Death Dangles a Participle (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series) (8 page)

She finished a conversation abruptly and turned in her chair. “You know about the Rousseau boys?”

I nodded.

“Heard about it on the police scanner.” She waved in the direction of a radio-like gadget and shook her head sadly. “I always thought they was good kids. My Yvonne babysat for them after the mother died.”

I remembered Yvonne, the youngest LaBombard child; a sweet, rather pretty girl, but a bit too impressionable. I saw a lot of that among my female students.

“Yeah, those Rousseau boys were cute little ones, all right.”

“What’s Yvonne doing now?” I asked idly.

Fleur frowned, tapped her cigarette in the ashtray, and took another drag. She squinted and shook her head. Smoke curled from her mouth as she spoke.

“Don’t hear from her much. She’s waitressing, living up in Champlain, almost to the border. Her picture’s over there.” She pointed to a photo posted on the bulletin board behind me.

I turned and saw a windblown but smiling Yvonne, huddled next to a barrel-chested, curly-haired young man with huge dark eyes and thundercloud eyebrows. He looked very serious and earnest.

“Engaged to this foreign guy, Matt something; has an accent—English. At least, I think it’s English. He’s a case, that one. Don’t like her coming to see us.” She rolled her eyes and her sigh ended in a sharp cough. “She’s livin’ with him, which just isn’t—well, you know. And he’s not even Catholic. I’m not prejudiced at all, y’understand, but the mister and me just wish . . . ” She trailed off.

She leaned forward confidentially. “Not too long ago, that boy and him had a fight like you wouldn’t believe, right here in this office.” She tapped her desk. “I was afraid somebody’d get hurt—Marcel’s not getting any younger—but it was just yelling. You ask me, it’s why he’s feeling so poorly. But he won’t listen; isn’t that the way with men? They just don’t listen!” She shook her head sadly.

Static from the radio interrupted her and she swiveled in her chair.

“Number Two here.” I recognized Vern’s voice. “Dropped off the fare at the hospital. My shift ends in two minutes. I’m headed for the Gamma house. Out.”

Fleur tapped her cigarette in the ashtray and replaced it in her mouth, where it bobbed with each spoken syllable. “Negative, Number Two. Your aunt’s here, needing a lift. Come on in.”

“Amelia? There? Okay.” He sounded surprised, but not altogether pleased.

“Him and that girl,” Fleur said to me, jerking her head in the direction of the radio. “Takes up all his spare time these days.” She took another long drag and laid the cigarette in the ashtray before answering the telephone, “LaBombard Taxi.”

Girl? This was interesting. It would explain the new haircut and the renewed interest in clothes.

In the six months I’d known him, Vern had sporadically dated a variety of girls, but nobody in particular. I was new to the
in loco parentis
business. Should I ask him about this, or leave it alone? Would he need a woman’s advice or would I be interfering? I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.

It certainly seemed hot. A wave of nausea had begun at the pit of my stomach and was gurgling upward. I drew shakily to my feet and headed for the door, waving vaguely at the busy Fleur. “Getting a breath of fresh . . . fresh . . . ” I pulled opened the door and drew deeply of the ice-cold oxygen.

It had started to snow. Tiny dancing flakes, few and far between.

I closed the door behind me and sat heavily on the outdoor bench. The air was the kind that frosted the insides of your nostrils, but it felt like bracing medicine at this moment. I bent forward, because it seemed the thing to do.

Whew, that was a near thing,
I thought.

The noxious exhaust of a car floated my way and I had another bad moment; then there was the slam of a car door followed by quick, heavy footsteps.

“Amelia? You okay?” It was Vern; I could tell by the giant sneakers that came into my line of vision.

“Just a little woozy. Something I ate, probably.” I sat up, looked into his dear, concerned face and felt better.

The office door opened. “Gee whiz, Miss Prentice, I’m sorry. I was busy on the phone just now. You feel faint? You want a coke or something? I’ll get you one from the machine. Mrs. Dickensen, I mean.”

Summoning up every ounce of my spare strength, I requested she call me Amelia and assured them both that all I needed was to get home.

“You go see the doctor, okay?” Fleur requested as I hastily gathered my black leather satchel from the plastic-coated sofa, holding my breath the whole time. “It’s flu season. He’ll give you a shot or something.”

I nodded.

“She’s right,” Vern added his two cents once we were in the car. “You need to get that checked out. It could be serious.”

