vern seated with J.T. Rousseau. I hesitated. The two seemed to be having some kind of whispered disagreement.

As I approached, I heard Vern say, “You shouldn’t have been out there, you know.”

“Hey, I know that, okay? But you’re gonna help, aren’t you?”

“Maybe. Okay. Eat up, J.T. We need to get started,” Vern interrupted, spotting me. “Amelia! Join us.”

I knew Vern’s welcome was genuine, but J.T.’s disapproving frown threatened to curdle my liquid lunch.

Tough toenails, J.T.
,
I thought, mentally plucking an idiom from my vast storehouse of sundry adolescent expressions. I took a seat, set down my tray, opened the can of Fudge Fantasy with a satisfying
plock
and slid a straw through the aperture.

Vern had scarcely disturbed the swiftly ossifying surface of the concoction before him. “Is the food here always so bad?” He turned to the gelatin, stirred the red liquid sadly and put down his spoon. “Lame.”

“Yah. Real lame.” J.T. reached into a paper bag, pulled out a thick sandwich, and took a large bite.

“What brings you here today, Vern?” I took another sip of my lunch.

“Remember? I told you: tutoring.” He leaned in and waved a hand at his companion. “Giving J.T. a hand with his French.” He rapped his large knuckles on a textbook lying

next to his tray. “He has a study hall after lunch on Mondays, so we get a little work done right here.” He flipped the book open to a marked page.

“Has Vern been any help?” I asked J.T. pleasantly.

I had expected a sullen shrug, but J.T.’s answer was surprisingly civil. “I guess. Dustin’s good at it, but I su—I mean, I stink at it. I wouldn’t even take French, only our grandmother, y’know, my mom’s mom, wants to talk it to us when we go to see her in Montreal.” He pronounced it the locals’ way: Mun-tree-ul. “French is all they want to talk up there.”

“It’s a valuable thing to know another language,” I pontificated, and added what I hoped was a more tempting inducement. “You and your brother could carry on a conversation with each other without some people understanding what you’re saying. My sister and I used to say
au secors
when we needed help for something.
Au secours
,” I repeated, giving more expression to the phrase.

“That might work here, I guess, but not at Grammar’s,” J.T. pointed out, giving the French word
grandmère
an English-sounding twist. “She talks it all the time.”

Vern slid the open textbook toward the boy. “C’mon, pal, let’s get busy.”

My can of Fudge Fantasy half consumed, I turned to the coffee. I picked up a mug, held it to my lips and immediately put it down again. It smelled like dishwater. Forget that. I pushed away the coffee cup and resumed sipping the chocolate drink.

Vern slid his lunch tray to one side and turned to his pupil. “Let’s look over your exam paper and find out what your weak points are.”

“I’m supposed to memorize these?” J.T. indicated a short list of idiomatic phrases.

Vern ran his finger down the list and smiled. “They’re kind of fun, J.T. Look at that. It means over there. Go on, say it.”

J.T. frowned. “Lah-
boss
.”

“No, you have to say it the French way: Lah-bah
.
Y’see? That ‘s’ is silent. And remember, there’s not really any particular syllable accented in French.”

My Fudge Fantasy was gone. I stood and peered over their shoulders at the lesson.
La-bas
, I read.

Vern was valiantly trying to put enthusiasm into the lesson. “Come on, J.T., try another one:
On y va
, let’s go. It means the same as
allons-y
, only more casual.”

J.T. rolled his eyes. “Great. Whoopee.”

This was getting painful to watch. “I’ll leave you fellows to it, then. Hang in there, J.T., you’ll be fluent in no time. Meanwhile, I’m going to put my empty can
la-bas
,” I added, indicating the trash can in the corner. J.T.’s exasperated expression told me I was trying too hard.

“Catch you later,” Vern said pleasantly, waving a pencil.

With a growing sense of dread, I made my way down the hall to the main office. “Mr. Berghauser wanted to see me,” I told Olive Chapel, the principal’s secretary.

“Um hmm,” she agreed, never looking up from her computer terminal. She jerked her head in the direction of the office door. “They’re in there.”

“They?”

She grimaced, but kept on typing. “They, the Sheas, your favorite parents.”

“Parents, plural? Mother and father, both? No way.”

“Way.” Olive nodded firmly as she made an adjustment with her mouse. Her eyes remained fixed on the screen. “Definitely way. Way-way-way-way,” she rattled rapidly, tapping rhythm on her keyboard. “You must have really stepped in it this time, girlfriend. They’re not happy campers.”

I sighed and put my hand on the doorknob. “Will you see that I’m given a decent burial?”

Her gaze had never wavered from the screen. “Only if I get your parking space.”

It was hard to out-quip Olive.

“Ah, yes. Miss Pr—Mrs. Dickensen, come in. We’ve been waiting for you.” The principal was seated behind his big polished desk and seemed relieved at my arrival. The tips of his moustache lifted in a half smile.

A trio of unsmiling faces swiveled my way. The three members of the Shea clan had been given the place of honor on the brown leather couch to the left of the desk, as befitted relatives of a mayoral candidate. Kevin Shea had thrown his hat into the ring a few months ago.

Mr. Berghauser waved his right hand. “You know the Shea family, don’t you? Mister and Mrs., um, Shea, and their daughter, Sa-Sa—um.” He stumbled over the name.

“Serendipity,” Mrs. Shea and I said together.

I glanced at her sympathetically, but only got a sharp glare for my trouble. Mrs. Shea looked even more baleful than she had at the last parent-teacher conference. Despite her well-styled ash-blonde hair and expensive Tyrolean sweater, she didn’t look all that good. There were dark circles under her eyes and her face was pale. She looked like a washed-out carbon copy of her daughter.

The young lady in question crossed her arms and snapped her gum defiantly. Her father just sat and stared at me, inscrutable, like a freckle-faced Irish Buddha.

Berghauser gave a little nervous chuckle. “Yes, well, I stand corrected. Please, Miss—Mrs., um, take a seat.” He gestured to the straight-backed chair directly in front of his desk.

The witness box.

Or more appropriately, the defendant’s chair.

I sat, clasping my grade book protectively to my chest.

“The Sheas have a few questions about Sa—that is, their daughter’s English grade for the last six weeks.”

“Yes?” I said sweetly, surveying the assemblage with an air of benign, but artificial, calm. “What questions are those?”

With an effort, I lowered the grade book to my lap and opened it to the relevant class page. If I moved them slowly and deliberately, my hands hardly trembled at all.

“They wanna know why you’re flunking me, that’s what,” Serendipity blurted.

“Oh. Well, let’s see . . . ” I traced my finger down the page to her name. “Here we are. It seems Serendipity made forty-five percent on the midterm exam in October and turned in her term paper long past the deadline.” I glanced up at the principal, who frowned at me. “That will lower it two grade levels right there. I haven’t had time to grade it, but considering—”