“I feel better already.” I tilted my head back, closed my eyes and decided to change the subject. “Who’s the new girl?”

There was a moment of silence, then, “What?”

I kept my eyes shut. “Fleur mentioned you were seeing a lot of one particular girl.”

Vern shifted gears. “Well, I guess you could say Melody Branch and I are kind of dating.”

I opened my eyes. “Melody? What a pretty name. Where did you meet her?”

“In one of my classes at school.”

“Is she nice?”

“Amelia, that’s about the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say. Of course she’s nice.”

“And pretty?”

“No, she’s hideous. Look, don’t get any ideas. She’s just a girl, okay? No big deal.” Vern navigated a tricky left turn. “I heard about J.T. and Dustin getting busted. Did you see it happen? What’s going on?”

“I saw them being arrested, if that’s what you mean. Vern, Gil says they’re accused of murder.”

“Golly!” Vern’s eyes widened. “Oh, gee!” He ran his hand over his severely shorn head. He did look more mature this way. “I mean, gee whiz, they’re no angels, everybody knows that, but murder? How did they say it happened?”

“I don’t have details. Gil said he’d tell us when we get h—”

The short whoop of a police siren and flashing lights interrupted my sentence.

Vern glanced over his shoulder. “What the—”

A squad car was directly behind us.

“Vern, how fast were you going?”

“Slower ’n Christmas,” he mumbled, pulling over to the curb. “I always do when Mrs. Magoo’s in the car.” It was a slightly derogatory pet name he’d given me, a comment on my studied, myopic driving style.

Vern slumped in his seat and pulled his wallet from a hip pocket. By the time he was ready with his ID, the officer had arrived at Vern’s window.

“Vern Thomas?”

Vern went dead pale and held up his license. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t need to see that. We just want to ask you a few questions. Would you mind following me to the station house?”

Vern pointed at me. “Well, I was taking her home, but it’s all the way out on the lake shore—”

“I’m sorry, sir, but it’s important. Maybe the lady can take the car and drive herself home.”

“I—I, uh, I can’t a drive stick shift, officer,” I piped up shakily.

“Look—can I take her to Chez Prentice over on Jury Street, then meet you? Won’t take a second.”

The officer nodded. “That should be fine, sir. Just don’t take too long, please.” He turned and ambled back to his car.

I could tell Vern was unnerved by the way he drove. The gearshift made an appalling grinding noise as we pulled back into traffic. He swore under his breath.

I didn’t know what to say. We traveled the few blocks to Chez Prentice in an uncomfortable silence.

“Sorry about this,” Vern said as he braked at the curb. “I’ll come back and get you after—um, the, whatever, or maybe you can call Gil—”

“I’ll be fine. Are you all right? What do you think it’s all about?”

“Hey, I don’t know. Maybe my taxi license is expired or something.” He took a deep breath and turned a half-grin on me. “I’m kidding, okay? Hey, Amelia, don’t look so worried. You’ll be the person I contact with my one phone call.”

He looked at me. “Come on, cut it out. I’ll be fine.
Les gendarmes
are our friends.” He reached across the stick shift and gave me a clumsy, one-armed hug. “Now cheer up and get out of here.”

I opened the car door, scowling fiercely to prevent a burgeoning flow of anxious tears, and stood on the curb watching until the little car turned the corner in the direction of the police station. One tear, then another, escaped and trickled down my cheek.

I retrieved a tissue from my pocket and hastily wiped them away. When had I become such a crybaby? More to the point, should I call a lawyer or someone? The only one I knew at all well was, ironically, our distinguished district attorney, Elm DeWitt.

What could I do?

The realization came suddenly.

Gil.

I would call Gil and tell him all about it. He’d know what to do.

Oh, it was good to be married and have somebody else to worry with you! I turned and trudged up the walk toward the familiar front porch.

Gil wasn’t at the newspaper office when I called. “He’s running down this lake murder story. Try him on his cell phone,” suggested Wendy, the secretary/receptionist.

I did, and a deep electronic voice suggested I leave a message, which meant he either had turned the thing off or the line was busy.

“You okay?” Marie LeBow asked as she entered the B&B office, bearing a small tray with two steaming mugs.

“I’m sorry. I’m in your chair.”

She waved a hand. “Sit back down. I’ll ask you to move when I need to do some work.” She set down the tray. “I brought you some coffee, real cream like you like it.”

She set the cup before me on the desk pad. The strong fragrance filled my nostrils. It was strange, and slightly offensive, dishwater-like.

“Is this some kind of flavored coffee?” I asked. “Hazelnut or something?” I wasn’t fond of hazelnut.

“Nope, it’s premium brand regular beans, fresh ground, fresh made.”

I picked up the mug, then set it down. “You know, Marie, I don’t think I want coffee right now.” I got up. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go fix myself a piece of toast.”

Suddenly, the simplicity of it sounded heavenly. My mouth watered.

Marie smiled indulgently. “Well, I do need to get back to work. I’ll drink the other cup myself.”

Back in the kitchen, Hester wouldn’t let me lift a finger. She insisted on toasting some new bread, freshly delivered from her sister in Vermont.

“Got whole wheat in it, and nuts and stuff. Etienne says it’s what people want these days.” She dropped two slices in the toaster slots. “Two pieces all you want? Where’s that nephew of yours, Vern? He’ll eat half a loaf if I’m a judge of big boys like him.”

I couldn’t think of what to say. I stared at the table.

“Golly, Miss Prentice, what is it?” Hester pulled a chair up and laid a warm, damp hand on mine.

In fits and starts, I told her about Vern’s appointment with the police.

“Is that all?” Hester laughed heartily. She stood and hastened to retrieve the toast as it popped up. “Don’t you worry yourself about that. Why, if I got that shook up every time one of Bert’s people got invited to visit the police, I’d be old before my time, that’s for sure.”

She laid the plate of toast before me, accompanied by the jar of apple butter and the butter dish. “There, get some sugar into you. You’ll be right as rain.” She poured me a tall glass of milk. “And you need this to go with it.”

She was right. The homely snack was apparently exactly what I was craving. I dug in hungrily and thought about asking for more once I’d finished this portion.

Hester shook a generous amount of scouring powder into the sink and continued her commentary. “No, you don’t want to borrow no trouble yet. Why, years ago Bert’s father was over to that place all the time.” With a large sponge, she began scrubbing enthusiastically. “Didn’t do him no harm.” She held up the dripping sponge. “Maybe you heard that he did a little bootlegging out of Canada.”

I nodded, because my mouth was full. I had heard. She had told me on the occasion of our first meeting.

Hester chuckled. “That dad of Burt’s was a case, all right.” She put down the sponge, rinsed her hands, and came over to the table. “There wasn’t a place on a car that he couldn’t fiddle with and hide stuff in.”

“Bootlegging never made sense to me,” I said. “Those bottles of liquor must have been bulky and noisy, clanking together. A lot of trouble, and there’s always a chance you’ll go to jail.”

“It wasn’t only bottles, y’know. It was money, too, to pay for the booze. The old man would drive up with cash stuffed in all these little cubbyholes—in the seat padding, behind the glove compartment, even in those convertible tops they had back then, y’know, with pleats in ’em. One time he was on the border near Champlain and it started to rain, and the border guy says, ‘Aren’t you going to put the top up?’ and Bert’s dad had a heck of a time trying to explain why not. When they finally made him open it up, the money fell out!” She laughed. “That story’s my favorite. I can’t swear any of ’em is true, but I get a kick out of ’em.”

She returned to her sink cleaning, tossing her comments over her shoulder at me. “What I mean to tell you is, don’t worry. All’s they’re going to do is ask questions, and all’s he has to do is say he don’t know.”

“Don’t—doesn’t know what?”

Hester shrugged. “Does he know the Rousseau boys?”

“Yes, he’s been tutoring one of them in French. But what could he tell the police?”

“Who knows?” She squeezed out the sponge and rinsed her hands. “It’s just a fishing expedition,” she said with a sage squint. “That’s what they call ’em on the TV, fishing expeditions. Trying to find out stuff anywheres they can.”

She took a clean kitchen towel and dried out the sink. It seemed like a self-defeating task to me, but Hester was an expert housekeeper and knew her job far better than I.

“Mind you, I knew Martin Rousseau in high school. That’s the father, y’know. Could’ve been sweet on him, too, but he never really fell for a girl till he met that Aimee.” She folded the towel and made a face. “You said it A
-may,
not A
-mee
like regular people. She was way younger than him, and kind of full of herself, y’know, and spoiled. That was a one for the movie stars, that girl. Named her babies after two of ’em: John Travolta and that guy, what’s his name, in
The Graduate.
Martin took over where her dad left off, everybody said. It’s too bad she died on him,” she concluded, rather heartlessly, I thought.